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.
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 she 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.
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.