Not Dead Enough (39 page)

Vernon had agreed with him that this was an old-fashioned view, but that it had validity nonetheless. Brian was doing well in life, he was confident – outwardly at least – successful and reasonably content. Sure there could be big emotional rewards in finding one or both of his birth parents, but equally it could be a profoundly unsettling experience. What if he was really dismayed by the kind of people they were? Or if they just rejected him?

Yet the nagging desire to find out about his background got stronger all the time. And it was fuelled by the knowledge that, with each passing year, the chance of one or both of his birth parents still being alive diminished.

‘I’m just so sorry about the news, Brian – and that I couldn’t see you earlier today. I had to be in court.’

‘Of course, Robert. No problem. I’ve had a load of business stuff to deal with. It kept my mind occupied.’

‘It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Bishop did not know whether to say anything about Sophie Harrington. He desperately wanted to open up to someone, but at the same it didn’t feel right, not now, not at this moment.

‘And how are you? Are you coping?’

‘Just about.’ Bishop smiled thinly. ‘I’m sort of grounded here in Brighton. I can’t get into the house for several more days. The police don’t want me going up to London, so I’m having to stay down here – and carry on with the business as best I can.’

‘If you need a bed, you’re welcome to stay with Trish and me.’

‘Thanks, but I’m OK.’

‘And do they have any idea what happened? Who did this terrible thing?’

‘The way they’re treating me, I think they’re convinced I did it.’ The two men locked eyes briefly.

‘I’m not a criminal lawyer, Brian, but I do know that the immediate family are always suspects in most murder inquiries, until eliminated.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘So don’t be too worried by that. The faster they can eliminate you, the faster they can get on with finding who did do it. Out of interest, where are the kids at the moment?’ Then the solicitor raised a pacifying hand. ‘I’m sorry. Not that I meant to infer—’

‘No, of course not, understood. Max is with a friend in the South of France. Carly’s staying with cousins in Canada. I’ve spoken to them both, told them to stay on – there’s nothing they can do by coming back. I understand from the police it will be about a month before I can – before the coroner – will—’ He stumbled over his words, emotion taking over.

‘I’m afraid there are a lot of formalities. Bureaucracy. Red tape. Not helpful when I’m sure all you want to do is be alone with your thoughts.’

Bishop nodded, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing his eyes.

‘Talking of which, we have a few things we need to deal with. OK to make a start?’

‘Yes.’

‘First, what about Katie’s assets – do you know if she made a will?’

‘There’s something very odd. The police asked me about a life insurance policy – for three million pounds – which they said I had taken out Katie.’

The solicitor ignored an incoming call and looked at him. ‘And you hadn’t?’

Mercifully, the drilling suddenly stopped outside.

‘No. Absolutely not – that I can remember, and I bloody well would remember that.’

Vernon was pensive for some moments. ‘Didn’t you remortgage your Dyke Road Avenue house quite recently? To raise cash for your rights issue?’

Bishop nodded. ‘Yes, I did.’

His company was doing well at the moment, but almost too well ironically, and it had suffered from the cash-flow problems that many fast-expanding businesses experienced. When he had started up, it had been funded by himself and a small group of wealthy friends, on a relatively small amount of cash. Recently, to take it to the next level, they had needed to invest substantially in new technology, larger premises and more skilled computer staff. Bishop and his friends had decided to find the money themselves, rather than try to float, or raise it by other means, and he had provided his own portion from remortgaging his house.

‘The mortgage companies normally require some life-insurance cover on a large loan – perhaps that’s what you did.’

The solicitor might be right, he thought. Life-insurance cover was ringing a faint bell. But the amount seemed wrong. And he couldn’t check his files because they were in the bloody house.

‘Perhaps,’ he said dubiously. ‘And yes, she did make a will – it was a very short one. I’m one of the executors, along with David Crouch, my accountant. It’s in the house.’

‘Of course, I’d forgotten. She had some assets, didn’t she? She got a reasonable settlement in her previous marriage. Can you remember what the will contained?’

‘I can remember. She bequeathed a few quid to her parents, but she’s an only child and the bulk of it she left to me.’

An alarm bell rang suddenly inside Robert Vernon’s head. He frowned, just very slightly. Too slightly for Bishop to notice.

82

‘The time is six thirty p.m., Monday 7 August,’ Roy Grace read out briskly from his notes, feeling in a distinctly upbeat mood, for a change. ‘This is our second joint briefing of Operation Chameleon and Operation Mistral.’

Mistral was the name the police computer had chosen, at random, for the Sophie Harrington inquiry. The conference room at Sussex House was filled to capacity, with police officers and support staff packed around the table in tight rows of chairs. There was an almost electric sense of expectation in the room. And for once the air conditioning was working properly.

Grace sped through the summaries, then concluded by saying, ‘There have been a number of significant developments during the course of today, I am pleased to report.’ He looked at the beanpole of a young father, DC Nick Nicholl. ‘Would you like to start?’

Nicholl, with his jacket off, his top button undone and his tie slack, read formally from the notes on his pad. ‘I interviewed Ms Holly Richardson at her place of work, the Regent Public Relations Agency, 71 Trafalgar Road, Brighton, at eleven o’clock this morning. She stated that she and Miss Harrington had been at secretarial college together and had remained best friends since then. Ms Richardson informed me that Sophie had confided in her that she had been carrying on a secret relationship with Brian Bishop for approximately six months. Sophie had related to her that on occasions recently Bishop behaved in a violent manner towards her, which frightened her. And he made a number of increasingly sadistic and perverted sexual demands on her.’

He mopped his brow and continued, turning the page of his notepad. ‘A technician in the Telecoms Unit here, John Smith, who has been examining both Miss Harrington’s mobile phone records and Brian Bishop’s, has informed me that each party made a large number of phone calls daily to each other during this six-month period. The most recent was a call from Miss Harrington to Mr Bishop at four fifty-one on Friday afternoon, a few hours before her estimated time of death.’

Grace thanked him, then turned to the burly figure of Guy Batchelor.

The Detective Sergeant told the assembled teams about the cash call Brian Bishop had made on the investors in his company, International Rostering Solutions PLC. He concluded by saying, ‘Although his business seems to be expanding and is well regarded, Bishop is hocked up to his eyeballs in debt.’

The significance was not lost on anyone in the room. Then he delivered his nuke. He told the two teams about Bishop’s criminal record.

Grace watched all their faces. There was a sense of progress in this room that was palpable.

Next, he had arranged for an abbreviated cut of Norman Potting and Alfonso Zafferone’s interview with Barty Chancellor to be played on the video screen. When it finished, Potting informed the team that he had made inquiries about the particular make and model of gas mask that had been found on both victims. The manufacturer had been identified, and they were awaiting information on the number that had been produced and a full list of UK stockists.

Next was DCI Duigan, who related what the neighbour who lived opposite the house where Sophie Harrington had her flat claimed to have seen. She had positively identified Bishop from the photograph that had been in the Argus and would be very happy to attend a formal identity procedure.

Theatrically saving the best to last, Roy Grace turned to Bella Moy.

The DS produced a photograph of the number plate of Brian Bishop’s Bentley, relating that it had been taken by an ANPR camera, on the southbound carriageway of the M23, near to Gatwick airport at eleven forty-seven on Thursday night. She pointed out that despite Bishop’s alibi that he was in London, his car was seen heading in the direction of Brighton, no more than thirty minutes away, well within the frame of the estimated time of his wife’s murder.

But Grace privately had concerns about this, as the photograph had been taken at night. The number plate was clearly visible, but it was impossible to determine the make of the car. It was helpful secondary evidence, but no slam-dunk. A half-competent barrister would kick it into touch in seconds. But it was worth keeping in the mix. One more fact for jurors to debate.

Bella added that Bishop’s home computer contents were currently being analysed by Ray Packham, in the High Tech Crime Division, and she was awaiting his report. And then she delivered the killer blow.

‘We received the lab reports back on the DNA analysis of semen found present in Mrs Bishop’s vagina,’ she said, reading from her notes in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘There were two different spermatozoa ejaculates present in the samples taken by the Home Office pathologist at the post-mortem,’ she announced. ‘In the opinion of the pathologist, based on the mobility of the spermatozoa present in Mrs Bishop’s vagina, both ejaculates occurred on the night of Thursday 3 August, within a few hours of each other. One is as yet unidentified – but we believe DNA tests will show it to be that of Mrs Bishop’s lover, who has admitted they had sexual intercourse on Thursday evening. The other contains a 100 percent match with DNA taken from Brian Bishop.’

She paused for a moment. ‘This means, of course, that contrary to his alibi that he was in London, Bishop was in Brighton and had sexual intercourse with his wife – at some point close to the time of her death.’

Grace waited patiently, letting the information sink in. He could feel the tension in the room. ‘You’ve all done a great job. We will arrest Brian Bishop tonight, on suspicion of the murder of his wife. But I’m not yet confident that he killed Sophie Harrington. So I don’t want to read in tomorrow’s Argus that we’ve solved these murders. Is that clear?’

The silence that greeted him told him it was abundantly clear.

83

Brian Bishop stepped out of the hotel bathroom shower, dried himself, then rummaged in the overnight bag that Maggie Campbell had brought up to his room an hour ago, containing fresh clothes she had collected from his house.

He pulled on a dark blue polo shirt and navy slacks. The smell of a barbecue wafted in on the light breeze through the open window. It was tantalizing, even though, with his churned-up stomach, he had little appetite. He was regretting accepting an invitation to dinner with Glenn and Barbara Mishon, who were his and Katie’s closest friends. Normally he loved their company and when Barbara had rung, earlier today, she had persuaded him to come over.

At the time it had seemed a more attractive proposition than spending another evening alone in this room with his thoughts and a room service trolley. But his meeting this afternoon with Robert Vernon had brought home to him the full reality of what had happened, and left him feeling deeply depressed. It was as if, up until then, it had all been just a bad dream. But now the enormity weighed down on him. There was so much to think about, too much. He really just wanted to sit alone and gather his thoughts.

His brown suede loafers were on the floor. It was too warm really to put on socks, but it would look too relaxed, too disrespectful to Katie, if he was overly casual. So he sat down on the bed and tugged on a pale blue pair, then pushed his feet into his shoes. Outside, in one of the back gardens his window overlooked, he heard people chattering, a child shouting, music playing, a tinkle of laughter.

Then there was a knock on his door.

Probably room service wanting to turn down the beds, he thought, opening it. Instead he saw the two police officers who had first broken the news of Katie’s death to him.

The black one held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Branson and Detective Constable Nicholl. May we come in, sir?’

Bishop did not like the expression on their faces. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, stepping back into the room and holding the door open for them. ‘Do you have some news for me?’

‘Brian Desmond Bishop,’ Branson said, ‘evidence has come to light, as a result of which I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Mrs Katherine Bishop. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is that clear?’

Bishop did not respond for a moment. Then he said, ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘My colleague, DC Nicholl, is going to give you a quick body search.’

Almost mechanically, Bishop raised his arms, to allow Nicholl to frisk him. ‘I’m – I’m sorry,’ Bishop then said. ‘I need to call my solicitor.’

‘I’m afraid not at the moment, sir. You will be given that opportunity when we are at the Custody Centre.’

‘My rights are—’

Branson raised his broad hands. ‘Sir, we know what your rights are.’ Then he dropped his hands and unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt. ‘Please put your hands behind your back.’

What little colour there was in Bishop’s face now drained away completely. ‘You’re not going to handcuff me, please! I’m not going to do a runner. There’s a misunderstanding here. This is all wrong. I can sort this out with you.’

‘Behind your back please, sir.’

In a total panic, Bishop stared wildly around the room. ‘I need some things. My jacket – wallet – I – please let me put a jacket on.’