“Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes, why?”
“You seem a bit pensive.”
“Do I? Mmm, I suppose I am. Don’t worry about it,” he said, grinning. “I don’t think it’s catching.”
The apartment wasn’t as big as Paolo had expected, but it was nicely laid out with two bedrooms, both with en suite bathrooms, a lounge and spacious kitchen/diner, all leading off from a square central hallway. The furnishings were clearly expensive, but not designer. Paolo got the impression Peter Bishop had been comfortable in his own skin. There was nothing that stood out as trying to make a statement. The overall feeling was one of a man who didn’t feel the need to make out he was anything other than himself.
He noticed the red light winking on the answering machine and pressed the replay button, but none of the messages seemed to be personal. Paolo slipped the tiny tape into an evidence bag. You could never be certain that what sounded innocuous really was.
He moved to the laptop and switched it on, but it only loaded as far as the password prompt.
“How good are you with computers, Dave?”
“Useless, sir. I can switch mine on, play games, answer emails and surf the web. That’s about it. Why’s that?”
“This one is password protected. Is there any way past that?”
Dave frowned. “There is, but I think we’ll need the IT people to do it. Mind you, he might have his passwords written down somewhere. A lot of people do.”
Paolo searched through the drawers of the computer desk, but didn’t find anything that looked like a password. What he did find was some headed notepaper.
“I think I know what our victim did for a living. Look at this, Peter Bishop & Associates Solicitors. The address is in the law district. When we’ve finished up here we’ll see if any of those keys fit his offices. Not that we can go in without permission. You know how touchy the legal bods can be about client confidentiality and keeping their secrets to themselves.”
He dialled the number on the letterhead. After half a dozen rings, an answering machine kicked in outlining the hours of business. Paolo was about to put the phone down when the voice continued.
“…for matters of urgency, please call…”
Paolo scribbled down the number and then ended the call. Keying in the new number, he prayed it wouldn’t ring through to this flat. He sighed with relief when a woman’s voice answered.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“I hope so. This is Detective Inspector Paolo Storey. To whom am I speaking?”
“Constance Myers. What is this about, please? Is there a problem at the offices? Have we been broken into?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. Are you the key holder for Mr Bishop?”
“Not exactly. I’m a paralegal. I work for Mr Bishop and handle out of hours calls if they are urgent.”
“Would it be possible to meet us at the offices in, say, an hour?”
“Not without Mr Bishop’s permission. I’d have to call him first and come back to you on this.”
No matter how many times he had to do it, Paolo hated this part of his job.
“I’m calling from his home. I’m sorry, Ms Myers, but Mr Bishop is dead. It’s in connection with his death that we need access to his offices.”
He heard the woman gasp as the news hit home.
“What? I mean, how? I…this can’t be true.”
“I wish that was the case, but I’m afraid Mr Bishop is dead.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding to Paolo as if she was in a state of shock. “I’ll be there.”
She put the phone down without saying goodbye. Another person’s life affected by murder. It was never just the victims and their families. The ripples spread much further than that. On the subject of family, they didn’t even know if Peter Bishop had any, but he was fairly sure Constance Myers would have the answers to those questions.
They methodically checked each room, but uncovered nothing more interesting than some gay porn and a few erotic paperbacks in the same genre.
“We can drop the laptop at the station on the way to Peter Bishop’s offices,” Paolo said. “Let’s hope we uncover more in his office than we have here. Unless there is something on his laptop, we’re no further forward in finding a link with the other victims.”
In Paolo’s experience, people rarely resembled the image he had of them from hearing voices on the phone. Constance Myers was the exception that proved the rule. From their brief conversation he’d built a picture of a thin, angular woman, with stern features and short grey hair. When they arrived at the offices of Peter Bishop & Associates the woman waiting for them in the reception area could have been created from Paolo’s imagination.
“Hello, we spoke on the phone. I’m Detective Inspector Paolo Storey and this is Detective Sergeant Dave Johnson. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.”
Constance blanched. A hand fluttered to her throat and then fell back to her side.
“I simply cannot believe it. It doesn’t seem possible.”
“We’ll take as little of your time as we can, Ms Myers. Would you please tell us which of these keys belong to the office? We need to eliminate them from the bunch.”
She held out her hand for the keys. “I can tell you what each of them is for,” she said. “I have looked after Mr Bishop since he started out on his own six years ago.” She held the keys in one hand and used the other to indicate. “These two are for his apartment, but you must already know that if you’ve been there. This one is for the front office door. This is for Mr Bishop’s office. The small one is for his desk. This one is for his filing cabinet and the other is his car key.”
Paolo took the keys back. “Thank you,” he said. “Do you have duplicates?”
“Of his office keys, yes, but not his car and home. He kept the spares for those in his desk.”
“Would you mind unlocking his office? We need to look through his desk and filing cabinet.”
“No, I’m sorry; I cannot allow you to open the filing cabinet. There is client information in there that is confidential. If you want access to those files, you’ll have to get a court order.”
Paolo sighed. He’d expected that response, but it had been worth a try.
“We won’t touch the filing cabinet, but do need to search his desk.”
Constance nodded and unlocked the inner office door. The organised chaos that met his eyes was completely unexpected. After the neatness of Peter Bishop’s home, the stacks of files around the floor, many of which looked in danger of toppling over, seemed to belong to a different person.
“You cannot touch any of the files,” Constance said, hovering in the doorway. “I’m afraid I will have to watch to make sure client confidentiality is maintained.”
“I understand,” Paolo said, moving to the desk, which was covered in pieces of paper, yet more files, yellow post it notes, slips with telephone numbers and call messages, pens, pencils and legal pads.
“How did he work in this chaos?”
“Mr Bishop knew where every scrap of paper could be found. He was an amazing man. When I first started with him, I used to tidy up before I went home, but he asked me not to. He said if he put things down, he’d be able to find them again. If I moved papers, he wouldn’t be able to keep their whereabouts in his head.”
Paolo could hear the emotion in her voice. She was barely holding herself together.
“Do you know if Mr Bishop knew Professor Edwards or Mr Fulbright, either socially or professionally?”
“They’re the two men who were murdered recently, aren’t they? Was Mr Bishop killed by the same person?”
Paolo looked up from the clutter on the desk. “It is possible. We won’t know for certain until after the autopsy, but it is looking that way.”
“But why? Who would want to hurt Mr Bishop? Such a gentle, caring man, why would anyone harm him?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out. Does either name ring
any bells with you?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. Oh dear, I simply cannot believe this is happening.”
Paolo handed the keys to Dave. “Open up the desk drawers, see if there’s anything in there to help us. I’ll continue going through the stuff on top here.”
But a careful search of the desk and papers lying on top revealed nothing of obvious interest. Paolo straightened his back. It had been too much to hope that a piece of paper headed ‘this is who killed me’ might turn up, but even a tiny clue would have been better than nothing, which was what they had.
“We’ll leave you to lock up, Ms Myers. If necessary, we will obtain a warrant to search the filing cabinet, but that doesn’t seem probable at the moment. Are there any family members who need to be informed?”
“Only his sister living in America. I’d better let her know. She’ll want to come back for the funeral.”
“Could you give me her details? I’ll make contact and break the news to her.”
She scribbled the name and phone number on a pad, tore off the page and handed it to him.
“He was such a gentleman – in the old-fashioned sense of the word. He was gentle and kind and a wonderful human being.”
She walked with them to the door and Paolo wondered if it was good manners on her part, or just making sure they didn’t double back and peer into places she’d deemed inaccessible.
“Thank you for coming in and assisting us,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss. You obviously cared very much for Mr Bishop.”
Paolo could see she was battling to keep her emotions in check. Despite her best efforts, a single tear fell as she gave a tremulous smile. “He was the son I never had.”
In the car heading back to the station, Paolo couldn’t get Constance Myers’ last words from his head. The pain that humans caused to others never ceased to trouble him. He often wondered how killers were able to sleep at night. The irony of it was, the killer would probably sleep better tonight than Constance Myers.
“You know, Dave, I’m coming more and more to the idea that it’s what these people did, rather than who they were. The only connection we can establish between them is an occupational one. All three were educated men working in the professions.”
Dave indicated to make a turn and the tick, tick, tick played in Paolo’s mind as why, why, why? But no answer came.
As they pulled up outside the station, CC and Andrea were getting out of CC’s car a couple of parking bays further along.
“Good timing,” Paolo called out as he got out of Dave’s car. “I hope you’ve got more than we have. Our search turned up less than nothing.”
“Don’t forget the laptop, sir,” Dave said.
“I haven’t forgotten it, but I’m not expecting miracles from it. If his home and workplace are anything to go by, the laptop is also going to be a washout.”
They walked into the station together. CC, Dave and Andrea each went to their desks. Paolo stood in front of the board where the investigation details were written up, but it seemed like they had precious little to help them on there.
“While we’re waiting for the laptop results, let’s get up to date with what we’ve found out today. Peter Bishop, solicitor, no obvious connection to either of the other two victims. Our killer seems to have a penchant for Friday murders. Is this significant? One a week for three weeks, all killed on Friday, but discovered on Saturday? I think, yes, that’s his pattern.”
He stopped writing and turned back. “What else?”
“He injects them in the leg, but not like a nurse or doctor would,” CC called out. “The autopsy reports on the first two show the needle was stabbed in, rather than put in gently.”
“Good point. From what Chris said this morning, the angle of this one also points to someone stabbing the victim with the syringe. So, not a medical professional. What else? How did you two get on with the club owner and bouncers?”
CC glanced at her notes before answering. “The owner was very helpful, but wasn’t at the club last night. He gave us the names of the two bouncers who were on duty. One of them was inside for most of the night, looking for troublemakers, but doesn’t remember seeing Peter Bishop. If the victim wasn’t causing problems, there was no reason for the bouncer to notice him. We were luckier with the other bouncer, he gave us the approximate time of arrival and departure. The reason Peter Bishop stuck in his mind was because he looked considerably older than the average club goer. When our victim left after only being inside for less than an hour, the bouncer thought it might be because he’d felt out of place. Not that Peter Bishop said anything to that effect, that was simply the bouncer’s take on it.”
“He didn’t see him talk to anyone before going in, or meeting anyone when he came out?”
CC shook her head. “No, he headed straight over to the car park.”
“Okay, the witness this morning said he was on the phone before he left. We need his phone records. Andrea, can you get on to that, please?”
She nodded. “Will do.”
“None of this seems to take us any further forward.” He looked up as the office door opened and one of the IT team came in carrying the laptop and several sheaves of paper. “This looks interesting, James. Please tell me you were able to get into the laptop.”
James laughed. “No offence, sir, but a child could have unlocked this. His password was PASSWORD. It was the first thing I tried.”
Paolo realised he must be less computer savvy than the average child, because that would never have occurred to him.
“Anything interesting?”
“I’ve printed out some conversations Peter Bishop had on a gay chat site. He’s been corresponding with a user called StormyC for several weeks. Getting to know each other. They arranged to meet up last night at the club. But this is the page that will interest you most. It’s from an earlier conversation, shortly after they got chatting. Peter Bishop gives his real name and asked StormyC for his.”
He handed Paolo a transcript of the conversation. Paolo smiled.
“At last! We’ve got a connection between two of our three victims – the professor and Peter Bishop. Listen to this: the person Peter Bishop arranged to meet up with last night called himself Conrad Stormont.”
As his team cheered, Paolo waved his hands to bring them back down to earth.
“Yes, this is great. A breakthrough at last, but we need a connection now between Conrad Stormont and Mr Fulbright. Two out of three ain’t bad, as the song goes, but we have to find that third connection. Either between Fulbright and Stormont, or Fulbright and one of the other two victims. Andrea, you’re our research whiz kid, I want you to dig deep and see what you can come up with.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any news yet on the Stormont children’s grandmother?” Paolo asked, knowing Andrea would have told him if there had been, but needing the confirmation that nothing was being overlooked.
“Still no answer from her phone, but if she’s been away on holiday, she might come back today, being Saturday.”
“Okay,” Paolo said. “Keep on it. I’m sorry for dragging you all in on the weekend, but you can blame our killer for that.”
“As if we didn’t already have reasons enough to hate him,” CC called out.
“I’ve got a visit I need to make,” Paolo said. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. With a bit of luck you’ll all astound me with masses of new information.”
“Have you forgotten you haven’t got your car here?” Dave said. “Want me to drive you?”
Paolo didn’t want to draw attention to his concerns about Barbara and having Dave take him to her apartment would do exactly that.
“I’d rather borrow your keys, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course,” Dave said, throwing the keys over. “Take care of it. I’ll need it tonight to take Rebecca out.”
Paolo pulled up outside Barbara’s house without any clear idea of what to say. All he knew was that
she wasn’t acting like herself. From a dedicated person who never took time off, she was suddenly not showing up when she was on call. Her personality had undergone such a radical change, he barely recognised her as the same person. Something was definitely wrong. He just hoped she’d open up enough to let him help her through whatever it was.
He walked up the short drive to her front door and rang the bell. After a few minutes, he rang it again. Then again. Her car was outside, so she was definitely in. There was no way he was leaving until he’d at least spoken to her.
Pulling out his phone, he hit speed dial for her mobile. He could hear the tune playing inside the house. It sounded like it was coming from upstairs. The call disconnected. She must have refused it.
He rang the bell again and held his finger on it until he felt his phone buzz for an incoming text.
Please go away. I am tired and need to sleep. I’ll see you on Monday and tell you all. Okay? Barb x
Paolo looked up and could see the faint silhouette of a woman’s body through the bedroom curtain. He nodded and the figure moved back.
He had no idea what the hell was going on, but at least Monday was only a couple of days away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Paolo put the phone down and rested his arms on his desk. He and his team had worked flat out over the weekend, but they hadn’t moved much closer to finding the connections they needed to put Conrad Stormont in the frame for Edwin Fulbright’s murder. Maybe today would bring a change in their fortunes. Apart from anything else, it was easier to get answers on a Monday than it was over the weekend when other lucky buggers were off work and relaxing.
He picked up the phone again and dialled Barbara’s office. The line rang on unanswered. Paolo sighed. It was now gone ten and she still wasn’t in. She was usually the first in and last out. Beginning to feel like a stalker, he replaced the receiver and promised himself he wouldn’t call again. She’d get in touch with him when she was ready to share whatever it was that was bringing her down. Standing up, he vowed to give her the space she needed.
A quick glance through the window separating his office from the open plan room housing his team showed them all with their heads down, hard at work. Andrea had slotted into the group as if she’d been there for years instead of just a week. And she was every bit as good at research as he’d been told she was. Just as well, he thought. There was an awful lot of digging into the past that needed to be done for this case. He looked at his watch. Almost time for the team meeting. He walked round his desk, picking up his notes on the way and had just reached the doorway when the phone on his desk rang. At last! Barbara must have decided to respond to one of the fifty million messages it felt like he’d left.
Call It Pretending (#3 - D.I. Paolo Storey Crime Series) Page 13