Not Dead Enough (45 page)

He looked at his watch. It was five thirty-five. He picked up the phone and rang Kim Murphy.

‘Kim, you had one of the team interview Bishop’s financial adviser chap, Phil Taylor. I need Taylor’s number urgently. Can you get it for me? Or better still, get him on the phone and patch him through to me?’

While he was waiting, they discussed the ramifications of the latest evidence. Grace maintained his stance.

‘But what about the DNA evidence on Sophie Harrington, Roy?’ Nick Nicholl asked. ‘Surely that’s pretty conclusive?’

Roy was feeling impatient, but managed to hold his temper. ‘Nick, do you not get it? If Bishop’s alibi stands up, that he was in London at the time of his wife’s murder, it’s going to nix that DNA evidence – the defence will argue that somehow it got planted there. If we are too hasty in linking the murders together, we could get that DNA evidence thrown out also, on the same grounds.’

Justice, Grace had come to learn from bitter experience, was elusive, unpredictable and only occasionally actually done. Far too many things could go wrong in a court. Juries, which often consisted of people who were totally out of their depth in a court of law, could be led, swayed, bamboozled, seduced and confused; often they were prejudiced, or just plain stupid. Some judges were way past their sell-by dates; others seemed, at times, to have come from another planet. It wasn’t enough to have a watertight case, backed up with damning evidence. You still needed a lot of luck to get a conviction.

‘We have the witness who saw Bishop outside her home,’ Jane Paxton reassured him.

‘Yes?’ He was getting more irritable now by the minute. Was it the heat, he wondered? Or being so dog tired? Or having to put up with his bloody lodger? Or Sandy pressing on a raw nerve?

‘Well – I think that’s strong,’ she said, sounding defensive.

‘We need to go through a formal identification process with that witness and double-check the time-lines there before we can really make it stand up. And there may be some other evidence that comes to light over the next few days. If we’ve got Bishop inside on a charge, then for the moment the time pressure’s off on Ms Harrington. At least we’ll have thrown the press a bone.’

The phone rang. It was Kim, telling Grace that she had Phil Taylor on the line and was putting him through. Grace stepped away from the table and took the call on the phone on his desk.

When he finished, Grace stood up again. ‘He’s agreed to meet me tonight in London. Sounds a straightforward enough man.’ He looked at Branson. ‘We’ll apply for a twelve-hour extension for Bishop, then go up to London straight after the six-thirty briefing. I’d like you to come with me.’

Next he rang Norman Potting and asked him to contact the on-call PACE superintendent to make an application for a twelve-hour extension. Then he turned back to the trio in his office. ‘OK, I’ll see you all in the conference room at six thirty. Thanks very much, everyone.’

He sat back down at his desk. Now he had another task that was just as hard, in its own, very different way. How to explain to Cleo that he was going to have to go to London this evening and, with the best will in the world, was unlikely to be back down this side of midnight.

To his surprise, probably because she understood the twenty-four/seven nature of police work, she took it cheerfully.

‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m standing at the checkout in Sainsbury’s with a load of fresh prawns and scallops. Be a shame to waste them, so I’ll just have to eat them all myself.’

‘Shit, I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s OK. These murders are a lot more important than a few prawns. But you’d better hurry round when you get back down!’

‘I’ll probably have eaten – I’ll grab something in the car.’

‘I’m not talking about food!’

He blew her a kiss.

‘Times ten!’ she replied.

As he hung up, he smiled, relieved that Cleo seemed – for the moment at any rate – to have put his visit to Munich behind her.

But had he?

That would depend, he knew, on whether Marcel Kullen’s enquiries provided any leads. And suddenly, for the first time, he found himself – almost – hoping that he wouldn’t.

97

Unusually, there were no empty spaces in the street outside the front gates of her home, so Cleo had to circle around, looking for one. Keeping a safe distance back, the Time Billionaire watched the tail of the blue MG disappear around a corner, its right-hand indicator winking. Then he smiled.

And he sent a small, quick message of thanks to God.

This street was so much better! Tall, windowless walls on the right. A sheer cliff face of red brick. On the left, running the whole length of the street, was a blue construction site hoarding, with padlocked gates. Rising above it was a ten-foot-tall artist’s impression of the finished development – a complex of fancy flats and shops – boasting the wording:

LAINE WEST MORE THAN JUST A DEVELOPMENT – AN URBAN ECO-FRIENDLY LIFESTYLE!

She had found a space and was reversing into it. Joy!

He fixated on her brake lights. They seemed to be getting brighter as he watched them. Glowing red for danger, red for luck, red for sex! He liked brake lights; he could watch them the way some people could watch a log fire. And he knew everything about the brake lights on Cleo Morey’s car. The size of bulb; the strength; how they could be replaced; how they were connected into the wiring loom of the vehicle; how they were activated. He knew everything about this car. He’d spent the whole night reading the workshop manual, as well as surfing the net. That was the good thing about the internet. Didn’t matter what time of the day or the night, you could find some saddo enthusiast who could tell you more about the door-locking mechanism of a 2005 MG TF 160 than the manufacturer had ever known.

She was out of the car! Wearing jeans that stopped at her calves. Pink plimsolls. A white T-shirt. Hefting three Sainsbury carrier bags out of the boot and slinging the strap of her big, canvas handbag over her shoulder.

He drove past her and turned right at the end of the street. Then right again. Then right again, and now he was approaching the front of her building. He saw her standing outside the gates, doing an awkward balancing act of holding the grocery bags and tapping the number on the keypad. Then she went inside and the gate clanged shut behind her.

Hopefully she wasn’t going out again tonight. He would have to take a gamble on that one. But of course he had God’s assistance.

He made one more complete circuit, just to make sure she hadn’t forgotten something in the car and gone running back for it. Women did that sort of thing, he knew.

After ten minutes he decided it was safe. He doubled-parked his Prius alongside a dusty Volvo covered in bird droppings that didn’t look like it had gone anywhere in a while, temporarily blocking the street, although there was nothing coming. Then he unlocked the MG, drove it out of its spot, double-parked that also for a moment, while he jumped back into the Prius, and glided into the now empty space, between the Volvo and a small Renault.

Job done.

The first part.

It was a shame the MG had its hardtop on, he thought, as he headed towards his lock-up. It would have been a pleasant evening to drive with the roof down.

98

As soon as the six-thirty briefing was over, Grace grabbed the keys of the pool car that Tony Case had organized for him and, with Glenn Branson in tow, hurried down to the car park beneath the building.

‘Let me drive, man!’

‘You know your driving scares me,’ Grace replied. ‘Actually, let me rephrase that. Your driving terrifies the living daylights out of me.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Branson said. ‘That’s rich coming from you – your driving is rubbish. You drive like a girl. No, actually, you don’t. You drive like an old git – which is what you are!’

‘And you recently failed your Advanced Police Driving test!’

‘The examiner was an idiot. My instructor said I had natural aptitude for high-speed pursuit driving. My driving rocks!’

‘He should be sectioned under the Mental Health Act.’

‘Wanker!’

Grace tossed him the keys as they approached the unmarked Mondeo. ‘Just don’t try to impress me.’

‘Did you see The Fast and the Furious, with Vin Diesel?’

‘He’s got the most stupid name for an actor.’

‘Yeah? Well, he doesn’t think much of yours either.’

Grace wasn’t sure what sudden mental aberration had prompted him to give his friend the keys. Maybe he was hoping that if Glenn was concentrating on driving, he’d be spared an endless discussion – or more likely monologue – about all that was wrong with his marriage, yet again. He’d endured three hours of his friend’s soul-searching last night, after they’d got back home following the interview with Bishop. The bottle of Glenfiddich, which they had demolished between them, had only partially mitigated the pain. Then he’d had to listen to Glenn again this morning while getting shaved and dressed, and then over his breakfast cereal, with the added negative of a mild hangover.

To his relief, Branson drove sensibly, apart from one downhill stretch, near Handcross, where he wound the car up to 130 mph especially so he could give Grace the benefit of his cornering skills through two, sharp, uphill bends. ‘It’s all about positioning on the road and balancing the throttle, old-timer,’ he said.

From where Grace was sitting, stomach in his mouth, it was more about not flying off into the seriously sturdy-looking trees that lined both bends. Then they reached the M23 motorway and Grace’s repeating of his warning about speed traps, and traffic cops who loved nothing better than to book other officers, had some effect.

So Branson slowed down, and instead tried to phone home on his hands-free mobile.

‘Bitch!’ he said. ‘She’s not picking up. I’ve got a right to speak to my kids, haven’t I?’

‘You’ve got a right to be in your house,’ Grace reminded him.

‘Maybe you could tell her that. Like – you know – give her the official police point of view.’

Grace shook his head. ‘I’ll help you all I can, but I can’t fight your battle for you.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. It was wrong of me to ask. I’m sorry.’

‘What happened about the horse?’

‘Yeah, she was on about it again when we spoke. She’s decided she wants to try show-jumping. That’s serious money.’

Grace decided, privately, that she needed to see a psychologist. ‘I think you guys should go to Relate,’ he said.

‘You already said that.’

‘I did?’

‘About two o’clock this morning. And the day before. You’re repeating yourself, old-timer. Alzheimer’s kicking in.’

‘You know your problem?’ Grace said.

‘Apart from being black? Bald? From an underprivileged background?’

‘Yep, apart from all that.’

‘No, tell me.’

‘Lack of respect for your peers.’

Branson took one of his hands from the wheel and raised it. ‘Respect!’ he said deferentially.

‘That’s better.’

Shortly after nine, Branson parked the Mondeo on a single yellow line in Arlington Street, just past the Ritz Hotel and opposite the Caprice restaurant.

‘Nice wheels,’ he said, as they walked up the hill, passing a parked Ferrari. ‘You ought to get yourself a set of those. Better than that crappy Alfa you pootle around in. Be good for your image.’

‘There’s a small matter of a hundred grand or so separating me from one,’ Grace said. ‘And lumbered with you on my team, my chances of a pay rise of that magnitude are somewhat reduced.’

At the top of the street they rounded the corner into Piccadilly. Immediately on their right they saw a handsome, imposing building, in black and gold paintwork. Its massive, arched windows were brightly illuminated, and the interior seemed humming with people. A smart sign on the wall said The Wolseley.

They were greeted effusively by a liveried doorman in a top hat. ‘Good evening, gentlemen!’ he said with a soft Irish accent.

‘The Wolseley restaurant?’ Grace asked, feeling a little out of place here.

‘Absolutely! Very nice to see you both!’ He held the door open and gestured them through.

Grace, followed by Branson, stepped inside. There was a small crowd of people clustered around a reception desk. A waiter hurried past with a tray laden with cocktails, into a vast, domed and galleried dining room, elegantly themed in black and white, and packed with people. There was a noisy buzz. He looked around for a moment. It had an old-world Belle Epoque grandeur about it, yet at the same time it felt intensely modern. The waiting staff were all dressed in hip black and most of the clientele looked cool. He decided Cleo would like this place. Maybe he would bring her up for a night in London and come here. Although he thought he had better check out the prices first.

A young woman receptionist smiled at them, then a tall man, with fashionably long and tangled ginger hair, greeted them. ‘Gentlemen, good evening. Can I help you?’

‘We’re meeting Mr Taylor.’

‘Mr Phil Taylor?’

‘Yes.’

He pointed at a bar area, off to the side. ‘He’s in there, gentlemen, first table on the right! We’ll take you to him!’

As Grace entered the bar, he saw a man in his early forties, wearing a yellow polo shirt and blue chinos, looking up at him expectantly.

‘Mr Taylor?’

‘Aye!’ He half stood up. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’ He spoke in a distinct Yorkshire accent.

‘Yes. And Detective Sergeant Branson.’ Grace studied him fleetingly, weighing him up on first impression. He was relaxed and fit-looking, a tiny bit overweight, with a pleasant open face, a sunburnt nose, thinning fair hair and alert, very keen eyes. No flies on this man, he thought instantly. A set of car keys, with a Ferrari emblem on the fob, was lying on the table in front of the man next to a tall glass, containing a watery-looking cocktail with a sprig of mint in it.

‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. Have a seat. Can I get you a drink? I can recommend the Mojitos, they’re excellent.’ He waved a hand to summon a waiter.

‘I’m driving – I’ll have a Diet Coke,’ Branson said.