Not Dead Enough (44 page)

‘You said that, sir, not us,’ Branson slammed in.

Grace was interested to see Bishop’s display of emotion. Perhaps they were just crocodile tears for the benefit of the interviewing team.

In a faltering voice Bishop said, ‘I loved her, I never wanted to kill her. People have affairs, it’s the way of the world. When Katie and I first met, we were both married to other people. We had an affair. I think I knew in my heart then that if we did marry, she would probably end up doing the same to me.’

‘Is that why you were unfaithful to her?’ Nicholl asked.

Bishop took his time to respond. ‘Are you referring to Sophie Harrington?’

‘I am.’

His eyes moved left again. ‘We’d been having a flirtation. Nice for my ego, but that’s as far as it’s gone. I never slept with her, although she seems – seemed,’ he corrected, ‘to enjoy fantasizing that it had happened.’

‘You have never slept with Miss Harrington? Not once?’

Grace watched the man’s eyes intently. They went left again.

‘Absolutely. Never.’ Bishop smiled nervously. ‘I’m not saying I wouldn’t have liked to. But I have a moral code. I was stupid, I was flattered by her interest in me, enjoyed her company – but you have to remember, I’ve been down that road before. You sleep with someone and if you’re lucky, it’s a crap experience. But if you are unlucky, it’s a gosh-wow experience and you are smitten. And then you are in big trouble. That’s what happened to Katie and me – we were smitten with each other.’

‘So you never slept with Ms Harrington?’ Glenn Branson pressed.

‘Never. I wanted to try to make my marriage work.’

‘So you thought kinky sex might be a way to achieve that?’ Branson asked.

‘Pardon? What do you mean?’

Branson looked at his notes. ‘One of our team spoke yesterday to a Mrs Diane Rand. We understand from her that she was one of your wife’s best friends, is that correct?’

‘They spoke to each other about four times a day. God knows what they had to say to each other!’

‘Plenty, I think,’ Branson responded humourlessly. ‘Mrs Rand told our officer, a WPC, that your wife had been expressing concerns recently over your increasingly kinky sexual demands on her. Would you like to elaborate on this?’

Leighton Lloyd interjected quickly and firmly. ‘No, my client would not.’

‘I have one significant question on this issue,’ Branson said, addressing the lawyer. Lloyd gestured for him to ask it.

‘Mr Bishop,’ Branson said, ‘do you possess a replica Second World War gas mask?’

‘What is the relevance of that question?’ Lloyd asked the DS.

‘It’s extremely relevant, sir,’ Branson said.

Grace watched Bishop’s eyes intently. They shot to the right. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Is it something you and Mrs Bishop used in your sex life?’

‘I’m not allowing my client to answer.’

Bishop raised a pacifying hand at his solicitor. ‘It’s OK. Yes, I bought it.’ He shrugged, blushing. ‘We were experimenting. I – I read a book about how to keep your love life going – you know? It sort of flags after a while between two people, when the initial excitement – novelty of the relationship – is over. I got stuff for us to try out.’ His face was the colour of beetroot.

Branson turned his focus on to Bishop’s dinner with his financial adviser, Phil Taylor. ‘Mr Bishop, it’s correct, isn’t it, that one of the cars you own is a Bentley Continental, in a dark red colour?’

‘Umbrian red, yes.’

‘Registration number Lima Juliet Zero Four November Whiskey Sierra?’

Unused to the phonetic alphabet, Bishop had to think for a moment. Then he nodded.

‘At eleven forty-seven last Thursday night, this vehicle was photographed by an Automatic Number Plate Recognition camera, on the south-bound carriageway of the M23 motorway, in the vicinity of Gatwick airport. Can you explain why it was there and who was driving it?’

Bishop looked at his solicitor.

‘Do you have the photograph?’ Leighton Lloyd asked.

‘No, but I can let you have a copy,’ Branson said.

Lloyd made a note in his book.

‘There’s a mistake,’ Bishop said. ‘There must be.’

‘Did you lend your car to anyone that evening?’ Branson asked.

‘I never lend it. I had it in London that night because I needed to drive down to the golf club in the morning.’

‘Could anyone have borrowed it without your permission – or your knowledge?’

‘No. Well, I don’t think so. It’s extremely unlikely.’

‘Who else has keys to the vehicle, apart from you, sir?’

‘No one. We’ve had some problems in the underground car park – beneath my flat. Some cars broken into.’

‘Could joyriders have taken it out for a spin?’ Leighton Lloyd interjected.

‘It’s possible,’ Bishop said.

‘When joyriders take a car they don’t usually bring it back,’ Grace said. He watched Lloyd making a note in his book. The lawyer would have a field day with that.

Next, Glenn Branson said, ‘Mr Bishop, we have already mentioned to you that during the course of a search of your house at 97 Dyke Road Avenue, a life insurance policy with the Southern Star Assurance Company was found. The policy is on your wife’s life, with a value of three million pounds. You are named as the sole beneficiary.’

Grace swung his eyes from Bishop to the lawyer. Lloyd’s expression barely changed, but his shoulders sank a little. Brian Bishop’s eyes were all over the place and his composure seemed suddenly to have deserted him.

‘Look, I told you – I – I already told you – I know nothing about this! Absolutely nothing!’

‘Do you think your wife took this policy out herself, secretly, from the goodness of her heart?’ Branson pressed him.

Grace smiled at this, proud of the way his colleague, to whom he had given so much guidance over the past few years, because he adored him and believed in him, was really growing in stature.

Bishop raised his hands, then let them flop down on to the table. His eyes were all over the place still. ‘Please believe me, I don’t know anything about this.’

‘On three million pounds, I imagine there’d be a hefty premium,’ Branson said. ‘Presumably we’d be able to see from your bank account – or indeed Mrs Bishop’s – how this was paid? Or perhaps you have a mystery benefactor?’

Leighton Lloyd was now scribbling fast in his book, his expression continuing to give nothing away. He turned to Bishop. ‘You don’t have to answer that unless you want to.’

‘I don’t know anything about it.’ Bishop’s tone had become imploring. Heartfelt. ‘I really don’t!’

‘We seem to be stacking up quite a few things you claim not to know anything about, Mr Bishop,’ Glenn Branson continued. ‘You don’t know anything about your car being driven towards Brighton shortly before your wife was murdered. You don’t know anything about a three-million-pound life insurance policy, taken out on your wife just six months before she was murdered.’ He paused, checked his own notes, then drank some water. ‘In your account last night, you said that the last time you and your wife had sexual intercourse was on the morning of Sunday 30 July. Have I got that correct?’

Bishop nodded, looking a little embarrassed.

‘Then can you explain the presence of a quantity of your semen that was found in Mrs Bishop’s vagina during her post-mortem on the morning of Friday 4 August?’

‘There’s no way!’ Bishop said. ‘Absolutely not possible!’

‘Are you saying, sir, that you did not have sexual intercourse with Mrs Bishop on the night of Thursday 3 August?’

Bishop’s eyes swung resolutely left. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I am saying. I was in London, for God’s sake!’ He turned to look at his solicitor. ‘It isn’t possible! It isn’t bloody possible!’

Roy Grace had seen many solicitors’ expressions over the years, as one client after another had clearly told yet another barefaced lie to them. Leighton Lloyd’s face remained inscrutable. The man would make a good poker player, he thought.

At ten past five, after Glenn Branson had gone doggedly back over Bishop’s statement from last night’s interview, the questions that had been put to him in the second interview, this morning, and challenged virtually every single word that Bishop had said, he judged that they had got as much from the man as they were going to get at this stage.

Bishop was not budging on the three key elements: his London alibi, the life insurance policy and the last time he had had sex with his wife. But Branson was satisfied – and more than a little drained.

Bishop was led back to his cell, leaving the solicitor alone with the two police officers.

Lloyd pointedly looked at his watch, then addressed the two men. ‘I presume you are aware that you will have to release my client in just under three hours’ time, unless you are planning to charge him.’

‘Where are you going to be?’ Branson asked him.

‘I’m going to my office.’

‘We’ll call you.’

Then the detectives went back over to Sussex House, up to Roy Grace’s office, and sat at the round table.

‘Well done, Glenn, you did well,’ Grace said again.

‘Extremely well,’ Nick Nicholl added.

Jane Paxton looked pensive. She wasn’t one for handing out praise. ‘So we need to consider our next step.’

Then the door opened and Eleanor Hodgson came in, holding a thin wodge of papers, clipped together. Addressing Grace, she said, ‘Excuse me interrupting, Roy, I thought you would want to see this – it just came back from the Huntington lab.’

It was two DNA analysis reports. One was on the semen that had been found present in Sophie Harrington’s vagina; the other was on the minute fleck of what had looked like human flesh that Nadiuska De Sancha had removed from under the dead woman’s toenail.

Both were a complete match with Brian Bishop’s DNA.

95

Cleo Morey left the mortuary, together with Darren, just before five thirty. Closing the front door and standing in the brilliant, warm sunlight, she said, ‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘Was going to take her to the cinema, but it’s too hot,’ he said, squinting back at his boss with the sun in his eyes. ‘We’re going to go down the Marina, have a few drinks. There’s a cool new place I’m going to check out, Rehab.’

She looked at him dubiously. Twenty years old, spiky black hair, a cheery face sporting some designer stubble, he could have so easily, with just a brief turn in his life, have ended up like so many of the no-hoper youngsters draped along the pavements and doorways of this city every night, strung out, dossing, begging, mugging. But he’d clearly been born with a spirited streak in him. He worked hard, he was pleasant company, he was going to do OK in life. ‘Rehab?’

‘Yep, it’s a bar and restaurant place. Classy. I’m splashing out – bit of a special bird. I would say join us, but, you know, two’s company and all that!’

She grinned. ‘Cheeky sod! And hey, who’s to say I don’t have a date myself tonight?’

‘Oh yes?’ he looked pleased for her. ‘Now, let me guess who.’

‘None of your business!’

‘Don’t suppose he works for the CID, does he?’

‘I said it’s none of your business!’

‘Then you shouldn’t snog him in the front office, should you?’ He winked.

‘What?’ she exclaimed.

‘Forget about the CCTV camera in there, did you?’

With a broad grin, he gave her a cheery wave and walked over to his car.

‘Peeping Tom!’ she called after him. ‘Voyeur! Perve!’

He turned as he opened the door of his small red Nissan. ‘Actually, if you want my opinion, you make quite a nice-looking couple!’

She flipped him the bird. Then added for good measure, ‘And don’t drink too much. Remember we’re on call tonight.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk!’

She was still grinning some minutes later as she drove around the gyratory system and into the covered car park of Sainsbury’s. Her mind was now on what she was going to give the CID officer she had snogged in the front office – as Darren had so crudely put it – to eat. As it was such a glorious evening, she decided to barbecue up on her roof terrace. Roy Grace liked seafood and fish.

Ahead of her she saw a parking space and manoeuvred in to it. She would go to the wet fish counter first and buy some uncooked prawns in their shells, if they had them, and tuna steaks. A couple of corn on the cobs. Some salad. And some sweet potatoes in their jackets, which were totally yummy on a barbecue. And a really nice bottle of rose wine. Well, perhaps not just one bottle.

She was looking forward to this evening and hoped Grace would be able to escape from his investigation at a reasonable hour tonight. It seemed a long while since they had actually spent a proper evening together and it would be good to have a catch-up. She missed him, she realized, missed him all the time when he wasn’t around. But there was still the spectre of Sandy and his visit to Munich – she wanted the full lowdown on that.

She had learned from her last relationship that just when you thought everything was perfect, life could turn round and bite you.

96

‘His alibi,’ Grace said, slapping the palm of his left hand against his balled right fist. ‘We need to deal with it. I’ve said it before, it’s the elephant in the room.’

Paxton, Branson and Nicholl, still seated around the table in his office with him, were looking pensive. Jane topped up her beaker of water from a bottle. ‘Don’t you think we’ve got enough evidence now, Roy?’ she said. ‘You’re going to be cutting it fine for keeping Bishop in tomorrow, unless we apply to the court this evening for an extension.’

Grace considered this for some moments. The time that Bishop had been arrested yesterday, at eight p.m., was working against them. It meant they had to release him at eight tonight. They would be able to get a twelve-hour extension easily enough. But that would only take them to eight tomorrow morning. If they wanted to keep him beyond that, they would have to go before a magistrate in court with a Warrant of Further Detention application. And that would have to be arranged this evening if they wanted to avoid making phone calls at dawn and disturbing people who had every right to be left in peace to sleep.