“We think Wyman might have made it to a town,” said Banks. “Harrogate, Ripon. York, even. Maybe hitched a lift or caught a bus. From one of those places he could have gone anywhere. Could even be abroad. Anyway, Annie and Winsome are concentrating on checking the bus and train stations. We’ve also got his picture in the paper and it’s coming up on the local TV news this evening. We’ve got uniforms canvassing supermarkets and men’s outfitters within a thirty-mile radius in case he needed a change of clothes. His credit and debit cards are covered, too. If he uses them, we’ll know where.”
“It’s the best we can do, I suppose,” said Gervaise.
Banks finished his coffee and poured himself another cup from the carafe.
“Rough night?” Gervaise asked.
“Just tired.”
“Okay. What are your thoughts?”
“Something obviously put the wind up him,” said Banks. “Maybe Mr. Browne got the thumbscrews out.”
“There’s no call for flippancy. It was expressly to avoid something like this happening that I told you to lay off over a week ago.”
“With all due respect, ma’am,” said Banks, “that wasn’t the reason. You told me to lay off because MI6 told the chief constable, and he passed the message on to you. Your hands were tied. But I’d hazard a guess that you knew damn well that the best way to get me asking questions on my own time was to tell me to lay off. Just like MI6 did eventually, you let me do the dirty work for you while keeping me at arm’s length. The only thing you didn’t expect was for Wyman to do a runner.”
Gervaise said nothing for a moment, then she allowed a brief smile to flicker across her features. “Think you’re clever, don’t you?” she said.
“Well, isn’t it true?”
“You may think that, but I can’t possibly comment.” She waved her hand. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. For better or worse, we’re here. The point is what are we going to do?”
“We’re going to find Derek Wyman first,” said Banks, “and then we’ll work on calming everyone down. I know it sounds impossible, but I think we should just sit down and thrash it out with MI6, or whoever we can get to talk to us and settle the matter one way or another. It doesn’t matter whether Wyman upset the applecart because of his brother or because he was angry with Hardcastle. He still hasn’t broken any laws, and it’s about time everyone knew that.”
“You think it’s that easy?”
“I don’t know why it shouldn’t be. Get the chief constable to invite his pals to the table. He’s in with them, isn’t he?”
Gervaise ignored his barb. “I don’t think they’re concerned right now about why Wyman stirred up Hardcastle and Silbert,” she said, “but about how much and what he knows about matters of a top-secret nature.”
“I don’t think he knows anything,” said Banks.
“You’ve changed your tune.”
“Not particularly. I wondered before, speculated, perhaps, but I’ve had a chance to think it through. I’ve got a contact who does know about these things, and he told me that Silbert had nothing to do with Afghanistan except for some joint mission with the CIA in 1985, and that his recent work involved the activities of the Russian Mafia.”
“You believe him?”
“About as much as I believe anyone in this business. I’ve known him for years. He’s got no reason to lie. He would have simply told me he didn’t know or couldn’t find out.” Or, knowing Burgess, to fuck off, Banks thought.
“Unless someone fed him misinformation.”
“Who’s paranoid now?”
Gervaise smiled. “Touché.”
“What I’m saying,” Banks went on, “is that we might never know for certain, just the way Edwina Silbert doesn’t know for certain that MI6 killed her husband. But she thinks they might have. They might also have had a hand in Laurence Silbert’s murder. Maybe he was a double agent and that’s why they wanted rid of him? We’ll probably never know. Despite all the scientific evidence, I still don’t think it’s beyond the realm of reason that someone in their dirty-tricks brigade got in the house and killed him. You saw as well as I did how useless those local CCTV cameras were when it came to covering the area we were interested in. But if that is the case, there’s no evidence and there never will be. I’m sick of the whole damn business. The point now is to stop all this before it gets worse. If Wyman hasn’t found shelter, a change of clothes, food and water, do you realize that the poor bastard could die of exposure out there? It’s got cold as well as wet. And for what? Because a couple of jumped-up Boy Scouts in suits have ransacked his home and scared the shit out of him the way they did with Tomasina Savage?”
“But what if Wyman’s working for the other side?” Gervaise asked.
“The Russian Mafia? Oh, come off it,” said Banks. “What use would a puny school teacher like Derek Wyman be to a bunch of neckless ex-KGB agents? And why would he hire a private detective if he was in with them? They’d have their own surveillance people to follow Silbert. Besides, if they were involved, they would have broken Silbert’s neck or pushed him in front of a car. Shot him, even. They don’t care. I will admit that what happened smacks of British secret service silliness, or the Americans, with their exploding cigars for Castro—it’s all a bit Pythonesque—but the Russian Mafia...? I don’t think so.”
“When did you become an expert all of a sudden?”
“I’m not an expert,” said Banks, straining to rise above the pounding in his head. “I don’t pretend to be. It’s just common sense, that’s all. I think we all left a little bit of our common sense at home on this one, including me.”
“Perhaps,” said Gervaise. She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a meeting with the chief constable in half an hour. I’ll put your idea to him. I doubt that he’ll go for it, but I’ll try.”
“Thank you,” said Banks. He topped up his coffee and carried his cup and saucer back to his own office, where he stood by the window looking down on the market square for a while. His head pounded and waves of nausea drifted through his stomach. His own fault. He still could hardly believe it. When he thought about it, yesterday evening on the King’s Road had the same surreal dreamlike quality as the Oxford Circus. But perhaps he could do more about last night. At the very least he could stop running and confront Sophia. Maybe she would have an explanation. Maybe he would believe it.
Rain slanted across the square and bounced on the cobbles. Deep puddles straddled all the intersections and people skirted them to avoid getting their feet wet. The sky was an unrelenting grit-gray and none of the forecasters could see an end in sight to the dreadful weather. Banks thought of Wyman, alone and frightened out there somewhere, hoped he was dry and sheltered in some cozy bed-and-breakfast, despite all the trouble he had caused. This business had started with a suicide; he hoped it wouldn’t end with one. When his phone rang, he hoped it might be Sophia calling to explain or apologize. Instead, it was Tomasina.
“Hello,” she said. “I had a hard job tracking you down. That phone number you gave me doesn’t work anymore.”
“Oh, sorry,” said Banks. “It was only temporary. I never thought... It’s at the bottom of the Thames.”
“That’s wasteful. Lucky I know where you work.”
“Lucky I’m actually here,” said Banks. “What can I do for you? No more problems, I hope?”
“No, nothing like that. They haven’t returned my files yet, though.”
“Give them time. So what is it?”
“Well, actually, it’s a bit awkward,” Tomasina said.
“Go on.”