“Oh, sod off, you idiot. I didn’t say I was going to do what she asked, did I? I was just outlining the sensible solution again. Only to have it shot down, as usual.”
“She’s a devious one, Madame Gervaise,” Banks said. “Besides, the sensible solution isn’t always the best one.”
“They’ll put that on your tombstone. Anyway, I’m almost at the school and I’ve got something to tell you before I have second thoughts.
It might change things.”
Banks’s ears pricked up. “What?”
“Nicky Haskell mentioned seeing Mark Hardcastle drinking with Derek Wyman in the Red Rooster a couple of weeks ago.”
“The Red Rooster? That’s a kids’ pub, isn’t it? Karaoke and bad Amy Winehouse impersonations?”
“More or less,” Annie said.
“So why would they go there?”
“I have no idea. Unless it’s the sort of place where they didn’t think they’d be noticed.”
“But Wyman told us he had a drink with Hardcastle every now and then. There’s nothing odd about that, except their choice of location.”
“There’s more.” Banks listened as Annie went on to tell him about Wyman calming Hardcastle down.
A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
1 9 1
“But nothing changed hands?” Banks said. “No pictures, no memory stick or anything?”
“Not that Nicky Haskell saw. Or Liam, the bartender.”
“Maybe you could ask again? Find someone else who was there.
Who was Nicky with?”
“His mates, I suppose. The usual suspects.”
“Try them. One of them might have seen something. If Gervaise is watching you’ll just appear to be following up on the East Side Estate stabbing.”
“I am following up on the stabbing.”
“Well, there you go. A couple of extra questions won’t do much harm, then, will they?”
“I’m at the school driveway now. I have to go.”
“You’ll ask around?”
“I’ll ask around.”
“And Annie?”
“Yes?”
“Rattle Wyman’s cage, too, if you get the chance.”
A C C O R D I N G T O what Edwina Silbert had told Banks, Leo Westwood had lived in a third-f loor f lat on Adamson Road, near the Swiss Cottage tube station. There was a row of farmers’-market stalls at the top of Eton Avenue, just opposite the Hampstead Theatre, and Banks thought he might pick up some Brie de Meaux, chorizo sausage and venison pate on his way back. Sophia would appreciate the gesture, and he was sure she would know what to do with the chorizo. Left to himself, Banks would probably just put it between two slices of bread with a dollop of HP Sauce.
Adamson Road branched off to the left, with the Best Western Hotel to the right, a tree-lined street of older, imposing three-story houses with white stucco facades, complete with porticoes and col-umns. They reminded Banks of the houses on Powys Terrace in Notting Hill. There were plenty of people on the street and on the porches chatting; all in all, it looked like a lively neighborhood. According to the list of tenants, Leo Westwood still lived there. Banks pressed the 1 9 2
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
bell beside the name and waited. After a few seconds a voice crackled over the intercom. Banks identified himself and the reason for his visit and found himself buzzed up.
The halls and landings had clearly seen better days, but there was a kind of shabby elegance about it all. The Axminsters may have been a little worn, but they were still Axminsters.
Leo Westwood stood at the door of his f lat. He was a short, pudgy man with silky gray hair and a smooth ruddy complexion, somewhere in his early sixties, wearing a black polo-neck jumper and jeans. Banks had expected an antique-laden apartment, but inside, beyond the hallway, the living area was ultramodern, all polished hardwood f loors, chrome and glass, plenty of open space, a fine bay window, and a state-of-the-art music and TV system. The f lat had probably been reasonably inexpensive when Westwood bought it years ago, but now would be worth somewhere in the region of half a million pounds, Banks guessed, depending on how many bedrooms there were.
Westwood bade Banks sit on a comfortable black-leather-and-chrome armchair and offered coffee. Banks accepted. Westwood disappeared into the kitchen and Banks took the opportunity to look around.
There was only one painting on the wall, in a simple silver frame, and it drew Banks’s eye. It was abstract, a combination of geometric shapes in various colors and sizes. There was something calming about it, Banks found, and it fitted the room perfectly. On a small media storage unit beside the sound system was a mix of books—mostly architecture and interior design—several DVDs ranging from recent cinema hits like
