‘There’s something very odd. The police asked me about a life insurance policy – for three million pounds – which they said I had taken out Katie.’
The solicitor ignored an incoming call and looked at him. ‘And you hadn’t?’
Mercifully, the drilling suddenly stopped outside.
‘No. Absolutely not – that I can remember, and I bloody well would remember that.’
Vernon was pensive for some moments. ‘Didn’t you remortgage your Dyke Road Avenue house quite recently? To raise cash for your rights issue?’
Bishop nodded. ‘Yes, I did.’
His company was doing well at the moment, but almost too well ironically, and it had suffered from the cash-flow problems that many fast-expanding businesses experienced. When he had started up, it had been funded by himself and a small group of wealthy friends, on a relatively small amount of cash. Recently, to take it to the next level, they had needed to invest substantially in new technology, larger premises and more skilled computer staff. Bishop and his friends had decided to find the money themselves, rather than try to float, or raise it by other means, and he had provided his own portion from remortgaging his house.
‘The mortgage companies normally require some life-insurance cover on a large loan – perhaps that’s what you did.’
The solicitor might be right, he thought. Life-insurance cover was ringing a faint bell. But the amount seemed wrong. And he couldn’t check his files because they were in the bloody house.
‘Perhaps,’ he said dubiously. ‘And yes, she did make a will – it was a very short one. I’m one of the executors, along with David Crouch, my accountant. It’s in the house.’
‘Of course, I’d forgotten. She had some assets, didn’t she? She got a reasonable settlement in her previous marriage. Can you remember what the will contained?’
‘I can remember. She bequeathed a few quid to her parents, but she’s an only child and the bulk of it she left to me.’
An alarm bell rang suddenly inside Robert Vernon’s head. He frowned, just very slightly. Too slightly for Bishop to notice.
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82
‘The time is six thirty p.m., Monday 7 August,’ Roy Grace read out briskly from his notes, feeling in a distinctly upbeat mood, for a change. ‘This is our second joint briefing of Operation Chameleon and Operation Mistral.’
Mistral was the name the police computer had chosen, at random, for the Sophie Harrington inquiry. The conference room at Sussex House was filled to capacity, with police officers and support staff packed around the table in tight rows of chairs. There was an almost electric sense of expectation in the room. And for once the air conditioning was working properly.
Grace sped through the summaries, then concluded by saying, ‘There have been a number of significant developments during the course of today, I am pleased to report.’ He looked at the beanpole of a young father, DC Nick Nicholl. ‘Would you like to start?’
Nicholl, with his jacket off, his top button undone and his tie slack, read formally from the notes on his pad. ‘I interviewed Ms Holly Richardson at her place of work, the Regent Public Relations Agency, 71 Trafalgar Road, Brighton, at eleven o’clock this morning. She stated that she and Miss Harrington had been at secretarial college together and had remained best friends since then. Ms Richardson informed me that Sophie had confided in her that she had been carrying on a secret relationship with Brian Bishop for approximately six months. Sophie had related to her that on occasions recently Bishop behaved in a violent manner towards her, which frightened her. And he made a number of increasingly sadistic and perverted sexual demands on her.’
He mopped his brow and continued, turning the page of his notepad. ‘A technician in the Telecoms Unit here, John Smith, who has been examining both Miss Harrington’s mobile phone records and Brian Bishop’s, has informed me that each party made a large number of phone calls daily to each other during this six-month period. The most recent was a call from Miss Harrington to Mr Bishop at four fifty-one on Friday afternoon, a few hours before her estimated time of death.’
Grace thanked him, then turned to the burly figure of Guy Batchelor.
The Detective Sergeant told the assembled teams about the cash call Brian Bishop had made on the investors in his company, International Rostering Solutions PLC. He concluded by saying, ‘Although his business seems to be expanding and is well regarded, Bishop is hocked up to his eyeballs in debt.’
The significance was not lost on anyone in the room. Then he delivered his nuke. He told the two teams about Bishop’s criminal record.
Grace watched all their faces. There was a sense of progress in this room that was palpable.
Next, he had arranged for an abbreviated cut of Norman Potting and Alfonso Zafferone’s interview with Barty Chancellor to be played on the video screen. When it finished, Potting informed the team that he had made inquiries about the particular make and model of gas mask that had been found on both victims. The manufacturer had been identified, and they were awaiting information on the number that had been produced and a full list of UK stockists.
Next was DCI Duigan, who related what the neighbour who lived opposite the house where Sophie Harrington had her flat claimed to have seen. She had positively identified Bishop from the photograph that had been in the Argus and would be very happy to attend a formal identity procedure.
Theatrically saving the best to last, Roy Grace turned to Bella Moy.
The DS produced a photograph of the number plate of Brian Bishop’s Bentley, relating that it had been taken by an ANPR camera, on the southbound carriageway of the M23, near to Gatwick airport at eleven forty-seven on Thursday night. She pointed out that despite Bishop’s alibi that he was in London, his car was seen heading in the direction of Brighton, no more than thirty minutes away, well within the frame of the estimated time of his wife’s murder.
But Grace privately had concerns about this, as the photograph had been taken at night. The number plate was clearly visible, but it was impossible to determine the make of the car. It was helpful secondary evidence, but no slam-dunk. A half-competent barrister would kick it into touch in seconds. But it was worth keeping in the mix. One more fact for jurors to debate.
Bella added that Bishop’s home computer contents were currently being analysed by Ray Packham, in the High Tech Crime Division, and she was awaiting his report. And then she delivered the killer blow.
‘We received the lab reports back on the DNA analysis of semen found present in Mrs Bishop’s vagina,’ she said, reading from her notes in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘There were two different spermatozoa ejaculates present in the samples taken by the Home Office pathologist at the post-mortem,’ she announced. ‘In the opinion of the pathologist, based on the mobility of the spermatozoa present in Mrs Bishop’s vagina, both ejaculates occurred on the night of Thursday 3 August, within a few hours of each other. One is as yet unidentified – but we believe DNA tests will show it to be that of Mrs Bishop’s lover, who has admitted they had sexual intercourse on Thursday evening. The other contains a 100 percent match with DNA taken from Brian Bishop.’
She paused for a moment. ‘This means, of course, that contrary to his alibi that he was in London, Bishop was in Brighton and had sexual intercourse with his wife – at some point close to the time of her death.’
Grace waited patiently, letting the information sink in. He could feel the tension in the room. ‘You’ve all done a great job. We will arrest Brian Bishop tonight, on suspicion of the murder of his wife. But I’m not yet confident that he killed Sophie Harrington. So I don’t want to read in tomorrow’s Argus that we’ve solved these murders. Is that clear?’
The silence that greeted him told him it was abundantly clear.
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83
Brian Bishop stepped out of the hotel bathroom shower, dried himself, then rummaged in the overnight bag that Maggie Campbell had brought up to his room an hour ago, containing fresh clothes sh
e had collected from his house.
He pulled on a dark blue polo shirt and navy slacks. The smell of a barbecue wafted in on the light breeze through the open window. It was tantalizing, even though, with his churned-up stomach, he had little appetite. He was regretting accepting an invitation to dinner with Glenn and Barbara Mishon, who were his and Katie’s closest friends. Normally he loved their company and when Barbara had rung, earlier today, she had persuaded him to come over.
At the time it had seemed a more attractive proposition than spending another evening alone in this room with his thoughts and a room service trolley. But his meeting this afternoon with Robert Vernon had brought home to him the full reality of what had happened, and left him feeling deeply depressed. It was as if, up until then, it had all been just a bad dream. But now the enormity weighed down on him. There was so much to think about, too much. He really just wanted to sit alone and gather his thoughts.
His brown suede loafers were on the floor. It was too warm really to put on socks, but it would look too relaxed, too disrespectful to Katie, if he was overly casual. So he sat down on the bed and tugged on a pale blue pair, then pushed his feet into his shoes. Outside, in one of the back gardens his window overlooked, he heard people chattering, a child shouting, music playing, a tinkle of laughter.
Then there was a knock on his door.
Probably room service wanting to turn down the beds, he thought, opening it. Instead he saw the two police officers who had first broken the news of Katie’s death to him.
The black one held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Branson and Detective Constable Nicholl. May we come in, sir?’
Bishop did not like the expression on their faces. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, stepping back into the room and holding the door open for them. ‘Do you have some news for me?’
‘Brian Desmond Bishop,’ Branson said, ‘evidence has come to light, as a result of which I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Mrs Katherine 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 did not respond for a moment. Then he said, ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘My colleague, DC Nicholl, is going to give you a quick body search.’
Almost mechanically, Bishop raised his arms, to allow Nicholl to frisk him. ‘I’m – I’m sorry,’ Bishop then said. ‘I need to call my solicitor.’
‘I’m afraid not at the moment, sir. You will be given that opportunity when we are at the Custody Centre.’
‘My rights are—’
Branson raised his broad hands. ‘Sir, we know what your rights are.’ Then he dropped his hands and unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt. ‘Please put your hands behind your back.’
What little colour there was in Bishop’s face now drained away completely. ‘You’re not going to handcuff me, please! I’m not going to do a runner. There’s a misunderstanding here. This is all wrong. I can sort this out with you.’
‘Behind your back please, sir.’
In a total panic, Bishop stared wildly around the room. ‘I need some things. My jacket – wallet – I – please let me put a jacket on.’
‘Which is it, sir?’ Nicholl asked.
Bishop pointed to the wardrobe. ‘The camel-coloured one.’ Then he pointed to his mobile phone and his BlackBerry, on the bedside table. Nicholl patted down his jacket, then Branson allowed him to put it on, and cram his wallet, mobile phone, BlackBerry and a pair of reading glasses into the pockets. Then he asked him to put his hands behind his back again.
‘Look, do we really have to do this?’ Bishop pleaded. ‘It’s going to be so embarrassing for me. We’re going to walk through the hotel.’
‘We’ve arranged with the manager to go via a fire exit at the side. Is your hand all right, sir?’ Branson asked, clicking shut the first cuff.
‘It wouldn’t have a bloody plaster on it if it was all right,’ Bishop snapped back. Still looking around the room, he said, panicking suddenly, ‘My laptop?’
‘I’m afraid that’s going to be impounded, sir.’
Nick Nicholl picked up Bishop’s car keys. ‘Do you have a vehicle in the car park, Mr Bishop?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. I could drive it – you could come with me.’
‘I’m afraid that’s going to be impounded too, for forensic testing,’ Branson said.
‘This is unbelievable,’ Bishop said. ‘This is unfucking believable!’
But he got no sympathy from either man. Their demeanour from when they had first broken the bad news to him last Friday morning had changed completely.
‘I need to make a quick call to the friends I’m having dinner with, to tell them I’m not coming.’
‘Someone will call them for you, from the Custody Centre.’
‘Yes, but they’re cooking dinner for me.’ He pointed at the hotel phone. ‘Please – let me call them. It’ll take thirty seconds.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Branson said, repeating himself like an automaton. ‘Someone will call them for you, from the Custody Centre.’
Suddenly Brian Bishop was scared.
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84
Bishop sat next to DC Nicholl on the back seat of the grey, unmarked police Vectra. It was just past eight p.m., and the daylight beyond the car’s windows was still bright.
The city that was sliding by, playing like a silent movie projected on to the car’s windows, seemed different from the one he knew – and had known all his life. It was as if he was seeing the passing streets, houses, shops, trees, parks, for the first time. Neither officer spoke. The silence was broken only by the occasional crackle of static and a garbled burst from a controller’s voice on the two-way radio. He felt as if he was a stranger here, looking out at some parallel universe in which he did not belong.
They were slowing suddenly and turning in towards a green, reinforced-steel gate that had started to slide open. There was a high, spiked fence to the right and a tall, drab brick structure beyond.
They stopped beside a blue sign with white lettering displaying the words Brighton Custody Centre until a wide enough gap had opened. Then they drove on up a steep ramp, along past what looked like factory loading bays in the rear of the brick building, and made a left turn into one of them. Instantly, the interior of the car darkened. Bishop saw a closed green door directly in front of them, with a small viewing window.
DS Branson switched off the engine and climbed out, the weak roof light barely changing the gloom inside the vehicle. Then he opened the rear door and motioned Bishop to step out.
Bishop, his hands cuffed behind his back, worked his way awkwardly sideways, then swung his feet out of the car and down on to the concrete screed. Branson put a steadying hand on his arm to help him up. Moments later the green door slid open and Bishop was ushered through into a narrow, completely bare holding room, fifteen feet long by eight wide, with another green door with a viewing window at the far end.
There was no furniture in here at all, just a hard bench seat running its full length,
‘Take a seat,’ Glenn Branson said.
‘I’m happy to stand,’ Bishop said defiantly.
‘We may be a while.’
Bishop’s mobile phone began ringing. He struggled for a moment, as if forgetting his hands were cuffed. ‘Could one of you answer that for me?’
‘It’s not permitted, I’m afraid, sir,’ DC Nicholl said, fishing it out of his pocket and terminating the call. The young detective studied the phone for some moments, then switched it off and returned it to Bishop’s pocket.
Brian Bishop stared at a laminated plastic notice that was fixed to the wall by four strips of Sellotape. It was headed, in blue letters, CRIMINAL JUSTICE DEPARTMENT. Beneath was written:
ALL DETAINED PERSONS WILL BE THOROUGHLY SEARCHED BY THE CUSTODY OFFICER. IF YOU HAVE ANY PROHIBITED ITEMS ON YOUR PERSON
OR IN YOUR PROPERTY TELL THE CUSTODY AND ARRESTING OFFICERS NOW.
Then he read another sign, above the second green door:
NO MOBILE PHONES TO BE USED IN THE CUSTODY AREA.
A third notice said:
YOU HAVE BEEN ARRESTED. YOU WILL HAVE YOUR FINGERPRINTS, PHOTOGRAPH, DNA TAKEN RIGHT AWAY.
The two detectives sat down. Bishop remained standing. Anger was raging inside him. But, he reasoned, he was dealing with two robots. There was nothing to be gained by losing his rag. He just had to ride this out, for the moment. ‘Can you tell me what all this is about?’ he was addressing both of them.
But the door was sliding open as he spoke. Branson walked through. DC Nicholl gestured with his hand for Bishop to follow. ‘This way please, sir.’
Bishop entered a large, circular room, dominated by an elevated central pod like a command centre that could have been a set for Star Trek, he thought, surprised by how futuristic it looked. It was constructed from a shiny, speckled grey composite that reminded him of the granite work surfaces Katie had chosen for their insanely expensive kitchen. Several men and women, some police officers and some Reliance Security staff, dressed in uniform white shirts with black epaulettes, manned individual workstations around the pod. Around the outside of the intensely brightly lit room were heavy-duty green doors, with some internal windows looking on to waiting rooms.
There was an air of quiet, orderly calm. Bishop noticed the pod had been designed with extended arms in front of each workstation, to create an area affording some privacy. A tattooed, shaven-headed youth in baggy clothes stood dejectedly, between two uniformed police officers, in one of them now. It all felt totally surreal.
Then he was escorted across to the central console, into a marbled portioned space, with a counter that was neck-high. Behind it sat a plump, crew-cut man in shirt sleeves. His black tie was clipped with a gold English Rugby Team pin that Bishop, who was a debenture holder at Twickenham, recognized.