Not Dead Enough

42

Grace noted that Bishop had changed out of the golfing clothes he had been wearing earlier. He now had on an expensive-looking black blouson jacket over a white shirt, blue trousers and tan loafers, without socks. He looked more like a playboy on a night out than a man in mourning, he thought.

As if reading Grace’s mind as he sat down uneasily on the red armchair in the cramped Witness Interview Suite, Bishop said, ‘My outfit was selected from my wardrobe by your family liaison officer, Linda Buckley. Not quite my choice for the circumstances. Can you tell me when I will be allowed back in my house?’

‘As soon as possible, Mr Bishop. In a couple of days, I hope,’ Grace replied.

Bishop sat bolt upright, furious. ‘What? This is ridiculous!’

Grace looked at a rather livid graze on the man’s right hand. Branson came in with three beakers of water, set them down on the table and closed the door, remaining standing.

Gently, Grace said, ‘It’s a crime scene, Mr Bishop. Police practice these days is to preserve a scene like this as much as possible. Please understand it’s in all our interests, to help catch the perpetrator.’

‘Do you have a suspect?’ Bishop asked.

‘Before I come on to that, would you mind if we record this interview? It will be quicker than if we have to write down notes.’

Bishop gave a thin, wintry smile. ‘Does that mean I’m a suspect?’

‘Not at all,’ Grace assured him.

Bishop signalled his assent with his hand.

Glenn Branson switched on the audio and video recorders, announcing clearly, as he sat down, ‘It is ten twenty p.m., Friday 4 August. Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Branson interviewing Mr Brian Bishop.’

‘Do – do you have a suspect?’ Bishop asked again.

‘Not yet,’ Grace replied. ‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have done this?’

Bishop gave a half-laugh, as if the question was just too ridiculous. His eyes shot to the left. ‘No. No, I don’t.’

Grace watched his eyes, remembering from earlier. To the left was truth mode. Bishop had answered just a little too quickly, and almost a little too good-humouredly for a bereaved man. He’d seen this kind of behaviour before, the cool, slick, rehearsed answer to the questions; the lack of emotion. Bishop was displaying the classic signs of a man who had committed a murder. But that did not mean he had. That laughter could equally well have been from nerves.

Then his eyes dropped to the man’s right hand. To the abrasion on the back of it, just in from his thumb; it looked recent. ‘You’ve hurt your hand,’ he said.

Bishop glanced at his hand, then gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I – er – bashed it getting into a taxi.’

‘Would that be the taxi you took from the Hotel du Vin to the Lansdowne Place Hotel?’

‘Yes, I – I was putting a bag in the boot.’

‘Nasty,’ Grace said, making a mental note to get the taxi driver to verify that. He also noted that Bishop’s eyes darted to the right. To construct mode. Which indicated he was lying.

‘It looks quite a bad graze. What did the driver say?’ Grace glanced at Branson, who nodded.

‘Did he give you any first aid or anything?’ Branson asked.

Bishop looked at each of them in turn. ‘What is it with you guys? It’s like the bloody Inquisition. I want to help you. What the hell’s a graze on my hand got to do with anything?’

‘Mr Bishop, in our work we ask an awful lot of questions. I’m afraid it’s what we do. It’s in our nature. I’ve had a long day, and so has DS Branson, and I’m sure you must be exhausted. Please bear with us and answer our questions, and we’ll all be able to leave here quicker. The more you can help us, the sooner we’ll be able to catch your wife’s killer.’ Grace took a gulp of water, then said gently, ‘We’re a little curious as to why you checked out of the Hotel du Vin and went to the Lansdowne Place. Could you explain your reasons?’

Bishop’s eyes moved as if he was tracking the path of an insect across the carpet. Grace followed his line of sight but could see nothing.

‘Why?’ Bishop suddenly looked up, staring at him intently. ‘What do you mean? I was told to move there.’

Now it was Grace’s turn to frown. ‘By whom?’

‘Well – by the police. By you, I presume.’

‘I’m not with you.’

Bishop opened his arms expansively. He gave a good impression of sounding genuinely surprised. ‘I was called in my room. The officer said that the Hotel du Vin was being staked out by the press and you were moving me.’

‘What was the name of the officer?’

‘I – I don’t remember. Umm – it may have been Canning? DS Canning?’

Grace looked at Branson. ‘Know anything about this?’

‘Nothing,’ Branson replied.

‘Was it a male or female officer?’ Grace asked.

‘Male.’

‘DS Canning was his name? Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Canning. DS Canning. I think it was DS. Definitely Canning.’

‘What exactly did this man say to you?’ Grace watched his eyes intently. They darted left again.

‘That you’d booked me a room at the Lansdowne Place. A cab would be outside the rear entrance, by the staff door at the rear of the kitchens. That I should take the fire escape stairs down there.’

Grace wrote down the name DS Canning on his pad. ‘Did this officer call you on your mobile or on the hotel phone?’

‘On the room phone,’ Bishop said after some moments’ thought.

Grace cursed silently. That would make it harder to verify or trace. The hotel’s switchboard could log the time of incoming calls, but not their numbers. ‘What time was this?’

‘About five thirty.’

‘You checked into the Lansdowne Place and then went out. Where did you go?’

‘I went for a walk along the seafront.’ Bishop pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. ‘Katie and I used to love it down there. She loved going on the beach. She was a keen swimmer.’ He paused and took a sip of water. ‘I needed to call my kids – they’re both abroad, on holiday. I . . .’ He lapsed into silence.

So did Roy Grace. There was no police officer called Canning on his team.

Excusing himself, the Detective Superintendent slipped out of the room and walked down the corridor to MIR One. It took him just a few clicks on a workstation keyboard to establish that there was no officer of that name in the entire Sussex police force.