Not Safe After Dark (25 page)

‘I remember. She killed herself over an American boy the CRS beat to death.’

‘Brad? But that wasn’t . . . I mean . . .’ He stares at me, wide-eyed. ‘You mean you don’t
know
?’

‘Don’t know what?’

‘I tried to tell you at the time, but you turned away.’

‘Tell me what?’

Brigitte looks up slowly from her wine and speaks. ‘Why did you desert her? Why did you turn your back on her?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You rejected her. You broke her heart. The silly girl was in love with you, and you spurned her.
That’s
why she killed herself.’

‘That’s ridiculous. She killed herself because of the American.’

Brigitte shakes her head. ‘No. Believe me, it was you. She told me. She could talk only about you in the days before . . .’

‘But . . . Brad?’

‘Brad was jealous. Don’t you understand? She was never more than a casual girlfriend to him. He wanted more, but she fell for you.’

I shake my head slowly. I can’t believe this. Can’t
allow
myself to believe this. The world starts to become indistinct, all shadows and echoes. I can’t breathe. My skin
tingles with pins and needles. I feel a touch on my shoulder.

‘Are you all right? Richard? Are you all right?’

It is Henri. I hear him call for a brandy and someone places a cool glass in my hand. I sip. It burns and seems to dispel the mist a little. Brigitte rests her hand on my arm and leans forward.
‘You mean you really didn’t know?’

I shake my head.

‘Henri tried to tell you.’

‘Brad,’ I whisper. ‘Brad told me she just used me, that she thought I was a joke. I believed him.’

Henri and Brigitte look at one another, then back at me, concern and pity in their eyes. A little more than that in Henri’s, too: suspicion. Maybe everybody wasn’t convinced that the
CRS had killed Brad after all.

‘He was jealous,’ Brigitte repeats. ‘He lied.’

Suddenly, I start to laugh, which horrifies them. But I can’t help myself. People turn and look at us. Henri and Brigitte are embarrassed. When the laughter subsides, I am left feeling
hollow. I sip more brandy. Henri has placed his cigarettes on the table. Gauloises, I notice.

‘May I?’ I ask, reaching for the packet, even though I haven’t smoked in twenty years.

He nods.

I light a Gauloise. Cough a little. What does it matter if I get lung cancer now? I’m already as good as dead. After a few puffs, the cigarette even starts to taste good, brings back, as
tastes and smells do so well, even more memories of the cafes and nights of 1968. I begin to wonder whatever happened to that silk scarf I left in the drawer at my
pension
. I wish I could
smell her jasmine scent again.

Outside, the girl’s lover arrives. He is young and handsome and he waves his arms as he apologizes for being late. She is sulky at first, but she brightens and kisses him. He runs his hand
down her smooth, olive cheek and I can smell tear gas again.

1

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 new 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 13/11/93 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 were to be seen. In the last
picture, he had also taken off his jacket. The date had changed to 14/11/93.

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.

‘Mr Fosse?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘This date, 13 November. 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 Jasper for a walk.’

Banks looked around the room and saw a camera on the sideboard, a Canon. It looked like an expensive auto-focus 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 apologized. 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.’

Fosse shrugged and stood up to get his coat. As they left, Banks heard Glendenning mutter, ‘A golf trophy. A bloody golf trophy! Sacrilege.’

2

‘Do you think
he did it, sir?’ Susan Gay asked Banks.

Banks swirled the inch of Theakston’s XB at the bottom of his glass and watched the patterns it made. ‘I don’t know. He certainly had means, motive and opportunity. But
something about it makes me uneasy.’

It was almost closing time, and Banks and Susan sat in the warm glow of the Queen’s Arms having a late dinner of microwaved steak and kidney pud, courtesy of Cyril, the landlord, who was
used to their unsociable hours. Outside, rain lashed against the red and amber window panes.

Banks pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. He was tired. The Fosse call had come in just as he was about to go home after a long day of paperwork and boring meetings.

They had learned little more during a two-hour interrogation at the station. Kim Fosse had left for London on Friday and returned on Monday with her business partner, Norma Cheverel. The
convention had been held at the Ludbridge Hotel in Kensington.

David Fosse maintained his innocence, but sexual jealousy made a strong motive, and now he was languishing in the cells under Eastvale Divisional Headquarters.
Languish
was perhaps too
strong a word, as the cells were as comfortable as many bed and breakfasts, and the food and service much better. The only problem was that you couldn’t open the door and go for a walk in the
Yorkshire Dales when you felt like it.

They learned from the house-to-house that Fosse
did
walk the dog – several people had seen him – and not even Dr Glendenning could pinpoint time of death to within the
forty-five minutes he was out of the house.

Fosse could have murdered his wife before he left or when he got home. He could also have nipped back around the rear, where a path ran by the river, got into the house unseen the back way, then
resumed his walk.

‘Time, ladies and gentlemen please,’ called Cyril, ringing his bell behind the bar. ‘And that includes coppers.’

Banks smiled and finished his beer. ‘There’s not a lot more we can do tonight, anyway,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll go home and get some sleep.’

‘I’ll do the same.’ Susan reached for her overcoat.

‘First thing in the morning,’ said Banks, ‘we’ll have a word with Norma Cheverel, see if she can throw any light on what happened in London last weekend.’

3

Norma Cheverel was
an attractive woman in her early thirties with a tousled mane of red hair, a high freckled forehead and the greenest eyes Banks had ever seen.
Contact lenses, he decided uncharitably, perhaps to diminish the sense of sexual energy he felt emanate from her.

She sat behind her desk in the large carpeted office, swivelling occasionally in her executive chair. After her assistant had brought coffee, Norma pulled out a long cigarette and lit up.
‘One of the pleasures of being the boss,’ she said. ‘The buggers can’t make you stop smoking.’

‘You’ve heard about Kim Fosse, I take it?’ Banks asked.

‘On the local news last night. Poor Kim.’ She shook her head.

‘We’re puzzled about a few things. Maybe you can help us?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Did you notice her taking many photographs at the convention?’

Norma Cheverel frowned. ‘I can’t say as I did, really, but there were quite a few people taking photographs there, especially at the banquet. You know how people get silly at
conventions. I never could understand this mania for capturing the moment. Can you, Chief Inspector?’

Banks, whose wife, Sandra, was a photographer, could understand it only too well, though he would have quibbled with ‘capturing the moment’. A good photographer, a
real
photographer, Sandra had often said, did much more than that; she transformed the moment. But he let the aesthetics lie.

Norma Cheverel was right about the photo mania, though. Banks had also noticed that since the advent of cheap, idiot-proof cameras every Tom, Dick and Harry had started taking photos indoors. He
had been half-blinded a number of times by a group of tourists ‘capturing the moment’ in some pub or restaurant. It was almost as bad as the mobile-phone craze, though not quite.

‘Did Kim Fosse share this mania?’ he asked.

‘She had a fancy new camera. She took it with her. That’s all I can say, really. Look, I don’t—’

‘Bear with me, Ms Cheverel.’

‘Norma, please.’

Banks, who reserved the familiarity of first-name terms to exercise power over suspects, not to interview witnesses, went on. ‘Do you know if she had affairs?’

This time Norma Cheverel let the silence stretch. Banks could hear the fan cooling the microchip in her computer. She stubbed out her long cigarette, careful to make sure it wasn’t still
smouldering, sipped some coffee, swivelled a little, and said, ‘Yes. Yes, she did. Though I wouldn’t really describe them as affairs.’

‘How would you describe them?’

‘Just little flings, really. Nothing that really
meant
anything to her.’

‘Who with?’

‘She didn’t usually mention names.’

‘Did she have a fling in London last weekend?’

‘Yes. She told me about it on the way home. Look, Chief Inspector, Kim wasn’t a bad person. She just needed something David couldn’t give her.’

Banks took a photograph of the man in the navy blue suit from his briefcase and slid it across the desk. ‘Know him?’

‘It’s Michael Bannister. He’s with an office-furnishings company in Preston.’

‘And did Kim Fosse have a fling with him that weekend?’

Norma swivelled and bit her lip. ‘She didn’t tell me it was him.’

‘Surprised?’

She shrugged. ‘He’s married. Not that that means much these days. I’ve heard he’s very much in love with his wife, but she’s not very strong. Heart condition, or
something.’ She sniffled, then sneezed and reached for a tissue.

‘What did Kim tell you about last weekend?’

Norma Cheverel smiled an odd, twisted little smile from the corner of her lips. ‘Oh, Chief Inspector, do you really want all the details? Girl talk about sex is so much
dirtier
than
men’s, you know.’

Though he felt himself reddening a little, Banks said, ‘So I’ve been told. Did she ever express concern about her husband finding out?’

‘Oh, yes. She told me under no circumstances to tell David. As if I would. He’s very jealous and he has a temper.’

‘Was he ever violent towards her?’

‘Just once. It was the last time we went to a convention, as a matter of fact. Apparently he tried to phone her in her room after midnight – some emergency to do with the dog –
and she wasn’t there. When she got home he lost his temper, called her a whore and hit her.’