interesting, but ultimately not among the best. You see, I’m directing—“
“Yes, we know about that,” said Banks. “What about afterward?”
Wyman looked a little sulky at being denied his directorial brag-ging rights. “We had a quick drink in the bar, then we went our separate ways.”
“You weren’t staying in the same hotel?”
“No. Mark’s partner owns a small f lat in Bloomsbury. I should imagine he was staying there.”
“But he didn’t say so?”
7 2 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
“Not specifically, no. But why pay London prices when you’ve got somewhere you can stay for free?”
“Why indeed?” Banks agreed. “And what about you?”
“I stayed at my usual bed-and-breakfast near Victoria Station.
Cheap and cheerful. It’s not the most spacious room on the face of the earth, but it does all right for me.”
“Do you have the address?” Banks asked.
Wyman seemed puzzled by the question, but gave Banks an address on Warwick Street.
“You mentioned Mark’s partner,” Annie said. “Did you know Laurence Silbert well?”
“Not well. We met a couple of times. They came to dinner once.
They reciprocated, and we went to their house. The usual.”
“When was this?” Annie asked.
“A couple of months ago.”
“Did Mr. Hardcastle appear to be living there at the time?” Banks asked.
“More or less,” said Wyman. “He practically moved in the day they met. Well, wouldn’t you? Bloody big house on the hill.”
“You think it was the grandeur that attracted him?” Banks said.
“No, I don’t really mean that. Just being facetious. But Mark certainly appreciated the finer things in life. He was one of those working-class lads who’ve gone up in the world, done right well for themselves. You know, more your Chateau Margaux and raw-milk Camembert than your pint of bitter and a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps. They were a well-matched couple, despite their difference in background.”
Mrs. Wyman came back in with the tea at this point, and the inevitable plate of biscuits. They all helped themselves from the tray.
Banks thanked her and resumed the questioning. “What about the next day, Thursday?”
“What about it?”
“Did you see Mark?”
“No. He said he had to go home. I was staying until Saturday, as you know. I wanted to fit in a few exhibitions, too, while I was down there. Tate Modern. The National Portrait Gallery. And some book-A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
7 3
shopping. There were also a couple more films and lectures I attended at the NFT.
“Ticket stubs?”
“Yes, probably.” He frowned. “Look, you’re questioning me as if I’m a suspect or something. I thought —”
“We just want to get the details clear,” said Banks. “As yet there aren’t any suspects.” Or anything to suspect, he might have added.
“So you stayed in London until when?”
Wyman paused. “Yesterday. I checked out of my B-and-B about lunchtime, had a pub lunch, did a bit of book- shopping and went to the National Gallery, then I caught the five o’clock train back to York last night. Got home about . . .” He glanced toward his wife.
“I picked him up at the station around quarter past seven,” she said.
Banks turned back to Wyman. “And you’re sure you didn’t see Mark Hardcastle after he left the bar on Wednesday evening?”
“That’s right.”
“Was he driving?”
“No. We took the tube from Goodge Street after dinner.”
“To Waterloo?”
“Yes.”
“And going back?”
