Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” said Wyman. “I didn’t know he was depressed. If he was, he hid it well.”

“Did you get any sense that he and Laurence might have had some sort of falling-out?”

“He didn’t talk much about Laurence on the trip. He rarely did, unless I asked after him. Hardly, anyway. Mark was almost pathologically secretive about his private life. Not about the fact that he was gay or anything, he was very up front about that, just about who he was sharing his life with. I think he’d had relationships before that had gone bad, and he might have been a bit superstitious about it. You know, like if you talk about liking something or someone too much, it’s bound to go wrong.”

“I don’t mean to be indiscreet here,” said Banks, “but did Mark ever make a pass at you or show any undue interest in you? Anything other than companionship and shared interests, that is?”

“Good Lord, no! Mark was a colleague and a friend. He knew I was married, heterosexual. He always respected that.”

“Did you socialize often?”

“Not very often, no. We’d go for a drink now and then, mostly to discuss some theatrical matter.”

“Was he a jealous person?”

“Well, I got the impression once or twice that he felt a bit insecure.” “In what way?”

“I think he had a jealous nature—this is just an impression, mind you—and I reckon he sometimes felt that Laurence was a bit out of his class, kept thinking the bubble would burst. I mean, a Barnsley miner’s son and a wealthy sophisticate like Laurence Silbert. Go figure, as the Yanks say. His mother started the Viva chain, you know. Quite the celebrity. You have to admit it’s a bit of an odd pairing. I can understand where he was coming from. I’m from pretty humble origins myself. You never forget.”

“Are you from Barnsley, too?”

“No. Pontefract, for my sins.”

“Was Mark jealous about anyone in particular?”

“No, he didn’t mention any names. He just got anxious if Laurence was away or something. Which happened quite often.”

“I understand that Mr. Silbert was in Amsterdam while you were in London?”

“Yes. Mark did mention that.”

“Did he say why?”

“No. Business, I assumed.”

“What was his business?”

“Retired civil servant. He’d worked for the foreign office, traveled all over the place. Maybe it was some sort of reunion or something? Embassy staff. Or is it consulate? I never did know the difference between them. All I know is that Laurence was in Amsterdam and Mark was a bit worried about the nightlife there, you know, the Red Light district and all that. Amsterdam does have a bit of a reputation. Anything goes, and all that.”

“Indeed,” said Banks. “So Mark was anxious?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. It was just part of his nature to worry. He even joked about it. I told him he could always go to Soho or Hampstead Heath if he wanted a bit of fun himself.”

“How did he react to that?” Annie asked.

“He just smiled and said those days were over.”

“So nothing out of the ordinary happened on this trip you and Mark Hardcastle made to London?” Banks said.

“No. Everything happened exactly as I said it did.”

“Had you noticed anything unusual about Mark’s behavior over the past while?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Mrs. Wyman?”

“No,” she said. “Not that I noticed. I mean, I haven’t seen him for a few weeks.”

“Had you and Mark done anything like this before?” Annie asked Wyman.

“Like what?”

“You know. A few days away together.”

Wyman leaned forward. “Look, I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but it wasn’t like that. There was nothing untoward between me and Mark Hardcastle. And we didn’t go away for ‘a few days together.’ We traveled separately to London and back, and as far as I know he was only there for one night. Christ, all we did was share a meal and go to the pictures.”

“I was only wondering if you’d done it before,” Annie said.

“Well, no. I told you. This was the fist time.”

“And absolutely nothing occurred that night that could have set in motion the events of the next two days?” Banks asked.

“No. Not that I know of. Not while I was around. Who knows what he got up to after he left me.”

“Got up to?” said Banks.

“It’s just a figure of speech. Bloomsbury isn’t far from Soho, is it, and there are plenty of gay clubs there, if you like that sort of thing. Maybe he met a friend? Maybe he and Laurence had an arrangement and did their own thing when they were apart? I don’t know. All I’m saying is that I’ve no idea where he went after he left me, straight to the flat or somewhere else.”

“I thought you said he told you those days were behind him?” Annie said. “Was Mark in the habit of being unfaithful to Laurence Silbert?”

“I’ve no idea. Like I said, he didn’t confide in me about his love life. But remember, Laurence was in Amsterdam. If you want my honest opinion, no, I don’t think Mark was the type for a bit of hanky-panky on Hampstead Heath, cottaging, or whatever they call it. Or in the back room of a Soho club, for that matter. That’s why I could joke about it easily. But what do I know? It’s not a world I belong to.”

“I don’t suppose it’s much different from anyone else’s,” said Banks, “when you get right down to it.”

“I suppose not,” Wyman agreed. “But the point remains that I don’t know what he did, what he liked to do, or with whom.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Banks asked.

“Not that I can think of,” said Wyman.

His wife shook her head. Banks had been watching Carol Wyman’s face from time to time throughout the interview, checking for telltale signs of concern, or the knowledge that her husband might be lying when the matter of Hardcastle and Wyman being away together came up, but she hadn’t shown anything other than polite interest and vague amusement. She obviously had no fears on that score and was liberal enough in her outlook not to mind too much if her husband met up with a gay friend in London. There was nothing more to be learned from Derek Wyman right now, Banks thought, so he gave Annie the sign to leave.

Banks and Annie managed to grab an early lunch at the Queen’s Arms, already busy with earnest people in waterproof walking gear that warm wet Sunday in June. The rain had stopped when they left Wyman’s house, and the sun was breaking through gaps in the clouds.

Banks snagged a dimpled copper-topped table for two in the corner near the gents, while Annie went to the bar and ordered roast lamb and Yorkshire pudding for Banks and veggie pasta for herself. Conversations buzzed around them, and the pretty blond schoolgirl working her weekend job as waitress, was rushed off her feet with orders. Banks eyed his grapefruit juice with disdain and raised his glass to clink with Annie’s Diet Coke. “Here’s to working Sundays.”

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I think we’ve got a pretty good head start, at any rate,” Banks said. “What did you think of Derek Wyman?”

“A bit of a trainspotter, really, isn’t he? An anorak.”

“You always say that about someone with a passion or a hobby.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Hobbies are so naff.”

“When I was a kid, everyone had a hobby. You had to have. There were clubs at school. Stamp collecting, making model airplanes, playing chess, collecting tadpoles, growing watercress, whatever. I used to have hobbies.”

“Like what?”

“You know, collecting things. Coins. Cigarette cards. Birds’ eggs. Writing down car number plates.”