Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

“I should imagine so,” said Annie, who had never been to Barnsley. All she knew about it was that it was in South Yorkshire and used to have a lot of coal mines. Certainly she wouldn’t have expected most mining communities to be sympathetic toward gays.

Annie addressed the others. “Is there anyone else here apart from Ms. Wolsey and Mr. Ross who was close to Mark Hardcastle?”

“We all felt close to Mark,” one of the other girls spoke up. “He made you feel special. You could talk to him about anything. And there was nobody more generous.”

“Did he talk to you about his problems?”

“No,” the girl said. “But he’d listen to yours and give you advice if you wanted it. He wouldn’t push it on you. He was so wise. I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe any of this.” She started crying and took out a handkerchief.

Annie glanced at Winsome to let her know they were done, then she took some cards from her briefcase and handed them out.

“If any of you think of anything, please don’t hesitate to call,” she said. Then she looked at Vernon Ross again and said, “Mr. Ross, can you come to the mortuary with us now, please, if it’s convenient?”

Got it!” said Annie, punching the air in victory.

It was half past eight on Saturday morning, and she and Winsome were in the Western Area HQ squad room with DC Doug Wilson. They had called it a day at seven o’clock the previous evening, after Vernon Ross had identified Mark Hardcastle’s body, and after a quick drink they had each gone their separate ways home.

Wilson had canvassed the local shops and discovered that Mark Hardcastle had bought the yellow clothesline from a hardware shop owned by a Mr. Oliver Grainger at about a quarter to one on Friday afternoon. He had blood on his hands and face, and Grainger had thought he might have cut himself doing some carpentry. When he had asked about this, Hardcastle had shrugged it off. He had been wearing his black wind cheater zipped up, so Grainger hadn’t been able to see if there was also blood on his arms. Hardcastle had also smelled strongly of whiskey, though he hadn’t acted drunk. According to Grainger, he had appeared oddly calm and subdued.

Now, while sorting through the SOCO reports on her desk, Annie discovered that a thorough search of Mark Hardcastle’s car had produced a letter mixed in among the newspapers and magazines in the boot. The letter was nothing in itself, just an old special wine offer from John Lewis, but it was addressed to a Laurence Silbert at 15 Castleview Heights, and somehow it had got mixed in with the papers for recycling. Castleview Heights was nothing if it wasn’t posh.

“Got what?” said Winsome.

“I think I’ve found the lover. He’s called Laurence Silbert. Lives on the Heights.” Annie got up and grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. “Winsome,” she said, “could you hold the fort here and start the interviews if I’m not back in time?”

“Of course,” said Winsome.

Annie turned to Doug Wilson. With his youthful looks—which, along with the glasses, had earned him the nickname of “Harry Potter” around the station—his hesitant manner and a tendency to stutter when under stress, he wasn’t the right person to conduct the interviews, but all he needed, Annie reckoned, was a bit more self-confidence, and only on-the-job experience would give him that. “Want to come along, Doug?” she asked.

Winsome gave Wilson a nod, assuring him it was okay, that she wasn’t feeling slighted. “Yes, guv,” he said. “Absolutely.”

“Shouldn’t we find out a bit more about the situation first?” Winsome said.

But Annie was already at the door, Wilson at her heels. Annie turned. “Like what?”

“Well... you know... it’s a pretty posh area, the Heights. Maybe this Silbert is married or something? I mean, you shouldn’t just go barging in there without knowing a bit more about the lie of the land, should you? What if he’s got a wife and kids?”

“I shouldn’t think he has, if Maria Wolsey was right when she said he and Mark were practically living together,” said Annie. “But if Laurence Silbert is married with children, I’d say his wife and kids deserve to know about Mark Hardcastle, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Winsome. “Just tread softly, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t tread on any toes. A lot of people up there are friends with the chief constable and ACC McLaughlin, you know. You’ll ring and let me know what happens?”

“Yes, Mother.” Annie smiled to soften the barb. “As soon as I know myself,” she added. “Bye.”

DC Wilson put on his glasses and dashed out of the door behind her.

Winsome was perhaps understating it when she described the Heights, as the area was known locally, as “a bit” posh, Annie thought as DC Wilson parked on the street outside number 15. It was a lot posh, with the reputation of being an exclusive club for Eastvale’s wealthy and privileged. You wouldn’t get much change from a million quid for a house up there. If you could find one on the market, and if the tenants’ association and neighborhood watch committee approved of your credentials. They must have approved of Laurence Silbert, Annie thought, which meant that he had money and status. The homosexuality would not necessarily be a problem so long as he was discreet about it. All-night raves with rent boys, on the other hand, might attract a bit of local disapproval.

Getting out of the car, Annie could see why the locals did their best to protect and preserve their habitat from the hoi polloi. She had been up there once or twice before during her time at Eastvale, but had almost forgotten how magnificent the view was.

To the south, straight ahead, she could see over the slate and flagstone rooftops and crooked chimneys of the terraced streets below to the cobbled market square, with its tiny dots dashing about their business. Just to the left of the Norman church tower, beyond The Maze, stood the ruined castle on its hill, and below that, at the bottom of the colorful hillside gardens, the river Swain tripped over a series of little waterfalls, sending up white spray and foam. Directly across the water stood The Green, with its Georgian semis and mighty old trees. Things got uglier after that, with the East Side Estate poking its redbrick terraces, two tower blocks and maisonettes through the gaps in the greenery, and then came railway lines. Even farther out, Annie could see all the way across the Vale of York to the steep rise of Sutton Bank.

South, past the square and the castle, on the left riverbank, she could also see the beginnings of Hindswell Woods, but the spot where Mark Hardcastle’s body had been discovered came after a bend in the river and was hidden from view.

Annie breathed in the air. It was another beautiful day, fragrant and mild. DC Wilson stood waiting for instructions, hands in his pockets, and Annie turned to the house. It was an impressive sight: a walled garden with a black wrought-iron gate surrounded the gabled mansion built of local limestone, with large mullioned windows and ivy and clematis climbing up the walls.

A short gravel drive led from the gate to the front door. Just to the right stood an old coach house, the lower half of which had been converted into a garage. The double doors were open, and inside was an extremely sleek, beautiful and expensive silver Jaguar. There would be plenty of room to hide Hardcastle’s old Toyota in there, too, Annie thought. It wasn’t the kind of car the neighbors would appreciate seeing parked on their street, though the houses were generally far enough apart here, and separated by high walls and broad lawns, that the people who lived in them need have as little to do with one another as possible.