Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

Yet for all the fear and sorrow, he also felt a deep calm, a sense of inevitability and of letting go that surprised him. It was like the walk he was on now. There was something simple and soothing about putting one foot in front of the other and making slow progress up the hill.

He was climbing Tetchley Fell, following a footpath that crossed several fields, scanning the drystone walls for the stile that led over to the next one. The sun shone in a bright blue sky, but there was a light breeze to take the edge off the heat. Every once in a while he glanced behind him to see if he was being followed, and he saw two figures, one with a red jacket tied around her waist by the sleeves, and another in a T-shirt with a backpack on his back. Banks was panting and sweating when he reached the Roman road that cut diagonally down the daleside to the village of Fortford in the distance, so he thought he would pause there for a few moments and let them catch up with him.

As they passed him, they said hello, the way ramblers do, then turned left and walked down the Roman road. They could turn off at Mortsett, Banks thought, or go all the way to Relton or Fortford, but they weren’t going in his direction. They were just kids, anyway, a couple of students out for a bit of country air. Even MI6 had to have an age limit, surely?

Banks climbed the stile on the other side of the narrow track and carried on through the fields up the hill. The grass grew thinner and browner, and soon he was walking around rocks and through clumps of heather and gorse. It would be in flower soon, he thought, brightening the dull moorland with its purples and yellows. The sheep grew few and far between.

He kept thinking he’d got to the top long before he had. It was one false summit after another. But finally he was there and only had to totter down the other side of a steep bank to get to Hallam Tarn. It was nothing much, just a hollowed-out bowl of water right at the top of Tetchley Fell, about a hundred yards wide and two hundred long. It was walled in places because children had fallen in and drowned. The body of a young boy had even been dumped there once, Banks remembered. But there was a path around the tarn offering a scenic walk, and today five or six cars were parked in the space at the far end where the road up from Helmthorpe came to a full stop at the water’s edge.

Legend had it that Hallam Tarn used to be a village once, but that the villagers took to evil ways, worshipping Satan, making human sacrifices, so God smote them with his fist, and the dent he made on crushing the village created the tarn. On certain days, so they said, if the light was right, you could see the old houses and streets beneath the water, the squat, toadlike church with its upside-down cross, hear the blood-curdling cries of the villagers as they whipped themselves up into a frenzy during some ritual ceremony.

Some days you could believe it, Banks thought, as he headed toward the car park, but today it seemed as far away from evil and Satanic rites as you could get. A couple passed him on the path, hand in hand, and the girl smiled shyly at him, a blade of grass in her mouth. One middle-aged man was jogging in a tracksuit and trainers, red-faced and sweating with exertion, a heart attack waiting to happen.

Banks reached the end of the tarn where the cars were parked, and then he saw the familiar figure. Standing at the side of the water, throwing fl at pebbles that sank rather than skipped, was Detective Superintendent Dirty Dick Burgess. When he caught sight of Banks, he clapped his hands and rubbed them together, then he said, “Banksy. So glad you could come. Who’s been a naughty boy, then?”

It was typical that Banks would give her the job of talking to Gervaise, Annie thought, as she pulled up outside the superintendent’s house later that morning. Gervaise had been a tad tetchy on the phone—her husband had taken the children to the cricket match, and it was her gardening day, she said—but had agreed to give Annie five minutes of her time.

As she drove along the quiet country road, Annie thought about Banks and his odd behavior earlier that morning. There had been something different about him, and she decided that the rift with Sophia must have been even more serious than he had made out. He had mentioned before how much Sophia valued the various natural objects and works of art she had collected over the years, so it must have really hurt her to witness such wanton destruction. Still, Annie thought, if the silly cow was more fond of her seashells than she was of Banks, then she deserved everything she got.

When Annie pulled up in front of the house and knocked on the door, she heard a voice call, “I’m round the back. Just come down the side.” A narrow pathway ran down the side of the house beside the garage and led to the back garden.

The sight of the superintendent in a broad-rimmed hat, baggy man’s shirt, white shorts and sandals, with a pair of secateurs in her hand, almost gave Annie a fit of the giggles, but she managed to restrain herself.

“Sit down, DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise, a healthy glow on her face. “Barley water?”

“Thank you.” Annie accepted the glass, sat down and took a sip. She hadn’t tasted barley water in years, not since her mother used to make it. It was wonderful. There were four chairs and a round table on the lawn, but no protective umbrella, and she wished she had worn a hat.

“Have you thought about blond highlights?” Gervaise asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“Maybe you should. They’d look good in the sunlight.”

What was all this? Annie wondered. First Carol Wyman had suggested she go blond, now Gervaise was talking about highlights.

Gervaise sat down. “I suppose you’ve come to tell me about important developments in the East Side Estate stabbing?”

“Winsome’s on the case, ma’am,” said Annie. “I’m sure we’re expecting a breakthrough any day now.”

“Any moment would be better. Even the mayor’s getting edgy. And what about you, DI Cabbot? What case are you on?”

Annie shifted in her chair. “Well, that’s what I came to see you about, ma’am. It’s a bit awkward.”

Gervaise sipped her barley water and smiled. “Try me.”

“You know we were talking, the other day, about Derek Wyman?”

“You mean Banks’s Iago theory?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“Well, what if there’s something in it? I mean, really something in it.” A wasp droned near Annie’s barley water. She waved it away.

“Like what?” asked Gervaise.

“Well, I was talking to Mr. Wyman’s wife, Carol, and she—”

“I thought I told you to leave them alone.”

“Well, ma’am, you didn’t exactly spell it out.“

“Oh, for crying out loud, DI Cabbot. Maybe I didn’t spell it out in words of one syllable, but you know exactly what I was telling you. It’s over. Leave it alone.”

Annie took a deep breath and blurted out, “I’d like to bring Derek Wyman in for questioning.”

Gervaise’s silence was unnerving. The wasp droned by again. Somewhere Annie could hear a garden hose hissing and a radio playing “Moon River.” Finally, Superintendent Gervaise said, “You? Or DCI Banks?”

“Both of us.” Now that Annie had said it, she was gathering courage fast. “I know you’ve been warned to lay off,” she went on, “but there’s evidence now. And it’s nothing to do with the secret intelligence services.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. DCI Banks found the private investigator who took the photos of Silbert with the other man.”

“A private investigator?”

“Yes. They do exist.”

“I know that. I was just... go on.”

“He also talked to a waitress in Zizzi’s who remembered seeing a man we assume to be Hardcastle tearing up some photos.”