“Nothing,” said Nowak. “In fact, as you pointed out, most inquiries connected with Laurence Silbert have run up against a dead end.”
“Well, they would, wouldn’t they?” said Banks. “He was a spook. He probably didn’t even officially exist.”
“Well, he certainly doesn’t now,” said Gervaise. “That’s it. I’ve had enough of this. I’ll be talking to the coroner. Case closed.” She stood up and slammed her Silbert-Hardcastle folder shut on the table. “DCI Banks, could you stay behind a moment, please?”
When the others had left, Gervaise sat down again and smoothed her skirt. She smiled and gestured for Banks to sit, too. He did.
“I’m sorry we dragged you back from your holiday for this business,” she said. “I don’t suppose we can always tell when something’s going to be a waste of time, can we?”
“It would make our lives easier if we could,” said Banks. “But with all due respect, ma’am, I—”
Gervaise put her finger to her lips. “No,” she said. “No, no, no, no. This isn’t a continuation of the meeting. This isn’t about your theories or mine. As I said, that’s over. Case closed.” She laced her fingers together on the table. “What plans do you have for the next week or so?”
“Nothing in particular,” Banks said, surprised at the question. “Sophia’s coming up tomorrow. We’re going to see Othello on Saturday. Lunch with her parents on Sunday. Nothing special.”
“Only, I was feeling guilty,” Gervaise went on. “About dragging you back up here for nothing on the evening of your big dinner party.”
Christ, Banks thought, she wasn’t going to invite them for dinner, was she? “It wasn’t for nothing,” he said. “But that’s all right. Water under the bridge.”
“Only, I know how much trouble this job can cause a couple sometimes, and it must be really hard when you’re just starting out.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Just where on earth was she going with this? Banks had learned that it was sometimes best not to ask too many questions, just to let Gervaise talk her own way around to her point. If you tried to nail her down too soon, she tended to get slippery.
“I hope we didn’t put too much strain on your relationship.”
“Not at all.”
“And how is the lovely Sophia?”
“Thriving, ma’am.”
“Good. Good. Excellent. Well, I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here?”
“I’ll admit to a touch of mild curiosity.”
“Aha,” said Gervaise. “Ever the wit. Well, seriously... er... Alan... I’d like to make it up to you. How does that sound?”
Banks swallowed. “Make what up, ma’am?”
“Make up for calling you back, of course. What did you think I was talking about?”
“Thank you,” said Banks, “but that’s not really necessary. Everything’s fine.”
“It could always be better, though, couldn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Right. Well, I’d like you to pick up your holidays where you left off. As of this weekend. A week, shall we say?”
“Next week off?”
“Yes. DI Cabbot and DS Jackman can handle the East Side Estate business. They’ve got young Harry Potter to help them. He’s coming along quite nicely, I think, don’t you?”
“He’ll be fine,” said Banks. “But—”
Gervaise held up her hand. “But me no buts. Please. I insist. No reason you shouldn’t enjoy the rest of your leave. You’re owed it, after all.”
“I know, ma’am, but—”
Gervaise stood up. “I told you. No buts. Now bugger off and enjoy yourself. That’s an order.”
And with that she walked out of the boardroom and left Banks sitting alone at the long polished table wondering just what the hell was going on.
7
“So what do you think?”
It was hot and crowded in the theater bar at intermission. Banks felt the sweat prickle on his scalp as he stood by the plate-glass window with Sophia looking out at the evening light on the shops across Market Street. A young couple walked by holding hands, a man walking his dachshund stopped to pick up its leavings in a plastic Co-op bag, three girls in miniskirts wearing Mickey Mouse ears and carrying balloons teetered on high heels on their way to a hen night. Banks glanced at Sophia. She was wearing her hair loose tonight, over her shoulders, and its luster framed her oval face, the olive skin and dark eyes showing her Greek heritage. Not for the first time in the past few months he felt like a very lucky man.
“Well,” said Sophia, taking a sip of red wine, “it’s hardly Olivier, is it?”
“What did you expect?”
“The lighting’s good, all that chiaroscuro and whatnot, but I’m not convinced about the whole German Expressionist idea.”
“Me neither,” said Banks. “I keep expecting Nosferatu to jump out from behind one of those big curved screens and flash his fingernails.”
Sophia laughed. “And I still think those Georgians must have been tiny.”
“With well-padded bums,” Banks added.
“Lord, they must have looked funny waddling around the place. Seriously, though, I am enjoying it. It’s a long time since I’ve seen Othello. Come to think of it, it’s a long time since I’ve seen any Shakespeare play onstage. It takes me back to my student days.”
“You studied Shakespeare?”
“Long and hard.”
“We did Othello for O-Level English.”
“Pretty tough when you’re only sixteen. It’s a very grown-up play.” “Oh, I don’t know. I think I could understand jealousy even then.” Banks thought of the other night, down in Chelsea: Sophia saying, “So I’ve been told.”
“But that’s not what it’s really—oops, damn!”
Someone had accidentally jogged Sophia’s arm, and she spilled a little red wine on her roll-neck top. Luckily, it was a dark color.
“Sorry,” the man said, turning to her and smiling. “There is a bit of a crush in here, isn’t there?”
“Good evening, Mr. Wyman,” said Banks. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”
Derek Wyman turned and noticed Banks for the first time. It might have been Banks’s imagination, but he sensed a cautious expression come into Wyman’s eyes. Still, that often happened when people found themselves confronted with a policeman. We’ve all got some guilty secret we don’t want the law to know about, Banks thought—a motoring offense, a couple of joints at uni, a touch of adultery, a false income tax return, an adolescent shoplifting spree. They were all the same in the mind of the guilty. He wondered what Wyman’s was. A bout of buggery?
“It’s all right,” Sophia was saying.
“No, let me get some soda,” Wyman said. “I insist.”
“Really, it’s all right. It was only a drop. And you can’t even see it now.”
Banks wasn’t sure he appreciated the way Wyman was staring at Sophia’s chest, almost as if he were going to pull out a handkerchief and start dabbing at the barely visible wine stain. “I’m surprised you’ve got time to mingle with the punters,” Banks said. “I would have thought you’d be backstage giving the cast a pep talk.”
“Its not like a football match, you know.” Wyman laughed. “I don’t go in the dressing rooms and yell at them during halftime. Anyway, why should I? Do you think they need one? I thought they were doing a fine job.” He turned to Sophia again and held his hand out. “I’m Derek Wyman, by the way, director of this modest little effort. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Sophia took his hand. “Sophia Morton,” she said. “We were just talking about how much we’re enjoying the play.”