Not Dead Enough

67

In the Witness Interview Suite, Glenn Branson switched on the audio and video recorders announcing clearly as he sat down, ‘It is twenty-one twelve, Sunday 6 August. Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Branson interviewing Mr Brian Bishop.’

The CID headquarters were becoming depressingly familiar to Bishop. The walk up the entrance stairs, past the displays of police truncheons on blue felt boards, then through the open-plan offices and the cream-walled corridors lined with diagrams, and into this tiny room with its three red chairs.

‘This is starting to feel like Groundhog Day,’ he said.

‘Great movie,’ Branson commented. ‘Best thing Bill Murray did. I preferred it to Lost in Translation.’

Bishop had seen Lost in Translation and was starting to empathize with the character Murray played in that movie, wandering sleep-deprived through an unfamiliar world. But he wasn’t in any mood to start discussing films. ‘Are your people finished in my house yet? When can I move back in?’

‘I’m afraid it will be a few days yet,’ Grace said. ‘Thank you for coming up here tonight. I apologize for disrupting your Sunday evening.’

‘That’s almost funny,’ Bishop said acidly. He nearly added, but didn’t, that it hadn’t been any great hardship to escape from the grim misery of his in-laws and Frank’s sales pitch for his new business venture. ‘What news do you have for me?’

‘I’m afraid we have nothing further to report at this stage, but we are expecting results from DNA analysis back during tomorrow and that may give us something. But we have some questions that our investigations have thrown up, if that’s all right with you?’

‘Go ahead.’

Grace noted Bishop’s apparent tetchiness. It was a considerable change from his sad, lost-looking state at their last interview. But he was experienced enough not to read anything into it. Anger was one of the natural stages of grief, and a bereaved person was capable of lashing out at anyone.

‘Could you start, Mr Bishop, by explaining the nature of your business?’

‘My company provides logistical systems. We design the software, install it and run it. Our core business is rostering.’

‘Rostering?’ Grace saw that Branson was frowning also.

‘I’ll give you an example. An aeroplane that should be taking off from Gatwick, for instance, gets delayed for some reason – mechanical, bad weather, whatever – and cannot take off until the following day. Suddenly the airline is faced with finding overnight accommodation for three hundred and fifty passengers. It also has a knock-on series of problems – other planes in the wrong places, the crew schedules all mucked up, with some crew going over their permitted working hours, meals, compensations. Passengers having to be put on different flights to make connections. All that kind of stuff.’

‘So you are a computer man?’

‘I’m a businessman. But yes, I have a pretty good grasp of computing. I have a degree in cognitive sciences – from Sussex University.’

‘It’s successful, I presume?’

‘We made the Sunday Times list of the hundred fastest-growing companies in Britain last year,’ Bishop said. There was a trace of pride beneath his gloom.

‘I hope all this won’t have a negative impact on you.’

‘It doesn’t really matter any more, does it?’ he said bleakly. ‘Everything I did was for Katie. I—’ His voice faltered. He pulled out a handkerchief and buried his face in it. Then suddenly, in a burst of rage, he shouted out, ‘Please catch the bastard. This creep! This absolutely fucking—’ He broke down in tears.

Grace waited some moments, then asked, ‘Would you like a drink of anything?’

Bishop shook his head, sobbing.

Grace continued to wait until he had calmed down.

‘I’m sorry,’ Bishop said, wiping his eyes.

‘You don’t need to apologize, sir.’ Grace gave him a little more time, then asked, ‘How would you describe your relationship with your wife?’

‘We loved each other. It was good. I think we complement—’ He stopped, then said heavily, ‘Complemented each other.’

‘Had you had any arguments recently?’

‘No, I can honestly say we hadn’t.’

‘Was there anything bothering your wife? Troubling her?’

‘Apart from maxing out her credit cards?’

Both Grace and Branson gave thin smiles, uncertain whether this was a lame stab at humour.

‘Could you tell us what you did today, sir?’ Grace said, changing tack.

He lowered the handkerchief. ‘What I did today?’

‘Yes.’

‘I spent the morning trying to deal with my emails. Phoned my secretary, going through a list of meetings that I needed her to cancel. I was meant to be flying to the States on Wednesday, to see a possible new client in Houston, and I got her to cancel that. Then I had lunch with a friend of mine and his wife – I went round to their house.’

‘They could vouch for that?’

‘Jesus! Yes.’

‘You’ve had a dressing put on your hand.’

‘My friend’s wife is a nurse – she thought it ought to be covered.’ Bishop shook his head. ‘What is this? Are we back to the Spanish Inquisition again?’

Branson raised both hands. ‘We’re just concerned for your welfare, sir. People in a state of bereavement can overlook things. That’s all.’

Grace would have loved to have told Bishop at this point that the taxi driver, in whose taxi he claimed to have injured his hand, remembered Bishop clearly but had absolutely no recollection of his hurting himself. But he wanted to keep his powder dry on this one for later. ‘Only a couple more questions, Mr Bishop, then we can call it a day.’ He smiled, but received a blank stare back.

‘Does the name Sophie Harrington mean anything to you?’

‘Sophie Harrington?’

‘A young lady who lives in Brighton and works in London for a film production company.’

‘Sophie Harrington? No,’ he said decisively. ‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘You’ve never heard of this young lady?’ Grace persisted.

Both Grace and Branson clocked his hesitation.

‘I haven’t, no.’

The man was lying, Grace knew. The swing of his eyes towards construct had been unmistakable. Twice.

‘Should I know her?’ he asked clumsily, fishing.

‘No,’ Grace responded. ‘Just a question, on the off-chance. The last thing I’d like to talk to you about tonight is a life insurance policy you took out for Mrs Bishop.’

Bishop shook his head, looking genuinely astonished. Or making a good act of it.

‘Six months ago, sir,’ Grace said. ‘You took out a life insurance policy with HSBC bank, in your wife’s name, for the amount of three million pounds.’

Bishop grinned inanely, shaking his head vigorously. ‘No way. I’m sorry, I don’t believe in life insurance. I’ve never taken out a policy in my life!’

Grace studied him for some moments. ‘Can I get this straight, sir? You are telling me that you didn’t take out any life insurance policy on Mrs Bishop?’

‘Absolutely not!’

‘There’s one in place. I suggest you take a look at your bank statements. You are paying for it in monthly instalments.’

Bishop shook his head, looking stunned.

And this time, from the movement of his eyes, Grace saw that he was not lying.

‘I don’t think I should say any more,’ Bishop said. ‘Not without my solicitor present.’

‘That’s probably a good idea, sir.’