All the Colors of Darkness ib-18 Read online

  And the driver’s door was unlocked, the key in the ignition, which was what had drawn the attention of the uniformed officers. The inside was a mess, but it was only the kind of a mess a person makes in his or her own car, to which Annie could well attest. Maps, petrol receipts, sweet wrappers and CD cases littered the passenger seat. The CDs were mostly opera, Annie noticed, something Banks would have appreciated. In the back, along with the props, were a broken windscreen wiper, an unopened bag of pork scratchings and a roll of cling film. There was also a black zip-up wind cheater.

  Annie found the victim’s wallet in a side pocket of the wind cheater, along with a set of keys. He had forty-five pounds in notes, credit and debit cards in the name of Mark G. Hardcastle, a couple of business cards of local cabinetmakers and theatrical suppliers, a driving license complete with photograph and an address not far from the center of town, along with a date of birth that put his age at forty-six. As far as Annie could see, there was no suicide note. She riff led through the wallet again, then went through the pile of stuff on the passenger seat and on the f loor, under the seats. Nothing. Next she checked the boot and found only a large cardboard box full of old magazines and newsA L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S

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  papers for recycling, a f lat spare tire and a few plastic containers full of antifreeze and window-washing f luid.

  Annie took a deep breath of fresh air.

  “Anything?” Winsome asked.

  “Do you think he just happened to be carrying a length of clothesline with him?”

  “Unlikely,” Winsome answered. She jerked her head toward the car. “But just look at some of the other stuff he had in there. Who knows? Maybe it was a theatrical prop.”

  “True enough. Anyway, I was thinking there might be a receipt.

  Obviously if he was planning to hang himself, and he didn’t have any rope conveniently stashed in his car, he’d have had to buy some, wouldn’t he? We’ll get Harry Potter to check the local shops. It shouldn’t be too difficult to trace.” Annie showed Winsome a handful of receipts from Hardcastle’s wallet. “Three of these are from London—Waterstone’s, HMV and a Zizzi’s restaurant. All dated this past Wednesday. There’s also a petrol receipt from an M1 service station at Watford Gap dated Thursday morning.”

  “Any signs of a mobile phone?” Winsome asked.

  “None.”

  “What next, then?”

  Annie glanced back at the car, then over the river at the woods. “I think we’d better make a few inquiries around the theater, if there’s anyone there at this time of day,” she said. “But now that we’ve got his address, we should call at his home first. God forbid there’s someone there waiting for him.”

  B R A N W E L L C O U R T branches off Market Street just a hundred yards or so south of the square. A broad, cobbled street lined with plane trees on both sides, its main features of interest are a pub called the Cock & Bull and the Roman Catholic church. The houses, among the oldest in Eastvale, are all weathered limestone with f lagstone roofs, cheek by jowl but varying greatly in width and height, often with ginnels running between them. Many have been renovated and divided into f lats.

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  Number 26 had a purple door with the name mark g. hardcastle engraved in a brass plate beside the doorbell to the upper f loor. Just in case there was somebody home, Annie rang. She could hear the sound echo inside the building, but nothing else. Nobody came down the stairs.

  Annie tried the keys she had taken from the pocket of Mark Hardcastle’s wind cheater. The third one fit and led them into a whitewashed hall and a f light of uneven wooden stairs. A raincoat hung on one of the hooks behind the door. A few letters lay scattered on the f loor. Annie picked them up to examine later, then climbed the narrow creaking staircase, Winsome behind her.

  The f lat, once the upper f loor of a small cottage, was tiny. There was hardly space in the living room for the television set and sofa, and the dining area was a narrow passage with a table and four chairs between the living room and the kitchen which was nothing more than a few feet of linoleum-covered f loor surrounded by countertop, tall storage cupboard, oven and fridge. The toilet was beyond the kitchen, a sort of capsule attached to the side of the building at the back. A ladder led up from the dining area to the converted loft with the double bed at the center of the claustrophobic inverted V of timber beams. Annie climbed up. There was barely room for a bedside table and a chest of drawers. Very quaint, Annie thought, but almost uninhabitable. It made her little cottage in Harkside feel like Harewood House.

  “Strange place to live, isn’t it?” said Winsome, catching up with her in the attic and standing with her head and shoulders bowed, not because of reverence, but because she was over six feet tall and there was no way she could stand upright there.

  “Definitely bijou.”

  “At least there’s no one waiting for him at home.”

  “I doubt there’d be room,” said Annie.

  The bed had been slept in, its f lower-patterned duvet askew, pillows used, but it was impossible to tell whether one or two people had lain there. Winsome checked the dresser drawers and found only socks, underwear and a few folded T-shirts. A well-thumbed Penguin Plays volume of Tennessee Williams sat on the bedside table next to the reading lamp.

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  Downstairs again, they checked the kitchen cabinets, which held a few pots and pans and tins of mushroom soup, salmon and tuna, along with various condiments. The fridge was home to several wilt-ing lettuce leaves, an almost empty tub of Flora, some wafer-sliced ham with a sell-by date of May 21 and a half-full carton of semi-skimmed milk. There were two butter-and-garlic Chickens Kiev and a stone-baked margherita pizza in the freezer. The tiny sideboard in the dining area held knives, forks and spoons and a set of plain white plates and bowls. Three bottles of bargain-price wine and a selection of cookbooks sat on top of it. Half a loaf of stale Hovis almost filled the bread box.

  In the living room, there were no family photographs on the mantelpiece, and there certainly wasn’t a convenient suicide note propped up against the brass clock. In the bookcase next to the television were a few popular paperbacks, a French-English dictionary, several his-torical books on costumes and a cheap Complete Works of Shakespeare.

  The few DVDs Mark Hardcastle owned centered on TV comedy and drama— The Catherine Tate Show, That Mitchell & Webb Look, Doctor Who and Life on Mars. There were also a few “carry-on” movies and some old John Wayne Westerns. The CDs were mostly operas and show tunes: South Pacific, Chicago, Oklahoma. A search behind the cushions of the sofa yielded a twenty-pence piece and a white button.

  Hanging over the fireplace was an old poster for a Stoke-on-Trent repertory production of Look Back in Anger, with Mark Hardcastle’s name listed in the stage credits.

  Annie scanned the letters she had left on the coffee table. The oldest was postmarked the previous week, and they were either utility bills or special offers. Still, Annie thought, that was hardly surprising.

  Since e-mail, letter writing had become a dying art. People just didn’t write to one another anymore. She remembered a pen pal she had once had in Australia when she was very young, how exciting it had been receiving airmail letters with the “Sydney” postmark and the exotic stamps and reading all about Bondi Beach and The Rock. She wondered if people had pen pals these days. She wondered what hers was doing now.

  “What do you think?” Winsome asked.

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  “There’s nothing really personal here, have you noticed?” Annie said. “No address book, no diary. Not even a computer or a telephone.

  It’s as if he only lived here part-time, or he only lived part of his life here.”

  “Maybe he did,” Winsome offered.

  “Then let’s see if we can find out where
he lived the rest of it,” said Annie. “Fancy going to the theater?”

  T H E E A S T VA L E Theatre was a masterpiece of restoration, Annie thought, and it managed to pack a great deal into two stories hardly more than forty feet wide. Clearly its original patrons hadn’t cared much about wine bars and cafés, so they had been added on to the side of the original building in the same stone and design. Only the large, long plate-glass windows on the addition bowed in the direction of a more modern style. Beside the entrance were posters for the major production now running, the Eastvale Amateur Dramatic Society’s version of Othello.

  The foyer was far livelier than she would have imagined at that time of day, mostly because a children’s matinee of Calamity Jane, put on by the Amateur Operatic Society, had just finished. Annie and Winsome went first to the box office, where an overly made-up woman sat talking on her mobile phone.

  They showed their warrant cards. “Excuse me,” Annie said. “Is the manager here?”

  The woman held the phone against her ample bosom and said,

  “Manager? Do you mean the stage manager, dearie?”

  “I mean the person in charge,” said Annie.

  A gang of children dashed by singing “The Deadwood Stage” and pretending to shoot at one another. They almost knocked Annie over. One of them apologized as he backed away, but the rest just ran on as if they hadn’t even noticed her. One of them whistled at Winsome.

  The woman in the box office smiled. “Kids,” she said. “You should see the job our cleaning staff have to do after these shows. Chewing gum, sticky sweet wrappers, spilled Coke. You name it.”

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  It sounded like the local f lea pit Annie used to go to with her boyfriend in Saint Ives. “The manager?” Annie said.

  The woman excused herself, spoke into her mobile for a few moments, then ended her call. “There isn’t one, really,” she said. “I mean, I suppose there’s the stage manager, or the director, but he’s not really—”

  “How about someone who works with the props, sets?”

  “Ah, that’ll be Vernon Ross. He’s in charge of all the technical stuff.” The woman squinted at Annie. “What’s this about?”

  “Please?” said Annie. “We’re in a hurry.”

  “And the rest of us aren’t? I’ve been here since—”

  “If you’d just point us in the right direction, you can go home,”

  said Winsome, smiling.

  “Yes, well . . .” The woman frowned at Winsome and nodded toward the theater entrance. “If you walk through those doors down the aisle to the stage, you should find Vernon. If he’s not there, go through one of the doors beside it. They’ll be clearing up, getting ready for tonight.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” said Annie.

  They headed through the double doors. Both stalls and circle were fitted with restored wooden benches, cramped like pews. There were also a few boxes close to the stage for dignitaries. It might have been better if the renovators had modernized the interior, Annie thought, though she understood why they wanted to keep the authentic Georgian experience. But the seats were hard and uncomfortable. She had watched a performance of The Mikado there once, her only visit, shortly after the grand opening. The mayor had looked miserable in his box most of the evening, constantly shifting in his seat, his wife glowering beside him, and Annie’s bum and back had ached for a week. She knew that Banks had taken Sophia to see concerts by Kath-ryn Tickell, Kate Rusby and Eliza Carthy there, even though Annie gathered that Sophia didn’t really like folk music, but he hadn’t complained. No doubt his bum had been f loating a foot above the hard surface on a cushion of bliss. Love.

  The house lights were on, and a group of people in jeans and old T-shirts were carrying around pieces of furniture and shifting back-1 4 P E T E R

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  drops. A young woman glanced over as Annie and Winsome approached.

  “The performance is over,” she said. “Sorry. We’re closed.”

  “I know,” said Annie. “I’d like to talk to Vernon Ross.”

  A man came down from the stage and walked toward her. Older than the rest, he had curly gray hair and a red complexion, as if the exertion had got to him. He was wearing khaki overalls and a checked work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. There were cuts on his hairy forearms. “I’m Vernon Ross,” he said, extending his hand to both of them in turn. “How can I help you?”

  The young woman returned to her duties, glancing back occasionally. Annie could tell that her ears were well attuned to what was going on. She shook Vernon Ross’s hand. “DI Annie Cabbot and DS

  Winsome Jackman, Western Area Major Crimes.”

  Ross frowned. “Well, that’s quite a mouthful,” he said. “But as far as I’m aware, we haven’t had any major crimes around here.”

  “No,” said Annie with a smile. “At least we hope not.”

  “What’s it about, then?”

  “Were you a friend of Mark Hardcastle’s?”

  “Was I? We all are. Yes. Why?” His forehead creased into a frown.

  “What is it? Has something happened to Mark? Has there been an accident?”

  Annie became aware that work had ceased on and around the stage.

  People put down the chairs, plates, tables or whatever they were carrying, sat on the edge and looked toward her and Ross. Winsome had her notebook out. “Do you happen to know if he has any next of kin?” Annie asked.

  “My God,” said Ross, “so this is serious?”

  “Sir?”

  “No. No,” said Ross. “His parents are dead. He did once mention an aunt in Australia, but I don’t think they were at all close. Why?

  What—”

  Annie turned to face everyone. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings,” she said, “but it very much seems as if Mark Hardcastle has been found dead in Hindswell Woods.” She turned back to Vernon A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S

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  Ross. “Perhaps you can help us identify the body, sir, after I’ve asked you all a few questions?”

  As Annie had expected, a deep hush followed the collective intake of breath at her announcement. Vernon Ross turned pale. “Mark? But how? Why? ”

  “We don’t have the answers yet,” said Annie. “That’s partly why I’m here. Did any of you see Mr. Hardcastle today?”

  “No. He didn’t come in,” said Ross. “I . . . I’m sorry, but I can’t quite manage to take this in right now.”

  “That’s understandable, sir,” Annie said. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “No, no. I’ll be all right.” He rubbed the backs of his hands across his eyes and leaned against the edge of the stage. “Please, carry on with your questions. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Very well. Excuse me if I sound as if I don’t know what I’m talking about, because so far we’ve got practically nothing to go on. Was Mr. Hardcastle expected in to work today?”

  “Well, he said he was going to try and come by. He was going down to London for a couple of days with Derek Wyman, the am dram director.”

  “Is Mr. Wyman here today?”

  “No. He’s still in London. He’s due back tomorrow.”

  “You don’t need him for tonight’s performance, or this afternoon’s?”

  “No. Calamity Jane is being put on by the Amateur Operatic Society. They have their own director and cast. Quite separate.” He gestured to his coworkers. “Mark and us are the only ones actually employed by the theater—along with the box office staff, of course.

  We’re the only constants, you might say. And everything’s in place for tonight. We can manage without Derek for a couple of nights.”

  “So Derek Wyman isn’t employed by the theater, but Mr. Hardcastle was?”

  “That’s right. Derek teaches drama at Eastvale Comprehensive.

  Amateur dramatics is only his hobby. Mark trained professionally in theatrical cos
tume and set design.”

  “Do the actors all have other jobs, like Mr. Wyman?”

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  “Yes. It’s an amateur company.”

  “I’ll need to talk to Mr. Wyman when he gets back.”

  “Of course. Sally in the box office should be able to give you his address.”

  “When did Mark Hardcastle go to London?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Was he supposed to be back here this morning?”

  “He said he was driving back up Thursday afternoon.”

  “Weren’t you concerned when he didn’t show up for work today?”

  “Not really. As I said, Mark’s our set and costume designer. His job is mostly done by opening night. We’re the ones who do the donkey work. He doesn’t carry lamps and bookcases around the stage—though in all fairness he helps out with the heavy stuff when we need him.

  Mostly he creates the vision of the production, the blueprint of how every scene and costume should appear. Along with the director, of course.”

  “In this case Derek Wyman?”

  “Yes. For some reason, they settled on German Expressionist sets for Othello, so it’s all big, unusual cut-out shapes, light and dark, angles and shadows. Very Nosferatu. That’s why they went to London, why Derek’s still there, actually. There’s a celebration of German Expressionist cinema at the National Film Theatre.”

  “Do you know if Mark Hardcastle had a mobile phone?”

  “No. He hated them. Used to go spare every time one went off during a performance. And that was more often than it should be, despite the warnings. What’s happened to Mark? I still can’t make any sense of this. You say he’s been found dead. Has there been an accident? Did someone kill him?”