“Yes, I know,” said Banks. “Was he here on the dates I mentioned?”
“It was quite recent, I do remember that. Please, let me check for you.” Mohammed went behind the small reception desk and thumbed through a large book. “Yes, here it is. He arrived on Wednesday afternoon the week before last, and he left on the Saturday.”
“Was he any different than on previous visits?”
“In what way?”
“I’m not sure,” said Banks. “Excited, depressed, on edge, anxious?”
“No, none of those things. Not that I noticed. He seemed quite . . .
pleased with everything, quite happy with life.”
“What time did he leave?”
“Checkout time is eleven o’clock.”
That squared with what Wyman had told them when they talked to him. He said he had gone for a pub lunch then done some book shopping and visited the National Gallery before catching his train home.
His wife, Carol, had met him at York station at about a quarter past A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
2 0 3
seven. “Do you have any idea where he went or what he did while he was here?”
Mohammed frowned. “I don’t spy on my guests, Mr. Banks,” he said.
“I understand,” said Banks. “But you must have noticed him coming in or going out at certain times. Did he sleep here every night?”
“As far as I know. His bed was always slept in and he was always down for breakfast.”
“I don’t suppose you know what times he came and went?”
“No. He usually went out after breakfast, about nine o’clock, and he might call back at some point for an hour or so in the middle of the afternoon, perhaps to rest, and then he would go out again at teatime.
We don’t do any other meals, you see. Only breakfast. He was just like any other tourist.”
“Was he late back at night?”
“Not that I know of. I saw him come in about eleven a couple of times. I was usually making sure everything was tidy and shipshape for morning by then.”
“Did he have any visitors?”
“We don’t encourage visitors in the rooms. As I told you, I don’t keep a watch on my guests, and I’m not always here, so I suppose he
“Mr. Wyman is a regular here, right?”
“He likes to come down for the theater, the art galleries and the NFT, he told me. But it’s hard for him to get away. Schoolteachers get many holidays, but not always when they want to take them.”
My heart bleeds, thought Banks, who was supposed to be on holiday right now. Still, it was his own fault that he wasn’t.
“Mr. Wyman is a model guest,” Mohammed went on. “He never makes any noise. He never complains. He is always polite.”
“Good,” said Banks. “This might sound like an odd request, but is there any chance I might have a look at the room he stayed in the last time he was here?”
Mohammed stroked his mustache. “That is indeed a very unusual 2 0 4
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
request,” he said. “But as it happens, Mr. Wyman always prefers the same room, if it’s available. The prices of the rooms here vary, you understand, depending on the level of accommodation offered, but he didn’t mind the shared toilet and bathroom, or the noise from the street.”
“Your cheapest room?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“And he always got it?”
“Most times. And you’re in luck. It’s empty now. Though what you hope to find there I have no idea. Other guests have stayed since Mr.
Wyman, you know, and everything has been cleaned and washed. I can vouch for that. My wife does the cooking and I take care of the cleaning myself.”
“Did you find anything odd or interesting when you cleaned the room after Mr. Wyman left last time?”
“No. I . . . Wait a minute,” said Mohammed, stroking his mustache. “It had slipped down the back of the radiator. It’s always difficult to clean behind there. There’s not enough space.”
“What was it?” Banks asked.
“Just a business card. I wouldn’t have noticed, but there’s a special attachment for the vacuum cleaner. The card was too big to go down the tube, so it got stuck over the end by the suction, and I had to remove it by hand. I remember thinking it must have fallen out of the top pocket of his shirt when he took it off to go to bed. Mr. Wyman
