“What was this job?”
“Simple surveillance. Well, as simple as surveillance can be if you don’t want to be spotted. I’m sure you’ve been there.”
Over the years, Banks had spent many hours in cold cars with only a water bottle to pee in. But not for a long time. Surveillance was a young man’s job. He wouldn’t have the patience now. And the bottle would fill up a lot faster. “Do you remember when Wyman first came to you?”
“I could find out. Hang on.”
Tomasina got up and walked back out to her filing cabinets. In a moment she was back carrying a buff folder, which she consulted. “It was the beginning of May.”
“That long ago,” Banks mused. “What did he ask for?”
“He gave me an address in Bloomsbury, described a man and asked me if, on certain occasions—he would phone me first—I would watch it, follow the man who left, find out where he went and take photos of him with anyone he met.”
“Did he tell you why he wanted to do this?”
“No.”
“And you just assumed it was all aboveboard?”
“He seemed all right. I thought, you know, maybe he was gay and he thought his lover was having an affair. It’s happened before. All he wanted was photos. It wasn’t as if he was asking me to hurt anyone or anything.”
Images of Silbert and Hardcastle in the mortuary flashed through Banks’s mind. “There’s more than one way of hurting someone.”
Tomasina flushed. “You can’t blame me for what happened. You can’t do that.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry. I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying that in the wrong hands, photos can be as deadly as a gun. Maybe they were intended for blackmail? Didn’t you think of that?”
“To be honest, I didn’t. It was just my job to take them. Like I said, he seemed nice enough.”
“You’re right,” said Banks. “It wasn’t your fault. You were simply doing your job.”
She was studying his face, he felt, looking for signs so that she could be certain he was telling the truth and not winding her up. In the end, she reached her decision and relaxed visibly. “It was easy enough,” she said. “In the early evening, seven o’clock, the man in question would walk up to Euston Road, then across Regent’s Park. Always he would stop and sit on a bench by the Boating Lake and another man would join him.”
“How many times did you follow him?”
“Three.”
“He met the same man every time?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“They didn’t talk, but they’d get up and walk together to Saint John’s Wood. You know, the High Street where the cemetery is.”
“I know it,” said Banks. “And from there they would walk to Charles Lane and enter a house together.”
“Yes. You know all about it?”
“We identified the house and street from one of your photos.”
“Of course,” said Tomasina. “My, my, you do have all the resources, don’t you?”
“Taxpayers’ money at work. How long did they stay?”
“Almost two hours every time.”
“And then?”
“When they came out they parted ways. My man usually walked to the tube on Finchley Road.”
“Usually?”
“Yes. Once he walked all the way back to Bloomsbury the same way he came.”
“And the other man?”
“I never followed him. It wasn’t required.”
“But which direction did he head in?”
“North. Toward Hampstead.”
“On foot?”
“Yes.”
“When they got to the house on Charles Lane, who had the key?”
“Nobody,” said Tomasina.
“Do you mean they just walked straight in? The door was open?”
“No. They knocked and someone answered.”
“Did you actually see this person?”
“Not really. She was always in the shadows, back from the open door, and she didn’t really show on the photos.”
“She?”
“Oh, yes, it was definitely a woman. An elderly woman, I’d say. Gray-haired, maybe in her sixties. I could see that much. I just couldn’t describe her features. I had to stand around the corner and use the zoom to avoid being seen. But she was quite small, smartly dressed.”
“Edith Townsend,” said Banks.
“Do you know her?”
“In a way. Did you ever see a man?”
“No. Just the woman.”
Lester was probably sitting in the living room reading his Daily Telegraph, Banks thought. So they had been lying to him, as he suspected, which meant they were something to do with Mr. Browne and the spooks. Or the other side. What had Silbert been up to? It wasn’t an affair, Banks was almost certain of that, but were the photos enough to convince Hardcastle that it was? The friendly hand on the shoulder? With the added Iago-style innuendos and rhetoric, perhaps they were, as Hardcastle was insecure and jealous to begin with. Perhaps Silbert was working part-time, involved in some special project run, or fronted, by the Townsends? “Did your client ask you to investigate further when you gave him the memory stick?”
“No. All he seemed interested in was the photos of the two men together. I mean, I didn’t get the impression that he really cared what they were doing, why they were meeting.”
“When did you give him the memory stick?”
“Wednesday afternoon. The end of May. Two weeks ago.”
“Did you give him prints, too?”
“Yes. Do you know what it’s all about?”
“Not really,” Banks said. “I have a few vague ideas, but that’s all they are.”
“Will you tell me, or is this a one-way street?”
Banks smiled at her. “It’s a one-way street for the moment, a cul-de-sac, too, as far as I can see.”
“So that’s it? You come here and use me up and then simply discard me?”
“ ’Fraid so. Don’t take it so hard, Tomasina. It’s a tough business you’re in. Look on the bright side. You’ve done the right thing. Talked to the police.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ve talked to one policeman who’s already been warned off. Okay, forget it. Is this it, then? You walk out of here and I never see you again?”
“This is it.” Banks stood up. “But if you need to get in touch, you can call this number.” He scribbled down his new mobile number on the back of his card, handed it to her and walked over to the door.
“Wait,” she called out behind him. “Will you do just one teeny little thing for me?”
Banks paused at the door. “It depends on what it is.”
“The Blue Lamps. Can you get me a ticket for their next show? And will you introduce me to Brian?”
Banks looked back at her. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
12
By late Thursday afternoon, Annie had had quite enough of Eastvale Comprehensive and the East Side Estate’s problems. She didn’t want a drink, but she did want a bit of peace and quiet, so she bought a Britvic Orange and hid herself away in the back room of the Horse and Hounds. As usual, there was no one else around but she. It was dim and cool, the perfect place to collect her thoughts and perhaps have another quiet chat with Banks on her mobile.
Though she still wasn’t convinced by Banks’s wild theories, she was beginning to believe that there was something odd about Derek Wyman and his whole relationship with Mark Hardcastle. What had he got out of it? Was it really just a matter of two film and theater buffs having a drink and a chat every now and then? A couple of anoraks together? Or was there something more ominous behind it? If Wyman really was concerned about Hardcastle’s plan for a professional acting group, then why did he act as if they were the best of friends?