Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

“Not yet,” said Annie. “Not even her name. But it’s something we’ll be following up on. The Gloucestershire police said they’d inform her as soon as Harry Potter phoned them around lunchtime.”

“Have we found anyone who actually knew Silbert and Hardcastle yet?”

“We’re still working on that, too,” Annie said, a trace of irritation in her voice. “Certainly no one we’ve talked to so far admits to having them over for drinks or dinner on a regular basis. The closest seem to be Maria Wolsey and Vernon Ross at the theater, and neither of them knew Silbert well. Judging by the kitchen and dining area at Castleview Heights, Silbert probably did a fair bit of entertaining. He was sophisticated, obviously well-educated, a man of great discernment, and probably quite wealthy, though the suggestion is that his mother’s the one with the money. On the other hand, Mark Hardcastle was the son of a Barnsley coal miner. Also, Hardcastle wasn’t, as far as we’ve been able to gather, at all coy about his sexuality.” Annie glanced at Gervaise. “Did Chief Constable Murray have anything to add about Laurence Silbert?” she asked. “Idle chatter at the nineteenth hole or something?”

Gervaise pursed her Cupid’s-bow lips. “Not much. He said he found him a bit standoffish. They weren’t close; they simply played golf to make up a foursome from time to time and had a drink at the club. I think the CC would like to maintain a little distance on this matter. But he has other friends on the Heights, so he’ll be watching over our shoulders. What do you think of all this, DCI Banks? You’re the closest we’ve got to fresh eyes.”

Banks tapped the end of his yellow pencil on the desk.

“I think we just keep on asking questions while we’re waiting on forensics,” Banks said. “Try to build up a picture of Hardcastle and Silbert’s life. And we work on a detailed plan of everything they did during the last two or three days.”

“We’ve talked to Hardcastle’s downstairs neighbor at Branwell Court,” Annie added, “and she confirms that Hardcastle was only there from time to time. And one of Silbert’s neighbors says she’s noticed that a green Toyota had become something of a fixture at Silbert’s house lately, too, which seems to confirm the living-together bit. She didn’t sound too pleased about it. The car, that is.”

“Well, she wouldn’t, would she?” said Banks. “Lowers the tone of the neighborhood.”

“There speaks a true Porsche owner,” said Annie.

Banks smiled. “So, you think they were definitely living together?” he said.

“Yes,” said Annie. “More or less. I saw a lot of Hardcastle’s personal stuff when I had a quick look around the house,” she went on. “Clothes, suits hanging in the same wardrobe as Silbert’s; books, a laptop computer, sketch pads, notebooks. He used one of the upstairs rooms as a sort of office.”

“Why hang on to the fl at, then?” Banks asked. “Hardcastle can’t have been making that much money at the theater. Why waste it on a flat he only used occasionally? And you said he still got his post there, too. Why not put in a change of address?”

“Any number of reasons,” said Annie. “Insecurity. A bolt hole. A little private space when he needed it. As for the post, as far as I could see he didn’t get anything but bills and circulars, anyway. We need to do a more thorough search of both places, though, and I suggest we start with Castleview.”

“You and DCI Banks can have a good poke around the house tomorrow,” Gervaise said. “With DI Nowak’s permission, of course.”

“All right with me. I’ll probably still have a couple of men working there, but if you don’t get in each other’s way...”

“See what you can dig up,” Gervaise went on. “Personal papers, bankbooks, stuff like that. As you say, we don’t even know what Silbert did for a living yet, do we, or where he got his money? What about Hardcastle? Did he have any family?”

“A distant aunt in Australia,” Annie said. “A ten-pound pommie.” “Phone records?”

“We’re working on it,” Annie said. “Mark Hardcastle didn’t have a mobile, hated them apparently, but we found one in Silbert’s jacket pocket, along with his wallet. Nothing out of the ordinary on it so far. In fact, nothing very much on it at all.”

“No call log, address book or stored text messages?” Banks asked.

“None.”

“But he had an address book?”

“Yes. Not much in it, though.”

“That’s a bit odd in itself, isn’t it?” said Gervaise. “I understand you talked to the cleaning lady?”

“Yes,” said Annie. “Mrs. Blackwell. Highly regarded in the Heights, so we’re told. She wasn’t much help. Said Mr. Hardcastle was around more often than not these days; when Mr. Silbert was at home, at least. Apparently he traveled a lot. They were a nice couple, always paid her on time, sometimes with a nice little bonus, blah, blah, blah. Mostly they went out while she did her work, so they didn’t hang about and chat. If she knew any deep dark secrets, she wasn’t telling. We can talk to her again if we need to.”

“What brought the two of them together, I wonder?” Banks asked. “How did they meet? What on earth did they have in common?”

Annie shot him a cool glance. “You know what they say. Love is blind.”

Banks ignored her. “Was it the theater? Silbert didn’t appear to have any real involvement in that world, but you never know. Or could it have simply been money? How rich was Silbert exactly?”

“We haven’t had time to find and examine his bank accounts and holdings yet,” said Annie. “Partly because it’s the weekend. Maybe we’ll find something on Monday, and maybe his mother will be able to tell us something when she’s got over the shock of her loss. But, like I said, he must have had a bob or two to live where he did and buy some of those paintings. The car’s no old jalopy, either. Which reminds me.” Annie took a slip of paper sheathed in a plastic folder from her file. “We found this in the glove box of the Jag just a short while ago. It’s a parking receipt from Durham Tees Valley Airport timed nine twenty-five a.m. Friday. The car had been parked there for three days.”

“So wherever he went, he went on Tuesday?” said Banks.

“So it seems.”

“Have you checked the flight arrival times?”

“Not yet,” said Annie. “Haven’t had a chance. But from some of the restaurant receipts we found in his wallet, it looks as if he was in Amsterdam.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “It should be easy enough to check on the flight passenger lists. We’ll get Doug on it. So what did Silbert walk into when he got home on Friday morning? I wonder. How far are we from the airport, about forty-five minutes, an hour?”

“Forty-five minutes, depending on the traffic on the Al,” said Annie. “And as far I know, they don’t service a lot of destinations directly through Durham Tees Valley. It’s a pretty small airport.”

“I remember,” said Banks. “We flew from there to Dublin once not long ago. I also think BMI flies to Heathrow. Anyway, that would fix his arrival at Castleview Heights around quarter past to half past ten.” “And by one o’clock he was dead,” added Superintendent Gervaise.

They all sat in silence for a moment to let that sink in, then Banks said, “And Mark Hardcastle was definitely in London on Wednesday and Thursday?”

“Yes,” said Annie. “He was there with Derek Wyman, the director of Othello. Hardcastle had a restaurant receipt in his wallet from Wednesday evening, and one for petrol dated Thursday afternoon, two twenty-six p.m. Northbound services, Watford Gap.”

“On his way home then,” said Banks. “If he was at Watford Gap at two twenty-six p.m. and drove straight home, he’d be here by about half past five, maybe a bit earlier. What’s the restaurant?”