Peter James - Not Dead Enough

‘She was already dead when she went into the water. I’m going to have to stop this p-m, I’m afraid. You’ll need to inform the coroner.’

A Home Office pathologist – probably Nadiuska De Sancha again – would have to take over the post-mortem. Unknown female was now elevated to the status of a suspicious death.

80

Roy Grace made a mental note to never again find himself closeted with Norman Potting in a small room on a hot day. They were seated next to each other in front of a video monitor in the cubicle-sized viewing room that adjoined the Witness Interview Suite. The late-afternoon sun was beating mercilessly against the closed venetian blinds of the one window and the air conditioning was useless. Grace was dripping with perspiration. Potting, in a white short-sleeve shirt, with wide, damp patches in the armpits, smelled like the inside of an old hat.

Further, the Detective Sergeant had eaten something heavily laced with garlic and his breath reeked of the stuff. Grace fished a pack of peppermint gum out of his jacket, on the back of his chair, and offered a piece to Potting in the hope he would chew it and spare him his death-breath.

‘Never touch it, Roy, thanks,’ he said. ‘Pulls my fillings out.’ He was fiddling with the controls, fast-rewinding a recording. Grace watched the screen, as Potting, Zafferone and a third man all walked backward out of the room, in speeded-up motion, disappearing through the door one at a time. Potting stopped the tape, then started it and each of the three men reappeared, walking in through the door this time. ‘Got yourself a MySpace profile yet, Roy?’ he asked, suddenly.

‘MySpace? I thought I was a bit old for a MySpace profile.’

Potting shook his head. ‘All ages. Anyhow, Li’s only twenty-four. She and I got a joint profile. Norma-Li. Geddit? She already has three Thai friends in England – one in Brighton. Good, don’t you think?’

‘Genius,’ Grace replied, his mind more on avoiding Potting’s breath than the conversation.

‘Mind you,’ Potting chuckled, ‘there’s some fancy-looking tottie on there. Phwwoaaah!’

‘Thought you were a happily married man now – with your new bride.’

For a moment, Potting looked genuinely happy, his pug-like face creased into a look of contentment. ‘She’s something, I tell you, Roy! Taught me some new tricks. Blimey! You ever had an Oriental woman?’

Grace shook his head. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He was trying to concentrate on the screen. Trying to put Sandy to the back of his mind and focus on his work. He had a massive responsibility on his shoulders, and how he handled events over the coming days could have a major impact on his career. He was aware, with the high profile of this case, that it wasn’t only Alison Vosper’s critical eyes that were focused on him.

On the screen a lean, angular man was lowering himself into one of the three red chairs in the Witness Interview Suite. He had a striking face, interesting rather than handsome, with untidy, tangled hair and a Dutch settler’s beard. He wore a baggy Hawaiian shirt hanging loose, blue jeans and leather sandals. His complexion was pale, as if he had spent too much of the summer indoors.

‘That’s Katie Bishop’s lover?’ Grace asked.

‘Yes,’ Potting replied. ‘Barty Chancellor.’

‘Poncy name,’ Grace said.

‘Poncy git,’ Potting replied, turning up the sound.

Grace watched the interview progress, with both detectives making frequent jottings in their notebooks. Despite his odd appearance, Chancellor spoke in an assured, faintly superior, public school accent, his body language relaxed and confident, the only hint of any nerves showing when he occasionally twisted a fabric bracelet on his wrist.

‘Did Mrs Bishop ever talk to you about her husband, Mr Chancellor?’ Norman Potting asked him.

‘Yes, of course she did.’

‘Did that give you a kick?’ Zafferone asked.

Grace smiled. The young, arrogant DC was doing exactly what he had hoped – winding Chancellor up.

‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ Chancellor asked.

Zafferone held his gaze. ‘Did you enjoy the knowledge that you were sleeping with a woman who was cheating on her husband?’

‘I’m here to help you with your inquiries in finding the killer of my darling Katie. I don’t think that question is relevant.’

‘We’ll be the judge of what’s relevant, sir,’ Zafferone replied coolly.

‘I came here voluntarily,’ Chancellor said, visibly riled now, his voice rising. ‘I don’t like your tone.’

‘I appreciate you must be very distressed, Mr Chancellor,’ Norman Potting cut in, speaking courteously, playing classic good cop to Zafferone’s bad . ‘I can understand something of what you must be going through. It would be very helpful if you could tell us a little bit about the nature of the relationship between Mr and Mrs Bishop.’

Chancellor toyed with his bracelet for some moments. ‘The man was a brute,’ he said suddenly.

‘In what way?’ Potting asked.

‘Did he beat Mrs Bishop up?’ Zafferone asked. ‘Was he violent?’

‘Not physically but mentally. He was very critical of her – the way she looked, the way she kept the house – he’s a bit of an obsessive. And he was extremely jealous – which was why she was extra careful. And . . .’ He fell silent for a moment, as if hesitating whether to add something. ‘Well – I don’t know if this is significant, but he’s quite kinky, she told me.’

‘In what way?’ Potting asked.

‘Sexually. He’s into bondage. Fetish stuff.’

‘What kind of stuff?’ Potting asked again.

‘Leather, rubber, that sort of thing.’

‘She told you all this?’ Zafferone asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Did that turn you on?’

‘What the hell kind of a question is that?’ Chancellor flared at him.

‘Did it excite you, when Katie told you about these things?’

‘I’m not some kind of a sick pervert, if that’s what you think,’ he retorted.

‘Mr Chancellor,’ Norman Potting said, playing good cop again. ‘I don’t suppose Mrs Bishop ever mentioned a gas mask to you?’

‘A what ?’

‘Did Mr Bishop’s fetishes ever include a gas mask, to the best of your knowledge?’

The artist thought for a moment. ‘I don’t – I – no – I don’t recall her mentioning a gas mask.’

‘Are you sure?’ Zafferone said.

‘It’s not the kind of thing you forget easily.’

‘You seemed to forget she was a married woman easily enough.’ Zafferone pushed his barb in.

‘I think it’s time I had my solicitor present,’ Chancellor said. ‘You are out of order.’

‘Did you kill Mrs Bishop?’ Zafferone asked coolly.

Chancellor looked fit to explode. ‘WHAT?’

‘I asked you if you killed Mrs Bishop.’

‘I loved her – we were going to spend the rest of our lives together – why on earth would I have killed her?’

‘You just said you wanted your solicitor present,’ Zafferone continued, like a Rottweiler. ‘In my experience, when people want their lawyer in the room it’s because they are guilty.’

‘I loved her very much. I—’ His voice began to crack. Suddenly he hunched forward, cradling his face in his hands, and began to sob.

Potting and Zafferone glanced at each other, waiting. Finally Barty Chancellor sat up, composing himself. ‘I’m sorry.’

Then Zafferone lobbed the question Grace had been desperate for one of them to ask. ‘Did Mr Bishop know about your relationship?’

‘Absolutely not.’

Norman Potting cut in again. ‘Mr Bishop is by all accounts a very bright man. You and Mrs Bishop had an affair that had been going on for over twelve months. Do you really think he had no inkling?’