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The Good Partner
    1
    T HE LOWERING 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-­paneled 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 11/13/93 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 11/14/93.
    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.
    â€œCan you identify the victim?”
    â€œIt’s my wife, Kim.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œI . . . I was out taking the dog for a walk. When I got back I found . . .” He gestured towards the floor.
    â€œWhen did you go out?”
    â€œQuarter to seven, as usual. I got back about half past and found her like this.”
    â€œWas your wife in when you left?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWas she expecting any visitors?”
    He shook his head.
    Banks held out the photos. “Have you seen these?”
    Fosse turned away and grunted.
    â€œWho took them? What do they mean?”
    Fosse stared at the Axminster.
    â€œMr. Fosse?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œThis date, November 13. Last Saturday. Is that significant?”
    â€œMy wife was at a business convention in London last weekend. I assume they’re the pictures she took.”
    â€œWhat kind of convention?”
    â€œShe’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?”
    â€œNo.” Fosse’s face darkened and both his hands curled into fists. “No, but if I ever get hold of him—­”
    â€œMr. Fosse, did you argue with your wife about the man in these photographs?”
    Fosse’s mouth dropped. “They weren’t here when I left.”
    â€œHow do you explain their presence now?”
    â€œI 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 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?”
    â€œIt 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?”
    â€œAnd I’ll tell you again. How