“Actually, I walked along the embankment path and over West-minster Bridge. It was a lovely evening. The view across the river was absolutely stunning. Houses of Parliament all lit up. I’m not especially patriotic, or even political, but the sight always stirs me, brings a lump to my throat.”
“And Mark?”
“I assume he caught the tube.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Back to Goodge Street, I suppose. He could easily walk to Bloomsbury from there.”
“So that’s where he went?”
“That would be my guess. I didn’t go with him, so obviously I can’t say for certain.”
74 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
“What time was this?”
“About half ten, quarter to eleven.”
“Where had he left his car?”
“No idea. Outside the f lat, I suppose, or in the garage, if he had one.”
“What did you talk about over your drinks?”
“The films we saw, ideas for sets and costumes.”
“What kind of state of mind would you say he was in?”
“He was fine,” said Wyman. “Same as usual. That’s why I can’t understand—”
“Not depressed at all?” Annie asked.
“No.”
“Bad tempered, edgy?”
“No.”
Banks picked up the questioning again. “Only, we’ve been given to understand that he’d been a bit moody and irritable over the past couple of weeks or so. Did you notice any signs of that?”
“Maybe whatever it was, he’d got over it? Maybe the trip to London did him good?”
“Perhaps,” said Banks. “But let’s not forget that the day after he got back to Eastvale he went out and hanged himself in Hindswell Woods.
We’re trying to find out what might be behind that, if there was any direct cause, or if it was simply a buildup of depression.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” said Wyman. “I didn’t know he was depressed. If he was, he hid it well.”
“Did you get any sense that he and Laurence might have had some sort of falling-out?”
“He didn’t talk much about Laurence on the trip. He rarely did, unless I asked after him. Hardly, anyway. Mark was almost pathologi-cally secretive about his private life. Not about the fact that he was gay or anything, he was very up front about that, just about who he was sharing his life with. I think he’d had relationships before that had gone bad, and he might have been a bit superstitious about it. You know, like if you talk about liking something or someone too much, it’s bound to go wrong.”
“I don’t mean to be indiscreet here,” said Banks, “but did Mark A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
7 5
ever make a pass at you or show any undue interest in you? Anything other than companionship and shared interests, that is?”
“Good Lord, no! Mark was a colleague and a friend. He knew I was married, heterosexual. He always respected that.”
“Did you socialize often?”
“Not very often, no. We’d go for a drink now and then, mostly to discuss some theatrical matter.”
“Was he a jealous person?”
“Well, I got the impression once or twice that he felt a bit insecure.”
“In what way?”
“I think he had a jealous nature—this is just an impression, mind you—and I reckon he sometimes felt that Laurence was a bit out of his class, kept thinking the bubble would burst. I mean, a Barnsley miner’s son and a wealthy sophisticate like Laurence Silbert. Go figure, as the Yanks say. His mother started the Viva chain, you know. Quite the celebrity. You have to admit it’s a bit of an odd pairing. I can understand where he was coming from. I’m from pretty humble origins myself. You never forget.”
“Are you from Barnsley, too?”
“No. Pontefract, for my sins.”
“Was Mark jealous about anyone in particular?”
“No, he didn’t mention any names. He just got anxious if Laurence was away or something. Which happened quite often.”
