‘I appreciate your coming in so early,’ Grace said, stifling a yawn, his eyes heavy from tiredness. ‘Can I get you any tea, coffee, water?’
‘Some tea. Milk, no sugar, thanks.’
Grace picked up the phone and asked Eleanor, who had also come in early, at his request, to get them one tea, and a coffee that was as strong as she could possibly make it.
Binns read through the notes in his book for a moment, then looked up. ‘So you arrested Brian Desmond Bishop at eight p.m. on Monday?’
‘Yes, correct.’
‘Can you recap on your grounds for charging him? Any issues we should be concerned about?’
Grace summarized the key evidence as being the presence of Bishop’s DNA in the semen found in Katie Bishop’s vagina, the insurance policy taken out on her life just six months previously, and her infidelity. He also pointed out Bishop’s two previous convictions for violent acts against women. He raised the issue of Bishop’s alibi, but then showed the solicitor the time-line sheet he had typed up last night, after getting back from London, demonstrating that Bishop would have had enough leeway to get to Brighton and murder his wife – and then return to London.
‘I imagine he would have been a bit tired on the golf course on Friday morning,’ Chris Binns said drily.
‘Apparently he was playing a blinder,’ Grace said.
Binns raised an eyebrow and for a moment Grace’s spirits sank, wondering if Binns was now going to nitpick and request witness statements from Bishop’s golfing partners. But to his relief, all he added was, ‘Could have been on an adrenaline rush. From the excitement of the kill.’
Grace smiled. For a welcome change, the man was on his side.
The CPS solicitor shot his cuff, revealing elegant gold links, and frowned at his watch. ‘So, how are we doing now?’
Grace had been keeping a tight eye on the time. It was five to seven. ‘Following our conversation last night, Bishop’s solicitor was contacted. He’s meeting with his client at seven. DS Branson, accompanied by DC Nicholl, will charge him.’
At seven thirty Glenn Branson and Nicholl, accompanied by a custody sergeant, entered the interview room, where Brian Bishop was already seated with his solicitor.
Bishop, in his paper suit, had dark rings under his eyes and his skin had already taken on a prison pallor. He had shaved, but clearly in a poor light or in a hurry, and had missed a couple of spots, and his hair was not looking as neat as before. After just thirty-six hours he was already looking like an old lag. That’s what prison did to people, Glenn knew. It institutionalized them more quickly than they realized.
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.
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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 ris
k. 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.
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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.
‘I have pieced together the movements of Brian Bishop during the afternoon and evening of Friday 4 August from information supplied to me by family liaison officer WPC Buckley, from a Hove Streamline taxi driver, Mr Mark Tuckwell, from CCTV footage obtained from Brighton Police Monitoring, as well as from civilian sources, Bishop’s mobile phone call records and from a plot of mobile phone cell masts, provided by British Telecom, indicating the geographical movements of Bishop’s phone.’
She stopped, blushing and perspiring heavily. Grace felt sorry for her. Being a good detective did not mean you were necessarily a confident public speaker. She turned back a page in her notes, as if checking something, then continued, ‘Of interest to Operation Chameleon will be the report that there was no activity from Bishop’s mobile phone from eleven twenty p.m. on Thursday 3 August until six thirty-six a.m. on Friday 4 August.’
‘Can we extrapolate from the information whether it was because Bishop didn’t move during that time period, or, if he did, he had left the phone behind, or that it was switched off?’ Grace asked.
‘I understand that if a phone is on stand-by or in use, it exchanges constant signals with the nearest base station – basically it talks to it, telling the base station where it is. There were a series of signals received from Bishop’s phone from masts sited in London, indicating he was travelling from Piccadilly back to Notting Hill, from approximately eleven to eleven fifteen that night. The last signal was at eleven twenty, from a base station at a mast in Bayswater, west London, close to Notting Hill. The next signals were exchanged at six thirty-six a.m., from the same base station, sir.’
Although that fitted with the times given by Phil Taylor for when Bishop left the Wolseley restaurant, it wasn’t helpful information, Grace realized. Bishop could have turned the phone off, so that his journey to Brighton and back in the middle of the night wouldn’t be plotted on the phone masts; and he could easily argue that he’d switched it off in order to get a night’s sleep without being disturbed. But it was what DC Corbin said next that made him sit up.
‘The movements of Bishop’s phone during Friday 4 August, up until six forty-five p.m., correspond with his story, and what we ourselves know. They show he came straight down from London to the North Brighton Golf Club, and from there he travelled directly to Sussex House. They also plot his journey from here to the Hotel du Vin. Then it appears he switched off his phone between twelve twenty-eight and two seventeen. This coincides with a period of time in which he was reported missing from the Hotel du Vin by WPC Buckley.’
She paused, looking around the silent room. Everyone was watching her, concentrating hard, with notes being taken. Grace gave her a smile of encouragement. She ploughed on.
‘During this same time period, Bishop was sighted on three CCTV cameras. One at the junction of Dukes Lane and Ship Street, just up the road from the Hotel du Vin, one opposite St Peter’s Church in the London Road, and one on Kings Parade, opposite Brighton Pier. The reason he gave for his absence was that he went out for some air.’
‘Seems a bit odd to me,’ Norman Potting said, ‘that both times Bishop does a disappearing act, he switches his phone off.’
Grace nodded, thinking, then signalled for her to continue.
‘From two seventeen until six forty-seven on Friday 4 August, the phone signals remained static, indicating that Bishop stayed in his hotel room. This is consistent with family liaison officer WPC Linda Buckley’s report that Bishop returned to the hotel at around two twenty and was in his room each time she checked up on him, using the house phone, the last time being at six forty-five. Then the phone plot shows that Bishop moved one and a half miles west, which tallies with information obtained by DC Pamela Buckley from taxi driver Mark Tuckwell, who claims he drove Bishop to the Lansdowne Place Hotel at that time. I understand that Hove Streamline Taxis have confirmed this from their log.’ She looked at the female detective constable.
‘Yes, that is correct,’ Pamela Buckley said.
Corbin turned to the next page. ‘Bishop checked into the Lansdowne Place Hotel at five past seven – just over three hours after a member of the hotel reception staff received a phone call from an unidentified male making a reservation for a room for several nights, in Bishop’s name,’ she read.
Grace quickly turned back through his own notes. ‘Bishop claimed that he received a call from a CID officer informing him that he was being moved to a different hotel and that a taxi had been arranged to collect him, from a back entrance. This was so he could leave the hotel without being seen by the press, who were staking the hotel out. He gave the name of this officer as DS Canning – but we have checked and there is no officer called Canning in the Sussex police force.’
‘And is it correct, Adrienne, that there’s no record of any phone call to the Lansdowne Place Hotel being made on Bishop’s mobile phone?’ DCI Duigan asked.
‘That is correct, sir.’ Then she added, ‘The Hotel du Vin have also confirmed that there were no calls made by any of their internal phones to the Lansdowne Place during the time Bishop was there.’
‘When he was out!’ Norman Potting said suddenly, excitedly. ‘When he went on his lunchtime walkabout, he could have bought one of them pay-as-you-go phones and disposed of it later. He could have bought it specifically to make those calls – and others we might not know about.’
‘An interesting thought,’ Grace conceded. ‘A good point, Norman.’
‘The Lansdowne Place Hotel is closer to Sophie Harrington’s home than the Hotel du Vin,’ Duigan said. ‘That might be significant.’
r /> ‘I’d like to add one more thought here,’ Grace said. ‘It’s possible that Bishop had an accomplice helping him with his alibi for the night of Mrs Bishop’s murder. The same accomplice could have been responsible for this switch of hotels.’
DCI Duigan said, ‘Roy, we can see the attraction for an accomplice with the murder of Mrs Bishop and the substantial life-insurance policy. Do we have any grounds yet for believing there would have been an accomplice for Bishop in the murder of Sophie Harrington?’
‘No. But it’s early days.’
Duigan nodded and noted something down.
Adrienne Corbin continued with her time-line report. ‘Bishop was observed by staff leaving the hotel at approximately seven thirty. His phone mast plot shows that he then headed west. This was confirmed by a sighting of him on a CCTV camera at the junction of West Street and Kings Parade at five to eight.’
Grace stared at her in shock, for a moment thinking he had misheard. ‘Bishop headed away from the Lansdowne Place Hotel, back in the direction of the Hotel du Vin? A completely different direction from the one he would have had to take to get to Sophie Harrington’s home?’ he grilled her.
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied.
Duigan then stood up and switched on the video monitor. ‘I think everyone should see these,’ he said.
The first showed a colour image of Brian Bishop in Kings Parade, with several people behind him and a bus passing. There was no mistaking his face. He was wearing the clothes Grace remembered from when he interviewed him later that same night – a black blouson jacket over a white shirt and blue trousers. And the sticking plaster on his right hand.