“Sit down, DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise, a healthy glow on her face. “Barley water?”
“Thank you.” Annie accepted the glass, sat down and took a sip. She hadn’t tasted barley water in years, not since her mother used to make it. It was wonderful. There were four chairs and a round table on the lawn, but no protective umbrella, and she wished she had worn a hat.
“Have you thought about blond highlights?” Gervaise asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“Maybe you should. They’d look good in the sunlight.”
What was all this? Annie wondered. First Carol Wyman had suggested she go blond, now Gervaise was talking about highlights.
Gervaise sat down. “I suppose you’ve come to tell me about important developments in the East Side Estate stabbing?”
“Winsome’s on the case, ma’am,” said Annie. “I’m sure we’re expecting a breakthrough any day now.”
“Any moment would be better. Even the mayor’s getting edgy. And what about you, DI Cabbot? What case are you on?”
Annie shifted in her chair. “Well, that’s what I came to see you about, ma’am. It’s a bit awkward.”
Gervaise sipped her barley water and smiled. “Try me.”
“You know we were talking, the other day, about Derek Wyman?”
“You mean Banks’s Iago theory?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“Well, what if there’s something in it? I mean, really something in it.” A wasp droned near Annie’s barley water. She waved it away.
“Like what?” asked Gervaise.
“Well, I was talking to Mr. Wyman’s wife, Carol, and she—”
“I thought I told you to leave them alone.”
“Well, ma’am, you didn’t exactly spell it out.“
“Oh, for crying out loud, DI Cabbot. Maybe I didn’t spell it out in words of one syllable, but you know exactly what I was telling you. It’s over. Leave it alone.”
Annie took a deep breath and blurted out, “I’d like to bring Derek Wyman in for questioning.”
Gervaise’s silence was unnerving. The wasp droned by again. Somewhere Annie could hear a garden hose hissing and a radio playing “Moon River.” Finally, Superintendent Gervaise said, “You? Or DCI Banks?”
“Both of us.” Now that Annie had said it, she was gathering courage fast. “I know you’ve been warned to lay off,” she went on, “but there’s evidence now. And it’s nothing to do with the secret intelligence services.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. DCI Banks found the private investigator who took the photos of Silbert with the other man.”
“A private investigator?”
“Yes. They do exist.”
“I know that. I was just... go on.”
“He also talked to a waitress in Zizzi’s who remembered seeing a man we assume to be Hardcastle tearing up some photos.”
“Assume?”
“Well, it was Wyman who commissioned them, and he did tell us he had dinner at Zizzi’s with Hardcastle before going to the National Film Theatre.”
“But why?”
“To stir up Hardcastle.”
“Or so you assume?”
“Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why else would he go to all that expense? He isn’t a rich man.”
“Why would he want to do it in the first place? He didn’t even know Silbert very well, did he?”
“Not well. No. They’d met once or twice, had dinner, but no, he didn’t really know Silbert. It was personal, I think. The target was Hardcastle, but when you set things like that in motion, you can’t always predict their outcome.”
“I’ll say. Do go on.”
“From what I can gather from talking to Carol Wyman, her husband’s sick of his teaching job and he’s got a passion for theater.”
“I know that,” said Gervaise. “He directed Othello.”
“That’s just it, ma’am,” Annie rushed on. “He wants to direct more. In fact, he wants it to be a full-time job. But like I said at that meeting when you closed the case, if Hardcastle and Silbert had succeeded in setting up their acting company the way they wanted, there would have been no room for Wyman. Hardcastle himself wanted to direct. Wyman would have been back to square one. That kind of failure and humiliation can really push a man to the limit, hurt his pride.”
“And you’re saying that’s Wyman’s motive for killing two men?”
“I don’t think he intended to kill anyone. It was just a nasty prank went wrong. I mean, I’m sure he wanted to hurt Hardcastle, or he wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble. I think directing Othello just put the idea in his mind in the first place. What he really wanted was to split up Hardcastle and Silbert so that Hardcastle would probably feel he had to leave Eastvale and abandon the theater.”
“I don’t know,” said Gervaise. “It still sounds a bit far-fetched. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I still don’t see that any crime has been committed.”
“We’ll work something out. People have killed for less—a job, a career, rivalry, artistic jealousy. I’m still not saying that Wyman intended to kill anyone, but what he did isn’t beyond the bounds of possibility. He may have incited Hardcastle to do what he did. He may have harassed him with the images and innuendos the way Iago did Othello. Maybe Wyman has a certain amount of psychological in-sight—you might expect it in a theater director—and he knew what buttons to push? I don’t know. All I know is that I think he did it.” Gervaise refilled her glass from the pitcher and offered Annie more. Annie declined. “What do you think?” Annie asked.
“I suppose there’s a certain low-level plausibility to it all,” Gervaise admitted. “But even so, we’d never prove it in a million years.”
“Unless Wyman confessed.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Guilt. If it was a prank gone wrong. If he didn’t mean to really hurt anyone. If we’re not dealing with a cold-blooded killer. He must have feelings. What happened must be a burden for him. His wife says he’s been a bit preoccupied lately. I’ll bet it’s weighing on his mind.” “All right, DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise. “Let’s accept that Wyman did cook up some scheme based on his directing of Othello to get at Hardcastle, and that it backfired. Are you able to guarantee me that this was nothing at all to do with the intelligence services and with what Silbert did for a living?”
It was as Banks had said, Annie thought. With the intelligence services out of the picture, Gervaise was far more willing to go along with the idea. “Yes,” she said.
Gervaise sighed, took off her hat and used it as a fan for a moment, then put it back on. “Why can’t things be easy?” she said. “Why can’t people just do as they’re told?”
“We have to pursue the truth,” said Annie.
“Since when? That’s a luxury we can ill afford.”
“But two people died because of what Wyman did, no matter how he intended it, or even whether he’s technically committed a crime. Surely we have to do something?”
“I think you’ll find that in this matter the law is very much concerned with any criminal offense he might have committed, or lack of one, and I can’t think of any.”
“We’ll leave that to the CPS.”
“Hmph. Do you know how much pressure I’ve had from above to drop this? About the only one who hasn’t been on my back is ACC McLaughlin, and that’s only because he has no particular liking for the secret intelligence services. But the chief constable is adamant. I don’t want this on my plate. Bring in Wyman, by all means. Have a chat with him. And if he admits anything that supports your theories, send the file to the CPS and see what they come up with. Just you and DCI Banks make damn sure that there’s no room here for things to go pear-shaped.”