Not Dead Enough (40 page)

‘Which is it, sir?’ Nicholl asked.

Bishop pointed to the wardrobe. ‘The camel-coloured one.’ Then he pointed to his mobile phone and his BlackBerry, on the bedside table. Nicholl patted down his jacket, then Branson allowed him to put it on, and cram his wallet, mobile phone, BlackBerry and a pair of reading glasses into the pockets. Then he asked him to put his hands behind his back again.

‘Look, do we really have to do this?’ Bishop pleaded. ‘It’s going to be so embarrassing for me. We’re going to walk through the hotel.’

‘We’ve arranged with the manager to go via a fire exit at the side. Is your hand all right, sir?’ Branson asked, clicking shut the first cuff.

‘It wouldn’t have a bloody plaster on it if it was all right,’ Bishop snapped back. Still looking around the room, he said, panicking suddenly, ‘My laptop?’

‘I’m afraid that’s going to be impounded, sir.’

Nick Nicholl picked up Bishop’s car keys. ‘Do you have a vehicle in the car park, Mr Bishop?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do. I could drive it – you could come with me.’

‘I’m afraid that’s going to be impounded too, for forensic testing,’ Branson said.

‘This is unbelievable,’ Bishop said. ‘This is unfucking believable!’

But he got no sympathy from either man. Their demeanour from when they had first broken the bad news to him last Friday morning had changed completely.

‘I need to make a quick call to the friends I’m having dinner with, to tell them I’m not coming.’

‘Someone will call them for you, from the Custody Centre.’

‘Yes, but they’re cooking dinner for me.’ He pointed at the hotel phone. ‘Please – let me call them. It’ll take thirty seconds.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Branson said, repeating himself like an automaton. ‘Someone will call them for you, from the Custody Centre.’

Suddenly Brian Bishop was scared.

84

Bishop sat next to DC Nicholl on the back seat of the grey, unmarked police Vectra. It was just past eight p.m., and the daylight beyond the car’s windows was still bright.

The city that was sliding by, playing like a silent movie projected on to the car’s windows, seemed different from the one he knew – and had known all his life. It was as if he was seeing the passing streets, houses, shops, trees, parks, for the first time. Neither officer spoke. The silence was broken only by the occasional crackle of static and a garbled burst from a controller’s voice on the two-way radio. He felt as if he was a stranger here, looking out at some parallel universe in which he did not belong.

They were slowing suddenly and turning in towards a green, reinforced-steel gate that had started to slide open. There was a high, spiked fence to the right and a tall, drab brick structure beyond.

They stopped beside a blue sign with white lettering displaying the words Brighton Custody Centre until a wide enough gap had opened. Then they drove on up a steep ramp, along past what looked like factory loading bays in the rear of the brick building, and made a left turn into one of them. Instantly, the interior of the car darkened. Bishop saw a closed green door directly in front of them, with a small viewing window.

DS Branson switched off the engine and climbed out, the weak roof light barely changing the gloom inside the vehicle. Then he opened the rear door and motioned Bishop to step out.

Bishop, his hands cuffed behind his back, worked his way awkwardly sideways, then swung his feet out of the car and down on to the concrete screed. Branson put a steadying hand on his arm to help him up. Moments later the green door slid open and Bishop was ushered through into a narrow, completely bare holding room, fifteen feet long by eight wide, with another green door with a viewing window at the far end.

There was no furniture in here at all, just a hard bench seat running its full length,

‘Take a seat,’ Glenn Branson said.

‘I’m happy to stand,’ Bishop said defiantly.

‘We may be a while.’

Bishop’s mobile phone began ringing. He struggled for a moment, as if forgetting his hands were cuffed. ‘Could one of you answer that for me?’

‘It’s not permitted, I’m afraid, sir,’ DC Nicholl said, fishing it out of his pocket and terminating the call. The young detective studied the phone for some moments, then switched it off and returned it to Bishop’s pocket.

Brian Bishop stared at a laminated plastic notice that was fixed to the wall by four strips of Sellotape. It was headed, in blue letters, CRIMINAL JUSTICE DEPARTMENT. Beneath was written:

ALL DETAINED PERSONS WILL BE THOROUGHLY SEARCHED BY THE CUSTODY OFFICER. IF YOU HAVE ANY PROHIBITED ITEMS ON YOUR PERSON OR IN YOUR PROPERTY TELL THE CUSTODY AND ARRESTING OFFICERS NOW.

Then he read another sign, above the second green door:

NO MOBILE PHONES TO BE USED IN THE CUSTODY AREA.

A third notice said:

YOU HAVE BEEN ARRESTED. YOU WILL HAVE YOUR FINGERPRINTS, PHOTOGRAPH, DNA TAKEN RIGHT AWAY.

The two detectives sat down. Bishop remained standing. Anger was raging inside him. But, he reasoned, he was dealing with two robots. There was nothing to be gained by losing his rag. He just had to ride this out, for the moment. ‘Can you tell me what all this is about?’ he was addressing both of them.

But the door was sliding open as he spoke. Branson walked through. DC Nicholl gestured with his hand for Bishop to follow. ‘This way please, sir.’

Bishop entered a large, circular room, dominated by an elevated central pod like a command centre that could have been a set for Star Trek, he thought, surprised by how futuristic it looked. It was constructed from a shiny, speckled grey composite that reminded him of the granite work surfaces Katie had chosen for their insanely expensive kitchen. Several men and women, some police officers and some Reliance Security staff, dressed in uniform white shirts with black epaulettes, manned individual workstations around the pod. Around the outside of the intensely brightly lit room were heavy-duty green doors, with some internal windows looking on to waiting rooms.

There was an air of quiet, orderly calm. Bishop noticed the pod had been designed with extended arms in front of each workstation, to create an area affording some privacy. A tattooed, shaven-headed youth in baggy clothes stood dejectedly, between two uniformed police officers, in one of them now. It all felt totally surreal.

Then he was escorted across to the central console, into a marbled portioned space, with a counter that was neck-high. Behind it sat a plump, crew-cut man in shirt sleeves. His black tie was clipped with a gold English Rugby Team pin that Bishop, who was a debenture holder at Twickenham, recognized.

On a blue video monitor screen, set into the face of the counter, just below his eye level, Bishop read:

BRIGHTON DETAINEE HANDLING CENTRE DON’T LET PAST OFFENCES COME BACK TO HAUNT YOU. A POLICE OFFICER WILL SPEAK TO YOU ABOUT ADMITTING OTHER CRIMES YOU HAVE COMMITTED.

Branson outlined to the custody officer the circumstances of Bishop’s arrest. Then the shirt-sleeved man was speaking directly, from his elevated seating position, down at him, in a flat voice devoid of emotion. ‘Mr Bishop, I am the custody officer. You have heard what has been said. I’m satisfied that your arrest is lawful and necessary. I am authorizing your detention for the purpose of securing and preserving evidence and so you can be interviewed regarding the allegation.’

Bishop nodded, lost for the moment for a reply.

The custody officer handed him a folded yellow A4 sheet, headed, SUSSEX POLICE, Notice of Rights and Entitlements.

‘You may find this helpful, sir. You have the right to have someone informed of your arrest, and to see a solicitor. Would you like us to provide you with a duty solicitor or do you have your own?’

‘Can you please phone Mr Glenn Mishon and tell him that I won’t be able to come to dinner tonight?’

‘May I have his number?’

Bishop gave it to him. Then he said, ‘I would like to speak to my own solicitor, Robert Vernon, at Ellis, Cherril and Ansell.’

‘I will make those calls,’ the custody officer said. ‘In the meantime, I am authorizing your arresting officer, Detective Sergeant Branson, to search you.’ The custody officer then produced two green plastic trays.

To his horror, Bishop saw DS Branson pulling on a pair of latex surgical gloves. Branson began patting him down, starting with his head. From Bishop’s breast pocket, the DS removed his reading glasses and placed them in one tray.

‘Hey! I need those – I can’t read without them!’ Bishop said.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Branson replied. ‘I have to remove these for your own safety.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘It may be at a later stage that the custody officer will allow you to keep them with you, but for now they need to go into your property bag,’ Branson replied.

‘Don’t be fucking stupid! I’m not about to kill myself! And how the hell am I supposed to read this document without them?’ he said, flapping the A4 sheet at him.

‘If you have reading difficulties, I’ll arrange for someone to read it aloud to you, sir.’

‘Look, come on, let’s be reasonable about this!’

Ignoring Bishop’s repeated pleas to have his glasses returned, Branson removed the man’s hotel key, wallet, mobile phone and BlackBerry, placing each object in turn in a tray. The custody officer noted each item, counting the amount of cash in the wallet and writing that down separately.

Branson removed Bishop’s wedding band, his Marc Jacobs wristwatch and a copper bracelet from his right wrist, and placed those in a tray also.

Then the custody officer handed Bishop a form, listing his possessions, and a biro to sign with.

‘Look,’ Bishop said, signing with clear reluctance, ‘I’m happy to come in here and help you with your inquiries. But this is ridiculous. You’ve got to leave me with the tools of my trade. I must have email and my phone and my glasses, for God’s sake!’

Ignoring him, Glenn Branson said to the custody officer, ‘In view of the gravity of the offence and the suspect’s potential involvement, we are asking to seize this person’s clothing.’

‘Yes, I authorize that,’ the custody officer said.

‘What the fuck?’ Bishop shouted. ‘What do you—’

With each of them holding one of his arms, Branson and Nicholl escorted him away from the console and out through yet another dark green door. They walked up a sloping floor, with dark cream walls on either side, and a red panic strip running the whole length on the left, past a yellow bollard printed with a warning triangle showing a figure falling over, and in large letters the words Cleaning in Progress. Then they rounded a corner into the corridor containing the custody cells.

And now as he saw the row of cell doors, Bishop began to panic. ‘I – I’m claustrophobic. I—’

‘There’ll be someone to keep an eye on you round the clock, sir,’ Nick Nicholl said gently.

They stepped to one side to allow a woman pushing a trolley laden with dog-eared paperbacks to pass, then stopped outside a cell door that was partially open.

Glenn Branson pushed it wider open and went through. Nicholl, holding Bishop’s arm firmly, followed.

The first thing that struck Bishop as he entered was the overpowering, sickly smell of disinfectant. He stared around the small, oblong room, bewildered. Stared at the cream walls, the brown floor, the same hard bench as in the holding room, topped in the same fake granite surface as in the pod outside, and a thin blue mattress on top of that. He stared at the barred, borrowed-light window with no view at all, at the observation mirror, out of reach on the ceiling, that was angled towards the door, and at the CCTV camera, also out of reach, pointing down at him as if he was a participant in Big Brother.

There was a modern-looking lavatory, with more fake granite for the seat and a flush button on the wall, and a surprisingly modern-looking washbasin, finished in the same speckled material. He noticed an intercom speaker grille with two control knobs, an air vent covered in mesh, the glass panel in the door.

Christ. He felt a lump in his throat.

DC Nicholl was holding a bundle in his arm, which he began to unfold. Bishop saw it was a blue paper jump-suit. A young man in his twenties, dressed in a white shirt bearing the Reliance Security emblem and black trousers, came to the doorway holding a clutch of brown evidence bags, which he handed to DS Branson. Then Branson closed the cell door.

‘Mr Bishop,’ he said, ‘please remove all your clothes, including your socks and underwear.’

‘I want my solicitor.’

‘He is being contacted.’ He pointed at the intercom grille. ‘As soon as the custody officer reaches him, he’ll be patched through to you here.’

Bishop began stripping. DC Nicholl placed each item inside a separate evidence bag; even each sock had its own bag. When he was stark naked, Branson handed him the paper jump-suit and a pair of black, slip-on plimsolls.

Just as he got the jump-suit on and buttoned up, the intercom crackled sharply into life and he heard the calm, assured but concerned voice of Robert Vernon.

With a mixture of relief and embarrassment, Bishop padded over in his bare feet. ‘Robert!’ he said. ‘Thanks for calling me. Thank you so much.’

‘Are you all right?’ his solicitor asked.

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Look, Brian, I imagine this is very distressing for you. I’ve had a little bit of a briefing from the custody officer, but obviously I don’t have all the facts.’

‘Can you get me out of here?’

‘I’ll do everything I can for you as your friend, but I’m not an expert in this area of law and you must have an expert. We don’t really have anyone in my firm. The best chap down here is someone I know. His name’s Leighton Lloyd. Very good reputation.’

‘How quickly can you get hold of him, Robert?’ Bishop was suddenly aware that he was alone in the cell and the door had been closed.

‘I’m going to try right away and hope he’s not on holiday. The police want to start interviewing you tonight. So far, they’ve just brought you in for questioning, so they can only hold you for twenty-four hours, I think it is, with another possible twelve-hour extension. Don’t speak to anyone or do or say anything until Leighton gets to you.’