All the Colors of Darkness

“Well, the poor man was only trying to be nice. You didn’t have to interrogate him in the theater bar.”

“You call that interrogation? You should see me when I really get going.”

“You know what I mean.”

“He was f lirting.”

“So what? Don’t you ever f lirt?”

“I never really thought about it.”

“Of course you do. I’ve seen you.”

“With whom?”

“That blond Australian barmaid in the wine bar, for one.”

“I wasn’t f lirting. I was just . . . buying drinks.”

“Well, it took you an awfully long time, and it seemed to involve a lot of back-and-forth chat and a few saucy smiles. I hardly think you were talking about rugby prospects, or the Ashes.”

Banks laughed. “Point taken. I’m sorry. About Wyman, I mean.”

“Are you always working?”

“These things have a way of getting their hooks into you.”

Sophia glanced at Wyman’s retreating back. “I think he’s rather attractive,” she said.

“For crying out loud,” said Banks, “he’s wearing an earring, and he’s got a red bandanna tied around his neck.”

“Still . . .”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

Sophia looked at him. “Obviously not. You don’t think he’s guilty of something, do you? A murderer?”

“I doubt it,” said Banks. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if he was mixed up in it somehow.”

“Mixed up in what? I thought there was no case. You said they’d dragged you back from London for nothing.”

“That’s what they say,” said Banks. “That’s how they want it to appear. Only I’m not so sure.”

“But officially?”

“The matter has been dropped.”

“Good. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

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P E T E R R O B I N S O N

The bell started ringing to announce that the performance was due to recommence. Banks and Sophia knocked back the rest of their wine and headed for the theater entrance.

“ T H E R E ’ S S O M E T H I N G funny about that new bookcase you’ve got your CDs in,” said Sophia, relaxing on the sofa in Banks’s entertainment room while he f lipped through his collection trying to find something suitable for the late hour and the post- Othello mood. The rule was that when they were in his house, he chose the music, and when they were in Chelsea, Sophia chose. It seemed to work, for the most part. He enjoyed the music she played and had discovered all kinds of new singers and bands; she was a bit more finicky, and there were things he knew he had to avoid, such as Richard Hawley, Dylan, opera and anything that sounded too folksy, though she was happy to attend the occasional folk concert at the theater. She said she liked music that pushed at the boundaries. She liked his sixties collection, though, and most of the classical stuff, along with Coltrane, Miles, Monk and Bill Evans, so that usually gave him plenty of leeway. In the end, he decided that Mazzy Star would do nicely and put on So Tonight That I Might See. Sophia said nothing, so he assumed that she approved.

“The bookcase, yes,” he said. “I messed it up. It’s the top. It’s the wrong way around. I can’t get the damn f limsy back off without ruining it, so I thought I might stain the edge. I just haven’t got around to it yet.”

Sophia put her hand to her mouth to stif le her laughter.

“What?” Banks said.

“Just the thought of you on your knees with an Allen key in your hand cursing to high heaven.”

“Yes, well, that’s when Mr. Browne turned up.”

“Your mysterious visitor?”

“That’s the one.”

“Forget him. From what you said, I very much doubt that he’ll be back. Surely you’ve got real criminals to catch, not just spooks and shadows?”

“Plenty,” said Banks, thinking of the East Side Estate. “Trouble is, 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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most of them are underage. Anyway, enough of that. Enjoy this evening?”

“It’s not over yet, is it?”