Not Dead Enough

89

Brian Bishop sat alone in his silent cell, hunched forward on the edge of the bench that was also the bed. He could not remember ever feeling so low in his entire life. It seemed that half his world had been ripped away from him and the other half was turning against him. Even gentle, non-judgemental Robert Vernon had sounded less friendly than usual on the phone earlier. Why? Had word got round that he was damaged goods, to be left alone? Poisonous to touch?

Would it be Glenn and Barbara next? And the other couple he and Katie saw a lot of, Ian and Terrina? And the rest of the people he had once considered his friends?

His blue paper suit felt tight under the armpits and his toes could barely move inside the plimsolls, but he didn’t care. This was all a bad dream and some time soon he was going to wake up, and Katie would be all big smiles, sitting up in bed next to him, reading the Daily Mail gossip column, the page she always turned to first, a cup of tea beside her.

In his hands he held the yellow sheet he had been given, squinting at the blurred words, struggling to read them without his glasses.

SUSSEX POLICE

NOTICE OF RIGHTS AND ENTITLEMENT

REMEMEMBER YOUR RIGHTS

His cell door was opened suddenly by a pasty-faced man of about thirty, with no neck and the physique of a jelly baby, who looked as if he used to pump iron but had recently let his muscles run to fat. He was wearing the Reliance Security uniform of monogrammed white shirt with black epaulettes, black tie and black trousers, and was perspiring heavily.

He spoke in a courteous, slightly squeaky voice, avoiding eye contact, as if this was standard practice for addressing the scum behind the barred doors of this place. ‘Mr Bishop, your solicitor is here. I’ll take you through to him. Walk in front of me, please.’

Bishop walked as directed from behind, navigating a network of blank, cream corridors, the only relief on the walls being the continuous red panic strip set in a metal rim. Then he entered the interview room, which Branson and Nicholl had temporarily vacated, to allow him privacy with his lawyer.

Leighton Lloyd shook his hand and ushered him to a seat. He then checked that all the recording and monitoring equipment was switched off, before sitting back down himself.

‘Thank you for coming over,’ Bishop said.

The solicitor gave him a sympathetic smile, and Bishop found himself instantly warming to the man – although he knew that, at this moment, he would have probably warmed to Attila the Hun if he’d said he was here to help.

‘That’s my job,’ Lloyd said. ‘So, have you been treated all right?’

‘I don’t have much to compare with,’ Bishop said, attempting a stab of humour that bypassed the lawyer. ‘Actually, there’s one thing I’m really angry about – they took my reading glasses.’

‘Normal, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, great. So if I had contact lenses, I could keep those, but because I choose to have reading glasses, I’m now not able to read anything.’

‘I’ll do my best to get them back for you quickly.’ He noted this down in his book. ‘So, Mr Bishop, I’m conscious that it’s late and you are tired. The police want to conduct one interview tonight – we’ll keep it as brief as we can – then they’ll continue again tomorrow morning.’

‘How long am I going to be here? Can you get me out on bail?’

‘I can only apply for bail if you are charged. The police are entitled to keep you for twenty-four hours without charging you, and they can get a further twelve hours’ extension. After that they have to release you, charge you or go to court to apply for further time.’

‘So I could be in here until Wednesday morning?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

Bishop fell silent.

Lloyd held up a sheet of paper. ‘This is what’s called the Pre-Interview Disclosure document – it is a summary of the information the police are prepared to let us have at this stage. If you’re having problems reading, would you like me to read it aloud to you?’

Bishop nodded. He felt sick and so drained that he did not even have the will to speak.

The lawyer read out the contents, then expanded, filling him in on the little extra that he had been able to glean from DS Branson. ‘Is that all clear?’ he asked Bishop, when he had finished.

Bishop nodded again. Hearing the words was making everything worse. They sank like dark stones, deep into his soul. And his gloom deepened even more. He felt as if he was sitting at the bottom of the deepest mineshaft in the world.

For the next few minutes, Bishop was briefed on the questions he would probably be asked at his first interview, and how he should reply. The solicitor told him to speak economically and be helpful but to give short answers. If there were any questions that either of them felt were inappropriate, the solicitor would step in. He also asked Bishop about his health, whether he was up to the ordeal ahead, or whether he needed to see a doctor or to have any medication. Bishop told him he was fine.

‘There’s one final question I have to ask,’ Leighton Lloyd said. ‘Did you murder your wife?’

‘No. Absolutely not. That’s ridiculous. I loved her. Why would I kill her? No, I didn’t, I really didn’t. You have to believe me. I just don’t know what’s going on.’

The solicitor smiled. ‘OK. That’s good enough for me.’