All the Colors of Darkness

“The point I was trying to make,” Annie went on, “was that if—or because—Wyman poisoned Hardcastle against Silbert, there’s no reason to believe that Silbert was the intended victim. Wyman hardly knew him. He did know Hardcastle quite well, though.”

“So you’re saying Mark Hardcastle was the victim?”

“I’m saying he could have been. And you still have to consider the simple but significant fact that Wyman could not have been certain of the effects of his actions.”

“I agree he couldn’t have known that Hardcastle would kill Silbert, then himself.”

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“Well, thank the Lord for that.”

“But he did know he was stirring up a volatile situation, and that someone might get hurt.”

“True. Even if only emotionally, even if his only intention was to split them up.”

“Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it? Isn’t it what you’d expect if you convinced someone his partner was being unfaithful, rather than bloody murder and suicide? And Wyman had plenty of reason to be upset with Hardcastle over developments at the theater. Not enough to kill him, obviously, but perhaps enough to want to do a bit of mischief.”

“Perhaps,” said Banks.

“In which case,” Annie went on, “all this spooks business is beside the point. What happened wasn’t anything to do with the security of the realm, terrorists, the Russian Mafia, or any of that claptrap.”

“What about Mr. Browne?”

“You pissed in his swimming pool, Alan. For God’s sake, we’d be swarming around quickly enough if it was one of our blokes died that way.”

“Julian Fenner, Import-Export, the mysterious phone number that doesn’t ring?”

“Tradecraft? Part of what Silbert was up to when he was in London?

How he contacted the man in the photo? I don’t know.”

“And us being warned off?”

“They don’t want publicity. It does so happen that Silbert was a member of MI6, and he’d probably been involved in a fair bit of dirty business over the years. Probably still was, judging by what you were telling me. They don’t want to take the slightest chance that any of that might come out in the press or in the courts. They don’t want their dirty laundry washing in public. It was all neatly wrapped up.

Murder-suicide. Sad but simple. No need for any further messy investigations. And then you come along sticking your chest out and waving your fist in the air crying foul.”

“Is that how you see me?”

Annie laughed. “A bit, I suppose.”

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“Charming. I thought I was more of a knight on a white charger tilting against windmills and throwing a spanner in the works.”

“Now you’re really mixing your metaphors. Oh, you know what I mean, Alan. Bloke stuff. Pissing contest.”

“I’m still not convinced.”

“But you admit that I could be right, that it was all about Hardcastle, not Silbert?”

“It could be. Why don’t you nose around into Wyman’s and Hardcastle’s backgrounds a bit more deeply, see if you can find anything?

Who knows, maybe you’ll find the missing link somewhere in all that? It’s also possible that someone else was involved, that someone put Wyman up to it. Paid him, even. And I know you don’t like to consider the spook stuff, but it’s also possible that someone in that line of work who wanted to hurt Silbert put Wyman up to it, too. Not as likely, I admit, because the outcome was far from certain, but not entirely out of the question.”

“But we concentrate on the Wyman-Hardcastle angle for the time being rather than . . . Oh, shit!”

“What is it, Annie?”

Annie looked up at the slight but commanding figure of Detective Superintendent Gervaise standing in the doorway, a pint in her hand.

“Ah, DI Cabbot,” Gervaise said. “So this is your little hideaway. Mind if I join you?”

“No problem, ma’am,” Annie said loudly enough for Banks to hear, then she pressed the end-call button.

B A N K S W O N D E R E D how Annie would talk herself out of being caught in the Horse and Hounds by Superintendent Gervaise, who had probably also heard that remark about following the Wyman-Hardcastle angle. No doubt she would tell him as soon as she could.

He got up and brushed the grass off his trousers. It was a fine evening, and the little park in the center of Soho Square was filling up: a couple lying together on the grass stroking and kissing, a student sitting by her backpack reading a book, a shabby old man eating sandwiches out 2 2 2

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