Peter James - Not Dead Enough

Leighton Lloyd looked up at Branson and Nicholl. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I hope you are now going to release my client.’

‘I’m afraid, sir, that following inquiries made last night, we have sufficient evidence to charge your client.’

Bishop’s whole body sagged; his mouth fell open and he turned to his solicitor, bewildered.

Leighton Lloyd jumped to his feet. ‘What about my client’s alibi?’

‘Everything has been looked into,’ Branson said.

‘This is preposterous!’ the solicitor protested. ‘My client has been completely open with you. He’s answered everything you’ve asked him.’

‘That will be noted at trial,’ Branson responded. Then, cutting to the chase, he addressed Bishop directly. ‘Brian Desmond Bishop, you are charged that on or about 4 August of this year, at Brighton in the county of East Sussex, you did unlawfully kill Katherine Margaret Bishop. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is that clear?’

Bishop glanced at his solicitor again, then back at Branson. ‘Yes.’ The word came out as a whisper.

Branson turned to Leighton Lloyd. ‘We will be making arrangements to put your client before Brighton Magistrates’ Court at two o’clock this afternoon, when we will be requesting a remand in custody.’

‘We will be making an application for bail,’ Lloyd said resolutely, then shot a comforting smile at Bishop. ‘My client is an upstanding member of the community and a pillar of society. I’m sure that he would be prepared to surrender his passport, and he is in a position to offer a substantial surety.’

‘That will be for the magistrates to decide,’ Branson replied. Then he and Nick Nicholl returned to Sussex House, leaving Bishop in the hands of his lawyer and his jailer.

104

After the CPS solicitor had departed, Grace made an internal call to his friend and colleague Brian Cook, the Scientific Support Branch Manager, and asked him what he knew about the burnt-out MG that had been taken to the police pound last night.

‘Haven’t allocated that to anyone from SOCO yet, Roy,’ he said. ‘Got so many people on holiday, everyone here is worked off their feet on the two murder cases. Why, do you think there’s a link?’

‘No, I’m just curious about what happened.’ Despite indiscretions by Glenn Branson, his relationship with Cleo Morey was not yet public knowledge and Grace was happy to keep it that way, worried that some people, for whatever reason, might look on it as unprofessional.

‘I understand it belonged to Cleo Morey at the mortuary,’ Cook said.

Grace was unsure if there was deliberate innuendo in the man’s voice or not. Then, dispelling any doubt, Cook added, with very definite innuendo now, ‘She’s your friend, isn’t she?’

‘We’re friendly , yes.’

‘So I hear. Good on you! Look, I’ll keep you posted. We’ve got an officer in hospital, and I gather there’s a man connected with it who’s on life support, so I’m going to have to do a full report. Just double my budget and give me ten more SOCOs!’

Grace thanked him, then checked the briefing notes that Eleanor had typed up. When he had finished, he opened the diary on his BlackBerry and glanced through his schedule for the day. At least they had some good news to give out at this morning’s press conference. At two p.m. he needed to attend Bishop’s remand hearing, in case there were any problems. Later he had the six-thirty briefing meeting. And perhaps an early night if there were no major new developments. He badly needed to catch up on some sleep, before he became so tired he started making mistakes. He felt precariously close to that state now.

Three magistrates – two women and a man – sat at the bench in Court 3 in the Edward Street courthouse. It was a small, plain room, with tiered rows of wooden seats and a small public and press area to the side. With the exception of the Dieu et Mon Droit crest displayed solemnly on the back wall, it had more the feel of a school classroom than the inquisitional air of some of the grander courtrooms in this part of Sussex.

Brian Bishop, changed back into his own clothes now, a camel-coloured jacket over a polo shirt and navy slacks, was standing in the dock, still looking utterly wretched.

Facing the bench were the CPS solicitor, Chris Binns, Bishop’s own solicitor, Leighton Lloyd, Grace and Branson, as well as about thirty journalists, packing out the side gallery.

To Grace’s dismay, the chairman of the bench today was peroxide-haired Hermione Quentin, lording it in an expensive-looking dress. She was the one magistrate in the city that he really disliked, having had a run-in with her earlier this year, in this same court, over a suspect he had wanted to hold in custody and she had, totally illogically – and dangerously, in his view – refused. Was she going to do the same today?

The appearance was brief. Leighton Lloyd delivered a passionate and cogent argument why Bishop should be released on bail. Chris Binns did a swingeing demolition job on it. It took the magistrates only a few moments of conferring before Hermione Quentin spoke.

‘Bail is denied,’ she said haughtily, enunciating each word with the precision of an elocution teacher, alternately addressing Bishop and his solicitor. ‘The reason is the seriousness of the offence. We believe Mr Bishop presents a flight risk. We are aware that the police are inquiring into a second serious offence, and custody would prevent Mr Bishop from interfering with any witnesses. We feel it is important to protect the public.’ Then, as if doing Bishop a huge favour, she said, ‘Because you are a local man, we think it would be helpful all round for you to be detained in Lewes prison until your trial. You are to be remanded in custody until next Monday, when you will appear before this court again.’

She then picked up a pen and proceeded to write something.

The court began to empty. Grace stepped out from behind his pew, satisfied. But as he walked past the dock, Bishop spoke to him.

‘May I please have a quick word, Detective Superintendent?’

Lloyd sprang from his pew and positioned himself between them. ‘I don’t think that’s advisable,’ he said to his client.

‘You haven’t done such a good job yourself,’ Bishop replied angrily. Then he turned to Roy Grace. ‘Please, I didn’t do it. Please believe me,’ he implored. ‘There is somebody out there who has killed two women. My darling wife and another good friend of mine. Don’t give up looking for that person just because I’m locked away. Please!’

‘Mr Bishop!’ Leighton Lloyd admonished. ‘Don’t say any more.’

Grace left the courtroom with Bishop’s words ringing in his ears. He’d heard this kind of last-minute, desperation plea before, from villains who were guilty as hell.

But all the same, he suddenly felt a deep sense of unease.

105

Brendan Duigan had alerted Roy Grace to a problem at the planning meeting, in advance of the six-thirty joint briefing for Operations Chameleon and Mistral.

So straight after his introduction, and his brief summary of the events of the day, Grace informed the key members of the two investigating teams, who were crammed into the conference room at Sussex House, that a time-line issue, connecting Brian Bishop to Sophie Harrington’s murder, had arisen. He turned to DC Corbin, one of Duigan’s team members, and asked her to give her report.

Adrienne Corbin, who was dressed in denim dungarees over an orange T-shirt, was short and sturdy, with the build of a tomboy. The twenty-eight-year-old detective had a butch haircut and a round, blunt face that reminded Grace of a pug. She looked more aggressive than she really was and turned out to be a surprisingly nervous speaker, he observed, as she addressed this large group.