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

“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.”

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.”

“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.

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.”