he asked.
“As well as could be expected,” she said. “Do you know, there’s absolutely no smoking anywhere in the hotel? Not even in my own room. Can you believe it?”
“Sign of the times, I’m afraid,” said Banks, ordering a lemon tea from the hovering white-coated waiter. Edwina was looking her age this morning, he thought. Or closer to it. She was wearing a black woolen shawl over her shoulders, a sign of mourning, an indication that she felt cold, or perhaps both. Her gray-white hair and pale, dry skin stood out in stark contrast.
“Where’s that pretty girlfriend of yours today?” she asked.
“DI Cabbot isn’t my girlfriend.”
9 0 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
“Then she’s a damn fool. If I were twenty years younger . . .”
Banks laughed.
“What? You don’t believe me?”
“Edwina, I believe you.”
Her expression turned serious. “Anything new to report?” she asked.
“Not much, I’m afraid,” said Banks. “I just called in at the station and discovered that your son’s blood type is A positive, along with about thirty-five percent of the population, and that the only blood types we found on Mark’s person were A positive and B positive, which is much rarer, and happens to be his own.”
“So you’re saying it looks more and more as if Mark killed Laurence?”
“We’ve a long way to go to be certain of that yet,” said Banks, “but blood typing certainly supports the theory.”
Edwina sat in silence. Banks felt that she might be debating with herself whether to tell him something, but the moment passed, and when nothing was forthcoming after a minute or so, he slipped the photos Annie had printed out of their envelope and pushed them over to her. “We found these in Mark’s study,” he said. “Any idea who the other man is?”
Edwina took some reading glasses from a brown leather case beside her and studied the photos. “No,” she said. “Never see him before in my life.”
“It’s not Leo Westwood?”
“Leo? Good Lord, no. Leo’s far more handsome than the man in this photograph, and not quite so tall. A little stockier, even, with tight, dark curls. Rather cherubic, actually. How do you know about Leo?”
“We found some letters.”
“What kind of letters?”
“From Leo to Laurence. Nothing . . . shocking. Just letters.”
“They’d hardly be shocking,” Edwina said. “The Leo I knew was definitely not the sort to let it all hang out.”
“When were they together?”
“About ten years ago. Late nineties until the early two thousands.”
A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
9 1
“Do you know what happened?”
She stared at the distant patterns of drystone walls. “Whatever usually happens to split people apart. Boredom? Someone new? Laurence didn’t tell me. He was brokenhearted for a while, then he got over it and got on with his life. I assume Leo did the same.”
“Do you know where Leo is now?”
“I’m afraid not. We lost touch after he and Laurence split up. He might still be living in the same place, I suppose. It’s on Adamson Road, Swiss Cottage.” She gave Banks a street number. “I had dinner with them there on several occasions. It was a nice apartment and an interesting neighborhood. Leo liked the place, and he did own it, so if he didn’t have to move for any practical reason, the odds are that he’s still there.”
“Their relationship was serious?”
“I would say so, from what I saw of it, yes.”
“Were there any others?”
“Lovers or serious relationships?”
“Serious relationships.”
“I’d say Leo was the only one until Mark came along, except perhaps for his first love, but that was many years ago, and I can’t remember the young man’s name now. I’m sure Laurence would have done, though. One never does really forget one’s first love, does one?
Anyway, Leo was the only one I knew about, at any rate, and I think I would have known. There were casual lovers, of course.”
“Have you ever heard Laurence mention a man called Julian Fenner?” Banks asked.
Edwina frowned. “Fenner? No, I can’t say as I have.”
Banks’s lemon tea arrived. He thanked the waiter and took a sip.
