Peter James - Not Dead Enough

‘What the fuck?’ Bishop shouted. ‘What do you—’

With each of them holding one of his arms, Branson and Nicholl escorted him away from the console and out through yet another dark green door. They walked up a sloping floor, with dark cream walls on either side, and a red panic strip running the whole length on the left, past a yellow bollard printed with a warning triangle showing a figure falling over, and in large letters the words Cleaning in Progress. Then they rounded a corner into the corridor containing the custody cells.

And now as he saw the row of cell doors, Bishop began to panic. ‘I – I’m claustrophobic. I—’

‘There’ll be someone to keep an eye on you round the clock, sir,’ Nick Nicholl said gently.

They stepped to one side to allow a woman pushing a trolley laden with dog-eared paperbacks to pass, then stopped outside a cell door that was partially open.

Glenn Branson pushed it wider open and went through. Nicholl, holding Bishop’s arm firmly, followed.

The first thing that struck Bishop as he entered was the overpowering, sickly smell of disinfectant. He stared around the small, oblong room, bewildered. Stared at the cream walls, the brown floor, the same hard bench as in the holding room, topped in the same fake granite surface as in the pod outside, and a thin blue mattress on top of that. He stared at the barred, borrowed-light window with no view at all, at the observation mirror, out of reach on the ceiling, that was angled towards the door, and at the CCTV camera, also out of reach, pointing down at him as if he was a participant in Big Brother .

There was a modern-looking lavatory, with more fake granite for the seat and a flush button on the wall, and a surprisingly modern-looking washbasin, finished in the same speckled material. He noticed an intercom speaker grille with two control knobs, an air vent covered in mesh, the glass panel in the door.

Christ . He felt a lump in his throat.

DC Nicholl was holding a bundle in his arm, which he began to unfold. Bishop saw it was a blue paper jump-suit. A young man in his twenties, dressed in a white shirt bearing the Reliance Security emblem and black trousers, came to the doorway holding a clutch of brown evidence bags, which he handed to DS Branson. Then Branson closed the cell door.

‘Mr Bishop,’ he said, ‘please remove all your clothes, including your socks and underwear.’

‘I want my solicitor.’

‘He is being contacted.’ He pointed at the intercom grille. ‘As soon as the custody officer reaches him, he’ll be patched through to you here.’

Bishop began stripping. DC Nicholl placed each item inside a separate evidence bag; even each sock had its own bag. When he was stark naked, Branson handed him the paper jump-suit and a pair of black, slip-on plimsolls.

Just as he got the jump-suit on and buttoned up, the intercom crackled sharply into life and he heard the calm, assured but concerned voice of Robert Vernon.

With a mixture of relief and embarrassment, Bishop padded over in his bare feet. ‘Robert!’ he said. ‘Thanks for calling me. Thank you so much.’

‘Are you all right?’ his solicitor asked.

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Look, Brian, I imagine this is very distressing for you. I’ve had a little bit of a briefing from the custody officer, but obviously I don’t have all the facts.’

‘Can you get me out of here?’

‘I’ll do everything I can for you as your friend, but I’m not an expert in this area of law and you must have an expert. We don’t really have anyone in my firm. The best chap down here is someone I know. His name’s Leighton Lloyd. Very good reputation.’

‘How quickly can you get hold of him, Robert?’ Bishop was suddenly aware that he was alone in the cell and the door had been closed.

‘I’m going to try right away and hope he’s not on holiday. The police want to start interviewing you tonight. So far, they’ve just brought you in for questioning, so they can only hold you for twenty-four hours, I think it is, with another possible twelve-hour extension. Don’t speak to anyone or do or say anything until Leighton gets to you.’

‘What happens if he’s away?’ he asked, panicky.

‘There are some other good people. Don’t worry.’

‘I want the best, Robert. The very best. Money’s no object. It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t be here. It’s absolutely insane. I don’t know what the hell’s going on.’

‘I’d better jump off the line, Brian,’ the solicitor said, a little tersely. ‘I need to get cracking for you.’

‘Of course.’ Bishop thanked him, then the intercom fell silent. He realized he was alone now and the door had been shut.

The cell was completely silent, as if he were in a soundproof box.

He sat down on the blue mattress and pushed his feet into the plimsolls. They were too tight and pinched his toes. Something was bothering him about Robert Vernon. Why wasn’t the man sounding more sympathetic? From his tone just now, it was almost as if he had been expecting this to happen.

Why?

The door opened and he was led into a room where he was photographed, his fingerprints were taken on an electronic pad and a DNA swab was taken from the inside of his mouth. Then he was returned to his cell.

And his bewildered thoughts.

85

For some officers, a career in the police force meant a constant, not always predictable series of changes. You could be moved from a uniform beat patrol one day to the Local Support Unit the next, executing arrest warrants and dealing with riots, then into plain clothes as a covert drug squad officer, then out at Gatwick airport, seconded to baggage crimes. Others found their niche, the way a snake finds its hole, or a squid finds its crevice in a sea wall, and stayed put in it all the way through their thirty years to retirement and, the bait on the hook, a very decent pension, thank you.

Detective Sergeant Jane Paxton was one of those who had found their niche and stayed in it. She was a large, plain-faced woman of forty, with lank brown hair and a brusque, no nonsense attitude, who worked as an interview coordinator.

She had endeared herself to the entire female staff of Sussex House some years ago, legend had it, when she slapped Norman Potting on the face. Depending on who you talked to, there were half a dozen versions of what had happened. The one that Grace had heard was that Potting had put his hand on her thigh under the table during a meeting with the previous Chief Constable.

DS Paxton was now sitting opposite Grace at the round table in his office, wearing a loose-fitting blouse so voluminous it gave the appearance that her head was sticking out of the top of a tent. On either side of her sat Nick Nicholl and Glenn Branson. DS Paxton was drinking water. The three men were drinking coffee. It was eight thirty on Monday evening and all four of them knew they would be lucky to get out of the CID headquarters before midnight.

While Brian Bishop was alone, contemplating his navel in his custody block cell, awaiting the arrival of his solicitor, the team were creating their interview policy for Bishop’s interrogation. Branson and Nicholl, who had both received specialist training in interviewing techniques, would carry out the series of interviews. Roy Grace and Jane Paxton would watch from an observation room.

The textbook procedure was to put suspects through three consecutive, strategized interviews within the twenty-four-hour period they could hold the person in custody. The first, which would take place tonight after the suspect’s solicitor had arrived, would be mostly Bishop talking, setting down his facts. He would be encouraged to establish his story, his family background, and give an account of his movements during the twenty-four hours immediately before his wife’s death.