“But he doesn’t?”
“Oh, he’s interested. But it takes more than that. It takes dedication. Haskell’s a bit of a dreamer.”
“Well, he’s young yet,” said Annie.
“So’s Matthew Briggs,” Wyman answered.
“Right. Anyway, we believe that Haskell might be a witness, but he’s not talking.”
“That figures,” said Chaplin. “I mean, he wouldn’t, would he? He’d lose face. These kids don’t rat out each other, even their worst enemies.”
“It’s just that he seems scared.”
“Of Binns?” said Chaplin. “I don’t believe it. I’ve seen them tangle on the football field and Haskell has never shown any fear of him. What would you say, Derek?”
“I agree. He’s tough. And strong. Enjoys boxing and wrestling as well as football. As Barry says, it’s the lack of discipline that drags him down, not ability.”
“So you don’t think he would lie out of fear of what Jackie Binns might do to him if he did?”
“Absolutely not,” said Chaplin. “Binns isn’t that tough. He’s all bluster.”
“Haskell just wouldn’t split on anyone,” said Wyman. “He strikes me as the kind who stays loyal to his mates.”
Annie remembered Nicky Haskell telling her that he wasn’t obeying some stupid code about not splitting on his pals, and she wondered how true that was. If he wasn’t telling because he was scared of Binns, which was beginning to sound unlikely, or because he felt he shouldn’t betray Binns, then there had to be some other reason. Something they didn’t know. She would have to make a note to talk to some of the others involved again. Haskell and Binns were the leaders. Both dealt drugs, mostly Ecstasy, weed, crystal meth and LSD. Binns was known to carry a flick-knife, though he usually only used it to show off and scare people, and Donny Moore hadn’t been stabbed with a flick-knife.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Annie asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Jill Dresler. “I know what you probably think, but they’re not bad kids, really. Not all of them. I mean, okay, so they do break the law and sell drugs, but they’re not big-time dealers, and they don’t really have organized gangs, and you don’t have to shoot anyone to belong or that sort of thing.”
“I suppose we ought to be thankful for small mercies,” Annie said, getting to her feet.
“I know how it sounds,” Dresler went on, “but Binns isn’t a killer, for crying out loud.”
“Luckily,” said Annie, “nobody’s dead yet.”
“Yes,” said Dresler, running her hand through her lank hair. “Of course. I’m just saying... you know... they’re not monsters. That’s all.”
“Point taken,” Annie said. “And I appreciate your defense of your kids. I know they’re not monsters. But somebody’s lying, and until we find out the truth we can’t get to the bottom of this. Things are getting a bit tense on the estate, as I’m sure you can imagine. People are scared to go out on the streets alone. What do you want us to do, send in the troops? Occupy the East Side Estate like it was a military zone? We don’t have any no-go areas in Eastvale, and we don’t want them. That’s why I’m asking questions.” She reached in her bag. “So if you do think of anything that might help us, here’s my card. Don’t hesitate to phone. Mr. Wyman, a word, please.”
“Of course. I’ll walk to the door with you,” said Wyman.
Once they were out in the noisy corridor, Annie let Winsome get a few feet ahead, remembering Superintendent Gervaise’s warning about not involving anyone else, then turned to Wyman. “Can you tell me what you were doing in the Red Rooster with Mark Hard-castle a couple of weeks ago?”
Wyman seemed surprised, but he answered quickly. “Having a drink. I told you we got together for a drink every now and then to talk about theater business.”
“Yes,” said Annie. “But the Red Rooster isn’t really the sort of place you go for a quiet drink, and it’s hardly just around the corner.”
“It was quiet enough when we were there.”
A laughing boy being chased by his friends bumped into Annie as he dodged his pursuers. “Watch where you’re going, Saunders!” Wyman yelled after him.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” said Saunders, and kept on running.
“Sometimes I wonder why I bother,” Wyman complained.
“The Red Rooster?”
“Well, the food’s okay, and the beer’s not bad.”
“Look, Mr. Wyman,” said Annie. “It’s out of the way—at least two miles from Eastvale, where there are plenty of nice pubs, and it’s mostly a young kids’ pub. The beer might be passable, but the food’s crap. Anyone would think you didn’t want to get away from the kids once in a while, or that you went there because you didn’t want to be seen.”
“Well, to be quite honest,” said Wyman, “knowing the way tongues start wagging around these parts, and given Mark’s... er... sexual inclinations... I will admit that somewhere a little out of the way seemed more suitable.”
“Come off it, Derek. Your pupils drink there. And you went to London with Mark. You told us you met up for a drink every now and then. You said you don’t care whether a person’s gay or straight, and your wife wasn’t at all put out by your relationship with Mark Hard-castle, either. You expect me to believe that you went—”
“Now, you look here.” Wyman stopped in his tracks and turned to face her. “I don’t like this one bit. I don’t see why I have to explain to you why I drink where I do. Or who with. Or justify myself in any way.”
“What was Mark Hardcastle upset about?”
Wyman turned away and carried on walking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Something you said upset him. Then you calmed him down again. What was it?”
“That’s rubbish. I don’t remember anything remotely like that happening. I don’t know who’s been telling you this, but someone’s spreading vicious rumors.”
“Don’t you?” said Annie. She was at the door, and Wyman stopped again. He clearly wasn’t coming any farther. “Funny, that,” she went on. “Other people remember it very well.” She pushed the door open and walked out toward Winsome, who was waiting on the steps. “Bye, Mr. Wyman,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.”
11
After a quick burger and chips and a pint of Sam Smith’s at Ye Olde Swiss Cottage, a rambling pub with wooden balconies, which did look rather like a large ski chalet stuck in the cleft of busy traffic between Avenue Road and Finchley Road, Banks made his way to the tube station and negotiated his route to Victoria. The carriage was hot, and several of the people he found himself crushed up against clearly hadn’t bathed that morning. It brought back memories of going to work on hot days in London, the way you’d get all kinds of deodorant and perfume smells in the morning, while the evening rush hour was dominated by sad and wrung-out-looking people smelling of sweat. He gave his underarm a surreptitious sniff as he left the station and was relieved to find that his antiperspirant was still holding its own.
Banks found Wyman’s bed-and-breakfast hotel easily enough about five minutes’ walk from the underground, off Warwick Way. A sign in the window offered vacancies from £35 per night, which sounded remarkably cheap to Banks. He realized how money could be a problem for Wyman, with a wife who only worked part-time and two teenage children with appetites to match. A teacher’s salary was reasonable, but not extravagant. No wonder he stayed in places like this and ate at Zizzi’s.
Inexpensive as it was, the bed-and-breakfast turned out to be quite charming. The entrance was clean and the decor lively and fresh. The man who answered Banks’s ring was a rotund Pakistani with a mustache and a shiny head. He was wearing a pinny and seemed in the midst of vacuuming the hallway. He turned off the vacuum, introduced himself as Mohammed and asked with a smile what he could do for the gentleman. A vague aroma of curry spices wafted from the back and made Banks’s mouth water, despite the hurried burger. Maybe he would suggest to Sophia that they go out for a curry dinner or get a takeaway.