“Damn.” Banks went to the landing and called one of the SOCOs, who came up, examined and dusted the stick, then shook his head.
“Everything’s too blurred,” he said. “It’s almost always the case with things like that. You might get something from the memory stick itself, if you’re lucky, but usually people tend to hold them by the edges.”
“This isn’t the stick?” Banks said, puzzled.
“I forgot to explain,” said Annie. “The stick fits into an adaptor, a kind of sheath, so you can slot it in the computer.”
“Okay. I see.” Banks thanked the SOCO, who went back down-A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
8 7
stairs. “Let’s have a look at it, then,” Banks went on. “If it’s protected by the sheath, we can’t do it any harm, can we?”
“I suppose not,” said Annie, sitting down at the laptop. Banks watched her slip the stick into a slot in the side of the computer and heard it click into place. A series of dialogue boxes f lashed across the screen. Within seconds, he was looking at a photograph showing Laurence Silbert with another man sitting on a park bench. In the background was a magnificent cream-colored, two-domed building. Banks thought they were in Regent’s Park, but he couldn’t be certain.
Next the two men were pictured from behind walking down a narrow street past a row of garages on the right, each a different color painted in a series of distinctive white-bordered square panels, like a chessboard. Above the garages were gabled houses, or apartments, with white stucco fronts.
The final shot showed them entering through a door between two of the garages, which clearly led to the living space above, the unknown man in profile, his hand resting lightly on Silbert’s shoulder. It could have been a simple gesture of courtesy, the man ushering Silbert into the house first. To a jealous lover, though, it could conceivably have appeared as a sign of affection, especially if the lover knew nothing about such a meeting.
Whoever the man was, he certainly wasn’t Mark Hardcastle. Maybe he was Leo Westwood, Banks thought. Whoever he was, he looked about the same age as Silbert, perhaps a year or two younger, given the former’s access to the elixir of youth, and about the same height. Judging by the light and shadows, it was early evening, and beyond the garages, the rest of the houses on the street were brick with cream stucco ground f loors and steps leading down to basement entrances.
The photos were dated a week ago last Wednesday.
“Okay,” said Banks. “Can we get these printed up back at the station?”
“No, problem,” said Annie. “I can do it myself.”
“Let’s call back there first, then. We’ll show them to the people we’ve already talked to, starting with Edwina Silbert. And I’ve got a pal in technical support who might just be able to identify the street name if he can enhance the image enough. You can see the sign on 8 8 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
the wall in the far background. There’s obviously a damn good reason that memory stick was there. It didn’t belong to either Silbert or Hardcastle, and you tell me that neither could have used it in their cameras.
I don’t think it was there by coincidence. Do you?”
“No,” said Annie.
Banks pocketed the letters and Annie took the memory stick out of the slot and turned off the laptop. They were just about to head back to the station when Annie’s mobile rang. She answered it immediately.
Banks glanced around the room again as she dealt with the call, but saw nothing he thought of any significance.
“Interesting,” said Annie, putting her phone away.
“Who was it?”
“Maria Wolsey, from the theater. She worked with Mark Hardcastle.”
“What does she want?”
“Wants to talk to me.”
“About what?”
“She didn’t say. Just that she’d like to talk to me.”
“And?”
“I said I’d drop by her f lat.”
“Okay,” said Banks. “Why don’t we go get the photos printed first, then you can talk to her while I have another chat with Edwina Silbert.”
Annie smiled. “Alan Banks, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you fancied her.”
5
THE MORNING’S RAIN WAS LONG GONE BY THE TIME
Banks got to the Burgundy Hotel, and Edwina Silbert was taking a gin and tonic and a cigarette in the small quiet courtyard, once the stables, at the back of the building. Banks got the impression that it wasn’t her first drink of the day. She had one of the Sunday newspaper style supplements open before her, photos of skinny models in clothes you never saw anyone wearing, but it was clear that she wasn’t really paying attention to it; her gaze was fixed on the line of distant hills framed by a gap in the buildings.
Banks pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. “Comfortable night?”
