Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

“But what if Wyman’s working for the other side?” Gervaise asked.

“The Russian Mafia? Oh, come off it,” said Banks. “What use would a puny school teacher like Derek Wyman be to a bunch of neckless ex-KGB agents? And why would he hire a private detective if he was in with them? They’d have their own surveillance people to follow Silbert. Besides, if they were involved, they would have broken Silbert’s neck or pushed him in front of a car. Shot him, even. They don’t care. I will admit that what happened smacks of British secret service silliness, or the Americans, with their exploding cigars for Castro—it’s all a bit Pythonesque—but the Russian Mafia...? I don’t think so.”

“When did you become an expert all of a sudden?”

“I’m not an expert,” said Banks, straining to rise above the pounding in his head. “I don’t pretend to be. It’s just common sense, that’s all. I think we all left a little bit of our common sense at home on this one, including me.”

“Perhaps,” said Gervaise. She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a meeting with the chief constable in half an hour. I’ll put your idea to him. I doubt that he’ll go for it, but I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” said Banks. He topped up his coffee and carried his cup and saucer back to his own office, where he stood by the window looking down on the market square for a while. His head pounded and waves of nausea drifted through his stomach. His own fault. He still could hardly believe it. When he thought about it, yesterday evening on the King’s Road had the same surreal dreamlike quality as the Oxford Circus. But perhaps he could do more about last night. At the very least he could stop running and confront Sophia. Maybe she would have an explanation. Maybe he would believe it.

Rain slanted across the square and bounced on the cobbles. Deep puddles straddled all the intersections and people skirted them to avoid getting their feet wet. The sky was an unrelenting grit-gray and none of the forecasters could see an end in sight to the dreadful weather. Banks thought of Wyman, alone and frightened out there somewhere, hoped he was dry and sheltered in some cozy bed-and-breakfast, despite all the trouble he had caused. This business had started with a suicide; he hoped it wouldn’t end with one. When his phone rang, he hoped it might be Sophia calling to explain or apologize. Instead, it was Tomasina.

“Hello,” she said. “I had a hard job tracking you down. That phone number you gave me doesn’t work anymore.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Banks. “It was only temporary. I never thought... It’s at the bottom of the Thames.”

“That’s wasteful. Lucky I know where you work.”

“Lucky I’m actually here,” said Banks. “What can I do for you? No more problems, I hope?”

“No, nothing like that. They haven’t returned my files yet, though.”

“Give them time. So what is it?”

“Well, actually, it’s a bit awkward,” Tomasina said.

“Go on.”

“Well, you know about that concert, the Blue Lamps at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire?”

“Yes.” It had slipped Banks’s mind momentarily, but now that she mentioned it, he remembered. It was a big gig for Brian, and he knew he should try to be there. “Friday, isn’t it?” he said.

“That’s right.”

Banks had been intending to spend the weekend with Sophia, but now he realized he probably wouldn’t be doing that, barring some sort of miracle. Still, he could always find somewhere to stay. Brian and Emilia had a pull-out sofa. “You can still make it, I hope?” he said.

“Oh, yes. It’s just that, well, I was in the pub last night, and I ran into this old friend from uni. He’s really crazy about the Lamps and, well, we’d had a few drinks, you know how it is, and I said why didn’t he come with me, you know, to the concert, because I had tickets. You don’t really mind, do you, only I thought you’d be able to get another ticket from Brian easily enough, and we could still meet up for a drink and get together backstage later and all that. I’m sorry.”

“Whoa, slow down,” Banks said. “You’re calling off our date, is that it?”

Tomasina laughed nervously. “It wasn’t really a date. Was it?”

“What else?”

“Well, it’s not as if you don’t have a girlfriend or anything. I mean, look, if you really insist, I know I promised you first and I can tell him—”

“It’s all right,” said Banks. “I’m only teasing. Of course you should take your friend. I might not even be able to make it, anyway.”

“Pressure of work?”

“Something like that,” said Banks. “Anyway, the two of you have a great time, okay? And if I’m not there, say hello to Brian from me.”

“I will. And thank you.”

Banks put down the phone and looked out of the window at the rain again. He could hardly see the dalesides beyond the castle.

Darkness came early that night, and by ten o’clock it was pitch black outside Banks’s Gratly cottage, and still raining. There would be no sitting on the wall by the beck tonight, Banks thought, tidying away the remains of his takeaway vindaloo. He had eaten it in front of the TV, drinking beer and watching No Country for Old Men on DVD, and the movie was about as bleak as he felt. He knew he was feeling sorry for himself when even the memory of Tomasina ringing to cancel their trip to Brian’s concert felt like a betrayal.

There had been no progress in the search for Wyman that day. Annie had rung from Harrogate to say she had got nowhere there, and Winsome had reported the same from Ripon. The local forces were helping all they could, but resources were still limited. If they didn’t find him soon, it would be time to concentrate on the moors again, maybe drag Hallam Tarn.

Several times over the course of the evening Banks had been on the verge of ringing Sophia, but every time, he had backed off. She wanted time, she had said, and she also seemed to have another relationship she wanted to pursue. Often the two went together. When a couple split up, Banks knew, the odds were that one of the partners had found someone else, even if that someone was only the excuse to leave, and the new relationship didn’t last. It had happened with Sandra, and she had married the bastard and had a child with him. It hadn’t been like that with Annie, though. She hadn’t left him for someone else; she had just left him.

Had he misinterpreted the situation last night? Had it really been perfectly innocent? How would he ever know if he didn’t ask her?

He switched to red wine, poured himself a generous glass and went through to the conservatory. He was just about to go ahead and ring her when he thought he heard a noise out in the back garden. It sounded like the click of the sneck on the gate. He held his breath. There it was again. Something, or someone, out there in the bushes. He was about to pick up a kitchen knife and go outside to see what was happening when he heard a light tapping at the conservatory door. He couldn’t see any sort of shape through the frosted glass because it was so dark, but there was definitely someone there. The tapping persisted. Eventually, Banks walked over and put his hand on the handle.

“Who is it?” he asked. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” a familiar voice whispered back. “Derek Wyman. You’ve got to let me in. Please.”

Banks opened the door and Wyman half-stumbled in. Even in the darkness, it was clear that he was soaked to the skin.

“Bloody hell,” said Banks, switching on the table lamp. “Look at the state of you. The spy who came in from the cold.”

Wyman was shivering. He just stood there in the doorway dripping.

“Come in,” said Banks. “I ought to put you over my knee and give you a bloody good spanking, but I think I can find you a towel and some dry clothing. Drink?”