Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

“When did you go down?”

“Wednesday morning. I took the twelve-thirty train from York. It arrived at about a quarter to three. On time, for once.”

“Was Mark with you?”

“No. He drove down by himself.”

“Why was that? I mean, why didn’t you travel together?”

“I like the train. We were leaving at different times. Besides, I assume Mark had other things he wanted to do, perhaps other places to go. He needed to be mobile, and I didn’t want to be dependent on him. I’m quite happy traveling by tube and bus when I’m in London. In fact, I rather enjoy it. I can get some reading done, or just watch the world go by. I don’t even mind when they’re late. I get even more reading done then.”

“You should be doing adverts for National Express,” Banks said.

Wyman laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. But the thought of driving down the Ml in a car... well, frankly, it terrifies me. All those lorries. And driving in London... Then there’s the congestion charges.”

Banks didn’t enjoy driving in London much himself, though he had got more used to it since he started seeing Sophia. Sometimes he took the train for a change, and she occasionally did the same when she came up north, though she had a little Ford Focus runaround and drove up now and then. “And the purpose of the trip was?”

“The German Expressionist Cinema retrospective at the National Film Theatre.”

“For both of you?”

“Well, we were both interested in it, certainly, but as I said, Mark may have had other things to do. He didn’t say. We didn’t spend that much time together.”

“Can you tell me what you actually did do together?”

“Yes, of course. We met for a bite to eat at Zizzi’s on Charlotte Street that first evening, about six o’clock, before the showing. It was a pleasant evening, and we managed to get a table on the pavement out front.”

“What did you have to eat?” If Wyman was puzzled by the question, he didn’t show it.

“Pizza.”

“Who paid?”

“We went Dutch.”

“Do you still have your receipt?”

Wyman frowned. “It might be in my wallet somewhere. I can check, if you like?”

“Later will do,” said Banks. “And after dinner?”

“We went to see the films. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and a very rare showing of Dmitri Buchowkhi’s Othello, a German expressionist version of Shakespeare. It’s very interesting, but ultimately not among the best. You see, I’m directing—“

“Yes, we know about that,” said Banks. “What about afterward?”

Wyman looked a little sulky at being denied his directorial bragging rights. “We had a quick drink in the bar, then we went our separate ways.”

“You weren’t staying in the same hotel?”

“No. Mark’s partner owns a small fl at in Bloomsbury. I should imagine he was staying there.”

“But he didn’t say so?”

“Not specifically, no. But why pay London prices when you’ve got somewhere you can stay for free?”

“Why indeed?” Banks agreed. “And what about you?”

“I stayed at my usual bed-and-breakfast near Victoria Station. Cheap and cheerful. It’s not the most spacious room on the face of the earth, but it does all right for me.”

“Do you have the address?” Banks asked.

Wyman seemed puzzled by the question, but gave Banks an address on Warwick Street.

“You mentioned Mark’s partner,” Annie said. “Did you know Laurence Silbert well?”

“Not well. We met a couple of times. They came to dinner once. They reciprocated, and we went to their house. The usual.”

“When was this?” Annie asked.

“A couple of months ago.”

“Did Mr. Hardcastle appear to be living there at the time?” Banks asked.

“More or less,” said Wyman. “He practically moved in the day they met. Well, wouldn’t you? Bloody big house on the hill.”

“You think it was the grandeur that attracted him?” Banks said.

“No, I don’t really mean that. Just being facetious. But Mark certainly appreciated the finer things in life. He was one of those working-class lads who’ve gone up in the world, done right well for themselves. You know, more your Chateau Margaux and raw-milk Camembert than your pint of bitter and a packet of cheese-and-on-ion crisps. They were a well-matched couple, despite their difference in background.”

Mrs. Wyman came back in with the tea at this point, and the inevitable plate of biscuits. They all helped themselves from the tray. Banks thanked her and resumed the questioning. “What about the next day, Thursday?”

“What about it?”

“Did you see Mark?”

“No. He said he had to go home. I was staying until Saturday, as you know. I wanted to fit in a few exhibitions, too, while I was down there. Tate Modern. The National Portrait Gallery. And some book-shopping. There were also a couple more films and lectures I attended at the NFT. Backstairs. Nosferatu. I can give you the details if you like.”

“Ticket stubs?”

“Yes, probably.” He frowned. “Look, you’re questioning me as if I’m a suspect or something. I thought—”

“We just want to get the details clear,” said Banks. “As yet there aren’t any suspects.” Or anything to suspect, he might have added. “So you stayed in London until when?”

Wyman paused. “Yesterday. I checked out of my B-and-B about lunchtime, had a pub lunch, did a bit of book-shopping and went to the National Gallery, then I caught the five o’clock train back to York last night. Got home about...” He glanced toward his wife.

“I picked him up at the station around quarter past seven,” she said.

Banks turned back to Wyman. “And you’re sure you didn’t see Mark Hardcastle after he left the bar on Wednesday evening?”

“That’s right.”

“Was he driving?”

“No. We took the tube from Goodge Street after dinner.”

“To Waterloo?”

“Yes.”

“And going back?”

“Actually, I walked along the embankment path and over Westminster Bridge. It was a lovely evening. The view across the river was absolutely stunning. Houses of Parliament all lit up. I’m not especially patriotic, or even political, but the sight always stirs me, brings a lump to my throat.”

“And Mark?”

“I assume he caught the tube.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Back to Goodge Street, I suppose. He could easily walk to Bloomsbury from there.”

“So that’s where he went?”

“That would be my guess. I didn’t go with him, so obviously I can’t say for certain.”

“What time was this?”

“About half ten, quarter to eleven.”

“Where had he left his car?”

“No idea. Outside the fl at, I suppose, or in the garage, if he had one.”

“What did you talk about over your drinks?”

“The films we saw, ideas for sets and costumes.”

“What kind of state of mind would you say he was in?”

“He was fine,” said Wyman. “Same as usual. That’s why I can’t understand—”

“Not depressed at all?” Annie asked.

“No.”

“Bad tempered, edgy?”

“No.”

Banks picked up the questioning again. “Only, we’ve been given to understand that he’d been a bit moody and irritable over the past couple of weeks or so. Did you notice any signs of that?”

“Maybe whatever it was, he’d got over it? Maybe the trip to London did him good?”

“Perhaps,” said Banks. “But let’s not forget that the day after he got back to Eastvale he went out and hanged himself in Hindswell Woods. We’re trying to find out what might be behind that, if there was any direct cause, or if it was simply a buildup of depression.”