Gently with the Ladies (Inspector George Gently 13)

lift to ascend? Not because of his celebrated intuition: that was backing Reynolds all the way! Nor was it for any family reason. Honour was satisfied there. Already he was choosing the words he would use to Geoffrey (‘I checked each stage of the case . . . frankly, it was hopeless.’) So what was it?
    He turned to Reynolds. ‘I think I’ll talk to the Bannister woman, since I’m round here.’
    Reynolds looked at him quickly. ‘You’re still not satisfied—?’
    ‘Oh yes. But I’m bloody curious too.’
    And that was the fact of the matter: he was bloody curious too. Not about Fazakerly, who he’d written off, but about that surprising woman, his victim. Clytie Fazakerly, invert, voluptuary, who had whored her way to a big fortune, who’d created this strange green mansion, and along with it the germ of her own destruction. A laudable motive? Perhaps not! But a strong motive, without doubt. And who could say that it might not lead him to . . . well . . . some truth, some new understanding. In his profession, at his rank, a degree of creative latitude was defensible . . .
    ‘If you don’t mind, Chief, I’ll get along. I’m expecting Buttifant from Rochester.’
    ‘Good. Let me know if you find any bloodstains.’
    ‘Of course, Chief. I’ll keep in touch.’
    The lift arrived, but on second thoughts Gently went down by the stairs: those same stairs which Fazakerly had run down, at the same hour, three days previously. They were prosaic enough. They proceeded in a single flight to the floor below, bare concrete treads with a steel handrail and lit by a clumsy, industrial-pattern wall lamp-unit. Glass panelled swing doors gave access to them from the end of each landing. From the foot of one flight you passed the doors to the top of the next flight down.
    Gently came to the sixth-floor landing. It was more impersonal than the one above. A varnished sign-board pointed to a hallway and was lettered: FLATS 21–25. The landing however was similarly carpeted and had its own quota of chairs, while in place of the boxroom on the other landing was an illuminated basin in which goldfish swam.
    He rang the bell of Flat 20. The door was answered by a maid. She wore a neat uniform and apron and make-up which carried pinkness above the cheekbones.
    ‘Please?’
    Her accent was un-English.
    ‘Chief Superintendent Gently. I’d like to speak to Mrs Bannister.’
    ‘Oh, yes, thank you. Please wait here.’
    Behind her she left a fulsome fragrance which suggested poppies or chrysanthemums. Gently heard her tap at an inner door and say something unintelligible in her lisping twitter. ‘Who?’ a powerful voice demanded. ‘Very well. Show him in, Albertine.’ Albertine re-appeared and made a slight curtsey.
    ‘Please, Monsieur is to enter.’
    He was shown into a room corresponding to the lounge in the flat above, but there was no nonsense about this room, though it was expensively furnished. On the floor lay an Indian carpet which may have cost four figures, and three Kashmir rugs which would have totalled little less. A settee and set of six chairs and a bow-fronted cabinet were Sheraton, and there was a Chippendale bureau-bookcase faced by a Chinese Chippendale chair. Some other good pieces had been quietly added. There was glass and lustre in the cabinet. A single large picture, apparently a Wilson, occupied the end wall above a Sheraton side-table. But in all, though these furnishings would have set a connoisseur’s eye roving, the general impact of the room was of expensive restraint.
    ‘You have come about poor Clytemnestra again?’
    A woman had risen from the settee to meet him. She was tall, in her forties, and had straight black hair, and the hair was parted in the centre and drawn into brackets round her face. She wore a severe green dress with a square neck and no sleeves. She was appraising Gently with intense, chocolate-brown eyes.
    ‘Mrs Bannister?’
    ‘Yes. But I don’t think I know you, do I?’
    Gently shook his head. I’m from the Central Office. I’m merely advising on the case.’
    ‘The Central Office! Isn’t that the Yard?’
    ‘Until they build us new premises.’
    ‘But I thought—’
    ‘We sometimes confer with our colleagues on a case.’
    Her brown eyes regarded him challengingly. She had intelligent, patrician features; a straight nose, rather lank cheeks, and a firm, though delicately-rounded, chin. She used no make-up. On her dress was pinned a large silver brooch