William Bankier: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 103, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 625 & 626, March 1994

Duncan’s tone softened. “Dr. Glimm, you’ll be given time to settle your affairs before your exile begins. But you do understand, don’t you, that you’ll not be allowed to practice veterinary medicine ever again?”

Glimm nodded. “It doesn’t matter. Somehow... somehow I just don’t have the heart for it anymore.”

At Duncan’s signal, Copely summoned the security officers to take Glimm away. His head sagged down on his chest as he left, suddenly an old man.

“Thank God that’s over,” Hartley said with a sigh of relief. “Now we can get out of here.”

But Mother had to have the last word. “At least you cleaned up after yourselves,” she admitted grudgingly. “But don’t you ever, ever make such a mess again!”

Copely was driving them back to the landing field where their shuttles waited. The councilwoman was all smiles, a startling contrast to her dour anger on the trip in. “The only downside is that Glimm’s daughter will lose her inheritance,” she was saying. “Sins of the fathers. But she’s hardly left out in the cold. She’s part of the Verdoris family now.”

“It’s your law,” Hartley said shortly.

“Oh, I wasn’t criticizing,” Copley said with a smile. “In fact, we’re eternally grateful to you. You not only found Longstride’s killer, you also alerted us to a greater danger.”

“You mean the osteodisjunctus,” Duncan said.

“That’s what I mean. We’ll shut down operations for a while, until we can do a thorough testing of all the livestock on Pirmacha. If we find any examples of Dr. Glimm’s ‘anomaly’ in the blood...”

“What will you do?” Britt asked.

“Destroy the carriers, of course,” Copely said. “But in a more humane manner than the way Dr. Glimm dispatched poor Longstride.” She sighed. “I wish you could have met Longstride, Arbiters. He was the greatest horse I have ever known.”

Duncan half expected a sarcastic comment from Mother, but none came.

They reached the landing field. With repeated expressions of gratitude, Copely bade them farewell. The arbiters had been on Pirmacha less than a full real-time day, but to Duncan it seemed like a year. Britt and Hartley looked every bit as drained as he felt, pinch-faced and not at all pleased with themselves. Today had not been the team’s most stellar performance; none of the three would ever be regaling grandchildren with stories of Pirmacha.

Wearily Duncan climbed into his shuttle, wondering if they were going to be sent to bed without their supper.

© 1994 by Peter Robinson

Yorkshire born and bred, but for a number of years a resident of Canada, Peter Robinson goes back to his roots in his mystery series featuring Inspector Banks. The research for his fiction, he told a recent gathering of mystery fans, requires him to return frequently to the beautiful Yorkshire Dales and the ancient pubs his detective would frequent. The following is Banks’s second appearance in a short story, but he is the protagonist of all six of Peter Robinson’s novels...

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 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 November 1993 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 was to be seen. In the last picture, he had also taken off his jacket. The date had changed to 14 November 1993.

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 carpet.

“Mr. Fosse?”

“I don’t know.”

“The date. November thirteenth. 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 Riley for a walk.”

Banks looked around the room and saw a camera on the sideboard, a Canon. It looked like an expensive autofocus 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 apologised. 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.”