Peter James - Not Dead Enough

‘We were very careful – and, besides, he was away in London most weekdays.’

‘Perhaps he knew and never said anything,’ Zafferone suggested.

‘Possibly,’ Chancellor conceded grudgingly. ‘But I don’t think so – I mean, Katie was sure he didn’t know.’

Zafferone flicked back some pages in his notebook. ‘You said earlier that you have no alibi for the time when Mrs Bishop left your house and the estimated time, perhaps less than an hour later, when she was killed.’

‘Correct.’

‘You fell asleep.’

‘It was nearly midnight. We’d been making love. Perhaps you’ve never tried making love? You’ll find out if you do that it can make you sleepy.’ He glared at Zafferone.

Grace was making some mental notes himself. The affair had been going on for twelve months. Six months ago Brian Bishop had taken out a three-million-pound insurance policy on his wife’s life. He had a history of violence. What if he had found out about the affair?

Chancellor had said that he and Katie were planning to spend the rest of their lives together. This was more than just a fling. Perhaps Bishop couldn’t bear the thought of losing his wife.

All the right boxes were getting ticked. The man had a motive.

Maybe he had planned this carefully for many months. The perfect alibi in London, except for one small slip-up that he wasn’t even aware of. The photograph of his car from the hidden camera near Gatwick airport.

Grace watched the interview continue, Zafferone winding Chancellor up more and more. Sure, this artist was a possible suspect. He had clearly been desperately in love with the woman. Enough to kill her if she dumped him? Perhaps. Smart enough to murder her and set it up so it looked like her husband had done it? It could not be discounted. But at this moment the weight of the evidence seemed to be stacking up solidly against Brian Bishop.

He looked at his watch. It was five fifteen. He had brought the video of the man in the Accident and Emergency waiting room from the Royal Sussex County Hospital CCTV straight to the film unit here at Sussex House for enhancement. He just had time now to go down and see how they were getting on, before his team meeting with Kim Murphy and Brendan Duigan to prepare for the six-thirty joint briefing.

On the hospital’s low-grade recording, it was hard to make out the man’s features, because his face was so extensively obscured by his long hair, dark glasses, moustache and beard. With the technology they had here, they would be able to sharpen the image considerably. As he stepped out into the corridor, his phone rang. It was DS Bella Moy, talking excitedly through what sounded like a mouthful of Maltesers. The DNA test results on Katie Bishop were back.

When she told him what they showed, he punched the air for joy.

81

There was no air conditioning in Robert Vernon’s office, on the second floor of a fine Queen Anne house in Brighton’s Lanes, with a view straight down a narrow street of flint-walled houses to the seafront. The din from a road-drilling machine outside came straight in through the open windows, worsening the headache that Brian Bishop had woken with this morning, after yet another virtually sleepless night.

It was a pleasant, airy office, with much of the wall space taken up by shelves crammed full of legal tomes and by filing cabinets. Two fine old Brighton prints hung on the pastel-blue walls, one showing the chain pier, the other a view of the Old Steine. Piles of correspondence were stacked on the desk and some on the floor.

‘Forgive the mess please, Brian,’ Vernon said, ever courteous. ‘Just back from holiday this morning – not quite sure where to begin!’

‘I often wonder if it’s even worth going on holiday,’ Bishop said, ‘because of all the bloody paperwork you have to clear before you go, and the stuff that’s waiting when you come back.’

He stirred his delicate china cup of tea seven times, staring at a framed colour photograph of Vernon’s wife, Trish, on the window ledge behind the desk. An attractive, fair-haired woman, she was in golfing attire, posing by a tee. Next to it was another silver frame, with three oval holes, each containing the smiling face of one of the Vernons’ young children. Taken many years ago, Bishop realized, because they were all in their teens now. It was all right for Vernon, he suddenly thought bitterly. All his family were fine. His whole world was fine. It didn’t matter what problems any client dragged in here. He would study the facts, dispense his advice, watch them drag it all back out of the door again behind them, then jump into his Lexus and head off to the golf course with a sunny smile on his face.

The man, who was approaching his mid-sixties, had an elegant, courtly charm. His silver hair was always neat, his clothes conservative and immaculate, and his whole manner exuded an air of wisdom and confidence. He had been Bishop’s family solicitor forever, it seemed. He had handled all the formalities following the death of Bishop’s father, then his mother. It was Vernon whom Brian Bishop had turned to when, on going through the papers in his mother’s bureau in her bedroom soon after her death, nearly five years ago, he had discovered something that had been kept from him throughout his life. That he was adopted.

It was Vernon who had dissuaded him from embarking on the journey to discover his birth parents. Bishop had had a charmed childhood, Vernon had told him. Doting adoptive parents, who had married too late to have children of their own, had totally indulged him and his sister, who had followed two years later – but died tragically of meningitis when she was thirteen.

They had been comfortably off, and they’d brought him up in a pleasant, detached house overlooking Hove recreation ground, stretching their finances to educate him at a private school, taking him abroad on holidays, and buying him a small car the moment he passed his driving test. Bishop had loved them both very much, as well as most of their relatives. He had been deeply upset when his father died, but it was worse after his mother died. Despite the fact that he had been married to Katie for only a few months, he suddenly felt desperately lonely. Very lost.

Then he had found that document in his mother’s bureau.

But Vernon had calmed him down. He pointed out that Bishop’s parents had kept it from him because they thought it was in his best interests. They had wanted only to give him love and security, for him to enjoy the present and be strong for the future. They’d been worried that by telling him, they might pitch him into a life of turmoil, searching for a past that might no longer exist – or, worse, be very different from how he would have wanted it.

Vernon had agreed with him that this was an old-fashioned view, but that it had validity nonetheless. Brian was doing well in life, he was confident – outwardly at least – successful and reasonably content. Sure there could be big emotional rewards in finding one or both of his birth parents, but equally it could be a profoundly unsettling experience. What if he was really dismayed by the kind of people they were? Or if they just rejected him?

Yet the nagging desire to find out about his background got stronger all the time. And it was fuelled by the knowledge that, with each passing year, the chance of one or both of his birth parents still being alive diminished.

‘I’m just so sorry about the news, Brian – and that I couldn’t see you earlier today. I had to be in court.’

‘Of course, Robert. No problem. I’ve had a load of business stuff to deal with. It kept my mind occupied.’

‘It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Bishop did not know whether to say anything about Sophie Harrington. He desperately wanted to open up to someone, but at the same it didn’t feel right, not now, not at this moment.