Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

This time Annie went and came back with another round.

“How would you characterize their relationship?” Banks asked when Edwina had a fresh drink before her.

“I’d say they were in love and they wanted to make a go of it, but they moved cautiously. You have to remember that Laurence was sixty-two and Mark was forty-six. They’d both been through painful relationships and split-ups before. Strong as their feelings were for one another, they weren’t going to jump into something without thinking.”

“Mark hung on to his flat,” Banks said, “yet it seemed they were practically living together at Castleview. Is that the kind of thing you mean?”

“Exactly. I imagine he would eventually have given it up and moved in with Laurence completely, but they were progressing slowly. Besides, Laurence has a pied-a-terre in Bloomsbury, so I should imagine Mark didn’t want to feel left out in that department.”

“Was he competitive?”

“He came from nowhere,” Edwina said, “and he was ambitious. Yes, I’d say he was competitive, and perhaps material things meant more to him than they do to some people. Symbols of how far he’d come. But it didn’t stop him from being a wonderful, generous person.”

“You mentioned a pied-à-terre. Would Mark have stayed there, too, when he was in London?”

“I can’t see why not.”

“Would you give me the address?”

Edwina gave him an address near Russell Square. “It really is very tiny,” she said. “I couldn’t imagine the two of them staying there together. It would drive any couple crazy. But if you’re alone, it’s perfect.”

“Did you ever sense any tension between them? Any problems? Did they argue? Fight?”

“Nothing that stands out,” said Edwina. “No more than any other couple. Actually, they laughed a lot.” She paused. “Why? You’re not...? Surely you can’t...?”

“We’re not really suggesting anything yet, Mrs. Silbert,” Annie said quickly. “We don’t know what happened. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“But that you can even believe there’s a possibility of Mark’s... of Mark’s doing something like that.”

“I’m afraid it is a possibility,” said Banks. “But that’s all it is at the moment. As Annie said, we don’t know what happened. All we know is that your son was killed in his home, and that shortly afterward Mark Hardcastle committed suicide in Hindswell Woods.”

“Hindswell? Oh my God, no. Oh, Mark. That was their favorite spot. They took me to see the bluebells there once, back in April. They were absolutely gorgeous this year. Grief, Mr. Banks. That would be why he killed himself. Grief.”

“That occurred to us, too,” said Banks. “And your son?”

Edwina hesitated before answering, and Banks sensed that something had crossed her mind, something she wasn’t sure that she wanted to share yet. “A burglar, perhaps?” she said. “Surely an area like this must attract them from time to time?”

“We’re working on it. What we need, though, is a lot more background on your son and Mark. We know so little about them, about their pasts, their work, their life together. We’re hoping you can help us with that.”

“I’ll tell you what I can,” said Edwina. “And I’ll submit to whatever tests you require. But can it wait until tomorrow? Please? I’m feeling suddenly very tired.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any hurry,” said Banks, disappointed but trying not to show it. She was an old woman, after all, and though she had managed to hide that fact for an hour or more, the mask was slipping. He wanted to get home, himself, anyway, so he was quite willing to postpone the rest of the interview until the following day. They should have the blood-typing back from Stefan by then, too, someone would have checked the birthmark, and Derek Wyman might be able to fill them in on some details of Mark’s life.

Edwina got up to leave and Annie stood. “Can I drive you? Honest,” Annie said, “it’s no bother.”

Edwina touched Annie’s shoulder. “It’s all right, dear,” Edwina said. “I have to get the car there anyway. I might as well do it now. I know the way. I think I’ve got just about enough energy left.”

And she walked away.

“Should she be driving?” Annie asked.

“Probably not,” said Banks. “But I wouldn’t recommend you try to stop her. She didn’t get to run a multimillion-pound retail fashion empire by giving in easily. Sit down. Finish your Coke.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Annie. “She’ll be okay. She barely even touched her second drink.”

Annie shivered, and Banks offered her his jacket to put over her shoulders. He was surprised when she took it. Perhaps she was being polite. Still, he knew that he didn’t feel the cold the way she did.

He could hear people laughing and talking inside the pub, and beyond the low wall, way below in the town center, he could see tiny dots of people crossing the market square, just the way Joseph Cotton and Orson Welles saw from the giant Ferris wheel in The Third Man, one of his favorite films.

“So what do you think about that pied-a-terre?” Banks asked.

“I don’t know,” said Annie. “I suppose it was worth hanging on to if he could afford it, and if he used it often enough.”

“We should probably check the place out. Hardcastle might have stayed there on Thursday night. He might have left some sort of clue behind as to his state of mind.”

“I suppose we should.”

“Do you think Edwina was right about why Hardcastle kept his flat?”

“Probably,” Annie said. “Though I’d incline more toward the moving-cautiously theory than the competitiveness. He’s got one, so I have to have one, too. I’m not sure I buy that.”

“Some people are like that.”

Annie shrugged. “Anyway, it’s not so unusual, is it? Sophia still has a cottage up here, doesn’t she, as well as a house in London?”

“It’s her family’s,” Banks said.

“Maybe Silbert’s mother bought it for him?” Annie said. “We’ll have to ask her about his finances tomorrow. She’s certainly an interesting woman, though, isn’t she. I gather she’s another of your adolescent fantasies, along with Marianne Faithful and Julie Christie?” “That’s right,” said Banks. “She was quite beautiful in her day, if a little older than the rest. I remember reading about her at the time, seeing pictures of her in the papers. One of the perks of doing a newspaper round. I think she started Viva around 1965. It was on Portobello Road then. It was famous for its reasonable prices, but everyone who was anyone at the time used to shop there, too. Mick Jagger, Marianne Faithful, Paul McCartney, Jane Asher, Julie Christie, Terry Stamp. She knew them all. All the beautiful people.”

“I didn’t know they were all so cheap,” Annie said.

“It wasn’t the prices. It was the cachet. She was right in the thick of things, party-going with all the big names, being seen at all the right clubs. She also had a brush with heroin addiction later on, and affairs with all the eligible stars. I didn’t even know that she had a son. She obviously kept him well out of the limelight.”

Annie yawned.

“I’m boring you.”

“Long day.”

“Then let’s call it a night. We’ve got a busy one tomorrow.”

“Good idea,” Annie agreed, handing Banks back his jacket.

“Look, what you said earlier, about my not being there for you...” “You were at first, very much so. I just... oh, Alan, I don’t know. Take no notice of me.”

“It’s just that you seemed to withdraw. I didn’t know how to reach you.”

“I suppose I did,” Annie said. She patted his arm and stood up. “Difficult times. All behind us now. Let’s just move on and try to get to the bottom of this business as soon as we can.”