All the Colors of Darkness

“But are you going to be running out at all hours of the night on mysterious missions?”

“I can’t guarantee nine to five, but I’ll do my best to be home by bedtime.”

“Hmm. So tell me what happened today.”

“I went to this house in Saint John’s Wood, a house we had evidence that Laurence Silbert and an unknown man entered together about a week before Silbert died . . .” And Banks proceeded to tell Sophia about Edith and Lester Townsend. “Honestly,” he said, “I felt as if I’d walked right into the world of one of those strange fantasy novels. Or fallen down a rabbit hole or something.”

“And they said they were there all the time, that no one else lived there or had rented from them, and they didn’t know either of the men in the photo?”

“That’s about it.”

“How very North by Northwest. Are you sure your technical support people didn’t make a mistake?”

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“I’m sure. It’s the same place. You can see that as soon as you stand outside.”

“Well, they must be lying, then,” said Sophia. “It stands to reason.

It’s the only logical conclusion. Don’t you think?”

“So it would seem. But why?”

“Maybe they’ve been paid off?”

“Possibly.”

“Perhaps they run a gay brothel?”

“A little old lady like Edith Townsend? In Saint John’s Wood?”

“Why not?”

“Or maybe they’re simply a part of it all,” Banks said.

“A part of what?”

“The plot. The conspiracy. Whatever’s going on.” He tossed back the rest of his drink. “Come on, let’s go for that meal and talk about something else. I’m sick of bloody spooks already. It’s doing my head in. And I’m starving.”

Sophia laughed and reached down for her handbag. “Talking about doing your head in,” she said, “if we hurry, Wilco are playing at the Brixton Academy tonight, and I can get us in.”

“Well, then,” said Banks, standing and holding out his hand for her.

“What are we waiting for? Have we got time for a burger on the way?”

10

SOPHIA LEFT FOR WORK EARLY ON THURSDAY MORNING

while Banks was still in the shower trying to wake up. The Wilco concert had been great, and they had had a drink afterward with some of Sophia’s friends, which had made for a late night. At least Banks had remembered to charge his new mobile, and as soon as he’d dressed and had some coffee, he planned on phoning Annie to let her know his number.

He wasn’t sure whether to revisit the Townsends again that day.

Probably not. He didn’t really see much point. On the one hand, the taciturn Mr. Townsend would be at work, and his wife might be more forthcoming if her husband wasn’t around. On the other hand, she would probably be terrified, refuse to open the door and ring the police as soon as she saw Banks on her doorstep.

If they were involved, it meant they were part of the intelligence service, or paid by them to run a safe house or some such thing, and if that was true, they were hardly going to give anything away. If, as Sophia had suggested, they ran a gay brothel, then it was clearly an elite one, and the same code of silence probably applied. Charles Lane was most likely a dead end in the investigation.

Banks’s only consolation was that perhaps what had happened there didn’t really matter. The important thing was that Silbert had gone there with a man, and photographs of that visit had ended up in the 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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possession of Mark Hardcastle, who had either misconstrued the whole business or been right on target. Perhaps the identity of the man wasn’t as important as the identity of the photographer.

Humming “Norwegian Wood” for some odd reason, Banks dried himself and dressed. He thought he heard someone at the door, but when he went down and opened it, there was nobody there. Puzzled, he went through to the kitchen and blessed Sophia for leaving some coffee in the pot. He poured himself a cup, put a slice of wholemeal bread in the toaster and sat on a stool at the island. It was a small kitchen, especially given how much Sophia loved to cook, but it was organized and modern, with various high-quality pots and pans hanging from hooks above the island, a brushed steel gas oven and burners and just about every kitchen gadget you could want, from a set of J. A.

Henckel knives and a multispeed mixer to a cheap plastic carrot peeler you wore on your finger like a ring.

The toast popped out and Banks spread it with butter and grapefruit marmalade then had a quick look through that morning’s copy of The Independent Sophia had left behind. The Hardcastle-Silbert case seemed to have slipped from their radar entirely, and there wasn’t much else of interest. Amy Winehouse was in trouble over drugs again. It was a shame, Banks thought, as it made people pay less attention to her amazing talent. Or perhaps it got her name across to a wider audience. Billie Holiday had had much the same problems—

and she did go to rehab—yet she had made wonderful music. A lot of musicians had trouble with drugs, and