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 four 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 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 a 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 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.”
“Be serious. When you’re in a dim room, your pupils dilate, the iris opens to let in more light so you can see properly, just like an aperture on a camera. 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 a 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. “We found the husband’s fingerprints on the photos and the murder weapon, so the super authorised another twelve hours remand. But after what you’ve told me, I think I can make sure that he 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 that 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 schoolteacher.”
“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 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 awhile to discover something was wrong, but you couldn’t keep it from your partner forever, 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 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.”