He clocked the hesitation before the man answered.
‘Sunday evening, about eight o’clock.’ Bishop’s voice was suave, but deadpan, and totally classless, as if he had worked on it to lose whatever accent he might once have had. Impossible to tell whether he came from a privileged background or was self-made. The man’s dark red Bentley, which was still parked at his golf club, was the kind of flash motor Branson associated more with footballers than class.
The door opened and Eleanor Hodgson, Roy Grace’s prim, nervy, fifty-something Management Support Assistant, came in with a round tray containing three mugs of coffee and a cup of water. Bishop drained the water before she had left the room.
‘You hadn’t seen your wife since Sunday?’ Branson said, with an element of surprise in his voice.
‘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.’