The Good Partner (3 page)

Banks sighed. Playing nursemaid. “All right,” he said. “I'll call her.”

“Oh, will you? Thank you. Thank you ever so much.” She lowered her voice. “Mr. Bannister is in his office now. She'll be by the phone at home.”

Lucy Bannister answered on the first ring. “Yes?”

Banks introduced himself.

“I'm so worried about Michael,” she said, in that gushing manner of someone who's been waiting all week to pour it all out. “He's never like this. Never. Has he done something awful? Are you going to arrest him? Please, you can tell me the truth.”

“No,” said Banks. “No, he hasn't, and no we're not. He's simply been helping us with our inquiries.”

“That could mean anything. Inquiries into what?”

Banks debated for a moment whether to tell her. It would do no harm, he thought. “He was at a business convention in London last weekend. We're interested in the movements of someone else who was there, that's all.”

“Are you sure that's all?”

“Yes.”

“And it's nothing serious?”

“Not for your husband, no.”

“Thank you. You don't know what this means to me.” He could hear the relief in her voice. “Because of my heart condition, you see, Michael is a bit overprotective. I don't deny I'm weak, but sometimes I think he just takes too much upon himself.” She paused and gave a small laugh. “I don't know why I'm telling you all this. It must be because I'm so relieved. He's a normal man. He has needs like any other man. I know he goes with other women and I never mention it because I know it would upset him and embarrass him. He thinks he keeps it from me to protect me from distress, and it's just easier to let him think that.”

“I can appreciate that,” Banks said, only half listening. Why hadn't he realized before? Now he knew what Michael Bannister had lied about, and why. “Look, Mrs. Bannister,” he cut in, “you might be able to help us. Do you think you could talk to your husband, let him know you know?”

“I don't know. I don't want to upset him.”

Banks felt a wave of annoyance. The Bannisters were so damn busy protecting one another's feelings that there was no room for the truth. He could almost hear her chewing her lip over the line. He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “It could be very important,” he said. “And I'm sure it won't do any harm. If that's what he's feeling guilty about, you can help him get over it, can't you?”

“I suppose so.” Hesitant, but warming to the idea.

“I'm sure you'd be helping him, helping your relationship.” Banks cringed to hear himself talk. First a nursemaid, now a bloody marriage guidance counselor.

“Perhaps.”

“Then you'll do it? You'll talk to him?”

“Yes.” Determined now. “Yes, I will, Mr. Banks.”

“And will you do me one more favor?”

“If I can.”

“Will you give him these telephone numbers and tell him that if he thinks of anything else he can call me without fear of any charges being made against him?” He gave her his work and home phone numbers.

“Ye-­es.” She clearly didn't know what he meant, but that didn't matter.

“It's very important that you tell him there'll be no action taken against him and that he should talk to
me
personally. Is that clear?”

“Yes. I don't know what all this is about, but I'll do as you say. And thank you.”

“Thank you.” Banks headed for a pub lunch in the Queen's Arms. It was too early to celebrate anything yet, but he kept his fingers crossed as he walked in the thin November sunshine across Market Street.

9

N
ORMA
C
HEVEREL'S LUXURY
flat was every bit as elegant and expensively furnished as Banks had expected. Some of the paintings on her walls were originals, and her furniture was all handcrafted, by the look of it. She even had an oak table from Robert Thompson's workshop in Kilburn. Banks recognized the trademark: a mouse carved on one of the legs.

When Banks and Susan turned up at seven-­thirty that evening, Norma had just finished stacking her dinner dishes in the dishwasher. She had changed from her work outfit and wore black leggings, showing off her shapely legs, and a green wool sweater that barely covered her hips. She sat down and crossed her legs, cigarette poised over the ashtray beside her.

“Well,” she said. “Do I need my solicitor yet?”

“I think you do,” said Banks. “But I'd like you to answer a few questions first.”

“I'm not saying a word without my solicitor present.”

“Very well,” said Banks. “That's your right. Let me do the talking, then.”

She sniffed and flicked a half-­inch of ash into the ashtray beside her. Her crossed leg was swinging up and down as if some demented doctor were tapping the reflex.

“I might as well tell you first of all that we've got Michael Bannister's testimony,” Banks began.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I think you do. It was
you
who took those photographs at the banquet and in the hotel room afterwards. It was
you
who spent the night with Michael Bannister, not Kim Fosse.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“No, it's not. You told him later that if anyone asked he'd better say it was Kim Fosse he slept with or you'd tell his wife what he'd done. You knew Lucy had a weak heart, and that he thought such a shock might kill her.”

Norma had turned a shade paler. Banks scratched the small scar beside his right eye. Often, when it itched, it was telling him he was on the right track. “As it turns out,” he went on, “Lucy Bannister was well aware that her husband occasionally slept with other women. It was just something they didn't talk about. He thought he was protecting her feelings; she thought she was protecting his. I suggested they talk about it.”

“Bastard,” Norma Cheverel hissed. Banks didn't know whether she meant him or Michael Bannister.

“You seduced Michael Bannister and you planted incriminating photographs on Kim Fosse's living room table
after
you'd killed her in the hope that we would think her husband had done it in a jealous rage, a rage that you also helped set us up to believe. We've checked the processing ser­vices, too. I'm sure you chose Fotomat because it's busy, quick and impersonal, but the man behind the counter remembers
you
picking up a film on Wednesday, not Kim Fosse. Beauty has its drawbacks, Norma.”

Norma got up, tossed back her hair and went to pour herself a drink. She didn't offer Banks or Susan anything. “You've got a nerve,” she said. “And a hell of an imagination. You should work for television.”

“You knew that David Fosse walked the dog every evening, come rain or shine, between six forty-­five and seven-­thirty. It was easy for you to drive over to the house, park your car a little distance away, get the unsuspecting Kim to let you in, and then, still wearing gloves, hit her with the trophy and plant the photos. After that, all you had to do was convince us of her infidelity and her husband's violent jealousy. There was even a scrap of truth in it. Except you didn't bargain for Lucy Bannister, did you?”

“This is ridiculous,” Norma said. “What about the film that was in the camera? You can't prove any of this.”

“I don't believe I mentioned that there was a film
in
the camera,” said Banks. “I'm sure it seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, but
that
film couldn't possibly have been taken by Kim's camera, either, or Michael Bannister wouldn't have had red eyes.”

“This is just circumstantial.”

“Possibly. But it all adds up. Believe me, Norma, we've got a case and we've got a good chance of making it stick. The first film wasn't enough, was it? We might have suspected it was planted. But with a second film
in
the camera, one showing the same scene, the same person, then there was less chance we'd look closely at the photographic evidence. How did it happen? I imagine Kim had perhaps had a bit too much to drink that night and you put her to bed. When you did, you also took her room key. At some point during the night, when you'd finished with Michael Bannister, you rewound your second film manually in the dark until there was only a small strip sticking out of the cassette, then you went to Kim Fosse's room and you put it in her camera, taking out whatever film she had taken herself and dumping it.”

“Oh, I see. I'm that clever, am I? I suppose you found my fingerprints on this film?”

“The prints were smudged, as you no doubt knew they would be, and you wiped the photographs and camera. When you'd loaded the film, you advanced it in the dark with the flash turned off and the lens cap on. That way the double exposure wouldn't affect the already exposed film at all because no light was getting to it. When you'd wound it on so that the next exposure was set at number eight, you returned it to Kim Fosse's room.”

“I'm glad you think I'm so brilliant, Inspector, but I—­”

“I don't think you're brilliant at all,” Banks said. “You're as stupid as anyone else who thinks she can get away with the perfect crime.”

In a flash, Norma Cheverel picked up the ashtray and threw it at Banks. He dodged sideways and it whizzed past his ear and smashed into the front of the cocktail cabinet.

Banks stood up. “Time to call that solicitor, Norma.”

But Norma Cheverel wasn't listening. She was banging her fists on her knees and chanting “Bastard! Bastard!” over and over again.

 

Read on for an excerpt from

Peter Robinson's first novel set in the US,

NO CURE FOR LOVE

 

1

14 December

My Darling Little Star,

Thank God I have found You again. When I lost you I entered the darkness. Lost in the dark silent Room with only the Hum of my Machines and my Memories and Images of you.

I told myself you could not have known what I feel for you. Love strikes me Dumb. I see all that now. Thank you for giving me another chance, thank you for seeking me out. This time there will be no mistaking my Love. This time I will prove myself to you again and again until you feel the Power of my Love and come to me. I won't let you go this time.

You think you do not know who I am, but you do. They took you away and Seduced you and stole you from me, just as the others did before. They have tried to blot out your Memory of me. And I failed you, Sally. Yes, I did. But everything is clear now. The months I spent Lost and Wandering in the dark Room have made everything bright as Day, the Visions I bore witness to have made my Purpose clear, they have revealed our Destiny. Now I watch you on the Screen and I know you are speaking only to me.

As I labor to prove myself to you, you will remember me and you will come to me. Then, my love, will we lie together and I will bite your Nipples till the Blood and Milk flow down my chin. We will hack and eat away the Corrupting Flesh, the Rank Pollution of Tissue and Sinew, and go in Moonlight shedding our Skin and spilling our Blood on the Sand through the Mirrors of the Sea where all is Peace and Silence and no one can harm us or tear us apart ever again Forever and Forever.

Be Strong, my Love. I have much to Plan and Execute before we can be together as Fate intends. My mind Boils and Seethes with the Burden, the Weight and the Glory of it. All for you. Let me prove I am more than equal to the Task.

With all the love in my bursting heart,

M
.

Sarah Broughton's hand shook as she let the letter drop on the glass-topped table. She wiped her palm on the side of her jeans.

It was the third letter in two weeks, and by far the most detailed. The others had merely hinted that she should begin to prepare herself for a special event. This was also the first one to contain anything even remotely sexual.

Sarah walked over to the sliding glass doors. Beyond the deck and the narrow strip of lawn, the rocky promontory on which her house stood dropped twenty feet. Below, fine white sand sloped down to the Pacific Ocean, darkening where the breakers pounded the shoreline not more than fifty yards out.

Sarah stood and watched a wave swell until its rounded peak turned translucent green then burst into a crest of foam that rushed horizontally along its length until everything churned into a roiling white mass. Sometimes she thought she could stand and watch the waves forever. The roar was deafening, and through the open door she could smell salt and seaweed and something dead, that odor of primordial decay that always seemed to linger around the edges of the sea.

Though the temperature was in the mid-sixties, Sarah shivered and hugged herself. Her nerves weren't that good to begin with, hadn't been for over a year, and now she felt defiled, violated and scared. But even as she trembled, she found herself probing the feeling, storing it for later use. If she ever had to play a victim again, this memory could be useful.

She walked back to the table, picked up the letter and made to rip it up like the others, but she stopped herself in time. No. She would show this one to Stuart. No more procrastination.

It was close to eleven in the morning, and she was due to have lunch with him in a couple of hours. She would show him the letter then. Stuart would know what to do.

She looked at the envelope again. It was postmarked Pasadena, dated 14 December, which was Friday, four days ago, and addressed to Sarah Broughton at the beach house address on the Coast Highway.

So how had “M,” whoever he was, found out her address and phone number? Like most people in the movie and TV business, Sarah guarded her privacy well. Or thought she did.

He could have found out from the article in TV Guide that mentioned she lived in Malibu. Which wasn't quite true. Strictly speaking, the house was in Pacific Palisades, close to the Los Angeles city limits, but that probably didn't sound quite as glamorous to Josephine Q. Public, Ottumwa, Iowa, who liked to read about actors and actresses in TV Guide.

All in all, Sarah supposed, the secrecy was probably something of an illusion. When it came down to it, no address was that hard to come by in Hollywood. Everything was for sale.

Stop worrying, she told herself, folding the letter and putting it back in its envelope. There are millions of perverts out there drooling over actors and rock stars, and this is probably just one of them. A harmless one, more likely than not.

She imagined some overweight, pimply nerd with Coke-bottle glasses, dandruff and halitosis masturbating in a candlelit room with nude pictures of her plastered all over the walls. Somehow, it wasn't a comforting image.

Sarah slipped the letter in her purse and decided to take a walk on the beach. She slid open the door, walked down the wooden steps from the deck to lawn, then down the stairs carved in the rock. At the bottom stood a gate made of six-foot-high metal railings, painted black, all with very sharp points. It didn't offer much security, though, Sarah realized. Anybody who really wanted to could climb up the rocks beside it easily enough.

On the beach, she slipped off her sandals and wiggled her toes in the sand. Though the sun was only a white ball through the haze, its brightness made Sarah squint and reach in her purse for her sunglasses.

There was hardly anyone around. For Sarah, the mid-sixties was warm enough for sunbathing, but it was chilly to the natives. Also, while this area of the beach wasn't exactly private property, access was difficult because of the solid wall of houses, flanked on both sides by low-rise office buildings.

Out toward the horizon, water and sky merged in a white glare. A light ocean breeze ruffled Sarah's cap of short blond hair. It would soon dispel the sea-mist. She walked with her hands in her pockets, eyes scanning the beach for interesting shells and pebbles.

To the north, the mountains were almost lost in the haze, and to the south she could just about make out the Santa Monica Pier with its restaurants and amusement palaces. Funnily enough, it reminded Sarah of childhood holidays in Blackpool, staying at Mrs. Fairclough's boardinghouse. Of course, it was rarely over sixty degrees in Blackpool—more often than not it was about fifty and raining—but her mum and dad would always splurge on one good variety show at the pier theater, and it was there that her love of show business had begun. And just look at her now. Top of the world, Ma. Well, getting there, anyway. Such a long journey, such a long, long way from Blackpool to Hollywood.

As usual, thinking of her mum and dad brought her other problem to mind: the family she had put off dealing with for too long. She hadn't been home in two years now. Her mother was dead, had been since long before the rift, but there were still Paula, her dad and the kids. Well, she would be facing them at Christmas.

And now, on top of everything else, the letters.

As she walked along the edge of the beach, Sarah felt uneasy. Not for the first time these past couple of weeks did she keep looking over her shoulder. And whenever she did notice anyone walking toward her, she felt herself tense, get ready to run.

There was something else as well. Earlier that morning, when she was coming back from her run, she had seen something flash in the sun, way up on the crest of the hills above the Coast Highway. Of course, there were a lot of houses up there, and there could be any number of explanations—windows opening, even car windshields glinting in the light—but she had felt as if someone were looking down on her through binoculars.

Now she thought she saw something flash again, further up the beach this time. But she was being silly. It could be someone's glasses, a ring, anything at all. Maybe just a birdwatcher.

She told herself not to be so paranoid, but she couldn't shake the feeling. There was something else that bothered her, too. This time, in the letter, he had called her Sally.