Not Dead Enough (38 page)

‘She was already dead when she went into the water. I’m going to have to stop this p-m, I’m afraid. You’ll need to inform the coroner.’

A Home Office pathologist – probably Nadiuska De Sancha again – would have to take over the post-mortem. Unknown female was now elevated to the status of a suspicious death.

80

Roy Grace made a mental note to never again find himself closeted with Norman Potting in a small room on a hot day. They were seated next to each other in front of a video monitor in the cubicle-sized viewing room that adjoined the Witness Interview Suite. The late-afternoon sun was beating mercilessly against the closed venetian blinds of the one window and the air conditioning was useless. Grace was dripping with perspiration. Potting, in a white short-sleeve shirt, with wide, damp patches in the armpits, smelled like the inside of an old hat.

Further, the Detective Sergeant had eaten something heavily laced with garlic and his breath reeked of the stuff. Grace fished a pack of peppermint gum out of his jacket, on the back of his chair, and offered a piece to Potting in the hope he would chew it and spare him his death-breath.

‘Never touch it, Roy, thanks,’ he said. ‘Pulls my fillings out.’ He was fiddling with the controls, fast-rewinding a recording. Grace watched the screen, as Potting, Zafferone and a third man all walked backward out of the room, in speeded-up motion, disappearing through the door one at a time. Potting stopped the tape, then started it and each of the three men reappeared, walking in through the door this time. ‘Got yourself a MySpace profile yet, Roy?’ he asked, suddenly.

‘MySpace? I thought I was a bit old for a MySpace profile.’

Potting shook his head. ‘All ages. Anyhow, Li’s only twenty-four. She and I got a joint profile. Norma-Li. Geddit? She already has three Thai friends in England – one in Brighton. Good, don’t you think?’

‘Genius,’ Grace replied, his mind more on avoiding Potting’s breath than the conversation.

‘Mind you,’ Potting chuckled, ‘there’s some fancy-looking tottie on there. Phwwoaaah!’

‘Thought you were a happily married man now – with your new bride.’

For a moment, Potting looked genuinely happy, his pug-like face creased into a look of contentment. ‘She’s something, I tell you, Roy! Taught me some new tricks. Blimey! You ever had an Oriental woman?’

Grace shook his head. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He was trying to concentrate on the screen. Trying to put Sandy to the back of his mind and focus on his work. He had a massive responsibility on his shoulders, and how he handled events over the coming days could have a major impact on his career. He was aware, with the high profile of this case, that it wasn’t only Alison Vosper’s critical eyes that were focused on him.

On the screen a lean, angular man was lowering himself into one of the three red chairs in the Witness Interview Suite. He had a striking face, interesting rather than handsome, with untidy, tangled hair and a Dutch settler’s beard. He wore a baggy Hawaiian shirt hanging loose, blue jeans and leather sandals. His complexion was pale, as if he had spent too much of the summer indoors.

‘That’s Katie Bishop’s lover?’ Grace asked.

‘Yes,’ Potting replied. ‘Barty Chancellor.’

‘Poncy name,’ Grace said.

‘Poncy git,’ Potting replied, turning up the sound.

Grace watched the interview progress, with both detectives making frequent jottings in their notebooks. Despite his odd appearance, Chancellor spoke in an assured, faintly superior, public school accent, his body language relaxed and confident, the only hint of any nerves showing when he occasionally twisted a fabric bracelet on his wrist.

‘Did Mrs Bishop ever talk to you about her husband, Mr Chancellor?’ Norman Potting asked him.

‘Yes, of course she did.’

‘Did that give you a kick?’ Zafferone asked.

Grace smiled. The young, arrogant DC was doing exactly what he had hoped – winding Chancellor up.

‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ Chancellor asked.

Zafferone held his gaze. ‘Did you enjoy the knowledge that you were sleeping with a woman who was cheating on her husband?’

‘I’m here to help you with your inquiries in finding the killer of my darling Katie. I don’t think that question is relevant.’

‘We’ll be the judge of what’s relevant, sir,’ Zafferone replied coolly.

‘I came here voluntarily,’ Chancellor said, visibly riled now, his voice rising. ‘I don’t like your tone.’

‘I appreciate you must be very distressed, Mr Chancellor,’ Norman Potting cut in, speaking courteously, playing classic good cop to Zafferone’s bad. ‘I can understand something of what you must be going through. It would be very helpful if you could tell us a little bit about the nature of the relationship between Mr and Mrs Bishop.’

Chancellor toyed with his bracelet for some moments. ‘The man was a brute,’ he said suddenly.

‘In what way?’ Potting asked.

‘Did he beat Mrs Bishop up?’ Zafferone asked. ‘Was he violent?’

‘Not physically but mentally. He was very critical of her – the way she looked, the way she kept the house – he’s a bit of an obsessive. And he was extremely jealous – which was why she was extra careful. And . . .’ He fell silent for a moment, as if hesitating whether to add something. ‘Well – I don’t know if this is significant, but he’s quite kinky, she told me.’

‘In what way?’ Potting asked.

‘Sexually. He’s into bondage. Fetish stuff.’

‘What kind of stuff?’ Potting asked again.

‘Leather, rubber, that sort of thing.’

‘She told you all this?’ Zafferone asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Did that turn you on?’

‘What the hell kind of a question is that?’ Chancellor flared at him.

‘Did it excite you, when Katie told you about these things?’

‘I’m not some kind of a sick pervert, if that’s what you think,’ he retorted.

‘Mr Chancellor,’ Norman Potting said, playing good cop again. ‘I don’t suppose Mrs Bishop ever mentioned a gas mask to you?’

‘A what?’

‘Did Mr Bishop’s fetishes ever include a gas mask, to the best of your knowledge?’

The artist thought for a moment. ‘I don’t – I – no – I don’t recall her mentioning a gas mask.’

‘Are you sure?’ Zafferone said.

‘It’s not the kind of thing you forget easily.’

‘You seemed to forget she was a married woman easily enough.’ Zafferone pushed his barb in.

‘I think it’s time I had my solicitor present,’ Chancellor said. ‘You are out of order.’

‘Did you kill Mrs Bishop?’ Zafferone asked coolly.

Chancellor looked fit to explode. ‘WHAT?’

‘I asked you if you killed Mrs Bishop.’

‘I loved her – we were going to spend the rest of our lives together – why on earth would I have killed her?’

‘You just said you wanted your solicitor present,’ Zafferone continued, like a Rottweiler. ‘In my experience, when people want their lawyer in the room it’s because they are guilty.’

‘I loved her very much. I—’ His voice began to crack. Suddenly he hunched forward, cradling his face in his hands, and began to sob.

Potting and Zafferone glanced at each other, waiting. Finally Barty Chancellor sat up, composing himself. ‘I’m sorry.’

Then Zafferone lobbed the question Grace had been desperate for one of them to ask. ‘Did Mr Bishop know about your relationship?’

‘Absolutely not.’

Norman Potting cut in again. ‘Mr Bishop is by all accounts a very bright man. You and Mrs Bishop had an affair that had been going on for over twelve months. Do you really think he had no inkling?’

‘We were very careful – and, besides, he was away in London most weekdays.’

‘Perhaps he knew and never said anything,’ Zafferone suggested.

‘Possibly,’ Chancellor conceded grudgingly. ‘But I don’t think so – I mean, Katie was sure he didn’t know.’

Zafferone flicked back some pages in his notebook. ‘You said earlier that you have no alibi for the time when Mrs Bishop left your house and the estimated time, perhaps less than an hour later, when she was killed.’

‘Correct.’

‘You fell asleep.’

‘It was nearly midnight. We’d been making love. Perhaps you’ve never tried making love? You’ll find out if you do that it can make you sleepy.’ He glared at Zafferone.

Grace was making some mental notes himself. The affair had been going on for twelve months. Six months ago Brian Bishop had taken out a three-million-pound insurance policy on his wife’s life. He had a history of violence. What if he had found out about the affair?

Chancellor had said that he and Katie were planning to spend the rest of their lives together. This was more than just a fling. Perhaps Bishop couldn’t bear the thought of losing his wife.

All the right boxes were getting ticked. The man had a motive.

Maybe he had planned this carefully for many months. The perfect alibi in London, except for one small slip-up that he wasn’t even aware of. The photograph of his car from the hidden camera near Gatwick airport.

Grace watched the interview continue, Zafferone winding Chancellor up more and more. Sure, this artist was a possible suspect. He had clearly been desperately in love with the woman. Enough to kill her if she dumped him? Perhaps. Smart enough to murder her and set it up so it looked like her husband had done it? It could not be discounted. But at this moment the weight of the evidence seemed to be stacking up solidly against Brian Bishop.

He looked at his watch. It was five fifteen. He had brought the video of the man in the Accident and Emergency waiting room from the Royal Sussex County Hospital CCTV straight to the film unit here at Sussex House for enhancement. He just had time now to go down and see how they were getting on, before his team meeting with Kim Murphy and Brendan Duigan to prepare for the six-thirty joint briefing.

On the hospital’s low-grade recording, it was hard to make out the man’s features, because his face was so extensively obscured by his long hair, dark glasses, moustache and beard. With the technology they had here, they would be able to sharpen the image considerably. As he stepped out into the corridor, his phone rang. It was DS Bella Moy, talking excitedly through what sounded like a mouthful of Maltesers. The DNA test results on Katie Bishop were back.

When she told him what they showed, he punched the air for joy.

81

There was no air conditioning in Robert Vernon’s office, on the second floor of a fine Queen Anne house in Brighton’s Lanes, with a view straight down a narrow street of flint-walled houses to the seafront. The din from a road-drilling machine outside came straight in through the open windows, worsening the headache that Brian Bishop had woken with this morning, after yet another virtually sleepless night.

It was a pleasant, airy office, with much of the wall space taken up by shelves crammed full of legal tomes and by filing cabinets. Two fine old Brighton prints hung on the pastel-blue walls, one showing the chain pier, the other a view of the Old Steine. Piles of correspondence were stacked on the desk and some on the floor.

‘Forgive the mess please, Brian,’ Vernon said, ever courteous. ‘Just back from holiday this morning – not quite sure where to begin!’

‘I often wonder if it’s even worth going on holiday,’ Bishop said, ‘because of all the bloody paperwork you have to clear before you go, and the stuff that’s waiting when you come back.’

He stirred his delicate china cup of tea seven times, staring at a framed colour photograph of Vernon’s wife, Trish, on the window ledge behind the desk. An attractive, fair-haired woman, she was in golfing attire, posing by a tee. Next to it was another silver frame, with three oval holes, each containing the smiling face of one of the Vernons’ young children. Taken many years ago, Bishop realized, because they were all in their teens now. It was all right for Vernon, he suddenly thought bitterly. All his family were fine. His whole world was fine. It didn’t matter what problems any client dragged in here. He would study the facts, dispense his advice, watch them drag it all back out of the door again behind them, then jump into his Lexus and head off to the golf course with a sunny smile on his face.

The man, who was approaching his mid-sixties, had an elegant, courtly charm. His silver hair was always neat, his clothes conservative and immaculate, and his whole manner exuded an air of wisdom and confidence. He had been Bishop’s family solicitor forever, it seemed. He had handled all the formalities following the death of Bishop’s father, then his mother. It was Vernon whom Brian Bishop had turned to when, on going through the papers in his mother’s bureau in her bedroom soon after her death, nearly five years ago, he had discovered something that had been kept from him throughout his life. That he was adopted.

It was Vernon who had dissuaded him from embarking on the journey to discover his birth parents. Bishop had had a charmed childhood, Vernon had told him. Doting adoptive parents, who had married too late to have children of their own, had totally indulged him and his sister, who had followed two years later – but died tragically of meningitis when she was thirteen.

They had been comfortably off, and they’d brought him up in a pleasant, detached house overlooking Hove recreation ground, stretching their finances to educate him at a private school, taking him abroad on holidays, and buying him a small car the moment he passed his driving test. Bishop had loved them both very much, as well as most of their relatives. He had been deeply upset when his father died, but it was worse after his mother died. Despite the fact that he had been married to Katie for only a few months, he suddenly felt desperately lonely. Very lost.

Then he had found that document in his mother’s bureau.

But Vernon had calmed him down. He pointed out that Bishop’s parents had kept it from him because they thought it was in his best interests. They had wanted only to give him love and security, for him to enjoy the present and be strong for the future. They’d been worried that by telling him, they might pitch him into a life of turmoil, searching for a past that might no longer exist – or, worse, be very different from how he would have wanted it.