All the Colors of Darkness

“You, sir?” Banks asked Townsend.

“Never seen either of them in my life,” he answered, handing the photographs back to Banks.

“You do agree it’s this house, don’t you?” Banks asked.

Edith took the photos again. “Well, it certainly looks like it,” she said. “But it can’t be, can it?”

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She passed the photographs to Townsend, who turned to Banks without even reexamining them and said, “What on earth is all this about? What’s going on? You come barging in here upsetting my wife and showing pictures of . . . of I don’t know what, asking damn-fool questions.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Banks said. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone. One of our technical support officers was able to enhance the digital photographs I just showed you and read the street name. This street name.

As you can see, the facade in the photos also resembles this house.”

“Couldn’t he have made a mistake?” Townsend said, handing the photos back. “After all, they’re a bit blurred and you can’t just blindly trust all modern technology, can you?”

“Mistakes are made,” said Banks. “But not this time. I don’t think so.”

Townsend stuck his chin out. “Then what’s your explanation? Eh?”

Banks put the photographs back, pocketed the envelope and stood up to leave. “I don’t know, sir,” he said. “But one way or another I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t be any more help,” said Edith, as she led Banks to the door.

“Have you ever heard of a man called Julian Fenner?” Banks asked.

“He works in Import-Export?”

“No.”

“Laurence Silbert? Mark Hardcastle?”

“No, I’m afraid neither of those names is familiar to me.”

“Do you have a son?” he asked. “Or any other close relative who might have used the house in your absence?”

“Only our daughter.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“She’s away. In America. Besides, I can’t imagine any reason why she would think of coming here unless we asked her to. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now. We can’t tell you anything more.”

And Banks found himself standing on the doorstep scratching his head.

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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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M E D B U R N WA S N ’ T much more than a postwar council estate with a pub, a post office and a garage clustered around the green, where bored kids lounged on the benches and scared off the few old folks who lived there. The Red Rooster had been there first, at the cross-roads, and it was one of those ugly sprawling pubs with a brick-and-tile facade that had recently been taken over by a brewery chain and tarted up a bit—long bar, family area, children’s playroom, a bouncy castle in the garden, brass numbers screwed to every table to make ordering easier. And woe betide you if you forgot to memorize your table number, or it somehow slipped your mind as you waited at the bar half an hour to order, because there was usually only one person serving, and it always seemed to be his first day on the job.

This one’s name tag identified him as Liam, and he didn’t look old enough to be serving in a pub, Annie thought. Luckily, the place wasn’t too busy around half past five on a Wednesday afternoon—it was the kind of pub that filled up later, after dinner, when the quizzes or karaoke started, and at lunchtimes on weekends—and Annie and Winsome had no trouble getting a couple of drinks and putting in an order for table 17.

“What’s all this about, then?” Winsome asked, when they sat down with their drinks. A pint of Abbot’s for Annie and a glass of red wine for Winsome. “I thought the Hardcastle business was over and done with. Superintendent Gervaise said so.”

“It is,” said Annie. “At least officially.” She debated whether to bring Winsome into the picture. If she could trust anyone else in Western Area HQ, it was Winsome, but she could also be prudish and judgmental, and she tended to do things by the book. In the end, Annie decided to tell her. Even if Winsome disapproved, at least she wouldn’t go telling Superintendent Gervaise or anyone else.

“So DCI Banks is in London following this up instead of on leave?”

Winsome said, when Annie had finished.

“Yes. Well, he’s officially on leave, but . . . he’s not convinced.”

“And you?”

“Let’s just say I’m intrigued.”

“And he wants you to help at this end?”

“Yes.”

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