“I still should have been more careful. What were the other two doing while the man and woman were interviewing you?”
“Searching everything, including my handbag. They took some of my files. And my laptop, my lovely Mac Air. Of course, they said everything would be returned when they’d finished with it.”
“The Derek Wyman file?”
“Yes.”
“Were the photos in it?”
“Yes. I made copies. And my report.”
“Shit. Then it won’t take them long to work out why I was here. I’m really sorry to bring all this down on you, Tomasina.”
She imitated an American tough-guy accent. “ ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’ Forget it. It’s all part of a day’s work for the modern girly private detective. But what will they do when they work out the truth?”
Banks thought for a moment. “Probably nothing,” he said. “At least not for a while. Sometimes they’re hasty, but usually they like to gather intelligence before acting. That way they already know all the answers to the questions before they ask them. Anyway, they’ll be more interested in Derek Wyman now. They’ll likely put a tail on him, do a thorough background check, that sort of thing.”
“And me?”
“You’re no longer of any interest to them. You were just a professional doing a job. They understand that.”
“But why?” Tomasina asked. “Why are they doing all this?”
“I don’t really know,” said Banks.
“And if you did you wouldn’t tell me.”
“The less you know the better. Believe me. It’s to do with the other man in the photo, though. He was one of theirs. First they wanted to hush up what had happened, intimidate everyone involved into just dropping the investigation. I think that was natural instinct, damage control. Now they’re interested, though. And that’s all I can tell you.”
“I see. At least I think I do.” She frowned. “But let me get it straight. Mr. Wyman hired me to take photos of a spy who met another spy on a bench in Regent’s Park and went to a house in Saint John’s Wood. Is Mr. Wyman a spy, too?”
“No,” said Banks. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. It’s complicated.”
“You’re telling me. What if they think I’m a spy?”
“I very much doubt they’ll think that. They know what your job is.”
Neither spoke for a few moments, then Tomasina’s stomach rumbled. “I’m hungry,” she said. “I think you owe me at least lunch for this.”
“Burger and chips?”
She squinted at him. “Oh, I think you can do better than that. Bentley’s isn’t far, and it’s early enough to get a table in the bar.”
Bentley’s was an expensive seafood restaurant, Banks knew, one of Richard Corrigan’s, owner of Lindsay House. With lunch and wine and service, the two of them probably wouldn’t get out for under a hundred quid. Still, Banks thought, it was a small price to pay for the guilt he felt at dragging Tomasina into it, though, strictly speaking, it was Wyman who had done that. “All right,” he said. “Just give me a couple of minutes to make some phone calls.”
“In private?”
“In private.”
“I’ll be outside having a smoke.”
When Annie had finished getting her paperwork up-to-date at the office, it was lunchtime. The Horse and Hounds was out of the question, as was the Queen’s Arms, so Annie went to The Half Moon, a pub she had eaten in before, farther down Market Street, with hanging baskets of bright red geraniums outside and a shiny black facade. She went to the bar and ordered a vegetarian lasagna and chips along with a pint of bitter shandy. She was thirsty, and orange juice just didn’t quench it.
She went outside and sat in the beer garden at the back. There wasn’t much of a view, as it was enclosed by walls, but the air was warm and the sun shone on the umbrella that shaded her table. There were a few groups and couples out there already deep in conversation, so anything she had to say on her mobile wouldn’t be overheard.
She missed Winsome, she thought, as she had her first sip of shandy, and she felt guilty about leaving her to handle the East Side Estate business with only Harry Potter. She would make up for it this afternoon, she decided, and from then on she would devote herself to what she was supposed to be doing. Gervaise had been remarkably unthreatening yesterday, but Annie knew that if she went on the way she was, she would be in for a serious bollocking soon, at the very least. She might just find herself in front of the chief constable, as she knew she deserved.
What else could she do for Banks, anyway? The next step was clearly to bring Wyman in and question him again in the light of their new knowledge. That might be difficult, since there was still actually no case being investigated, and the nature of any charges that might be brought against him were hazy, to say the least. But that wasn’t her problem. If it came to anything, it would be up to the Crown Prosecution Service to determine any charges that might be brought. If Banks wanted to come back home, tell all to Superintendent Gervaise, then perhaps they could give Wyman a slap on the wrist, send him home to his wife and get on with their jobs.
That reminded Annie, and she took out her notebook. She had looked up Charlotte Foster, Rick Wyman’s bereaved girlfriend, and found her phone number easily enough from BT. It wasn’t unlisted. What she hoped to gain by talking to Charlotte, she was uncertain, but it was worth a try. At least if Wyman knew they’d talked to her before they interviewed him, he might be worried enough to show it if he had something to hide.
Annie waited until she had finished as much of the lasagna as she wanted, then she dialed the number. A voice answered after several rings.
“Yes? Hello?”
“Charlotte Foster?”
“Who is this speaking?”
Annie introduced herself and explained as clearly as she could why she was calling.
“I still don’t quite understand,” said Charlotte when Annie had finished. “How exactly can I help you?”
“Well, I don’t know that you can,” said Annie. “Or will. I know these things are shrouded in secrecy. It’s just that I’ve been getting a few conflicting reports about the death of your... of Rick Wyman and I was wondering if you could help me clear up any misunderstanding.”
“How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
This was a question Annie had been dreading. All she could do was bluff her way out of it. “I can give you the police station number, the Western Area Headquarters in Eastvale, and you can call me back there, if you like.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” Charlotte snapped. “Why do you want to know?”
It was the other question Annie had been dreading, and the most natural one for Charlotte to ask. She hadn’t been able to come up with one good reason why the woman should talk to her, let alone tell her what were probably military secrets, even if she knew them. When in doubt, Annie thought, tell the truth as vaguely as possible. “It’s to do with a case we were working on,” she said. “It just came up in connection with one of the victims.”
“And who would that be?”
“A man called Laurence Silbert.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Well, I don’t suppose you would have,” said Annie.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but I was having lunch in the garden with some good friends when you rang, and I—”
“That’s all right,” said Annie. “I do apologize. I won’t keep you long.” If you tell me what I want to know, her tone implied.
“Oh, very well. But I told you, I don’t know this Silver person.”