The Good Partner (2 page)

The office building on Ribbleton Lane, just east of the city center, was three-­story redbrick. The receptionist directed them to Bannister's office on the second floor.

In the anteroom, a woman sat clicking away at a computer keyboard. Curly-­haired, plump, in her forties. She came over and welcomed them. “Hello, I'm Carla Jacobs. I'm Mr. Bannister's secretary. He's in with someone at the moment, but he won't be a minute. He knows you're coming.”

Banks and Susan looked at the framed photographs of company products and awards on the walls as they waited. All the time, Banks sensed Carla Jacobs staring at the back of his head. After a ­couple of minutes, he turned around just in time to see her avert her gaze.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked.

She blushed. “No. Well, not really. I mean, don't think I'm being nosy, but is Mr. Bannister in some kind of trouble?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It's just that I'm a good friend of Lucy's, that's Mr. Bannister's wife, and I don't know if you know, but—­”

“We know about her health problems, yes.”

“Good. Good. Well . . .”

“Have you any reason to think Mr. Bannister might be in trouble?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, no. But it's not every day we get the police visiting.”

At that moment the inner door opened and a small ferret-­faced man in an ill-­fitting suit flashed a smile at Carla as he scurried out. In the doorway stood the man in the photographs. Michael Bannister. He beckoned Banks and Susan in.

It was a large office, with Bannister's work desk, files and bookcases taking up one half and a large oval table for meetings in the other. They sat at the table, so well polished Banks could see his reflection in it, and Susan took out her notebook.

“I understand you attended a business convention in London last weekend?” Banks started.

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Did you meet a woman there called Kim Fosse?”

Bannister averted his eyes. “Yes.”

Banks showed him a photograph of the victim, as she had been in life. “Is this her?”

“Yes.”

“Did you spend the night with her?”

“I don't see what that's got—­”

“Did you?”

“Look, for Christ's sake. My wife . . .”

“It's not your wife we're asking.”

“What if I did?”

“Did she take these photographs of you?” Banks fanned the photos in front of him.

“Yes,” he said.

“So you slept with Kim Fosse and she took some photographs.”

“It was just a lark. I mean, we'd had a bit to drink, I—­”

“I understand, sir,” said Banks. “You don't have to justify yourself to me.”

Bannister licked his lips. “What's this all about? Will it go any further?”

“I can't say,” said Banks, gesturing for Susan to stand up. “It depends. We'll keep you informed.”

“Good Lord, man,” said Bannister. “Please. Think of my wife.” He looked miserably after them, and Banks caught the look of concern on Carla Jacobs's face.

“That was a bit of a wasted journey, wasn't it, sir?” Susan said on the way back to Eastvale.

“Do you think so?” said Banks, smiling. “I'm not at all sure, myself. I think our Mr. Bannister was lying about something. And I'd like to know what Carla Jacobs had on her mind.”

6

S
ANDRA WAS OUT.
After Banks hung up his raincoat, he went straight into the living room of his south Eastvale semi and poured himself a stiff Laphroaig. He felt as if the day's rain had permeated right to his bone marrow. He made himself a cheese and onion sandwich, checked out all the television channels, found nothing worth watching, and put some Bessie Smith on the CD player.

But “Woman's Trouble Blues” took a background role as the malt whisky warmed his bones and he thought about the Fosse case. Why did he feel so ill at ease? Because David Fosse sounded believable? Because he had felt Norma Cheverel's sexual power and resented it? Because Michael Bannister had lied about something? And was Carla Jacobs in love with her boss, or was she just protecting Lucy Bannister? Banks fanned out the photographs on the coffee table.

Before he could answer any of the questions, Sandra returned from the photography course she was teaching at the local college. When she had finished telling Banks how few ­people knew the difference between an aperture and a hole in the ground, which Banks argued was a poor metaphor because an aperture
was
a kind of a hole, she glanced at the photos on the coffee table.

“What are these, evidence?” she asked, stopping herself before she touched them.

“Go ahead,” said Banks. “We've got all we need from them.”

Sandra picked up a ­couple of the group shots, six ­people in evening dress, each holding a champagne flute out towards the photographer, all with the red eyes characteristic of cheap automatic flash.

“Ugh,” said Sandra. “What dreadful photos.”

“Snob,” said Banks. “She doesn't have as good a camera as you.”

“Doesn't matter,” said Sandra. “A child of five could do a better job with a Brownie than these. What kind of camera was it, anyway?”

“A Canon,” said Banks, adding the model number. The identification tag on the evidence bag was etched in his memory.

Sandra put the photos down and frowned. “A what?”

Banks told her again.

“It can't be.”

“Why not?”

Sandra leaned forward, slipped her long blonde tresses behind her ears and spread out the photos. “Well, they've all got red-­eye,” she said. “The camera you mentioned protects against red-­eye.”

It was Banks's turn to look puzzled.

“Do you know what red-­eye is?” Sandra asked.

“I don't know an aperture from a hole in the ground.”

She nudged him in the ribs. “Be serious, Alan. Look, when you're in a dark room, your pupils dilate, the iris opens to let in more light so you can see properly, just like an aperture on a camera. Right? You know what it's like when you first walk into a dark place and your eyes slowly adjust?”

Banks nodded. “Go on.”

“Well, when you're subjected to a sudden, direct flash of light, the iris doesn't have time to close. Red-­eye is actually caused by the flash illuminating the blood vessels in the eye.”

“Why doesn't it happen with
all
flash photographs, then? Surely the whole point of flash is that you use it in the dark?”

“Mostly, yes, but red-­eye only happens when the flash is pointed
directly
at your iris. It doesn't happen when the flash is held from
above
the camera. The angle's different. See what I mean?”

“Yes. But you don't usually see ­people with hand-­held flashes using cameras like that.”

“That's right. That's because there's another way of getting rid of red-­eye. The more expensive models, like the one you just mentioned to me, set off a series of quick flashes first,
before
the exposure, and that gives the iris a chance to close. Simple, really.”

“So you're saying that these photographs couldn't have been taken with that camera?”

“That's right.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “Very interesting.”

Sandra grinned. “Have I solved your case?”

“Not exactly, no, but you've certainly confirmed some of the doubts I've been having.” Banks reached for the telephone. “After what you've just told me, I think I can at least make sure that David Fosse sleeps in his own bed tonight.”

7

N
ORMA
C
HEVEREL
WASN'T
pleased to see Banks and Susan late the next morning. She welcomed them with all the patience and courtesy of a busy executive, tidying files on her desk as Banks talked, twice mentioning a luncheon appointment that was fast approaching. For a while, Banks ignored her rudeness, then he said, “Will you stop your fidgeting and pay attention, Ms. Cheverel?”

She gave him a challenging look. There was no “Call me Norma” this time, and the sexual voltage was turned very low. But she sat as still as she could and rested her hands on the desk.

“Yes,
sir
,” she said. “You know, you remind me of an old school-­teacher.”

“Do you own a camera, Ms. Cheverel?”

“Yes.”

“What model?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Just one of those cheap things everybody uses these days.”

“Does it have an automatic flash?”

“Yes. They all do, don't they?”

“What about red-­eye?”

“What's that? A late-­night flight?”

Banks explained. She started playing with the files again. “I'd appreciate it if you'd let us examine your camera, Ms. Cheverel.”

“Why on earth—­”

“Because the photographs we found on the coffee table at the scene couldn't possibly have been taken by Kim Fosse's camera. That's why.” Banks explained what Sandra had told him, and what the result of tests earlier that morning had confirmed.

Norma Cheverel spread her hands. “So someone else took them. I still don't see what that's got to do with me.”

Banks glanced over to Susan, who said, “Ms. Cheverel. Is it true that you lost almost fifty thousand pounds on a land speculation deal earlier this year?”

Norma Cheverel looked daggers at her and said to Banks through clenched teeth, “My business deals are no—­”

“Oh, but they are,” said Banks. “In fact, Susan and I have been doing quite a bit of digging this morning. It seems you've made a number of bad investments these past ­couple of years, haven't you? Where's the money come from?”

“The money was mine. All mine.”

Banks shook his head. “I think it came from the partnership.” He leaned forward. “Know what else I think?”

“What do I care?”

“I think your cocaine habit is costing you a fortune, too, isn't it?”

“How dare you!”

“I noticed how jittery you were, how you couldn't keep still. And then there's the sniffling. Funny how your cold seems better this morning. How much? Say ten, twenty thousand a year up your nose?”

“I want my solicitor.”

“I think you were cheating the partnership, Ms. Cheverel. I think you knew you'd gone so far it was only a matter of time before Kim Fosse found out about it. You dealt with the accounting, you told us, and she was on the marketing side. What could have been better? It would take her a while to discover something was wrong, but you couldn't keep it from your partner for ever, could you? So you came up with a plot to get rid of her and blame it on her husband. We only have
your
word for it that Kim Fosse was promiscuous. We only have your word that her husband was jealous enough to be violent.”

“Ask anyone,” said Norma Cheverel. “They'll tell you. Everyone saw her black eye after the last convention.”

“We know about that. David Fosse told us this morning. It was something he regretted very much. But the only person Kim confided in was you, which gave you every opportunity to build a mountain of lies and suspicion on a small foundation of truth.”

“This is absurd.” Norma swiveled and reached for the phone. “I'm calling my solicitor.”

“Go ahead,” said Banks. “But you haven't been charged with anything yet.”

She held the phone halfway between her mouth and its cradle and smiled. “That's right,” she said. “You can make all the accusations you want but you can't prove anything. That business about the camera doesn't mean a thing, and you know that as well as I do.”

“It proves that Kim Fosse
didn't
take those photographs. Therefore, someone must have planted them to make it
look
as if she had been foolish as well as indiscreet.”

She put the phone down. “You can't prove it was me. I defy you.”

Banks stood up. He was loath to admit it, but she was right. Short of finding someone who had seen her or her car in the vicinity of the Fosse house around the time of the murder, there was no proof. And Norma Cheverel wasn't the kind to confess. The bluff was over. But at least Banks and Susan
knew
as they walked out of the office that Norma Cheverel had killed Kim Fosse. The rest was just a matter of time.

8

T
HE BREAK TOOK
two days to come, and it came from an unexpected source.

The first thing Banks did after his interview with Norma Cheverel was organize a second house-­to-­house of Fosse's neighborhood, this time to find out if anyone had seen Norma Cheverel or her car that evening. Someone remembered seeing a grey foreign car of some kind, which was about the closest they got to a sighting of Norma's silver BMW.

Next, he got a list of all 150 conventioneers and set a team to phone and find out if anyone remembered Norma Cheverel taking photos on the evening of the banquet. They'd got through seventy-­one with no luck so far, when Banks's phone rang.

“This is Carla Jacobs, Inspector Banks. I don't know if you remember me. I'm Mr. Bannister's secretary.”

“I remember you,” said Banks. “What is it?”

“Well, I was going to ask you the same thing. You see, I've been talking to Lucy, and she's so worried that Michael is in trouble it's damaging her health.”

“Mr. Bannister is in no trouble as far as I know,” said Banks. “He just committed an unfortunate indiscretion, that's all. No blame.”

“But that's just it,” said Carla Jacobs. “You see, she said he's been acting strangely. He's depressed. He shuts himself away. He doesn't talk to her. Even when he's with her she says he's withdrawn. It's getting her down. I thought if you could talk to her . . . just set her at ease.”