All the Colors of Darkness

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“I’m an architect. Back then I worked for a small firm, but I’m on my own now. I work from home, which is why you found me in. I can’t say I do very many jobs these days. I get to pick and choose. I’m lucky. I don’t need to work full-time. I’ve made a fair bit of money over the years, and I’m a saver. I’ve also made some good investments, even in these troubled times, and I’ve got enough to see myself out in reasonable style.”

“Did you ever see these people after you split up with Laurence?”

“No. I suppose they lost interest in me after that.”

“Have you heard of someone called Fenner? Julian Fenner.”

“No, I can’t say as I have.”

“What about a couple called Townsend?”

“No, again the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

Banks showed him the photograph of Silbert with the man in Regent’s Park and at the door on Charles Lane, but apart from reacting a little emotionally to the image of his ex-lover, he said it didn’t mean anything to him.

“Can you answer me just one question?” Westwood asked.

“Perhaps.”

“How did you find out about me?”

“Edwina mentioned you, and we found some old letters from you in Mr. Silbert’s safe.”

“Ah, I see . . . Do you think, perhaps, when this is all over . . . ?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Banks. He noticed a tear glisten in Westwood’s right eye. He didn’t think there was anything more to be gained from talking to him. If Westwood had known Fenner or the Townsends, they had probably gone under different names then. They probably changed their names as often as most people changed their underwear. He finished his coffee, thanked Westwood and stood up to go. It seemed that every time he thought he was taking a step closer to Laurence Silbert or Mark Hardcastle he was actually moving further away from them. It was like trying to grasp a handful of smoke.

“ T H E Y ’ R E WA I T I N G for us in the staff room,” Winsome said, when Annie arrived at the front entrance of Eastvale Comprehensive. Some 1 9 6 P E T E R

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of the pupils running back and forth from classrooms shouting and laughing paused and gawked at them, Winsome in particular, and more than a few giggles and wolf whistles echoed in the high corridors.

They found the staff room close to the administration offices. Three teachers, one of them Derek Wyman, sat on battered sofas and armchairs around a low table littered with the day’s newspapers, the Daily Mail open to the puzzle page. Someone had done the crossword and sudokus in ink. The walls were painted day-care-center yellow, and there was a big corkboard with notices and memos pinned to it. There was also a small kitchen area with sink, coffee urn, electric kettle, microwave and fridge. Yellow Post-it notes clung to every surface, telling you to wash your hands, don’t touch other people’s items in the fridge, throw away your rubbish, use only your own mug, clean up after yourself, remember to pay your coffee money. Annie couldn’t imagine that even the pupils needed more rules spelled out for them than the teachers did. It was very quiet in the room, though, as if it had been sound-proofed from the noise outside, and Annie imagined that must be one of its great appeals, even after her short walk along the corridor.

“So you’ve found our secret lair,” said Wyman, standing up.

“I phoned. The school secretary told me where you were,” said Winsome.

“I can see you’re not a detective for nothing,” said one of the other teachers.

Winsome and Annie exchanged glances.

Wyman obviously noticed their reaction. “I apologize for my colleague,” he said. “He spent all morning with year ten, and he hasn’t recovered yet.”

“That’s all right,” said Annie, positioning herself so she could see them all and take control of the interview. Winsome sat next to her and took out her notebook. “This shouldn’t take long,” Annie went on. “We don’t want to keep you from your duties.”

They laughed at that.

“You’re here because you all teach at least two of the pupils we think might be involved in the stabbing of Donny Moore on the East Side Estate last week. We’re still trying to form a picture of exactly 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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what happened that night, and you might be able to help us. Can you start by telling us who you are and what you teach?”

“Well, you know who I am,” said Wyman. “I teach drama and games, for my sins.”

The man next to him, the one who had made the bad joke, said,

“I’m Barry Chaplin and I teach physics and PE.”

The third was a woman. “I’m Jill Dresler,” she said, “and I teach arithmetic and algebra. No sports.”

“And you all know Nicky Haskell?” Annie asked.

They nodded. “When he can be bothered to come to class,” Jill Dresler added.

“Yes, we know about his poor attendance record,” Annie said. “But he did appear on occasion?”

“Just enough to avoid getting suspended,” said Barry Chaplin.