“Interesting,” said Banks. “Very interesting. Now if only we could find out a few more details, such as what the mission was, who gave the orders and who supplied the intelligence, we might actually get somewhere. What if Wyman thinks Silbert was responsible for his brother’s death? What if he was? What if it’s something MI6 want to keep covered up?”
“Then they’ll do everything in their power to prevent you from uncovering it.” Annie reached for her coffee. A soloist was singing, bells chiming in the background, then the full choir came in again. “Besides, just how, exactly, do you plan on finding out?”
“Before you arrived,” Banks said, “I got a return phone call from a Detective Superintendent Burgess. Dirty Dick Burgess.”
“I remember him,” said Annie. “He’s a sexist, racist, homophobic pig who thinks he’s God’s gift.”
“That’s the one,” Banks admitted. “I’d been trying to reach him for a couple of days, leaving cryptic messages. He’s remarkably resourceful when it comes to this sort of thing. I’m not sure exactly what department he works for these days, but it’s connected with counterterrorism, and he’s very much in the loop. Made the political transition from Thatcher and Major to Blair and Brown seamlessly.”
“Well, there’s not a lot of difference, as far as I can tell,” said Annie.
“You’re too young to remember Thatcher.”
“I remember the Falklands War,” Annie argued. “I was fifteen.”
“Anyway, I didn’t hear back from Dirty Dick for a while, and I thought perhaps it was because I’m persona non grata with his bosses, or something along those lines. He’d be certain to know, if I was. As it happens, I am, and he knows it, but that wasn’t the reason. He’s not in London at the moment; he’s in Dewsbury.”
“Dewsbury,” Annie echoed. “But isn’t that where—”
“One of the bombers, or planners. Yes, I know. And that’s probably why he’s there. The point is, he’s agreed to meet me.”
“Where? When?”
“This morning, up at Hallam Tarn. It might be our only chance of finding a real link between Wyman and Silbert, this SAS and MI6 business, and maybe of finding out exactly what it was Silbert’s been up to these past few years, since his so-called retirement; meeting men on benches in Regent’s Park, and so on.”
“If there is a link,” Annie reminded him.
“Fair enough.” Banks studied her. “I know you still think Hard-castle was the intended victim and professional jealousy was the motive. Hold that thought; you could still be right. Wyman did give Hardcastle the photos, and he did react with shock and horror. But bear with me awhile longer, too.” Banks reached for a pen and notepad from the bookcase beside him. “Have you got any more details about Rick Wyman?”
Annie told him all she knew, which wasn’t much.
“Should be able to track him down from that,” Banks said. “You’re sure about the date of the incident? Fifteenth October, 2002?”
“That’s what Carol Wyman told me.”
“Okay.”
“What if there isn’t a connection?”
“We’ll deal with that if and when we get there.”
“So what’s next? If they’re on to Wyman, as you say they must be after ransacking this Tom Savage’s files, isn’t he in danger now?”
“It depends how much of a threat he is to them. But, yes, I agree, we need to act fairly quickly, bring him in and get to the bottom of it.”
Annie had lost the thread of the music now, but it alternated between frantic and loud orchestra and solo tenor. Sometimes it disappeared completely. “We need to talk to the super first,” she said.
“Can you do that?” Banks asked.
“Me? Jesus Christ, Alan!”
“Please?” Banks glanced at his watch. “I have to meet Burgess soon, and I don’t think we should waste any more time. I might have a few more answers in a while, but if we can at least get Superintendent Gervaise’s permission to bring Wyman in for questioning over having commissioned the photographs, we’re in business.”
“But... I...”
“Come on, Annie. She knows you’ve been on the case, doesn’t she?”
“The nonexistent case? Yes. She knows.”
“Present her with the evidence. Just stress the theater business and play down the intelligence service angle. That’s the only thing that really worries her. She’ll go for it, otherwise.”
“All right, all right,” Annie said, standing up to leave. “I’ll have a go. And what about you?”
“I’ll be in later. I’ll phone for a driver when I’m ready. Bring Wyman in after you’ve talked to Gervaise and let him stew for a while.”
“On what charge?”
“You don’t have to charge him, just ask him to come along voluntarily.”
“What if he won’t?”
“Then bloody arrest him.”
“For what?”
“Try for being a lying bastard, for a start.”
“If only...”
“Just bring him in, Annie. It might get us a few answers.”
The orchestra was playing an eerie, haunting melody when Annie left, but the day didn’t seem quite so beautiful anymore.
When he was alone again, Banks poured himself the last cup of coffee. “Babi Yar” finished, and he couldn’t think of anything else he wanted to listen to. It was almost time to go out now, and tired as he was, this was an appointment he didn’t want to miss. Wondering why he bothered with security, he locked up the cottage and struck out up Tetchley Fell to Hallam Tarn.
He hadn’t slept a wink the previous night; his mind had still been full of the scenes he had witnessed at Oxford Circus, and he could still smell burning flesh and plastic. Certain images, he knew, would be lodged in his mind forever, and the things he had only thought he had seen fleetingly—a headless figure in his peripheral vision, glistening entrails glimpsed through a film of dust and smoke—would grow and metamorphose in his imagination, haunt his dreams for years.
But in some ways it was the feelings more than the images that affected him. He supposed he must have drifted off to sleep, at least for a few moments now and then, because he remembered those dreamlike sensations of not being able to run fast enough to escape something nightmarish; of being late for an important meeting and not remembering how to get there; being lost naked on dark, threatening streets, becoming more and more frantic as the hour drew near; of stairs turning sticky like treacle under his feet as he tried to climb them, dragging him down into the abyss, melting beneath him. And when he woke, his chest felt hollow, his heart forlorn, beating pointlessly, without an echo.
After he had left Joe Geldard’s pub, he had bought new clothes in a Marks and Spencer’s and made his way on foot through the Bloomsbury backstreets to King’s Cross Station. Even from Euston Road, he could still see wisps of smoke drifting in the air and hear the occasional siren. He wasn’t sure exactly what time the bombing had occurred, but he reckoned it must have been about two-thirty, the heart of a Friday afternoon in summer, when people like to leave work early. It was after five o’clock when he got to the train station, and service was still suspended, though the building had been cleared of threats and had reopened an hour earlier.
Crowds of people milled around the announcement boards, ready for the dash when their gate was announced. It cost him a small fortune to buy a single ticket to Darlington, with no guarantee of when the train would actually leave. The sandwich stalls had all run out of food and bottled water. While he waited, Banks phoned Brian and Tomasina, who were both fine, though shaken at having been so close to disaster. He also phoned Sophia at home and got no answer, as expected. He left a message asking her to pick up his car and said he hoped she was all right. He wasn’t going to tell anyone about his afternoon; certainly not now, probably never.