All the Colors of Darkness

“Taxpayers’ money at work. How long did they stay?”

“Almost two hours every time.”

“And then?”

“When they came out they parted ways. My man usually walked to the tube on Finchley Road.”

“Usually?”

“Yes. Once he walked all the way back to Bloomsbury the same way he came.”

“And the other man?”

“I never followed him. It wasn’t required.”

“But which direction did he head in?”

“North. Toward Hampstead.”

“On foot?”

“Yes.”

“When they got to the house on Charles Lane, who had the key?”

“Nobody,” said Tomasina.

“Do you mean they just walked straight in? The door was open?”

“No. They knocked and someone answered.”

“Did you actually see this person?”

“Not really. She was always in the shadows, back from the open door, and she didn’t really show on the photos.”

“She?”

“Oh, yes, it was definitely a woman. An elderly woman, I’d say.

Gray-haired, maybe in her sixties. I could see that much. I just couldn’t describe her features. I had to stand around the corner and use the zoom to avoid being seen. But she was quite small, smartly dressed.”

“Edith Townsend,” said Banks.

“Do you know her?”

“In a way. Did you ever see a man?”

“No. Just the woman.”

Lester was probably sitting in the living room reading his Daily Telegraph, Banks thought. So they had been lying to him, as he suspected, which meant they were something to do with Mr. Browne and the spooks. Or the other side. What had Silbert been up to? It wasn’t an affair, Banks was almost certain of that, but were the photos enough to convince Hardcastle that it was? The friendly hand on the 2 1 6

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shoulder? With the added Iago-style innuendos and rhetoric, perhaps they were, as Hardcastle was insecure and jealous to begin with. Perhaps Silbert was working part-time, involved in some special project run, or fronted, by the Townsends? “Did your client ask you to investigate further when you gave him the memory stick?”

“No. All he seemed interested in was the photos of the two men together. I mean, I didn’t get the impression that he really cared what they were doing, why they were meeting.”

“When did you give him the memory stick?”

“Wednesday afternoon. The end of May. Two weeks ago.”

“Did you give him prints, too?”

“Yes. Do you know what it’s all about?”

“Not really,” Banks said. “I have a few vague ideas, but that’s all they are.”

“Will you tell me, or is this a one-way street?”

Banks smiled at her. “It’s a one-way street for the moment, a cul-de-sac, too, as far as I can see.”

“So that’s it? You come here and use me up and then simply discard me?”

“ ’Fraid so. Don’t take it so hard, Tomasina. It’s a tough business you’re in. Look on the bright side. You’ve done the right thing. Talked to the police.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ve talked to one policeman who’s already been warned off. Okay, forget it. Is this it, then? You walk out of here and I never see you again?”

“This is it.” Banks stood up. “But if you need to get in touch, you can call this number.” He scribbled down his new mobile number on the back of his card, handed it to her and walked over to the door.

“Wait,” she called out behind him. “Will you do just one teeny little thing for me?”

Banks paused at the door. “It depends on what it is.”

“The Blue Lamps. Can you get me a ticket for their next show?