Not Dead Enough (22 page)

The conference room for the morning press briefing he had called had been so tightly packed that some reporters had been left out in the corridor. He kept it short and tight, because he didn’t have a lot to tell them at this stage. No new information had come in overnight, and the earlier team briefing had been more about assigning tasks for the day than assessing any developments.

The one message he did put across clearly, to the sea of forty or so faces of press and media reporters and photographers in the room, was that the police were anxious to trace Mrs Bishop’s recent movements, and they would like to hear from any members of the public who might have seen her during the previous few days. The press were to be issued with a set of photographs Grace had chosen from the Bishops’ house, most of them from a montage of action pictures. One showed the dead woman in a bikini on a powerboat, another at the wheel of her convertible BMW, and in another she wore a long dress and a hat at a smart race meeting – Ascot or Epsom, Grace guessed.

He had chosen these photographs very carefully, knowing that they would appeal to news editors. They were the kind of pictures readers liked to feast their eyes on – the beautiful woman, the fast, glamorous lifestyle. With acres of column inches to fill, Grace knew they would be used. And wide coverage just might jog the memory of one key witness out there somewhere.

He slipped away quickly at the end, anxious to call Cleo before going into a further interview with Brian Bishop, which was scheduled for midday, leaving Dennis Ponds, the senior police public relations officer, to distribute the photographs. But only yards before reaching the security door leading through to the sanctuary of his office, he heard his name called out. He turned, and was irritated to see that the young Argus crime reporter, Kevin Spinella, had followed him.

‘What are you doing here?’ Grace said.

Spinella leaned against a wall, close to a display board on which was pinned a flow chart headed Murder Investigation Model, an insolent expression on his sharp face, chewing gum, holding his black notebook open and a pen in his hand. Today he had on a cheap, dark suit that he seemed to have not quite yet grown into, a white shirt that was also too big for him and a purple tie with a large, clumsy knot. His short hair had that fashionable, mussed, just-got-up look.

‘I wanted to ask you something in private, Detective Superintendent.’

Grace held his security card up to the lock. The latch clicked and he pulled open the door. ‘I’ve just said everything I have to say to the press at the conference. I’ve no further comment at this stage.’

‘I think you have,’ Spinella said, his smug expression irritating Grace even more now. ‘Something you omitted.’

‘Then speak to Dennis Ponds.’

‘I would have raised it at the conference,’ Spinella said, ‘But you wouldn’t have thanked me for it. The thing about the gas mask?’

Grace spun round, shocked, taking a step towards the reporter, letting the door click shut again behind him. ‘What did you say?’

‘I heard there was a gas mask discovered at the murder scene – that it might have been used by the killer – some kinky ritual or something?’

Grace’s brain raced. He was seething with anger, but venting it now wasn’t going to help. This had happened before. A couple of months back on another case, a vital piece of information about something found at a crime scene and withheld from the press – in that case a beetle – had been leaked to the Argus. Now it seemed it had happened again. Who was responsible? The problem was it could have been anyone. Although the information had been withheld from the press conference, half of Sussex Police would already know about it.

Instead of shouting at Spinella, Grace stared at the man, sizing him up. He was a smart lad and crime was clearly his thing. Quite likely in a year or two he would move on from this local paper to a bigger one, maybe to a national; there was nothing to be gained from making an enemy of him.

‘OK, I appreciate your not raising it at the conference.’

‘Is it true?’

‘Are we on the record or off?’

Spinella shrewdly closed his notepad. ‘Off.’

Grace hesitated, still wary of how much the man could be trusted. ‘There was a Second World War gas mask found at the scene, but we don’t know that it’s connected.’

‘And you’re keeping that quiet because only the real killer will know it was there?’

‘Yes. And it would be very helpful if you didn’t print anything about it – yet.’

‘So what would be in that for me?’ Spinella retorted instantly.

Grace found himself grinning at the young man’s cheek. ‘You trying to cut a deal?’

‘If I scratch your back now, it means you’ll owe me one. Some time in the future. I’ll bank it. Deal?’

Grace shook his head, grinning again. ‘You cheeky monkey!’

‘I’m glad we understand each other.’

Grace turned back to the door.

‘Just one quick thing,’ Spinella said. ‘Is it true that you and Assistant Chief Constable Alison Vosper don’t see eye to eye?’

‘Are we still off the record?’ Grace asked.

Spinella nodded, holding up the closed notebook.

‘No comment!’ Grace delivered his most acidic smile, and this time went through the door, closing it firmly behind him.

Ten minutes later, together with Branson, Grace sat down in one of the red, bucket-shaped chairs in the Witness Interview Suite, opposite a wretched-looking Brian Bishop. He had been driven over from his hotel by WPC Maggie Campbell, who was waiting outside.

Grace, his jacket off and wearing a short-sleeved shirt, placed his notebook down on the small coffee table, then dabbed perspiration off his forehead with his handkerchief. Branson, wearing a fresh white T-shirt tight as skin, thin blue jeans and trainers, seemed in a less desolate mood today.

‘OK if we record again, to save time, sir?’ Grace asked Bishop.

‘Whatever.’

Branson switched on the apparatus. ‘The time is three minutes past twelve p.m. Saturday 5 August. Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Branson interviewing Mr Brian Bishop.’

Grace took a sip of water, observing that Bishop was dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, apart from a different top – today a lime-green polo shirt. He was looking much more grief-stricken than yesterday, as if the reality of his loss had hit him. Perhaps yesterday he had been running on adrenaline from the shock, which sometimes happened. Grief affected everyone in different ways, but there were long-trodden stages most bereaved people went through. Shock. Denial. Anger. Sadness. Guilt. Loneliness. Despair. Gradual acceptance. And, Grace was aware, some of the coolest killers he had encountered had delivered Oscar-nominee performances of these.

He watched Bishop leaning forward in his chair, very intently stirring the coffee that Branson had brought him with a plastic paddle, and frowned as he clocked the sudden intense concentration on Bishop’s face. Was the man counting the number of times he stirred?

‘How’s your hand today?’ Grace asked.

Bishop raised his right hand until it was in plain view. Grace could see scabbing on the grazes. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘It’s better. Thank you.’

‘Are you normally an accident-prone person?’ Grace went on.

‘I don’t think so.’

Grace nodded, then fell silent. Branson shot him a quizzical glance which Grace ignored.

If Bishop had killed his wife, he could have incurred the wound in the process. Or he could have just injured his hand through clumsiness. Bishop did not look like a man who was normally clumsy. It was perfectly conceivable that, distraught with grief, he was making misjudgements, but there were other possible explanations for his injury. Most criminals became a bag of wired nerves in the hours following their crime.

Are you in a red mist, Mr Bishop?

‘What progress have you made?’ Brian Bishop suddenly asked in a croaky voice, looking at each of them in turn. ‘Have you any clue who might have done this?’

Yes, I have, and I’ve a feeling I’m looking at him, Grace thought, but ensured he did not let it show. ‘I’m afraid we’re not any further along than we were last night, sir. Have you had any more thoughts? Did you and Mrs Bishop have anyone you’d upset? Any enemies that you were aware of?’

‘No – not – not at all. Some people were jealous of us, I think.’

‘You think.’

‘Well, Katie and I – we – we are – were – you know – one of the city’s golden couples. I don’t mean that in a vulgar or boasting sense. Just a fact. Our lifestyle.’

‘Thrust upon you, was it?’ Grace couldn’t help himself saying, and caught Branson’s smirk.

Bishop gave him a humourless smile. ‘No, actually, it was our choice. Well – more Katie – she liked the limelight. Always had big social ambitions.’

A fly scudded erratically around the room. Grace followed its path for a few seconds before saying, ‘That rather distinctive Bentley you drive – was that your choice or did your wife choose it?’

Bishop shrugged. ‘My choice of car – but I think Katie had something to do with the colour – she really liked it.’

Grace smiled, trying to disarm him. ‘Very diplomatic of you, I’m sure. Women can get a bit negative about boys’ toys, if they’re not involved.’ He shot a pointed look. ‘And vice versa sometimes.’

The DS grimaced back at him.

Bishop scratched the back of his head. ‘Look – I – I need – I need some help from you – about – I need to make funeral arrangements – what do I do about that?’

Grace nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m afraid it will be up to the coroner when the body is released. But in the meantime it would be a good idea to engage an undertaker. Linda Buckley will be able to help you with that.’

Bishop stared down at his coffee, looking like a small, lost boy suddenly, as if talk of undertakers made it all too real for him to bear.

‘I just want to go back over a time sequence with you,’ Grace said, ‘to make sure I’ve got it right.’

‘Yes?’ Bishop gave him an almost pleading look.

Grace leaned towards the table and flicked back a few pages in his notebook. ‘You spent Thursday night in London, then you drove down to Brighton to play golf early on Friday morning.’ Grace turned back another page and read carefully for a moment. ‘At half past six yesterday morning, your concierge, Oliver Dowler, helped you load your golf clubs and your luggage into your car, you told us. That’s correct, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’d spent the night in London, after having dinner with your financial adviser, Mr Phil Taylor?’

‘Yes. He could vouch for that.’

‘He already has, Mr Bishop.’

‘Good.’

‘And your concierge has vouched that he helped you load your car at about six thirty in the morning.’

‘So he should.’

‘Indeed,’ Grace said. He studied his note pages again. ‘You are certain you didn’t go out anywhere in between having dinner with Mr Taylor and leaving in the morning?’

Brian Bishop hesitated, thinking about the bizarre phone conversation yesterday with Sophie, when she had been insisting that he slept with her after his dinner with Phil Taylor. That made no sense. There was no way on earth he could have driven an hour and a half down to her flat in Brighton, then back up to London again and not remembered.

Was there?

Looking at each police officer in turn, he said, ‘I didn’t. No. Absolutely not.’

Grace observed the man’s hesitation. Now wasn’t the moment to reveal the piece of information he had, that Bishop’s Bentley had been clocked by a camera heading towards Brighton at eleven forty-seven on Thursday night.

Grace had a number of detectives available to him in Sussex Police who were specifically trained in interviewing techniques and would put Bishop under pressure. He decided to hold back this nugget of information, so they could spring it on the man at the appropriate moment.

That interview process would begin when Grace decided to treat Bishop formally as a suspect. And he was fast approaching that decision.

47

On the two o’clock news on Southern Counties Radio, the murder of Katie Bishop remained the top story, as it had been on all of the bulletins he had caught throughout the past twenty-four hours. Each time he heard it, the story seemed a little more pepped up with carefully chosen words to make it increasingly glamorous. It was starting to sound like something from a soap opera, he thought.

Brighton socialite, Katie Bishop.

Wealthy businessman husband, Brian.

Millionaires’ row, Dyke Road Avenue.

The news presenter, whose name was Dick Dixon, sounded young, although he looked older in his photograph on the BBC website, craggier and very different from his voice. His picture was up on the screen now, quite mean-looking, like the actor Steve Buscemi in Reservoir Dogs. Not a person you’d want to mess with, though you’d never have guessed that from his friendly voice.

With the help of the editorial team behind him, Dick Dixon was trying his best to turn this bulletin, in which there were no fresh developments to report on the murder investigation, into one which gave the impression that a breakthrough was imminent. A sense of urgency was created by cutting to the taped voice of Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, from a press conference earlier today.

‘This is a particularly nasty crime,’ the Detective Superintendent said. ‘One in which the sanctity of a private home, protected by an elaborate alarm, was breached and a human life tragically and brutally destroyed. Mrs Bishop was a tireless worker for local charities and one of this city’s most popular citizens. We offer our deepest sympathy to her husband and all her family, and we will work around the clock to bring the evil creature who did this to justice.’

Evil creature.

As he listened to the officer, he sucked his hand. The pain was getting worse.

Evil creature.

There was noticeable swelling, he could see it clearly if he put his two hands together. And there was something else he did not like the look of: thin red lines seemed to be tracking out, away from the wound and up his wrist. He continued sucking hard, trying to draw out any poison that might be in there. A freshly brewed mug of tea sat on his desk. He stirred it, counting carefully.