you were doing in the Red Rooster with Mark Hardcastle a couple of weeks ago?”
Wyman seemed surprised, but he answered quickly. “Having a drink. I told you we got together for a drink every now and then to talk about theater business.”
“Yes,” said Annie. “But the Red Rooster isn’t really the sort of place you go for a quiet drink, and it’s hardly just around the corner.”
“It was quiet enough when we were there.”
A laughing boy being chased by his friends bumped into Annie as he dodged his pursuers. “Watch where you’re going, Saunders!”
Wyman yelled after him.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” said Saunders, and kept on running.
“Sometimes I wonder why I bother,” Wyman complained.
“The Red Rooster?”
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“Well, the food’s okay, and the beer’s not bad.”
“Look, Mr. Wyman,” said Annie. “It’s out of the way—at least two miles from Eastvale, where there are plenty of nice pubs, and it’s mostly a young kids’ pub. The beer might be passable, but the food’s crap. Anyone would think you didn’t want to get away from the kids once in a while, or that you went there because you didn’t want to be seen.”
“Well, to be quite honest,” said Wyman, “knowing the way tongues start wagging around these parts, and given Mark’s . . . er . . . sexual inclinations . . . I will admit that somewhere a little out of the way seemed more suitable.”
“Come off it, Derek. Your pupils drink there. And you went to London with Mark. You told us you met up for a drink every now and then. You said you don’t care whether a person’s gay or straight, and your wife wasn’t at all put out by your relationship with Mark Hardcastle, either. You expect me to believe that you went—”
“Now, you look here.” Wyman stopped in his tracks and turned to face her. “I don’t like this one bit. I don’t see why I have to explain to you why I drink where I do. Or who with. Or justify myself in any way.”
“What was Mark Hardcastle upset about?”
Wyman turned away and carried on walking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Something you said upset him. Then you calmed him down again. What was it?”
“That’s rubbish. I don’t remember anything remotely like that happening. I don’t know who’s been telling you this, but someone’s spreading vicious rumors.”
“Don’t you?” said Annie. She was at the door, and Wyman stopped again. He clearly wasn’t coming any farther. “Funny, that,” she went on. “Other people remember it very well.” She pushed the door open and walked out toward Winsome, who was waiting on the steps.
“Bye, Mr. Wyman,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.”
11
AFTER A QUICK BURGER AND CHIPS AND A PINT OF
Sam Smith’s at Ye Olde Swiss Cottage, a rambling pub with wooden balconies, which did look rather like a large ski chalet stuck in the cleft of busy traffic between Avenue Road and Finchley Road, Banks made his way to the tube station and negotiated his route to Victoria. The carriage was hot, and several of the people he found himself crushed up against clearly hadn’t bathed that morning.
It brought back memories of going to work on hot days in London, the way you’d get all kinds of deodorant and perfume smells in the morning, while the evening rush hour was dominated by sad and wrung-out-looking people smelling of sweat. He gave his underarm a surreptitious sniff as he left the station and was relieved to find that his antiperspirant was still holding its own.
Banks found Wyman’s bed-and-breakfast hotel easily enough about five minutes’ walk from the underground, off Warwick Way. A sign in the window offered vacancies from ?35 per night, which sounded remarkably cheap to Banks. He realized how money could be a problem for Wyman, with a wife who only worked part-time and two teenage children with appetites to match. A teacher’s salary was reasonable, but not extravagant. No wonder he stayed in places like this and ate at Zizzi’s.
Inexpensive as it was, the bed-and-breakfast turned out to be quite 2 0 2
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charming. The entrance was clean and the decor lively and fresh. The man who answered Banks’s ring was a rotund Pakistani with a mustache and a shiny head. He was wearing a pinny and seemed in the midst of vacuuming the hallway. He turned off the vacuum, introduced himself as Mohammed and asked with a smile what he could do for the gentleman. A vague aroma of curry spices wafted from the back and made Banks’s mouth water, despite the hurried burger.
Maybe he would suggest to Sophia that they go out for a curry dinner or get a takeaway.
Banks took out his warrant card and Mohammed scrutinized it.
“No trouble, I hope?” he said, a worried expression corrugating his brow.
“Not for you,” Banks said. “It’s just information I’m after really.”
He described Wyman and the dates he said he had last been staying there. It didn’t take long before Mohammed knew exactly whom Banks was talking about.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Wyman,” he said. “He’s one of my regulars. Very fine gentleman. Educated. He’s a schoolteacher, you know.” Mohammed spoke with a trace of south London accent.
