All the Colors of Darkness

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CDs showed a predilection for Bach, Mozart and Haydn and the magazines in the rack dealt mostly with antiques and foreign affairs. In the kitchenette, Banks found an empty Bell’s whiskey bottle and an unwashed glass.

Banks heard a noise outside and stood by the window watching the street cleaners go by at the end of the alley. There was nothing here for him, he decided. Either Silbert had been very careful or someone had already removed anything of interest.

Just before Banks left, he picked up the phone and pressed redial.

Nothing happened. He tried again and got the same result. In the end, he concluded that it either wasn’t working properly or had been erased—most likely, he thought, the latter.

A N N I E TO O K Winsome with her when she went to talk to Nicky Haskell after school that Wednesday afternoon. She felt more than one pair of eyes following them as she drove along the winding main street of the estate past some of the better-kept terrace houses to Metcalfe House. Building permission had been granted for only two tower blocks, despite the bribes and kickbacks to local politicians that were rumored to have exchanged hands. If Eastvale had been within the boundaries of the Yorkshire Dales National Park, there would have been no question of such atrocities going up, even though they were only ten stories high, but it wasn’t. And the maisonettes that surrounded the tower blocks were just as ugly.

The Haskells lived in Metcalfe House, which had one of the worst reputations of any area on the estate, and Nicky Haskell had a reputation for antisocial behavior. He was already on an ASBO, which was more of a badge of honor among his circles than the stigma or hin-drance to criminal activity it was supposed to be.

One problem was that often the parents hadn’t been around much while their kids were growing up—not because they went to work, but because they were doing much the same then as their children were doing now. The parents were often products of the Thatcher generation, who had also had no jobs and no hope for the future, a legacy they passed on to their children. Nobody had come along with 1 6 2 P E T E R

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that magic fix to reverse the damage. Like the homeless, they were far easier to ignore, and the drugs that helped to take the pain away de-monized them even more in the eyes of society.

Nicky Haskell’s parents were a good case in point, as Annie well knew. His mother worked on the checkout at the local Asda, and his father, well known to the police, had been on the dole since the day he got thrown out of school for threatening his physics teacher with a knife. The idle days and hours that followed had left him plenty of time to indulge in his favorite pastimes, which included drinking enormous quantities of strong lager, smoking crack cocaine and having the occasional night at the dogs just to get rid of any surplus money he might have left over from his other habits. It was up to his wife to supply food, clothing, rent and utilities on her own meager salary.

It was soon clear that they needn’t have waited for the end of the school day.

“Got a cold, haven’t I?” Nicky said, turning his back after letting them in. His lank greasy hair hung over his collar.

“I don’t know,” said Annie, walking into the living room behind him. “Do you? You sound fine to me.”

Nicky sank back on the battered sofa he had probably been lying on all day, if the empty crisp packets, loud television, overf lowing ashtray and can of lager were any indication. The room smelled as if he had been lying in it all day, too. The apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree in this instance. “My throat hurts,” he said. “And I ache all over.”

“Want me to call a doctor?”

“Nah. Doctors ain’t no use.” He popped a couple of pills and drank Carlsberg Special Brew from the can. The pills could have been paracetamol or codeine for all Annie knew, or cared. Well, she did care, but she wasn’t out to change society single-handedly, or even with Winsome’s help; she was on yet another futile mission for information.

Nicky reached for his cigarettes.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t drink or smoke in our presence,” Annie said. “You’re underage.”

Haskell smirked and put the cigarettes down next to the lager. “I can wait till you’re gone,” he said.

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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“Mind if I turn the TV down?” Annie asked.

“Knock yourself out.”

“Midsomer Murders,” Annie said as she turned the volume down. “I wouldn’t have thought that was your cup of tea.”

“It’s soothing, innit? Like watching paint dry.”

Annie quite liked the program. It was so far removed from the real policing she did that she accepted it for what it was and didn’t even find herself looking for mistakes. She and Winsome sat on hard-backed wooden chairs because they didn’t like the look of the dark stains on the armchairs. “Where are your parents?” Annie asked.

“Mum’s at work, Dad’s at the pub.”

Technically, as he was only fifteen, they weren’t supposed to talk to him unless his parents were present. But as he wasn’t a suspect—

Donny was one of his crew, after all—and most likely he wasn’t going to say anything that would prove useful in court, Annie wasn’t inclined to worry much about that.

“We been over all this before,” said Haskell before she even started.

“It’s over and done with. Time to move on.”