Banks glanced at Annie again. They both knew that Wyman was right. He’d been responsible for the deaths of two men, but there was nothing they could do about it, nothing they could charge him with. Whether he was lying about Hardcastle’s asking him to spy on Silbert, it didn’t really matter. Whether he had been after revenge, either because Silbert had some direct connection with his brother’s death, or because Wyman had something against MI6 in general because of it, it didn’t matter. They might never know, anyway, unless Dirty Dick Burgess came up with some answers. Technically, no crime had been committed. Banks still felt deeply unhappy with the result, but he brought the interview to a close, turned off the recorders and told Wyman he could go to work.
Glad to be away from the station and home for the evening, Banks slipped in the Sarabeth Tucek CD he’d got to like so much over the past few months, poured himself a drink and went out to the conservatory to enjoy the evening light on the slopes of Tetchley Fell. The London bombing still haunted him every time he found himself alone, but it had faded slightly in his mind, become more surreal and remote, and there were moments when he could almost convince himself that it had all happened to someone else a long time ago.
Even though the case was really over, there were still a few loose ends he wanted to tie up, just for his own peace of mind. He picked up the phone and dialed Edwina Silbert’s number in Longborough. After about six rings she answered.
“Hello?”
“Edwina? It’s Alan Banks here.”
“Ah,” she said, “my dashing young copper.”
Banks could hear her breathe out smoke. He was glad he couldn’t smell it over the phone. “I don’t know so much about that,” he said. “How are you?”
“Coping. You know they released the body? The funeral’s next week. If you had anything to do with it, thank you.”
“I can’t claim any credit,” said Banks, “but I’m glad.”
“Is this a social call?”
“I wanted to let you know that it’s officially over.”
“I thought it was officially over last week?”
“Not for me, it wasn’t.”
“I see. And?”
Banks explained about what Derek Wyman had done, and why.
“That’s absurd,” said Edwina. “Laurence wasn’t being unfaithful.”
“But Mark thought he was.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t believe it, that’s all.”
“I’m afraid it’s true.”
“But Mark knew perfectly well that Laurence was still involved with the service.”
“He did? I had thought he might, but...”
“Of course he did. He might not have known exactly what he was doing, but he knew the trips to London and Amsterdam were work-related. Why would he ask someone to spy on Laurence?”
“I don’t know,” said Banks. “He must have become suspicious somehow.”
“Rubbish. I think your Mr. Wyman is lying,” said Edwina. “I think he did it off his own bat, out of pure vindictiveness. He worked on Mark’s insecurity and put his own spin on those photographs.”
“You could be right,” Banks said, “but unfortunately, it doesn’t matter now. I can’t prove it, and even if I could, he still hasn’t committed any crime.”
“What a world,” said Edwina, with another sigh of smoke. “Two dear people dead and no crime committed. Was that why you rang?”
“Partly, yes.”
“There’s something else?”
“Yes. Remember when we talked and you first told me that Laurence worked for MI6?”
“Yes.”
“It crossed your mind then, didn’t it, that they might have somehow been responsible for his death? Remember, you told me to be careful, too.”
There was a pause and Banks heard a tinkle of ice. “At first, I suppose, yes,” Edwina said. “When someone with Laurence’s... history... dies in such a violent way, one necessarily has suspicions. They are a devious crowd.”
“Was that because of Cedric?”
“What?”
“When you spoke about your husband, you told me he had worked for the Secret Intelligence Service during the war, and that he still had connections. He died in a car crash at the height of the Suez crisis, when he was involved in some Middle Eastern oil deal. Didn’t that set off any alarm bells?”
“I suppose it did,” said Edwina. “Cedric was a good driver, and there was no investigation.”
“So when Laurence also died under suspicious circumstances, it occurred to you that there might be a connection?”
“I asked Dicky Hawkins at the time of Cedric’s death. Of course he denied it, but there was something in his manner, body language... I don’t know.”
“So you think Cedric might have been killed?”
“That’s the problem with these people, Mr. Banks,” Edwina said. “You just never really know, do you? And now I really must go. I’m tired. Good night.” She hung up.
When Banks put the phone down he could hear Sarabeth Tucek singing “Stillborn,” one of his favorites. So the Hardcastle-Silbert case, such as it was, was over, even if it had been all Derek Wyman’s malicious doing. They’d let Wyman walk out, a free man. There was nothing they could charge him with, and no matter what Edwina Silbert thought, no way they could refute his story, though Banks did suspect that there was more to it than he had told them, that what they had witnessed in the interview room was more of a performance than a confession, and that Wyman had simply managed to stay one step ahead and come up with a foolproof explanation when he needed one. Hardcastle and Silbert were dead, Wyman was responsible for their deaths, whether intentionally or not, and he had walked away.
Now that he was finished with Wyman, he could devote more thought to his other problem: Sophia. It couldn’t be insurmountable, he believed; there had to be a way of salvaging the relationship, perhaps it was even as simple as just letting a little time pass. Maybe it would also help to convince her that he wasn’t responsible if he let her into one or two more details of the case, including his conversation with Burgess. And a present wouldn’t go amiss, he was certain. Not a CD, but something unique, something that could become a part of her “collection.” He couldn’t replace what she had lost, of course, but he could offer something new, something that, in time, would grow into its own story, would acquire its own pedigree and tradition. By finding the right object, he could demonstrate that he understood, that he knew how important these things were to her, and that he knew it wasn’t just a materialistic obsession. And he thought that he did understand. It was a plan, at any rate.
Nearly an hour passed, and Banks had just switched Sarabeth for Cat Power’s The Covers Album, which opened with a slow, acoustic and almost unbearably sad version of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” when his phone rang. He didn’t immediately recognize the voice. “Alan?”
“Yes.”
“This is Victor, Victor Morton. Sophia’s father. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” said Banks. “What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me what’s going on, for a start.”
Banks’s heart lurched into his throat. Christ, had Sophia told her father about the break-in? Was Victor going to blame Banks, too? “What do you mean?” he asked, with a dry mouth.
“I had a very interesting conversation with an old colleague yesterday,” Victor went on. “We met just by chance in the street, if you can believe that, and he suggested we have a drink together.”
“Who was it?”
“His name doesn’t matter. It was someone I knew from Bonn, someone I never liked, always suspected of being a bit... well, rather like the fellow we were talking about the other day.”