“Well, you know about that concert, the Blue Lamps at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire?”
“Yes.” It had slipped Banks’s mind momentarily, but now that she mentioned it, he remembered. It was a big gig for Brian, and he knew he should try to be there. “Friday, isn’t it?” he said.
“That’s right.”
Banks had been intending to spend the weekend with Sophia, but now he realized he probably wouldn’t be doing that, barring some sort of miracle. Still, he could always find somewhere to stay. Brian and Emilia had a pull-out sofa. “You can still make it, I hope?” he said.
“Oh, yes. It’s just that, well, I was in the pub last night, and I ran into this old friend from uni. He’s really crazy about the Lamps and, well, we’d had a few drinks, you know how it is, and I said why didn’t he come with me, you know, to the concert, because I had tickets. You don’t really mind, do you, only I thought you’d be able to get another ticket from Brian easily enough, and we could still meet up for a drink and get together backstage later and all that. I’m sorry.”
“Whoa, slow down,” Banks said. “You’re calling off our date, is that it?”
Tomasina laughed nervously. “It wasn’t really a date. Was it?”
“What else?”
“Well, it’s not as if you don’t have a girlfriend or anything. I mean, look, if you really insist, I know I promised you first and I can tell him—”
“It’s all right,” said Banks. “I’m only teasing. Of course you should take your friend. I might not even be able to make it, anyway.”
“Pressure of work?”
“Something like that,” said Banks. “Anyway, the two of you have a great time, okay? And if I’m not there, say hello to Brian from me.”
“I will. And thank you.”
Banks put down the phone and looked out of the window at the rain again. He could hardly see the dalesides beyond the castle.
Darkness came early that night, and by ten o’clock it was pitch black outside Banks’s Gratly cottage, and still raining. There would be no sitting on the wall by the beck tonight, Banks thought, tidying away the remains of his takeaway vindaloo. He had eaten it in front of the TV, drinking beer and watching No Country for Old Men on DVD, and the movie was about as bleak as he felt. He knew he was feeling sorry for himself when even the memory of Tomasina ringing to cancel their trip to Brian’s concert felt like a betrayal.
There had been no progress in the search for Wyman that day. Annie had rung from Harrogate to say she had got nowhere there, and Winsome had reported the same from Ripon. The local forces were helping all they could, but resources were still limited. If they didn’t find him soon, it would be time to concentrate on the moors again, maybe drag Hallam Tarn.
Several times over the course of the evening Banks had been on the verge of ringing Sophia, but every time, he had backed off. She wanted time, she had said, and she also seemed to have another relationship she wanted to pursue. Often the two went together. When a couple split up, Banks knew, the odds were that one of the partners had found someone else, even if that someone was only the excuse to leave, and the new relationship didn’t last. It had happened with Sandra, and she had married the bastard and had a child with him. It hadn’t been like that with Annie, though. She hadn’t left him for someone else; she had just left him.
Had he misinterpreted the situation last night? Had it really been perfectly innocent? How would he ever know if he didn’t ask her?
He switched to red wine, poured himself a generous glass and went through to the conservatory. He was just about to go ahead and ring her when he thought he heard a noise out in the back garden. It sounded like the click of the sneck on the gate. He held his breath. There it was again. Something, or someone, out there in the bushes. He was about to pick up a kitchen knife and go outside to see what was happening when he heard a light tapping at the conservatory door. He couldn’t see any sort of shape through the frosted glass because it was so dark, but there was definitely someone there. The tapping persisted. Eventually, Banks walked over and put his hand on the handle.
“Who is it?” he asked. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” a familiar voice whispered back. “Derek Wyman. You’ve got to let me in. Please.”
Banks opened the door and Wyman half-stumbled in. Even in the darkness, it was clear that he was soaked to the skin.
“Bloody hell,” said Banks, switching on the table lamp. “Look at the state of you. The spy who came in from the cold.”
Wyman was shivering. He just stood there in the doorway dripping.
“Come in,” said Banks. “I ought to put you over my knee and give you a bloody good spanking, but I think I can find you a towel and some dry clothing. Drink?”
“A large whiskey wouldn’t go amiss,” Wyman said through chattering teeth.
They went through to the kitchen, where Banks poured him a healthy shot of Bell’s, then they went upstairs and Wyman dried himself off in the bathroom while Banks dug out some old jeans and a work shirt. The shirt was fine and the jeans were a bit short, but they fit around the waist all right. Finally they went back to the conservatory. Banks refilled his wineglass.
“Where’ve you been hiding?” he asked, when they were sitting down.
Wyman kept the towel around his neck, as if he had just run a race or finished a football game and come out of the shower. “Moors,” he said. “I used to do a lot of walking and caving around here. I know all the spots.”
“We thought you’d gone to Harrogate and taken the train to distant parts.”
“It crossed my mind, but in the end it was too risky. Too open. I thought they’d be looking for me at the stations.” Wyman held the glass to his mouth and gulped. His hand was shaking.
“Steady on,” said Banks. “Slow down. Take it easy. Have you eaten anything?”
Wyman shook his head.
“I’ve got some leftover vindaloo,” Banks said. “At least it’s fresh.” “Thanks.”
Banks went into the kitchen, warmed up the vindaloo and half a naan in the microwave and put it on a plate for Wyman. He ate fast, much faster than anyone should eat vindaloo, but it didn’t seem to have any adverse effects.
“You said ‘they,’ ” Banks said.
“Pardon?”
“You said you thought ‘they’ would be watching the stations—not us, not the police.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Would you like to tell me why you ran?” Banks asked. “The full story.”
“I saw them at my house,” Wyman said. “The spooks. I was on my way back for tea after the Sunday matinee. They were carrying stuff out. The computer. Papers. Boxes. They don’t do that for nothing.”
“How did you know who they were? It might have been us.”
“No. They’d already talked to me once. Warned me what to expect.”
“When?”
“The day before, Saturday, just after I left the police station after talking to you. They were waiting in the square in a car. Put me in the backseat between them. Man and a woman. They wanted to know why you were talking to me, what connection I had to Laurence Silbert’s murder. They think I’m hooked up with the Russian Mafia, for God’s sake. When I saw them at the house, I just panicked.”
“They must have got to Tomasina’s file on you,” Banks said.
“Tom Savage? What do you mean?”
“They raided her office on Friday morning, took most of her files. They obviously had to read through them all, and you’re a W. It must have taken them until Sunday, then they came back for you, but you weren’t there.”
“How did they find her?”
“Through me, I’m afraid. You dropped her card down the back of the radiator at Mohammed’s, and he found it.”