this, the better.”
He glanced at Gervaise. “You will tell Banks . . . I mean . . . ?”
“I’ll keep him on a short leash, sir,” said Gervaise.
Annie smiled to herself. Everyone knew that Banks wasn’t at his best around the rich and privileged. “Would you like to examine the crime scene, sir, seeing as you’re here?” she asked.
Murray turned pale. “I don’t think so, DI Cabbot. I have every confidence in the officers under my command.”
“Of course, sir, as you wish.”
Murray wandered off, not known for his iron stomach, hands behind his back, to all intents and purposes as if he were examining the rosebushes.
Gervaise gave Annie a stern look. “That was hardly necessary,” she said. “Anyway, how goes it so far? Any immediate thoughts?”
Annie handed Doug Wilson Silbert’s address book and asked him to go back to the station and get in touch with the Gloucestershire police. He seemed relieved to be leaving the Heights. Then Annie turned to Gervaise. “Not much yet, ma’am.” She summarized what Dr. Burns had told her. “The timing certainly fits a murder-suicide theory,” she added.
“You think Mark Hardcastle did this?”
A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
3 7
“Possibly, yes,” said Annie. “As far as we know, he drove back to Eastvale from London on Thursday. He had a f lat near the center of town, but it looked as if he only lived there part-time. Maria Wolsey at the theater said he and Laurence Silbert were practically living together. Anyway, he could either have gone back to Branwell Court and come up here Friday morning, or he could have come straight here and stopped over Thursday night.
“All we know is that Silbert was killed between nine a.m. and one p.m. on Friday, and Hardcastle hanged himself between one p.m. and three p.m. that same afternoon. Also, the amount of blood on Hardcastle’s body was inconsistent with the few scratches he might have got while climbing the tree to hang himself. Grainger, the man who sold him the rope, also said he had blood on him when he called in at the shop, and that he was oddly subdued and smelled of alcohol.”
“So it may be cut and dried, after all,” said Gervaise, almost to herself. She stood up. “Well, let’s hope we didn’t drag DCI Banks back from his weekend off for nothing.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Annie through gritted teeth. “Let’s hope not.”
G E T T I N G O U T of London was bad enough, but the M1 was an even worse nightmare. There were roadworks near Newport Pagnell, where the motorway was reduced to one lane for two miles, though there wasn’t a workman in sight. Later, two lanes were closed because of an accident just north of Leicester. The Porsche ticked along nicely, when it wasn’t at a complete standstill, and Banks was glad he’d decided to keep it. It was shabby enough now for him to feel comfortable in it. The sound system was great, too, and Nick Lowe’s “Long Limbed Girl” sounded just fine.
Banks was still annoyed at Detective Superintendent Gervaise for giving the order to call him back. He knew it wasn’t Annie’s fault, no matter how much she seemed to have relished the task. It was true, of course; they
R O B I N S O N
swered. Young “Harry Potter” showed promise, but he was still too wet behind the ears to be trusted with something like this, and if the crime involved Eastvale’s gay community, such as it was, Detective Sergeant Hatchley could prove more of a liability than an asset. Nick Lowe finished and Banks switched to Bowie’s
Though Banks had met Sophia during a difficult murder case, he realized this was the first time he had been called away from her on urgent business since they had been together. It was something that had happened with monotonous regularity throughout his career and marriage, and something that his ex-wife Sandra had complained of more than once, until she had decided to follow her own path and leave him. Even the kids had complained when they were growing up that they never saw their dad.
But things had been quiet recently. No murders since he had met Sophia. Not even a spate of serious burglaries or sexual assaults, just the usual day-to-day monotony, like stolen traffic cones. For once, Eastvale had been behaving. Until now. And it
He had been making excellent time for a while, and just past the Sheffield cooling towers, his mobile buzzed. He turned down
“Sorrow” and answered. It was Sophia calling from Western House.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong? I just came out of the studio. Sorry I’m late. I got a message from Tana to call you. Where are you?”
“Just north of Sheffield,” said Banks.
“What?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. I’ve just been called in to work, that’s all.”
“That’s all! But I don’t understand. It’s your weekend off, isn’t it?”
“They’re not sacrosanct, unfortunately. Not in this job.”
“But the dinner party?”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I promise I’ll make—”
“Oh, this is too much. It’s too late to cancel at this point. And Gunther and Carla are only over from
