“We did
“Pretty tough when you’re only sixteen. It’s a very grown-up play.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think I could understand jealousy even then.”
Banks thought of the other night, down in Chelsea: Sophia saying,
“But that’s not what it’s really—oops, damn!”
Someone had accidentally jogged Sophia’s arm, and she spilled a little red wine on her roll-neck top. Luckily, it was a dark color.
“Sorry,” the man said, turning to her and smiling. “There
“Good evening, Mr. Wyman,” said Banks. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”
Derek Wyman turned and noticed Banks for the first time. It might have been Banks’s imagination, but he sensed a cautious expression come into Wyman’s eyes. Still, that often happened when people found themselves confronted with a policeman. We’ve all got some guilty secret we don’t want the law to know about, Banks thought—a motoring offense, a couple of joints at uni, a touch of adultery, a false income tax return, an adolescent shoplifting spree. They were all the same in the mind of the guilty. He wondered what Wyman’s was. A bout of buggery?
“It’s all right,” Sophia was saying.
“No, let me get some soda,” Wyman said. “I insist.”
“Really, it’s all right. It was only a drop. And you can’t even see it now.”
Banks wasn’t sure he appreciated the way Wyman was staring at Sophia’s chest, almost as if he were going to pull out a handkerchief and start dabbing at the barely visible wine stain. “I’m surprised you’ve got time to mingle with the punters,” Banks said. “I would have thought you’d be backstage giving the cast a pep talk.”
“Its not like a football match, you know.” Wyman laughed. “I don’t 1 2 8
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go in the dressing rooms and yell at them during halftime. Anyway, why should I? Do you think they need one? I thought they were doing a fine job.” He turned to Sophia again and held his hand out. “I’m Derek Wyman, by the way, director of this modest little effort. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Sophia took his hand. “Sophia Morton,” she said. “We were just talking about how much we’re enjoying the play.”
“Thank you. Inspector Banks, you didn’t tell me you had such a charming and beautiful . . . er . . . companion.”
“It just never came up,” said Banks. “How are the wife and children?”
“Thriving, thank you, thriving. Look, I must dash. I—”
“Just a minute, while you’re here,” Banks said, pulling out the photograph that had become a fixture in his pockets. “We haven’t been able to track you down during the week. Teaching duties, they told me. Do you recognize the man with Laurence Silbert, or the street where this was taken?”
Wyman studied the photograph and frowned. “No idea, he said. “I wouldn’t know why you’d expect that I should.” He seemed anxious to get away.
“Just that you were in London with Mark Hardcastle, that’s all.”
“I’ve already explained all about that.”
“When were you there previously? London.”
“About a month ago. It isn’t easy to get time off school. Look, I—”
“Do you own a digital camera?”
“Yes.”
“What make?”
“It’s a Fuji. Why?”
“A computer?”
“Dell desktop. Again, why?”
“Did you have any idea that Laurence Silbert had worked for MI6?”
“Good Lord, no. Of course not. Mark never said. Now I really must go. They’ll be starting again in a minute.”
“Certainly,” said Banks, edging back as much as he could to let Wyman by. “The pep talk, after all?”
Wyman brushed past him without a word.
“That wasn’t very nice of you,” said Sophia.
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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“What do you mean?”
