“Et tu, Annie?”
“Oh, sod off, you idiot. I didn’t say I was going to do what she asked, did I? I was just outlining the sensible solution again. Only to have it shot down, as usual.”
“She’s a devious one, Madame Gervaise,” Banks said. “Besides, the sensible solution isn’t always the best one.”
“They’ll put that on your tombstone. Anyway, I’m almost at the school and I’ve got something to tell you before I have second thoughts. It might change things.”
Banks’s ears pricked up. “What?”
“Nicky Haskell mentioned seeing Mark Hardcastle drinking with Derek Wyman in the Red Rooster a couple of weeks ago.”
“The Red Rooster? That’s a kids’ pub, isn’t it? Karaoke and bad Amy Winehouse impersonations?”
“More or less,” Annie said.
“So why would they go there?”
“I have no idea. Unless it’s the sort of place where they didn’t think they’d be noticed.”
“But Wyman told us he had a drink with Hardcastle every now and then. There’s nothing odd about that, except their choice of location.”
“There’s more.” Banks listened as Annie went on to tell him about Wyman calming Hardcastle down.
“But nothing changed hands?” Banks said. “No pictures, no memory stick or anything?”
“Not that Nicky Haskell saw. Or Liam, the bartender.”
“Maybe you could ask again? Find someone else who was there. Who was Nicky with?”
“His mates, I suppose. The usual suspects.”
“Try them. One of them might have seen something. If Gervaise is watching you’ll just appear to be following up on the East Side Estate stabbing.”
“I am following up on the stabbing.”
“Well, there you go. A couple of extra questions won’t do much harm, then, will they?”
“I’m at the school driveway now. I have to go.”
“You’ll ask around?”
“I’ll ask around.”
“And Annie?”
“Yes?”
“Rattle Wyman’s cage, too, if you get the chance.”
According to what Edwina Silbert had told Banks, Leo Westwood had lived in a third-floor flat on Adamson Road, near the Swiss Cottage tube station. There was a row of farmers’-market stalls at the top of Eton Avenue, just opposite the Hampstead Theatre, and Banks thought he might pick up some Brie de Meaux, chorizo sausage and venison pate on his way back. Sophia would appreciate the gesture, and he was sure she would know what to do with the chorizo. Left to himself, Banks would probably just put it between two slices of bread with a dollop of HP Sauce.
Adamson Road branched off to the left, with the Best Western Hotel to the right, a tree-lined street of older, imposing three-story houses with white stucco facades, complete with porticoes and columns. They reminded Banks of the houses on Powys Terrace in Not-ting Hill. There were plenty of people on the street and on the porches chatting; all in all, it looked like a lively neighborhood. According to the list of tenants, Leo Westwood still lived there. Banks pressed the bell beside the name and waited. After a few seconds a voice crackled over the intercom. Banks identified himself and the reason for his visit and found himself buzzed up.
The halls and landings had clearly seen better days, but there was a kind of shabby elegance about it all. The Axminsters may have been a little worn, but they were still Axminsters.
Leo Westwood stood at the door of his flat. He was a short, pudgy man with silky gray hair and a smooth ruddy complexion, somewhere in his early sixties, wearing a black polo-neck jumper and jeans. Banks had expected an antique-laden apartment, but inside, beyond the hallway, the living area was ultramodern, all polished hardwood floors, chrome and glass, plenty of open space, a fine bay window, and a state-of-the-art music and TV system. The fl at had probably been reasonably inexpensive when Westwood bought it years ago, but now would be worth somewhere in the region of half a million pounds, Banks guessed, depending on how many bedrooms there were.
Westwood bade Banks sit on a comfortable black-leather-and-chrome armchair and offered coffee. Banks accepted. Westwood disappeared into the kitchen and Banks took the opportunity to look around. There was only one painting on the wall, in a simple silver frame, and it drew Banks’s eye. It was abstract, a combination of geometric shapes in various colors and sizes. There was something calming about it, Banks found, and it fitted the room perfectly. On a small media storage unit beside the sound system was a mix of books—mostly architecture and interior design—several DVDs ranging from recent cinema hits like Atonement and La Vie en Rose to classics by Truffaut, Kurosawa, Antonioni and Bergman, along with numerous opera boxed sets.
“I like to keep the space relatively uncluttered,” Westwood said from behind him, putting a silver tray bearing a cafetière and two white cups down on the glass coffee table before them. He then sat at a right angle to Banks. “We’ll give it a minute, shall we?” His voice had a slight lisp, and his mannerisms were a little fussy and effeminate. “I was sorry to hear about Laurence,” he said, “but you must realize it was a long time ago. Ten years.”
“You were close then, though?”
“Oh, yes. Very. Three years. It might not sound like long, but...”
“If you don’t mind my asking, why did you part?”
Westwood leaned forward and poured the coffee. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Just black, please,” Banks said. “It could be relevant, what I’m asking.”
Westwood passed him the cup. “I’m afraid I can’t take it without a little sweetener, myself,” he said, adding some powder from a pink sachet. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to avoid your question. I just find that if you leave the coffee brewing too long it takes on a bitter flavor that even the sweetener won’t overcome.”
“It’s fine,” said Banks, taking a sip. “Excellent, in fact.”
“Thank you. One of my little luxuries.”
“You and Laurence?”
“Yes. I suppose it was his work, really. I mean, he was always heading off somewhere and he couldn’t tell me where. Even when he got back I’d no idea where he’d been. I knew that sometimes his missions involved danger, so I would lie awake and worry, but I rarely got a phone call. In the end...”
“So you knew what he did?”
“To a degree. I mean, I knew he worked for MI6. Beyond that, though...”
“Was he unfaithful?”
Westwood considered carefully before answering. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “He could have been, of course. He was away often enough. A one-night stand, a weekend affair in Berlin, Prague or Saint Petersburg. It would have been easy enough. But I think I would have known. I do believe that Laurence truly loved me, at least as well as he could love anyone.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“There was a large part of his life that he kept secret from me. Oh, I understand it was his job, national security and all that, but nevertheless it still meant that I only got a small part of him. The rest was shades of darkness, shadows, smoke and mirrors. Ultimately, you can’t live with that day in, day out. Sometimes it felt as if he was all surface when he was with me, and I had no idea what was underneath, what he was really thinking about.”
“So you wouldn’t be able to give me any idea of his personality?”
“I’m afraid I never knew. He was a chameleon. When we were together he was charming, attentive, kind, considerate, sophisticated, extremely intelligent and cultured, politically leaning to the right, an atheist, a man of exquisite taste in art and wine, an antique lover... Oh, I could go on with the list. Laurence was many things, but you still felt you were hardly scratching the surface. And you couldn’t pin him down. Do you know what I mean?”