The Good Partner Read Free

yes.”
    â€œGood. Good. Well . . .”
    â€œHave 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.
    â€œI understand you attended a business convention in London last weekend?” Banks started.
    â€œYes. Yes, I did.”
    â€œDid 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?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDid you spend the night with her?”
    â€œI don’t see what that’s got—­”
    â€œDid you?”
    â€œLook, for Christ’s sake. My wife . . .”
    â€œIt’s not your wife we’re asking.”
    â€œWhat if I did?”
    â€œDid she take these photographs of you?” Banks fanned the photos in front of him.
    â€œYes,” he said.
    â€œSo you slept with Kim Fosse and she took some photographs.”
    â€œIt was just a lark. I mean, we’d had a bit to drink, I—­”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œI can’t say,” said Banks, gesturing for Susan to stand up. “It depends. We’ll keep you informed.”
    â€œGood 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.
    â€œThat was a bit of a wasted journey, wasn’t it, sir?” Susan said on the way back to Eastvale.
    â€œDo 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
    S ANDRA 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.
    â€œWhat are these, evidence?” she asked, stopping herself before she touched them.
    â€œGo 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