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“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 organise a house-to-house of Fosse’s neighbourhood to find out if indeed 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 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 realised 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 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 handcrafted, by the look of it. She even had an oak table from Robert Thompson’s workshop in Kilburn. Banks recognised 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 woolly green sweater that barely covered her hips. She sat down and crossed her legs, cigarillo 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.”