Read Online The Good Partner by Peter Robinson - Free Book Online Page A

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
    â€œ D O 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 pie, 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.
    â€œTime, 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.”
    â€œI’ll do the same.” Susan reached for her overcoat.
    â€œFirst 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
    N ORMA C HEVEREL 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, swiveling 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.”
    â€œYou’ve heard about Kim Fosse, I take it?” Banks asked.
    â€œOn the local news