“Well,” said Superintendent Gervaise, glancing from one to the other, “I’d say we’ve got our answer, haven’t we? You can’t argue with DNA. What about toxicology?”
“Nothing but alcohol in Hardcastle’s blood,” said Nowak. “Neither Hardcastle nor Silbert was drugged.”
“Was there evidence of anyone else at the scene?” Banks asked Nowak.
“Not at the scene specifically, no. Just the usual traces. You know as well as I do that there’s always evidence of whoever’s been in the room—friends, cleaners, dinner guests, relatives, what have you—and strangers a victim may have been in contact with, brushed up against. Trace evidence is all over the place—and don’t forget both victims had recently been in big cities—London and Amsterdam. Silbert had also been at Durham Tees Valley and Schiphol airports, too.”
“I think it’s time you put your curiosity to bed,” said Gervaise to Banks. “Other people had obviously been in the room at one time or another, like they’ve been in my room and yours. Silbert and Hard-castle had brushed against people in the street or in a pub or at an airport. That makes sense. You’ve heard DS Nowak. There was no evidence of any blood at the scene other than Silbert’s.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Annie said, “but that really doesn’t prove anything, does it? I mean, we know that Silbert was beaten to death with a cricket bat, so we’d expect to find his blood at the scene, but the fact that we haven’t found Hardcastle’s simply means that he didn’t shed any at the house. And if he didn’t shed any—”
“—then another killer might not have shed any. Yes, I can see where you’re going with this, DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise. “But it won’t wash. While we do have a lot of evidence to suggest that Mark Hard-castle killed Laurence Silbert and then hanged himself, we have none whatsoever to suggest that someone else did it. No one was seen entering or leaving the house, and no other suspects have suggested themselves. I’m sorry, but it sounds very much like case closed to me.”
“But someone from the theater might have had a motive,” Annie said. “I’ve already reported on the conversation I had with Maria Wolsey. She reckons—”
“Yes, we know all about that,” said Gervaise. “Vernon Ross or Derek Wyman might have had a motive if Hardcastle and Silbert got their new players’ group together. I read your report.”
“And?” said Annie.
“I just don’t believe that either Ross or Wyman would have had the ability to kill Silbert and make it look as if Hardcastle had done it.”
“Why not?” Annie protested. “They’re both theatrical types. They’re used to manufacturing illusions.”
“Very clever, but I’m sorry, I don’t believe it. Surely someone would have seen them coming or going? And then they’d have had to get rid of their bloody clothing. I just don’t see it, that’s all. What about the CCTV cameras?” Gervaise looked toward Nowak.
“We’ve checked all the footage, and there’s nothing out of the ordinary,” he said. “Too many blind spots, for a start, and number fifteen wasn’t covered directly.”
“It’s a very insular neighborhood,” said Banks, “so it doesn’t necessarily mean anything that no one was seen entering or leaving. I’ll bet you the secret intelligence services are very good at moving about unnoticed, even under surveillance cameras. Maybe the locals would notice a yob or a tramp, or some kid in a hoodie, but not someone who fit in with the neighborhood, drove the right car, blended in. I agree with DI Cabbot. Hardcastle could have gone out, and while he was gone, someone else—Ross, Wyman, some spook—could have entered and killed Silbert. When Hardcastle returned and found the body he became distraught and committed suicide. He could have picked up the cricket bat then, after the murder, after the real killer had wiped it clean. Hardcastle would have been in shock. Given that we have a photograph from an unknown source of Laurence Silbert in London with an unknown man, that Silbert was known to be an MI6 agent and that they’re pretty good in the dirty tricks department—”
“That’s neither here nor there,” snapped Gervaise. “I don’t suppose you’ve identified this mystery man in the photograph, have you?”
Banks glanced toward Annie. “We’ve shown it around to a few people,” she said, “but nobody admits to recognizing the unknown man.”
“And there were no fingerprints on the memory stick itself,” added Nowak.
Gervaise turned to Banks. “Have you learned anything yet about the location in the photographs?”
“No, ma’am,” said Banks. “I’m pretty certain the first two were taken in Regent’s Park, but I haven’t heard back from technical support on the others. Or on Julian Fenner’s dodgy phone number, either.”
“It seems as if you’re getting nowhere fast, doesn’t it?” Gervaise commented.
“Look,” said Banks, “I don’t think it’s irrelevant that Silbert was a spook or that Mr. Browne, if that’s his real name, came to see me last night and basically told me to lay off. You know as well as I do that we’ve run into a brick wall every time we’ve tried to find out anything about Silbert this week. The local police said they’d handle the Bloomsbury pied-a-terre business, and the next day they phoned us back, said they’d checked it out, and all they told us was that there was nothing out of the ordinary. What does that mean, for crying out loud? And can we trust them? Perhaps if there was something out of the ordinary they made it disappear? We all know how Special Branch and MI5 have been pecking away at us from the top lately, picking off tasks and turf for themselves. Terrorism and organized crime have given the government their excuse to do what they’ve been wanting to do for years anyway, to centralize and consolidate control and power and use us as an enforcement agency for unpopular policies. You’ve all seen the results when that’s happened in other countries. How do we know that the police who checked out Silbert’s flat weren’t influenced by them in any way? How do we know they weren’t Special Branch?”
“Now you’re being paranoid,” said Gervaise. “Why can’t you just accept that it’s over?”
“Because I’d like some answers.”
Nowak cleared his throat. “There is one more thing,” he said. He wouldn’t meet Banks’s gaze, so Banks knew it was bad news.
“Yes?” said Gervaise.
“Well, perhaps we should have done this earlier, but... things being the way they were... anyway, we ran Hardcastle’s and Silbert’s fingerprints through NAFIS and we got a result.”
“Go on,” said Gervaise.”
Nowak still didn’t look at Banks. “Well, ma’am, Hardcastle’s got form. Eight years ago.”
“For what?”
“Er... domestic assault. The man he was living with. Apparently Hardcastle flew into a jealous rage and beat him up.”
“Serious?”
“Not as bad as it could have been. Apparently he stopped before he did too much damage. Still put the bloke in hospital for a couple of days, though. And got himself a six-month suspended sentence.”
Gervaise said nothing for a few moments, then she regarded Banks sternly. “What do you have to say about that, DCI Banks?” she asked.
“You said you ran Silbert’s prints through NAFIS, too,” Banks said to Nowak. “Find anything there?”