“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 M.B.A.”
“How did the partnership work?”
“Very well. I’m on the financial side, and Kim dealt with sales and marketing.”
“Are you married yourself?”
“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 wrist watch. “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 November 1993.
“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 over 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 a tape of Ute Lemper singing Michael Nyman’s versions of Celan’s poems. Contemporary, a little quirky, but beautiful, stirring music, and oddly suited to his mood.
The office building on Ribbleton Lane, just east of the city centre, 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 the keyboard of a PC. 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 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. “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.