Peter James - Not Dead Enough

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.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

Dick Dixon was speaking again now, talking about a growing protest movement over a proposed third terminal at Gatwick airport. A local MP’s voice came on, launching a savage attack.

Evil creature.

He stood up, fuming, and stepped away from his workstation, threading his way across the basement floor through stacks of computer equipment, piles of motoring magazines and motor car workshop manuals, towards the grimy bay window that was protected by net curtains. No one could see in, but he could see out. Looking up from his lair , as he liked to call it, he saw a pair of shapely legs cross his eye-line, striding by on the pavement, along the railings. Long, bare, brown legs, firm and muscular, with a mini-skirt that barely covered her bits.

He felt a prick of lust, then immediately felt bad about that.

Terrible.

Evil creature.

He knelt down on the spot, on the thin, faded carpet that smelled of dust, cupped his face in his hands and recited the Lord’s Prayer. When he had reached the end, he continued with a further prayer: ‘Dear God, please forgive my lustful thoughts. Please do not let them stand in my way. Please don’t let me squander all the time you have graciously given me on these thoughts.’