agent and that they’re pretty good in the dirty tricks department—”
“That’s neither here nor there,” snapped Gervaise. “I don’t suppose you’ve identified this mystery man in the photograph, have you?”
Banks glanced toward Annie. “We’ve shown it around to a few people,” she said, “but nobody admits to recognizing the unknown man.”
“And there were no fingerprints on the memory stick itself,” added Nowak.
Gervaise turned to Banks. “Have you learned anything yet about the location in the photographs?”
“No, ma’am,” said Banks. “I’m pretty certain the first two were taken in Regent’s Park, but I haven’t heard back from technical support on the others. Or on Julian Fenner’s dodgy phone number, either.”
“It seems as if you’re getting nowhere fast, doesn’t it?” Gervaise commented.
“Look,” said Banks, “I don’t think it’s irrelevant that Silbert was a spook or that Mr. Browne, if that’s his real name, came to see me last night and basically told me to lay off. You know as well as I do that we’ve run into a brick wall every time we’ve tried to find out anything about Silbert this week. The local police said they’d handle the Bloomsbury pied-a-terre business, and the next day they phoned us back, said they’d checked it out, and all they told us was that there was nothing out of the ordinary. What does that mean, for crying out loud? And can we trust them? Perhaps if there was something out of the ordinary they made it disappear? We all know how Special Branch and MI5 have been pecking away at us from the top lately, picking off A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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tasks and turf for themselves. Terrorism and organized crime have given the government their excuse to do what they’ve been wanting to do for years anyway, to centralize and consolidate control and power and use us as an enforcement agency for unpopular policies.
You’ve all seen the results when that’s happened in other countries.
How do we know that the police who checked out Silbert’s f lat weren’t inf luenced by them in any way? How do we know they weren’t Special Branch?”
“Now you’re being paranoid,” said Gervaise. “Why can’t you just accept that it’s over?”
“Because I’d like some answers.”
Nowak cleared his throat. “There is one more thing,” he said. He wouldn’t meet Banks’s gaze, so Banks knew it was bad news.
“Yes?” said Gervaise.
“Well, perhaps we should have done this earlier, but . . . things being the way they were . . . anyway, we ran Hardcastle’s and Silbert’s fingerprints through NAFIS and we got a result.”
“Go on,” said Gervaise.”
Nowak still didn’t look at Banks. “Well, ma’am, Hardcastle’s got form. Eight years ago.”
“For what?”
“Er . . . domestic assault. The man he was living with. Apparently Hardcastle f lew into a jealous rage and beat him up.”
“Serious?”
“Not as bad as it could have been. Apparently he stopped before he did too much damage. Still put the bloke in hospital for a couple of days, though. And got himself a six-month suspended sentence.”
Gervaise said nothing for a few moments, then she regarded Banks sternly. “What do you have to say about that, DCI Banks?” she asked.
“You said you ran Silbert’s prints through NAFIS, too,” Banks said to Nowak. “Find anything there?”
“Nothing,” said Nowak. “In fact, as you pointed out, most inquiries connected with Laurence Silbert have run up against a dead end.”
“Well, they would, wouldn’t they?” said Banks. “He was a spook.
He probably didn’t even officially exist.”
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“Well, he certainly doesn’t now,” said Gervaise. “That’s it. I’ve had enough of this. I’ll be talking to the coroner. Case closed.” She stood up and slammed her Silbert-Hardcastle folder shut on the table. “DCI Banks, could you stay behind a moment, please?”
When the others had left, Gervaise sat down again and smoothed her skirt. She smiled and gestured for Banks to sit, too. He did.
“I’m sorry we dragged you back from your holiday for this business,” she said. “I don’t suppose we can always tell when something’s going to be a waste of time, can we?”
“It would make our lives easier if we could,” said Banks. “But with all due respect, ma’am, I—”
Gervaise put her finger to her lips. “No,” she said. “No, no, no, no.
This isn’t a continuation of the meeting. This isn’t about your theories or mine. As I said, that’s over. Case closed.” She laced her fingers together on the table. “What plans do you have for the next week or so?”
“Nothing in particular,” Banks said, surprised at the question. “Sophia’s coming up tomorrow. We’re going to see
Lunch with her parents on Sunday. Nothing special.”
