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

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.

“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.”

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.”

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.