Not Dead Enough

by Peter James

  ‘No. I spend the weeks in London, at my flat. I go up to town Sunday evenings and normally come back Friday night.’ Bishop peered at his coffee and then stirred it carefully, with laboured precision, with the plastic stick Eleanor Hodgson had provided.

  ‘So you would only see each other at weekends?’

  ‘Depends if we had anything on in London. Katie would come up sometimes, for a dinner, or shopping. Or whatever.’

  ‘Whatever?’

  ‘Theatre. Friends. Clients. She – liked coming up – but . . .’

  There was a long silence.

  Branson waited for him to go on, glancing at Nicholl but getting nothing from the younger detective. ‘But?’ he prompted.

  ‘She had her social life down here. Bridge, golf, her charity work.’

  ‘Which charity?’

  ‘She’s involved – was – with several. The NSPCC mainly. One or two others. A local battered-wives charity. Katie was a giver. A good person.’ Brian Bishop closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. ‘Shit. Oh, Christ. What’s happened? Please tell me?’

  ‘Do you have children, sir?’ Nick Nicholl asked suddenly.

  ‘Not together. I have two by my first marriage. My son, Max, is fifteen. And my daughter, Carly – she’s thirteen. Max is with a friend in the South of France. Carly’s staying with cousins in Canada.’

  ‘Is there anyone we need to contact for you?’ Nicholl continued.

  Looking bewildered, Bishop shook his head.

  ‘We will be assigning you a family liaison officer to help you with everything. I’m afraid you won’t be able to return to your home for a few days. Is there anyone you could stay with?’

  ‘I have my flat in London.’

  ‘We’re going to need to talk to you again. It would be more convenient if you could stay down in the Brighton and Hove area for the next few days. Perhaps with some friends, or in a hotel?’

  ‘What about my clothes? I need my stuff – my things – wash kit . . .’

  ‘If you tell the family liaison officer what you need it will be brought to you.’

  ‘Please tell me what’s happened?’

  ‘How long have you been married, Mr Bishop?’

  ‘Five years – we had our anniversary in April.’

  ‘Would you describe your marriage as happy?’

  Bishop leaned back and shook his head. ‘What the hell is this? Why are you interrogating me?’

  ‘We’re not interrogating you, sir. Just asking you a few background questions. Trying to understand a little more about you and your family. This can often really help in an investigation – it’s standard procedure, sir.’

  ‘I think I’ve told you enough. I want to see my – my darling. I want to see Katie. Please.’

  The door opened and Bishop saw a man dressed in a crumpled blue suit, white shirt and blue and white striped tie come in. He was about five foot ten tall, pleasant-looking, with alert blue eyes, fair hair cropped short to little more than a fuzz, badly shaven, and a nose that had seen better days. He held out a strong, weathered hand, with well-trimmed nails, towards Bishop. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace,’ he said. ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer for this – situation. I’m extremely sorry, Mr Bishop.’

  Bishop gave him a clammy grip back with long, bony fingers, one of which sported a crested signet ring. ‘Please tell me what’s happened.’

  Roy Grace glanced at Branson, then at Nicholl. He had been watching for the past few minutes from the observation room, but was not about to reveal this. ‘Were you playing golf this morning, sir?’

  Bishop’s eyes flicked, briefly, to the left. ‘Yes. Yes, I was.’

  ‘Can I ask when you last played?’

  Bishop looked thrown by the question. Grace, watching like a hawk, saw his eyes flick right, then left, then very definitely left again. ‘Last Sunday.’

  Now Grace would be able to get a handle on whether Bishop was lying or telling the truth. Watching eyes was an effective technique he had learned from his interest in neuro-linguistic programming. All people have two sides to their brains, one part that contains memory, the other that works the imagination – the creative side – and lying. The construct side. The sides on which these were located varied with each individual. To establish that, you asked a control question to which the person was unlikely to respond with a lie, such as the seemingly innocent question he had just asked Bishop. So in future, when he asked the man a question, if his eyes went to the left, he would be telling the truth, but if they went to the right, to the construct side, it would be an indicator that he was lying.

  ‘Where did you sleep last night, Mr Bishop?’

  His eyes staring resolutely ahead, giving nothing away intentionally, or unintentionally, Bishop said, ‘In my flat in London.’

  ‘Could anyone vouch for that?’

  Looking agitated, Bishop’s eyes shot to the left. To memory. ‘The concierge, Oliver, I suppose.’

  ‘When did you see him?’

  ‘Yesterday evening, about seven o’clock – when I came back from the office. And then again this morning.’

  ‘What time were you on the tee at the golf club this morning?’

  ‘Just after nine.’

  ‘And you drove down from London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘About half-six. Oliver helped me load my stuff into the car – my golf sticks.’

  Grace thought for a moment. ‘Can anyone vouch for where you were between seven o’clock yesterday and half past six this morning?’

  Bishop’s eyes shot back to the left, to memory mode, which indicated he was telling the truth. ‘I had dinner with my financial adviser at a restaurant in Piccadilly.’

  ‘And did your concierge see you leave and come back?’

  ‘No. He’s not usually around much after seven – until the morning.’

  ‘What time did your dinner finish?’

  ‘About half past ten. What is this, a witch hunt?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m sorry if I’m sounding a bit pedantic, but if we can eliminate you it will help us focus our inquiries. Would you mind telling me what happened after your dinner?’

  ‘I went to my flat and crashed out.’

  Grace nodded.

  Bishop, staring hard at him, then at Branson and Nick Nicholl in turn, frowned. ‘What? You think I drove to Brighton at midnight?’

  ‘It does seem a little unlikely, sir,’ Grace assured him. ‘Can you give us the phone numbers of your concierge and your financial adviser? And the name of the restaurant?’

  Bishop obliged. Branson wrote them down.

  ‘Could I also have the number of your mobile phone, sir? And we need some recent photographs of your wife,’ Grace requested.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Then Grace said, ‘Would you mind answering a very personal question, Mr Bishop? You are not under any obligation but it would help us.’

  The man shrugged helplessly.

  ‘Did you and your wife indulge in any unusual sexual practices?’

  Bishop stood up abruptly. ‘What the hell is this? My wife has been murdered! I want to know what’s happened, Detective – Super – Super whatever you said your name was.’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Grace.’

  ‘Why can’t you answer a simple question, Detective Superintendent Grace? Is it too much for anyone to answer one simple question?’ Getting increasingly hysterical, Bishop continued, his voice rising, ‘Is it? You’re telling me my wife died – are you now telling me I killed her? Is that what you’re trying to say?’

  The man’s eyes were all over the place. Grace would need to let him settle. He stared down at him. Stared at the man’s ridiculous trousers, and at the shoes which reminded him of spats worn by 1930s gangsters. Grief affected everyone in a different way. He’d had enough damn experience of that in his career, and in his private life.

  The fact that the man l
ived in a vulgar house and drove a flash car did not make him a killer. It did not even make him a less than totally honourable citizen. He had to dump all prejudices out of his mind. It was perfectly possible for a man to live in a house worth north of a couple of million and still be a thoroughly decent, law-abiding human being. Even if he did have a bedside cabinet full of sex toys and a book on sexual fetishes in his office, that didn’t necessarily mean he had jammed a gas mask over his wife’s face, then strangled her.

  But it didn’t necessarily mean he hadn’t, either.

  ‘I’m afraid the questions are necessary, sir. We wouldn’t ask them if they weren’t. I realize it’s very difficult for you and you want to know what’s happened. I can assure you we’ll explain everything in due course. Please just bear with us for the time being. I really do understand how you must be feeling.’

  ‘You do? Really, Detective Superintendent? Do you have any idea what it is like to be told your wife is dead?’

  Grace nearly replied, Yes, actually, I do, but he kept calm. Mentally he noted that Bishop had not demanded to see a solicitor, which was often a good indicator of guilt. And yet something did not feel right. He just couldn’t put a finger on it.

  He left the room, went back to his office and called Linda Buckley, one of the two family liaison officers who were being assigned to look after Bishop. She was an extremely competent WPC with whom he had worked several times in the past.

  ‘I want you to keep a close eye on Bishop. Report back to me any odd behaviour. If necessary, I’ll get a surveillance team on to him,’ he briefed her.

  �

  13

  Clyde Weevels, tall and serpentine, with little spikes of black hair and a tongue that rarely stopped wetting his lips, stood behind the counter, surveying his – at this moment empty – domain. His little retail emporium in Broadwick Street, just off Wardour Street in Soho, bore the same anonymous legend as a dozen other places like it sprinkled around the side – and not-so-side – streets of Soho: Private Shop.

  In the drably lit interior, there were racks of dildos, lubricating oils and jellies, flavoured condoms, bondage kits, inflatable sex dolls, thongs, g-strings, whips, manacles, racks of porno magazines, soft-core DVDs, hardcore DVDs, and even harder stuff in the backroom for clients he knew well. There was everything in here for a great night in, for straights, gays, bis and for plain old saddo loners – which was what he was, not that he was ever going to admit that to himself, or to anyone else, no way, Jos�Just waiting for the right relationship to come along.

  Except it wasn’t going to come along in this place.

  She was out there somewhere, in one of those lonely-hearts columns, on one of those websites. Waiting for him. Gagging for him. Gagging for a tall, lean, great-dancer-dude who was also a mean kick boxer. Which he was practising now. Behind the counter, behind the bank of CCTV monitors that were the window on his shop and the outside world, he was practising. Roundhouse kick. Front kick. Side kick.

  And he had a ten-inch dick.

  And he could get you anything you wanted. You name it – I mean, like, you name it. What kind of porno you want? Toys? Drugs? Yeah.

  Camera Four was the one he liked to watch most. It showed the street, outside the door. He liked watching the way they came into the shop, especially the men in suits. They sort of nonchalantly sidled past, as if they were en route to someplace else, then rocked back on their heels and shot in through the door, as if pulled by an invisible magnet that had just been switched on.

  Like the pinstriped git in a pink tie who walked in now. They all gave him a sort of this-isn’t-really-me glance, followed by the kind of inane semi-grin you see in stroke victims, then they’d start fondling a dildo, or a pair of lace knickers, or a set of handcuffs, like sex had not yet been invented.

  Another man was coming in. Lunch hour. Yeah. He was a bit different. A shell-suited jerk in a hoodie and dark glasses. Clyde lifted his eyes from the monitor and watched as he entered the shop. His type were the classic shoplifters, the hood shielding their face from the cameras. And this one was behaving really weirdly. He just stopped in his tracks, staring out through the opaque glass in the door for some moments, sucking his hand.

  Then the man walked over to the counter and said, without making eye contact, ‘Do you sell gas masks?’

  ‘Rubber and leather,’ Clyde replied, pointing a finger towards the back of the store. A whole selection of masks and hoods hung there, between a range of doctor, nurse, air hostess and Playboy bunny uniforms, and a jokey Hung Like a Stallion pouch.

  But instead of walking towards them, the man strode back towards the door and stared out again.

  Across the road, the young woman called Sophie Harrington, whom he had followed from her office, was standing at the counter of an Italian deli, with a magazine under her arm, waiting for her ciabatta to be removed from the microwave, talking animatedly on her mobile phone.

  He looked forward to trying the gas mask out on her.

  �

  14

  ‘Gets me every time, this place,’ Glenn Branson said, looking up from the silent gloom of his thoughts at the even gloomier view ahead. Roy Grace, indicating left, slowed his ageing maroon Alfa Romeo saloon and turned off the Lewes Road gyratory system, past a sign, in gold letters on a black ground, saying Brighton and Hove City Mortuary. ‘You ought to donate your rubbish music collection to it.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  As if out of respect for the place, Branson leaned forward and turned down the volume of the Katie Melua CD that was playing.

  ‘And anyhow,’ Grace said defensively, ‘I like Katie Melua.’

  Branson shrugged. Then he shrugged again.

  ‘What?’ Grace said.

  ‘You should let me buy your music for you.’

  ‘I’m very happy with my music.’

  ‘You were very happy with your clothes, until I showed you what a sad old git you looked in them. You were happy with your haircut too. Now you’ve started listening to me, you look ten years younger – and you’ve got a woman, right? She’s well fit, she is!’

  Ahead, through wrought-iron gates attached to brick pillars, was a long, single-storey, bungalow-like structure with grey pebbledash rendering on the walls that seemed to suck all the warmth out of the air, even on this blistering summer’s day. There was a covered drive-in one side, deep enough to take an ambulance – or more often, the coroner’s dark green van. On the other side, several cars were parked alongside a wall, including the yellow Saab, with its roof down, belonging to Nadiuska De Sancha and, of much more significance to Roy Grace, a small blue MG sports car, which meant that Cleo Morey was on duty today.

  And despite all the horror that lay ahead, he felt a sense of elation. Wholly inappropriate, he knew, but he just could not help it.

  For years, he had hated coming to this place. It was one of the rites of passage of becoming a police officer that you had to attend a post-mortem early in your training. But now the mortuary had a whole different significance to him. Turning to Branson, smiling, he retorted, ‘What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls the butterfly.’

  ‘What?’ Branson responded flatly.

  ‘Chuang Tse,’ he said brightly, trying to share his joy with his companion, trying to cheer the poor man up.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A Chinese philosopher. Died in 275 bc.’ He didn’t reveal who had taught him this.

  ‘And he’s in the mortuary, is he?’

  ‘You’re a bloody philistine, aren’t you?’ Grace pulled the car up into a space and switched the engine off.

  Perking just a little, again, Branson retorted, ‘Oh yeah? And since when did you get into philosophy, old-timer?’

  References to Grace’s age always stung. He had just celebrated – if that was the right word – his thirty-ninth birthday, and did not like the idea that next year was going to be the big four-zero.

  ‘Very funny.’

 
‘Ever see that movie The Last Emperor?’

  ‘Don’t remember it.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you wouldn’t,’ Glenn said sarcastically. ‘It only won nine Oscars. Well brilliant. You should get it out on DVD – except you’re probably too busy catching up on past episodes of Desperate Housewives. And,’ he added, nodding towards the mortuary, ‘are you still – you know – she still yanking your chain?’

  ‘None of your damn business!’

  Although in reality it was Branson’s business, it was everyone’s business, because at this moment it was causing Grace’s focus to be elsewhere, in totally the wrong place from where it should have been. Fighting his urge to get out of the car and into the mortuary, to see Cleo, and changing the subject rapidly back to the business of the day, he said, ‘So – what do you think? Did he kill her?’

  ‘He didn’t ask for a lawyer,’ Branson replied.

  ‘You’re learning,’ Grace said, genuinely pleased.

  It was a fact that the majority of criminals, when apprehended, submitted quietly. The ones that protested loudly often turned out to be innocent – of that particular crime, at any rate.

  ‘But did he kill his wife? I dunno, I can’t call it,’ Branson added.

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘What did his eyes tell you?’

  ‘I need to get him in a calmer situation. What was his reaction when you told him the news?’

  ‘He was devastated. It looked real enough.’

  ‘Successful businessman, right?’ They were in the shade here, alongside a flint wall, by a tall laurel bush. Air wafted in through the open sun-roof and windows. A tiny spider suddenly abseiled down its own thread from the interior mirror.

  ‘Yeah. Software systems of some kind,’ Branson said.

  ‘You know the best character trait to become a successful businessman?’

  ‘Whatever it is, I wasn’t born with it.’

  ‘It’s being a sociopath. Having no conscience, as ordinary people know it.’

  Branson pressed the button, lowering his window further. ‘A sociopath is a psychopath, right?’ He cupped the spider in the massive palm of his hand and gently dropped it out of the window.