Not Safe After Dark

1

The louring sky was black as a tax inspector’s heart when Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks pulled up outside 17 Oakley Crescent at eight o’clock one mid-November evening. An icy wind whipped up the leaves and set them skittering around his feet as he walked up the path to the glass-panelled door.

Detective Constable Susan Gay was waiting for him inside, and Peter Darby, the police photographer, was busy with his new video recorder. Between the glass coffee table and the brick fireplace lay the woman’s body, blood matting the hair around her left temple. Banks put on his latex gloves, then bent and picked up the object beside her. The bronze plaque read, ‘Eastvale Golf Club, 1991 Tournament. Winner: David Fosse.’ There was blood on the base of the trophy. The man Banks assumed to be David Fosse sat on the sofa staring into space.

A pile of photographs lay on the table. Banks picked them up and flipped through them. Each was dated 13/11/93 across the bottom. The first few showed group scenes – red-eyed people eating, drinking and dancing at a banquet of some kind – but the last ones told a different story. Two showed a handsome young man in a navy blue suit, white shirt and garish tie, smiling lecherously at the photographer from behind a glass of whisky. Then the scene shifted to a hotel room, where the man had loosened his tie. None of the other diners were to be seen. In the last picture, he had also taken off his jacket. The date had changed to 14/11/93.

Banks turned to the man on the sofa. ‘Are you David Fosse?’ he asked.

There was a pause while the man seemed to return from a great distance. ‘Yes,’ he said finally.

‘Can you identify the victim?’

‘It’s my wife, Kim.’

‘What happened?’

‘I… I was out taking the dog for a walk. When I got back I found…’ He gestured towards the floor.

‘When did you go out?’

‘Quarter to seven, as usual. I got back about half past and found her like this.’

‘Was your wife in when you left?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was she expecting any visitors?’

He shook his head.

Banks held out the photos. ‘Have you seen these?’

Fosse turned away and grunted.

‘Who took them? What do they mean?’

Fosse stared at the Axminster.

‘Mr Fosse?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘This date, 13 November. Last Saturday. Is that significant?’

‘My wife was at a business convention in London last weekend. I assume they’re the pictures she took.’

‘What kind of convention?’

‘She’s involved in servicing home offices and small businesses. Servicing,’ he sneered. ‘Now there’s an apt term.’

Banks singled out the man in the gaudy tie. ‘Do you know who this is?’

‘No.’ Fosse’s face darkened and both his hands curled into fists. ‘No, but if I ever get hold of him-’

‘Mr Fosse, did you argue with your wife about the man in these photographs?’

Fosse’s mouth dropped. ‘They weren’t here when I left.’

‘How do you explain their presence now?’

‘I don’t know. She must have got them out while I was taking Jasper for a walk.’

Banks looked around the room and saw a camera on the sideboard, a Canon. It looked like an expensive auto-focus model. He picked it up carefully and put it in a plastic bag. ‘Is this yours?’ he asked Fosse.

Fosse looked at the camera. ‘It’s my wife’s. I bought it for her birthday. Why? What are you doing with it?’

‘It may be evidence,’ said Banks, pointing at the exposure indicator. ‘Seven pictures have been taken on a new film. I have to ask you again, Mr Fosse, did you argue with your wife about the man in these photos?’

‘And I’ll tell you again. How could I? They weren’t there when I went out, and she was dead when I got back.’

The dog barked from the kitchen. The front door opened and Dr Glendenning walked in, a tall, imposing figure with white hair and a nicotine-stained moustache.

Glendenning glanced sourly at Banks and Susan and complained about being dragged out on such a night. Banks apologized. Though Glendenning was a Home Office pathologist, and a lowly police surgeon could pronounce death, Banks knew that Glendenning would never have forgiven them had they not called him.

As the Scene-of-Crime team arrived, Banks turned to David Fosse and said, ‘I think we’d better carry on with this down at headquarters.’

Fosse shrugged and stood up to get his coat. As they left, Banks heard Glendenning mutter, ‘A golf trophy. A bloody golf trophy! Sacrilege.’

2

‘Do you think he did it, sir?’ Susan Gay asked Banks.

Banks swirled the inch of Theakston’s XB at the bottom of his glass and watched the patterns it made. ‘I don’t know. He certainly had means, motive and opportunity. But something about it makes me uneasy.’

It was almost closing time, and Banks and Susan sat in the warm glow of the Queen’s Arms having a late dinner of microwaved steak and kidney pud, courtesy of Cyril, the landlord, who was used to their unsociable hours. Outside, rain lashed against the red and amber window panes.

Banks pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. He was tired. The Fosse call had come in just as he was about to go home after a long day of paperwork and boring meetings.

They had learned little more during a two-hour interrogation at the station. Kim Fosse had left for London on Friday and returned on Monday with her business partner, Norma Cheverel. The convention had been held at the Ludbridge Hotel in Kensington.

David Fosse maintained his innocence, but sexual jealousy made a strong motive, and now he was languishing in the cells under Eastvale Divisional Headquarters. Languish was perhaps too strong a word, as the cells were as comfortable as many bed and breakfasts, and the food and service much better. The only problem was that you couldn’t open the door and go for a walk in the Yorkshire Dales when you felt like it.

They learned from the house-to-house that Fosse did walk the dog – several people had seen him – and not even Dr Glendenning could pinpoint time of death to within the forty-five minutes he was out of the house.

Fosse could have murdered his wife before he left or when he got home. He could also have nipped back around the rear, where a path ran by the river, got into the house unseen the back way, then resumed his walk.

‘Time, ladies and gentlemen please,’ called Cyril, ringing his bell behind the bar. ‘And that includes coppers.’

Banks smiled and finished his beer. ‘There’s not a lot more we can do tonight, anyway,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll go home and get some sleep.’

‘I’ll do the same.’ Susan reached for her overcoat.

‘First thing in the morning,’ said Banks, ‘we’ll have a word with Norma Cheverel, see if she can throw any light on what happened in London last weekend.’

3

Norma Cheverel was an attractive woman in her early thirties with a tousled mane of red hair, a high freckled forehead and the greenest eyes Banks had ever seen. Contact lenses, he decided uncharitably, perhaps to diminish the sense of sexual energy he felt emanate from her.

She sat behind her desk in the large carpeted office, swivelling occasionally in her executive chair. After her assistant had brought coffee, Norma pulled out a long cigarette and lit up. ‘One of the pleasures of being the boss,’ she said. ‘The buggers can’t make you stop smoking.’

‘You’ve heard about Kim Fosse, I take it?’ Banks asked.

‘On the local news last night. Poor Kim.’ She shook her head.

‘We’re puzzled about a few things. Maybe you can help us?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Did you notice her taking many photographs at the convention?’

Norma Cheverel frowned. ‘I can’t say as I did, really, but there were quite a few people taking photographs there, especially at the banquet. You know how people get silly at conventions. I never could understand this mania for capturing the moment. Can you, Chief Inspector?’

Banks, whose wife, Sandra, was a photographer, could understand it only too well, though he would have quibbled with ‘capturing the moment’. A good photographer, a real photographer, Sandra had often said, did much more than that; she transformed the moment. But he let the aesthetics lie.

Norma Cheverel was right about the photo mania, though. Banks had also noticed that since the advent of cheap, idiot-proof cameras every Tom, Dick and Harry had started taking photos indoors. He had been half-blinded a number of times by a group of tourists ‘capturing the moment’ in some pub or restaurant. It was almost as bad as the mobile-phone craze, though not quite.

‘Did Kim Fosse share this mania?’ he asked.

‘She had a fancy new camera. She took it with her. That’s all I can say, really. Look, I don’t-’

‘Bear with me, Ms Cheverel.’

‘Norma, please.’

Banks, who reserved the familiarity of first-name terms to exercise power over suspects, not to interview witnesses, went on. ‘Do you know if she had affairs?’

This time Norma Cheverel let the silence stretch. Banks could hear the fan cooling the microchip in her computer. She stubbed out her long cigarette, careful to make sure it wasn’t still smouldering, sipped some coffee, swivelled a little, and said, ‘Yes. Yes, she did. Though I wouldn’t really describe them as affairs.’

‘How would you describe them?’

‘Just little flings, really. Nothing that really meant anything to her.’

‘Who with?’

‘She didn’t usually mention names.’

‘Did she have a fling in London last weekend?’

‘Yes. She told me about it on the way home. Look, Chief Inspector, Kim wasn’t a bad person. She just needed something David couldn’t give her.’

Banks took a photograph of the man in the navy blue suit from his briefcase and slid it across the desk. ‘Know him?’

‘It’s Michael Bannister. He’s with an office-furnishings company in Preston.’

‘And did Kim Fosse have a fling with him that weekend?’

Norma swivelled and bit her lip. ‘She didn’t tell me it was him.’

‘Surprised?’

She shrugged. ‘He’s married. Not that that means much these days. I’ve heard he’s very much in love with his wife, but she’s not very strong. Heart condition, or something.’ She sniffled, then sneezed and reached for a tissue.

‘What did Kim tell you about last weekend?’

Norma Cheverel smiled an odd, twisted little smile from the corner of her lips. ‘Oh, Chief Inspector, do you really want all the details? Girl talk about sex is so much dirtier than men’s, you know.’

Though he felt himself reddening a little, Banks said, ‘So I’ve been told. Did she ever express concern about her husband finding out?’

‘Oh, yes. She told me under no circumstances to tell David. As if I would. He’s very jealous and he has a temper.’

‘Was he ever violent towards her?’

‘Just once. It was the last time we went to a convention, as a matter of fact. Apparently he tried to phone her in her room after midnight – some emergency to do with the dog – and she wasn’t there. When she got home he lost his temper, called her a whore and hit her.’

‘How long had they been married?’

Norma sniffled again and blew her nose. ‘Four years.’

‘How long have you and Kim Fosse been in business together?’

‘Six years. We started when she was still Kim Church. She’d just got her MBA.’

‘How did the partnership work?’

‘Very well. I’m on the financial side and Kim dealt with sales and marketing.’

‘Are you married?’

‘I don’t see that it’s any of your business, Chief Inspector, but no, I’m not. I guess Mr Right just hasn’t turned up yet,’ she said coldly, then looked at her gold wristwatch. ‘Are there any more questions?’

Banks stood up. ‘No, that’s all for now. Thank you very much for your time.’

She stood up and walked around the desk to show him to the door. Her handshake on leaving was a little brisker and cooler than it had been when he arrived.

4

‘So Kim Fosse was discreet, but she took photographs,’ said Susan when they met up in Banks’s office later that morning. ‘Kinky?’

‘Could be. Or just careless. They’re pretty harmless, really.’ The seven photographs from the film they had found inside the camera showed the same man in the hotel room on the same date, 14/11/93.

‘Michael Bannister,’ Susan read from her notes. ‘Sales director for Office Comforts Ltd, based in Preston, Lancashire. Lives in Blackpool with his wife, Lucy. No children. His wife suffers from a congenital heart condition, needs constant pills and medicines, lots of attention. His workmates tell me he’s devoted to her.’

‘A momentary lapse, then?’ Banks suggested. He walked over to his broken Venetian blind and looked out on the rainswept market square. Only two cars were parked there today. The gold hands on the blue face of the church clock stood at eleven thirty-nine.

‘It happens, sir. Maybe more often than we think.’

‘I know. Reckon we’d better go easy approaching him?’

‘No sense endangering the wife’s health, is there?’

‘You’re right. See if you can arrange to see him at his office.’ Banks looked out of the window and shivered. ‘I don’t much fancy a trip to the seaside in this miserable weather anyway.’

5

The drive across the Pennines was a nightmare. All the way along the A59 they seemed to be stuck behind one lorry or another churning up gallons of filthy spray. Around Clitheroe, visibility was so poor that traffic slowed to a crawl. The hulking whale-shapes of the hills that flanked the road were reduced to faint grey outlines in the rain-haze. Banks played his Miles Davis Birth of the Cool tape, which Susan seemed to enjoy. At least, she didn’t complain.

The office building on Ribbleton Lane, just east of the city centre, was three-storey red-brick. 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

Sandra 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

Norma Cheverel 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 swivelled 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

The 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 neighbourhood, 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.’

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 enquiries.’

‘That could mean anything. Enquiries 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 over-protective. 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 counsellor.

‘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 favour?’

‘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

Norma Cheverel’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 hand-crafted, 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 machine. She had changed from her work outfit and wore black leggings, showing off her shapely legs, and a green woollen 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.