Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

“One of the Zizzi’s chain, on Charlotte Street. Pizza trentino and a glass of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo. A large one, going by the price.”

“Hmm,” said Banks. “That would indicate that Hardcastle probably ate alone. Or he and Wyman went Dutch, or shared the pizza. Any idea where Hardcastle stayed on Wednesday night?”

“No,” said Annie. “We’re hoping Derek Wyman might be able to tell us. He’s not back yet. I was planning on interviewing him first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Any idea what Hardcastle did on Thursday evening after he got back to Eastvale?” Banks asked.

“Who knows?” Annie said. “He must have stopped in, most likely at Castleview. The downstairs neighbor at Branwell Court says she hasn’t seen him since last week, and most of the letters are postmarked around that time or later. We haven’t been able to find anybody who saw him go out. He wasn’t at the theater. All we know is that the next day around lunchtime, he went into Grainger’s shop, smelling of alcohol, bought a length of clothesline and went and hanged himself in Hindswell Woods. So between late Thursday afternoon and Friday morning, he’d had a few drinks, or a lot of drinks, and he possibly killed Laurence Silbert.”

“Anything else of interest in Silbert’s wallet?” Banks asked.

“Credit cards, a little cash, a business card, sales receipts, driving license. He was born in 1946, by the way, which makes him sixty-two. Nothing yet to give a hint of his profession or sources of income.” “Business card? Whose? His own?”

“No.” Annie slid the plastic folder over to him.

“Julian Fenner, Import-Export,” Banks read. “That covers a multitude of sins. It’s a London phone number. No address. Mind if I hang on to it?”

“Okay by me,” said Annie. “Maybe it’s another lover?”

“More speculation,” said Gervaise. “What we need is solid information.” She rested both her palms on the table as if to push herself up to leave, but she remained seated. “Right,” she said. “We’ll keep at it. We still have a lot of questions to answer before we can close the book on this one. Is there much else on in Major Crimes at the moment?” “Not much,” said Annie. “Couple of gang-related incidents on the East Side Estate, a spate of shoplifting in the Swainsdale Centre— looks organized—and a break-in at the Castle Gift Shop. And the traffic cones, of course. They’re still disappearing. DS Hatchley and CID are dealing with most of it.”

“Good,” said Gervaise. “Then we’ll let DS Hatchley worry about the traffic cones and the shoplifting. Stefan, how long do you think it will take the lab to get the basic blood work done?”

“We can get the samples typed by tomorrow,” said Nowak. “That’s easy enough. DNA and toxicology will take longer, of course, depending whether we put a rush on it or not, and that costs money. I’d say by midweek, at best.”

“Any idea when Dr. Glendenning might get around to the postmortems?”

“I’ve spoken to him,” said Annie. “He wasn’t out playing golf like everyone thought. He was actually in his office at Eastvale General Infirmary catching up on paperwork. I think he’s bored. He’s willing to get started whenever he gets the go-ahead.”

“Wonderful,” said Gervaise. “He’s got his wish.”

“It’ll have to be Monday, though,” Annie said. “The rest of his staff’s away for the weekend.”

“I don’t suppose we’re in a rush,” said Gervaise. “And it is the Sabbath tomorrow. First thing Monday morning will do fine.”

“Just one point,” said Banks. “Do you think it might make sense if Dr. Glendenning autopsies Laurence Silbert first, rather than Mark Hardcastle? I mean, everyone is pretty sure that Hardcastle hanged himself. There’s no evidence of anyone else having been with him, is there, Stefan?”

“None at all,” said Nowak. “And everything about that scene, including the knot and the rope marks, is consistent with suicide by hanging. Textbook case. As I’ve said before, it’s difficult to hang someone against his will. The only questions we still have are toxico-logical.”

“You mean, was he drugged?”

“It’s a possibility. The shopkeeper said he was calm and subdued, though that’s not terribly strange in someone who has made the decision to take his own life, and we do know that he had been drinking. He might have taken pills. Anyway, we’ll be testing the blood samples carefully.”

“Okay,” Banks said. “Are we working on the assumption that if Hardcastle didn’t kill Silbert himself, then someone else did, and that Hardcastle found the body and hanged himself from grief?”

“Makes sense to me,” said Gervaise. “If he didn’t do it himself. Any objections?”

No one had any.

“In the meantime, then,” Gervaise went on, “as DCI Banks suggested, we ask more questions. We try to plot out their movements, the hours leading up to their deaths. We dig into their backgrounds, family history, friends, enemies, ambitions, work, finances, previous relationships, travels, the lot. Okay?”

They all nodded. Superintendent Gervaise gathered up her papers and walked over to the door. Just before she left, she half-turned and said, “I’ll try to keep the media at bay for as long as I can, now they’ve got wind of it. Remember, this is the Heights. Tread carefully. Keep me informed at every stage.”

After the meeting, Banks sat in his office listening to Natalie Clein playing the Elgar Cello Concerto and studied his copies of the materials gathered from Silbert’s wallet and Hardcastle’s car. It didn’t add up to a hell of a lot. He glanced at his watch. Just after six-fifteen. He wanted to talk to Sophia, see if she had forgiven him, but now would be the worst possible time. The guests were due to arrive at half past seven, and she would be right in the midst of her dinner preparations.

Idly he dialed the number of Julian Fenner, Import-Export, the card found in Laurence Silbert’s wallet. After only a few rings and several distant clicks and echoes, an automated voice came on the line to tell him that the number had been discontinued and was no longer in service. He tried again, slowly, in case he had misdialed. Same result. After a few attempts to find a matching address through reverse directories, he gave up. It appeared that the number did not exist. He called the squad room and asked Annie to drop by his office.

While he waited, he walked to the open window and gazed out on the market square. At that time of evening it was still fairly quiet. The shadows were lengthening, but Banks knew it would stay light until after ten o’clock. The market had packed up and moved on hours ago, leaving a slight whiff of rotting vegetables about the cobbled square. Most of the shops were closed, except Somerfield’s and W. H. Smith’s, and the only people around were the ones who wanted an early meal or a drink.

When Annie came, Banks sat opposite her and moved his computer monitor out of the way so he could see her properly. She was casually dressed in a russet T-shirt and short blue denim skirt, no tights. Her tousled chestnut hair hung over her shoulders, her complexion was smooth and free of all but the lightest of makeup, her almond eyes were clear, and her demeanor seemed calm and controlled. Banks hadn’t had a really good talk with her since he’d taken up with Sophia. He knew she had had one or two problems to deal with from their last case together, and he hadn’t exactly been a rock, but she looked as if she had managed it well. A couple of weeks down in Cornwall at her father’s place had obviously done her a lot of good.

Banks turned the business card to face her. “Did you try this number?” he asked.