Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

“Assume?”

“Well, it was Wyman who commissioned them, and he did tell us he had dinner at Zizzi’s with Hardcastle before going to the National Film Theatre.”

“But why?”

“To stir up Hardcastle.”

“Or so you assume?”

“Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why else would he go to all that expense? He isn’t a rich man.”

“Why would he want to do it in the first place? He didn’t even know Silbert very well, did he?”

“Not well. No. They’d met once or twice, had dinner, but no, he didn’t really know Silbert. It was personal, I think. The target was Hardcastle, but when you set things like that in motion, you can’t always predict their outcome.”

“I’ll say. Do go on.”

“From what I can gather from talking to Carol Wyman, her husband’s sick of his teaching job and he’s got a passion for theater.”

“I know that,” said Gervaise. “He directed Othello.”

“That’s just it, ma’am,” Annie rushed on. “He wants to direct more. In fact, he wants it to be a full-time job. But like I said at that meeting when you closed the case, if Hardcastle and Silbert had succeeded in setting up their acting company the way they wanted, there would have been no room for Wyman. Hardcastle himself wanted to direct. Wyman would have been back to square one. That kind of failure and humiliation can really push a man to the limit, hurt his pride.”

“And you’re saying that’s Wyman’s motive for killing two men?”

“I don’t think he intended to kill anyone. It was just a nasty prank went wrong. I mean, I’m sure he wanted to hurt Hardcastle, or he wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble. I think directing Othello just put the idea in his mind in the first place. What he really wanted was to split up Hardcastle and Silbert so that Hardcastle would probably feel he had to leave Eastvale and abandon the theater.”

“I don’t know,” said Gervaise. “It still sounds a bit far-fetched. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I still don’t see that any crime has been committed.”

“We’ll work something out. People have killed for less—a job, a career, rivalry, artistic jealousy. I’m still not saying that Wyman intended to kill anyone, but what he did isn’t beyond the bounds of possibility. He may have incited Hardcastle to do what he did. He may have harassed him with the images and innuendos the way Iago did Othello. Maybe Wyman has a certain amount of psychological in-sight—you might expect it in a theater director—and he knew what buttons to push? I don’t know. All I know is that I think he did it.” Gervaise refilled her glass from the pitcher and offered Annie more. Annie declined. “What do you think?” Annie asked.

“I suppose there’s a certain low-level plausibility to it all,” Gervaise admitted. “But even so, we’d never prove it in a million years.”

“Unless Wyman confessed.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Guilt. If it was a prank gone wrong. If he didn’t mean to really hurt anyone. If we’re not dealing with a cold-blooded killer. He must have feelings. What happened must be a burden for him. His wife says he’s been a bit preoccupied lately. I’ll bet it’s weighing on his mind.” “All right, DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise. “Let’s accept that Wyman did cook up some scheme based on his directing of Othello to get at Hardcastle, and that it backfired. Are you able to guarantee me that this was nothing at all to do with the intelligence services and with what Silbert did for a living?”

It was as Banks had said, Annie thought. With the intelligence services out of the picture, Gervaise was far more willing to go along with the idea. “Yes,” she said.

Gervaise sighed, took off her hat and used it as a fan for a moment, then put it back on. “Why can’t things be easy?” she said. “Why can’t people just do as they’re told?”

“We have to pursue the truth,” said Annie.

“Since when? That’s a luxury we can ill afford.”

“But two people died because of what Wyman did, no matter how he intended it, or even whether he’s technically committed a crime. Surely we have to do something ?”

“I think you’ll find that in this matter the law is very much concerned with any criminal offense he might have committed, or lack of one, and I can’t think of any.”

“We’ll leave that to the CPS.”

“Hmph. Do you know how much pressure I’ve had from above to drop this? About the only one who hasn’t been on my back is ACC McLaughlin, and that’s only because he has no particular liking for the secret intelligence services. But the chief constable is adamant. I don’t want this on my plate. Bring in Wyman, by all means. Have a chat with him. And if he admits anything that supports your theories, send the file to the CPS and see what they come up with. Just you and DCI Banks make damn sure that there’s no room here for things to go pear-shaped.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Annie, draining her glass and standing up before Gervaise changed her mind. “I’ll do that.”

“Where is DCI Banks, by the way?”

“He’s finishing his holiday at home,” said Annie.

“Things not work out in London?”

“I suppose not.”

“Well, let’s hope they improve. The last thing I want is a lovesick DCI moping about the station. Go on, then. Get to it. I’ve got to get back to my herbaceous border before Keith and the kids get back from the cricket match and want their dinner.”

"This is a bloody godforsaken hole you’ve chosen for a meeting place,” said Burgess as they walked around the scenic footpath.

“It’s supposed to be a spot of great natural beauty,” said Banks. “You know me. I’m a city boy at heart. I have to tell you, though, Banksy, Dewsbury is a boil on the arse of the universe.”

“It’s got a nice town hall. Same architect who designed Leeds, I think. Cuthbert Broderick. Or Broderick Cuthbert.”

“Bugger the bloody town hall. It’s the mosques that interest me.”

“That’s why you’re up there?”

“Why else?” He sighed. “It just gets worse, doesn’t it?”

“So what’s the answer?” Banks asked.

“You tell me. I’ve been up in Dewsbury for a couple of weeks or so investigating various terrorism-related matters, and now we know that two of the young lads involved in planning yesterday’s bombing live there. They’re all homegrown these days. We don’t need to import our terrorists anymore.”

“Don’t feel so bad. They could have sent you to Leicester.”

“Not much in it, if you ask me. Anyway, for what good it’ll do, we’re searching for a garage, a lockup somewhere out of the way. Obviously to rig up the car and driver the way they did, they had to have a secure place, out of the public eye. Could be Dewsbury.”

“Leicester’s closer to London,” said Banks.

“What I said, but did they listen?”

“And why not use London as a starting point?”

“It’s not the way they do things. It’s their policy to use cells. Networks. Contract out. You can’t centralize an operation like that. Too many risks involved. Besides, we’ve got London sewn up tighter than a gnat’s arsehole.”

“I’d say there were plenty of risks involved in driving a car full of explosives down the Ml from Dewsbury to London,” said Banks. “Or even from Leicester. Haven’t you ever seen The Wages of Fear?”

“Great film. But they use much more stable stuff these days, for crying out loud. It was hardly nitroglycerin.”

“Even so,” Banks said

Burgess kicked a stone off the path. “Can you imagine it, though? Some bastard driving a car full of explosives two hundred miles or more knowing he’s going to die at the end of it.”