Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

“All right,” said Banks. “Calm down. We have to ask these questions, just for the record.”

“I was only doing what Mark asked. A favor. As a friend. I didn’t... I mean, what happened is awful. I would never have...”

“And you’re certain there was nothing else in it for you, that it was nothing to do with the situation at the theater and that you had no other reason to want any harm to come to Laurence Silbert?”

“No. Why should there be?”

This was sticky ground. Superintendent Gervaise had insisted that they not refer to Silbert’s occupation, but Banks thought there was no harm in taking a little digression. “When you saw the pictures and heard Tomasina’s report, what did it bring to your mind?” he asked.

“That Mark was right. Laurence was meeting another man.”

“But they sat together on a park bench and walked to a house in Saint John’s Wood, where an elderly woman opened the door to them. She might not have been visible in the photographs, but she was mentioned in Tomasina Savage’s report. Are you telling me that this looked to you like a man meeting his lover?”

“I don’t know, do I?” said Wyman. “It wasn’t my business to find out who or what he was, just to report to Mark that he met someone.”

“Even if it was innocent? In the sense that they weren’t having an affair but meeting for some other reason?”

“I wasn’t in a position to make those judgments. I just passed the photos on to Mark, told him what the private investigator had seen. Besides, why else could they have been meeting? Maybe the bloke was taking him home to meet his mother?”

“And how did Mark react?”

“How would you expect?”

“He tore them up in anger, didn’t he?”

“Yes. You already know that.”

“And you just carried on with your evening out together?”

“No. He took off. I don’t know where he went.”

“But you went to the National Film Theatre?”

“Yes.”

“So the rest was all lies, what you told us before?”

Wyman looked away. “Most of it, yes.”

“And did you also know that Silbert was a retired MI6 agent before I told you in the theater bar?” Banks said.

“No.”

“Are you sure about that, because you’ve lied to us before?”

“How would I know that? Besides, what does it matter? You already said he’d retired.”

“He might have been doing one or two little part-time jobs for his old masters. That would explain the visits to Saint John’s Wood, not an affair.”

“How could I know?”

“Surely Laurence would have let Mark know that his trips were work-related, even if he didn’t say what their purpose was. What made Mark think that Silbert was being unfaithful in the first place?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. Just little things, I suppose.”

Banks knew he probably shouldn’t be asking his next question, that he was courting the farthest reaches of Superintendent Gervaise’s wrath, but he couldn’t help himself, not now that Wyman had opened the door. “Did Mark give you any reason to believe that Silbert had anything to do with your brother’s death?”

Wyman’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Derek, I know that your brother Rick died on a secret mission in Afghanistan, not in a helicopter accident. I’m just wondering if there was something extra in this for you, an element of revenge, shall we say, payback?”

“No. No, of course not. That’s ridiculous. I didn’t even know that Laurence had worked for MI6, so how could I connect him with Rick’s death? This is way out of line. I told you, I only did it because Mark asked me to. I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t committed any crime.” He checked his watch. “I think I’d like to go to work now. You did say I could leave whenever I wanted?”

Banks glanced at Annie again. They both knew that Wyman was right. He’d been responsible for the deaths of two men, but there was nothing they could do about it, nothing they could charge him with. Whether he was lying about Hardcastle’s asking him to spy on Silbert, it didn’t really matter. Whether he had been after revenge, either because Silbert had some direct connection with his brother’s death, or because Wyman had something against MI6 in general because of it, it didn’t matter. They might never know, anyway, unless Dirty Dick Burgess came up with some answers. Technically, no crime had been committed. Banks still felt deeply unhappy with the result, but he brought the interview to a close, turned off the recorders and told Wyman he could go to work.

Glad to be away from the station and home for the evening, Banks slipped in the Sarabeth Tucek CD he’d got to like so much over the past few months, poured himself a drink and went out to the conservatory to enjoy the evening light on the slopes of Tetchley Fell. The London bombing still haunted him every time he found himself alone, but it had faded slightly in his mind, become more surreal and remote, and there were moments when he could almost convince himself that it had all happened to someone else a long time ago.

Even though the case was really over, there were still a few loose ends he wanted to tie up, just for his own peace of mind. He picked up the phone and dialed Edwina Silbert’s number in Longborough. After about six rings she answered.

“Hello?”

“Edwina? It’s Alan Banks here.”

“Ah,” she said, “my dashing young copper.”

Banks could hear her breathe out smoke. He was glad he couldn’t smell it over the phone. “I don’t know so much about that,” he said. “How are you?”

“Coping. You know they released the body? The funeral’s next week. If you had anything to do with it, thank you.”

“I can’t claim any credit,” said Banks, “but I’m glad.”

“Is this a social call?”

“I wanted to let you know that it’s officially over.”

“I thought it was officially over last week?”

“Not for me, it wasn’t.”

“I see. And?”

Banks explained about what Derek Wyman had done, and why.

“That’s absurd,” said Edwina. “Laurence wasn’t being unfaithful.”

“But Mark thought he was.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t believe it, that’s all.”

“I’m afraid it’s true.”

“But Mark knew perfectly well that Laurence was still involved with the service.”

“He did? I had thought he might, but...”

“Of course he did. He might not have known exactly what he was doing, but he knew the trips to London and Amsterdam were work-related. Why would he ask someone to spy on Laurence?”

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “He must have become suspicious somehow.”

“Rubbish. I think your Mr. Wyman is lying,” said Edwina. “I think he did it off his own bat, out of pure vindictiveness. He worked on Mark’s insecurity and put his own spin on those photographs.”

“You could be right,” Banks said, “but unfortunately, it doesn’t matter now. I can’t prove it, and even if I could, he still hasn’t committed any crime.”

“What a world,” said Edwina, with another sigh of smoke. “Two dear people dead and no crime committed. Was that why you rang?”

“Partly, yes.”

“There’s something else?”

“Yes. Remember when we talked and you first told me that Laurence worked for MI6?”

“Yes.”

“It crossed your mind then, didn’t it, that they might have somehow been responsible for his death? Remember, you told me to be careful, too.”

There was a pause and Banks heard a tinkle of ice. “At first, I suppose, yes,” Edwina said. “When someone with Laurence’s... history... dies in such a violent way, one necessarily has suspicions. They are a devious crowd.”