Both were a complete match with Brian Bishop’s DNA.
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Cleo Morey left the mortuary, together with Darren, just before five thirty. Closing the front door and standing in the brilliant, warm sunlight, she said, ‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘Was going to take her to the cinema, but it’s too hot,’ he said, squinting back at his boss with the sun in his eyes. ‘We’re going to go down the Marina, have a few drinks. There’s a cool new place I’m going to check out, Rehab.’
She looked at him dubiously. Twenty years old, spiky black hair, a cheery face sporting some designer stubble, he could have so easily, with just a brief turn in his life, have ended up like so many of the no-hoper youngsters draped along the pavements and doorways of this city every night, strung out, dossing, begging, mugging. But he’d clearly been born with a spirited streak in him. He worked hard, he was pleasant company, he was going to do OK in life. ‘Rehab?’
‘Yep, it’s a bar and restaurant place. Classy. I’m splashing out – bit of a special bird. I would say join us, but, you know, two’s company and all that!’
She grinned. ‘Cheeky sod! And hey, who’s to say I don’t have a date myself tonight?’
‘Oh yes?’ he looked pleased for her. ‘Now, let me guess who.’
‘None of your business!’
‘Don’t suppose he works for the CID, does he?’
‘I said it’s none of your business!’
‘Then you shouldn’t snog him in the front office, should you?’ He winked.
‘What?’ she exclaimed.
‘Forget about the CCTV camera in there, did you?’
With a broad grin, he gave her a cheery wave and walked over to his car.
‘Peeping Tom!’ she called after him. ‘Voyeur! Perve!’
He turned as he opened the door of his small red Nissan. ‘Actually, if you want my opinion, you make quite a nice-looking couple!’
She flipped him the bird. Then added for good measure, ‘And don’t drink too much. Remember we’re on call tonight.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk!’
She was still grinning some minutes later as she drove around the gyratory system and into the covered car park of Sainsbury’s. Her mind was now on what she was going to give the CID officer she had snogged in the front office – as Darren had so crudely put it – to eat. As it was such a glorious evening, she decided to barbecue up on her roof terrace. Roy Grace liked seafood and fish.
Ahead of her she saw a parking space and manoeuvred in to it. She would go to the wet fish counter first and buy some uncooked prawns in their shells, if they had them, and tuna steaks. A couple of corn on the cobs. Some salad. And some sweet potatoes in their jackets, which were totally yummy on a barbecue. And a really nice bottle of ros�ine. Well, perhaps not just one bottle.
She was looking forward to this evening and hoped Grace would be able to escape from his investigation at a reasonable hour tonight. It seemed a long while since they had actually spent a proper evening together and it would be good to have a catch-up. She missed him, she realized, missed him all the time when he wasn’t around. But there was still the spectre of Sandy and his visit to Munich – she wanted the full lowdown on that.
She had learned from her last relationship that just when you thought everything was perfect, life could turn round and bite you.
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‘His alibi,’ Grace said, slapping the palm of his left hand against his balled right fist. ‘We need to deal with it. I’ve said it before, it’s the elephant in the room.’
Paxton, Branson and Nicholl, still seated around the table in his office with him, were looking pensive. Jane topped up her beaker of water from a bottle. ‘Don’t you think we’ve got enough evidence now, Roy?’ she said. ‘You’re going to be cutting it fine for keeping Bishop in tomorrow, unless we apply to the court this evening for an extension.’
Grace considered this for some moments. The time that Bishop had been arrested yesterday, at eight p.m., was working against them. It meant they had to release him at eight tonight. They would be able to get a twelve-hour extension easily enough. But that would only take them to eight tomorrow morning. If they wanted to keep him beyond that, they would have to go before a magistrate in court with a Warrant of Further Detention application. And that would have to be arranged this evening if they wanted to avoid making phone calls at dawn and disturbing people who had every right to be left in peace to sleep.
He looked at his watch. It was five thirty-five. He picked up the phone and rang Kim Murphy.
‘Kim, you had one of the team interview Bishop’s financial adviser chap, Phil Taylor. I need Taylor’s number urgently. Can you get it for me? Or better still, get him on the phone and patch him through to me?’
While he was waiting, they discussed the ramifications of the latest evidence. Grace maintained his stance.
‘But what about the DNA evidence on Sophie Harrington, Roy?’ Nick Nicholl asked. ‘Surely that’s pretty conclusive?’
Roy was feeling impatient, but managed to hold his temper. ‘Nick, do you not get it? If Bishop’s alibi stands up, that he was in London at the time of his wife’s murder, it’s going to nix that DNA evidence – the defence will argue that somehow it got planted there. If we are too hasty in linking the murders together, we could get that DNA evidence thrown out also, on the same grounds.’
Justice, Grace had come to learn from bitter experience, was elusive, unpredictable and only occasionally actually done. Far too many things could go wrong in a court. Juries, which often consisted of people who were totally out of their depth in a court of law, could be led, swayed, bamboozled, seduced and confused; often they were prejudiced, or just plain stupid. Some judges were way past their sell-by dates; others seemed, at times, to have come from another planet. It wasn’t enough to have a watertight case, backed up with damning evidence. You still needed a lot of luck to get a conviction.
‘We have the witness who saw Bishop outside her home,’ Jane Paxton reassured him.
‘Yes?’ He was getting more irritable now by the minute. Was it the heat, he wondered? Or being so dog tired? Or having to put up with his bloody lodger? Or Sandy pressing on a raw nerve?
‘Well – I think that’s strong,’ she said, sounding defensive.
‘We need to go through a formal identification process with that witness and double-check the time-lines there before we can really make it stand up. And there may be some other evidence that comes to light over the next few days. If we’ve got Bishop inside on a charge, then for the moment the time pressure’s off on Ms Harrington. At least we’ll have thrown the press a bone.’
The phone rang. It was Kim, telling Grace that she had Phil Taylor on the line and was putting him through. Grace stepped away from the table and took the call on the phone on his desk.
When he finished, Grace stood up again. ‘He’s agreed to meet me tonight in London. Sounds a straightforward enough man.’ He looked at Branson. ‘We’ll apply for a twelve-hour extension for Bishop, then go up to London straight after the six-thirty briefing. I’d like you to come with me.’
Next he rang Norman Potting and asked him to contact the on-call PACE superintendent to make an application for a twelve-hour extension. Then he turned back to the trio in his office. ‘OK, I’ll see you all in the conference room at six thirty. Thanks very much, everyone.’
He sat back down at his desk. Now he had another task that was just as hard, in its own, very different way. How to explain to Cleo that he was going to have to go to London this evening and, with the best will in the world, was unlikely to be back down this side of midnight.
To his surprise, probably because she understood the twenty-four/seven nature of police work, she took it cheerfully.
‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m standing at the checkout in Sainsbury’s with a load of fresh prawns and scallops. Be a shame to waste them, so I’ll just have to eat them all
myself.’
‘Shit, I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s OK. These murders are a lot more important than a few prawns. But you’d better hurry round when you get back down!’
‘I’ll probably have eaten – I’ll grab something in the car.’
‘I’m not talking about food!’
He blew her a kiss.
‘Times ten!’ she replied.
As he hung up, he smiled, relieved that Cleo seemed – for the moment at any rate – to have put his visit to Munich behind her.
But had he?
That would depend, he knew, on whether Marcel Kullen’s enquiries provided any leads. And suddenly, for the first time, he found himself – almost – hoping that he wouldn’t.
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Unusually, there were no empty spaces in the street outside the front gates of her home, so Cleo had to circle around, looking for one. Keeping a safe distance back, the Time Billionaire watched the tail of the blue MG disappear around a corner, its right-hand indicator winking. Then he smiled.
And he sent a small, quick message of thanks to God.
This street was so much better! Tall, windowless walls on the right. A sheer cliff face of red brick. On the left, running the whole length of the street, was a blue construction site hoarding, with padlocked gates. Rising above it was a ten-foot-tall artist’s impression of the finished development – a complex of fancy flats and shops – boasting the wording:
LAINE WEST
MORE THAN JUST A DEVELOPMENT – AN URBAN ECO-FRIENDLY LIFESTYLE!
She had found a space and was reversing into it. Joy!
He fixated on her brake lights. They seemed to be getting brighter as he watched them. Glowing red for danger, red for luck, red for sex! He liked brake lights; he could watch them the way some people could watch a log fire. And he knew everything about the brake lights on Cleo Morey’s car. The size of bulb; the strength; how they could be replaced; how they were connected into the wiring loom of the vehicle; how they were activated. He knew everything about this car. He’d spent the whole night reading the workshop manual, as well as surfing the net. That was the good thing about the internet. Didn’t matter what time of the day or the night, you could find some saddo enthusiast who could tell you more about the door-locking mechanism of a 2005 MG TF 160 than the manufacturer had ever known.
She was out of the car! Wearing jeans that stopped at her calves. Pink plimsolls. A white T-shirt. Hefting three Sainsbury carrier bags out of the boot and slinging the strap of her big, canvas handbag over her shoulder.
He drove past her and turned right at the end of the street. Then right again. Then right again, and now he was approaching the front of her building. He saw her standing outside the gates, doing an awkward balancing act of holding the grocery bags and tapping the number on the keypad. Then she went inside and the gate clanged shut behind her.
Hopefully she wasn’t going out again tonight. He would have to take a gamble on that one. But of course he had God’s assistance.
He made one more complete circuit, just to make sure she hadn’t forgotten something in the car and gone running back for it. Women did that sort of thing, he knew.
After ten minutes he decided it was safe. He doubled-parked his Prius alongside a dusty Volvo covered in bird droppings that didn’t look like it had gone anywhere in a while, temporarily blocking the street, although there was nothing coming. Then he unlocked the MG, drove it out of its spot, double-parked that also for a moment, while he jumped back into the Prius, and glided into the now empty space, between the Volvo and a small Renault.
Job done.
The first part.
It was a shame the MG had its hardtop on, he thought, as he headed towards his lock-up. It would have been a pleasant evening to drive with the roof down.
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As soon as the six-thirty briefing was over, Grace grabbed the keys of the pool car that Tony Case had organized for him and, with Glenn Branson in tow, hurried down to the car park beneath the building.
‘Let me drive, man!’
‘You know your driving scares me,’ Grace replied. ‘Actually, let me rephrase that. Your driving terrifies the living daylights out of me.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Branson said. ‘That’s rich coming from you – your driving is rubbish. You drive like a girl. No, actually, you don’t. You drive like an old git – which is what you are!’
‘And you recently failed your Advanced Police Driving test!’
‘The examiner was an idiot. My instructor said I had natural aptitude for high-speed pursuit driving. My driving rocks!’
‘He should be sectioned under the Mental Health Act.’
‘Wanker!’
Grace tossed him the keys as they approached the unmarked Mondeo. ‘Just don’t try to impress me.’
‘Did you see The Fast and the Furious, with Vin Diesel?’
‘He’s got the most stupid name for an actor.’
‘Yeah? Well, he doesn’t think much of yours either.’
Grace wasn’t sure what sudden mental aberration had prompted him to give his friend the keys. Maybe he was hoping that if Glenn was concentrating on driving, he’d be spared an endless discussion – or more likely monologue – about all that was wrong with his marriage, yet again. He’d endured three hours of his friend’s soul-searching last night, after they’d got back home following the interview with Bishop. The bottle of Glenfiddich, which they had demolished between them, had only partially mitigated the pain. Then he’d had to listen to Glenn again this morning while getting shaved and dressed, and then over his breakfast cereal, with the added negative of a mild hangover.
To his relief, Branson drove sensibly, apart from one downhill stretch, near Handcross, where he wound the car up to 130 mph especially so he could give Grace the benefit of his cornering skills through two, sharp, uphill bends. ‘It’s all about positioning on the road and balancing the throttle, old-timer,’ he said.
From where Grace was sitting, stomach in his mouth, it was more about not flying off into the seriously sturdy-looking trees that lined both bends. Then they reached the M23 motorway and Grace’s repeating of his warning about speed traps, and traffic cops who loved nothing better than to book other officers, had some effect.
So Branson slowed down, and instead tried to phone home on his hands-free mobile.
‘Bitch!’ he said. ‘She’s not picking up. I’ve got a right to speak to my kids, haven’t I?’
‘You’ve got a right to be in your house,’ Grace reminded him.
‘Maybe you could tell her that. Like – you know – give her the official police point of view.’
Grace shook his head. ‘I’ll help you all I can, but I can’t fight your battle for you.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. It was wrong of me to ask. I’m sorry.’
‘What happened about the horse?’
‘Yeah, she was on about it again when we spoke. She’s decided she wants to try show-jumping. That’s serious money.’
Grace decided, privately, that she needed to see a psychologist. ‘I think you guys should go to Relate,’ he said.
‘You already said that.’
‘I did?’
‘About two o’clock this morning. And the day before. You’re repeating yourself, old-timer. Alzheimer’s kicking in.’
‘You know your problem?’ Grace said.
‘Apart from being black? Bald? From an underprivileged background?’
‘Yep, apart from all that.’
‘No, tell me.’
‘Lack of respect for your peers.’
Branson took one of his hands from the wheel and raised it. ‘Respect!’ he said deferentially.
‘That’s better.’
Shortly after nine, Branson parked the Mondeo on a single yellow line in Arlington Street, just past the Ritz Hotel and opposite the Caprice restaurant.
‘Nice wheels,’ he said, as they walked up the hill, passing
a parked Ferrari. ‘You ought to get yourself a set of those. Better than that crappy Alfa you pootle around in. Be good for your image.’
‘There’s a small matter of a hundred grand or so separating me from one,’ Grace said. ‘And lumbered with you on my team, my chances of a pay rise of that magnitude are somewhat reduced.’
At the top of the street they rounded the corner into Piccadilly. Immediately on their right they saw a handsome, imposing building, in black and gold paintwork. Its massive, arched windows were brightly illuminated, and the interior seemed humming with people. A smart sign on the wall said The Wolseley.
They were greeted effusively by a liveried doorman in a top hat. ‘Good evening, gentlemen!’ he said with a soft Irish accent.
‘The Wolseley restaurant?’ Grace asked, feeling a little out of place here.
‘Absolutely! Very nice to see you both!’ He held the door open and gestured them through.
Grace, followed by Branson, stepped inside. There was a small crowd of people clustered around a reception desk. A waiter hurried past with a tray laden with cocktails, into a vast, domed and galleried dining room, elegantly themed in black and white, and packed with people. There was a noisy buzz. He looked around for a moment. It had an old-world Belle Epoque grandeur about it, yet at the same time it felt intensely modern. The waiting staff were all dressed in hip black and most of the clientele looked cool. He decided Cleo would like this place. Maybe he would bring her up for a night in London and come here. Although he thought he had better check out the prices first.
A young woman receptionist smiled at them, then a tall man, with fashionably long and tangled ginger hair, greeted them. ‘Gentlemen, good evening. Can I help you?’
‘We’re meeting Mr Taylor.’
‘Mr Phil Taylor?’
‘Yes.’
He pointed at a bar area, off to the side. ‘He’s in there, gentlemen, first table on the right! We’ll take you to him!’