‘Roy, I’ve seen all three people Bishop played golf with today. Just something I thought might be of interest – they all said he seemed in an exceptionally good mood, and that he was playing a blinder – better than any of them had ever seen him play.’
‘Did he give them any explanation?’
‘No, he’s quite a loner apparently, unlike his wife, who was very gregarious, they say. He doesn’t have any really close friends, normally doesn’t say much. But he was cracking jokes today. One of the men, a Mr Mishon, who seems to know him quite well, said it was as if he had taken a happy pill.’
Grace was thinking hard. Dead wife, big weight off his mind?
‘Not the sort of reaction of man who’s just killed his wife, is it, Roy?’
‘Depends how good an actor he is.’
After Batchelor had finished his report, adding little further, Grace thanked him and said he would see him at the eleven p.m. briefing. Then, thinking hard about what Batchelor had just said, he tore away the film covering of the sandwich, levered it out and took a bite. Instantly, he wrinkled his nose at the taste; it was some new exotic kind of bread he’d never tried before – and regretted trying now. It had a strong caraway flavour he did not like. He’d have been much happier with an egg and bacon all-day-breakfast sandwich, but Cleo had been trying to wean him on to a healthier diet by getting him to eat more fish – despite his regaling her with a detailed account of an article he’d read earlier in the year, in the Daily Mail, about the dangerous mercury levels in fish.
He exited Vantage, launched the website of expedia.com and entered a search for flights to Munich on Sunday, wondering whether it was possible to get out there and back on the same day. He had to go, no matter how slender the information from Dick Pope. Had to go and see for himself.
It was all he could do to stop himself from getting the next possible plane. Instead, he glanced at his watch. It was nine fifty. Ten fifty in Germany. But hell, Dick Pope would be up and about, he was on holiday. Sitting in some café or bar in Bavaria with a beer in his hand. He dialled Pope’s mobile, but it went straight to voicemail.
‘Dick,’ he said. ‘Roy again. Sorry to be a pest, but I just want to ask you a few more details about the beer garden where you think you saw Sandy. Call me when you can.’
He hung up and stared for a moment at his prize collection of three dozen vintage cigarette lighters, hunched together on the ledge between the front of his desk and the window, with its view down on the parking area and the cell block. They reflected how much Sandy loved trawling antiques markets, bric-à-brac shops and car-boot sales. Something he still did, when he had the time, but it had never been the same. Part of the fun had always been seeing Sandy’s reaction to something he picked up. Whether she would like it too, in which case they would haggle the price, or whether she would reject it with a single, disapproving scrunch of her face.
Most of the space was occupied by a television and video player, a circular table, four chairs and piles of loose paperwork, his leather go-bag containing his crime-scene kit, and ever-growing small towers of files. Sometimes he wondered if they bred at night, on their own, while he was away from the office.
Each file on the floor stood for an unsolved murder. Murder files never closed until there was a conviction. There would come a point in every murder inquiry when every lead, every avenue, had been exhausted. But that did not mean the police gave up. Years after the incident room was shut down and the inquiry team disbanded, the case would remain open, the evidence stored in boxes, so long as there was a chance that the parties connected to it might still be alive.
He took a swig from his Coke. He’d read on a website that all lowcarb drinks were full of all kinds of chemicals hostile to your body, but he didn’t care at this moment. It seemed that everything you ate or drank was more likely to kill you than provide you with nutrients. Maybe, he pondered, the next food fad would be pre-digested food. You would just buy it and then throw it straight down the lavatory, without needing to eat it.
He clicked his keyboard. There was a British Airways flight out of Heathrow at seven a.m. on Sunday morning. It would get him into Munich at nine fifty. He decided to call the police officer he knew there, Kriminalhauptkommisar Marcel Kullen, to see if he would be free.
Marcel had been seconded here in Sussex a few years back, on a six-month exchange, and they’d become good friends during this period. The officer had extended an open invitation for Grace to come and stay with him and his family at any time. He looked at his watch. Nine fifty-five. Munich was one hour ahead, so it really was late to be calling, but there was a good chance of catching him in.
As he reached out to pick up the phone, it rang.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
It was Brian Bishop.
42
Grace noted that Bishop had changed out of the golfing clothes he had been wearing earlier. He now had on an expensive-looking black blouson jacket over a white shirt, blue trousers and tan loafers, without socks. He looked more like a playboy on a night out than a man in mourning, he thought.
As if reading Grace’s mind as he sat down uneasily on the red armchair in the cramped Witness Interview Suite, Bishop said, ‘My outfit was selected from my wardrobe by your family liaison officer, Linda Buckley. Not quite my choice for the circumstances. Can you tell me when I will be allowed back in my house?’
‘As soon as possible, Mr Bishop. In a couple of days, I hope,’ Grace replied.
Bishop sat bolt upright, furious. ‘What? This is ridiculous!’
Grace looked at a rather livid graze on the man’s right hand. Branson came in with three beakers of water, set them down on the table and closed the door, remaining standing.
Gently, Grace said, ‘It’s a crime scene, Mr Bishop. Police practice these days is to preserve a scene like this as much as possible. Please understand it’s in all our interests, to help catch the perpetrator.’
‘Do you have a suspect?’ Bishop asked.
‘Before I come on to that, would you mind if we record this interview? It will be quicker than if we have to write down notes.’
Bishop gave a thin, wintry smile. ‘Does that mean I’m a suspect?’
‘Not at all,’ Grace assured him.
Bishop signalled his assent with his hand.
Glenn Branson switched on the audio and video recorders, announcing clearly, as he sat down, ‘It is ten twenty p.m., Friday 4 August. Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Branson interviewing Mr Brian Bishop.’
‘Do – do you have a suspect?’ Bishop asked again.
‘Not yet,’ Grace replied. ‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have done this?’
Bishop gave a half-laugh, as if the question was just too ridiculous. His eyes shot to the left. ‘No. No, I don’t.’
Grace watched his eyes, remembering from earlier. To the left was truth mode. Bishop had answered just a little too quickly, and almost a little too good-humouredly for a bereaved man. He’d seen this kind of behaviour before, the cool, slick, rehearsed answer to the questions; the lack of emotion. Bishop was displaying the classic signs of a man who had committed a murder. But that did not mean he had. That laughter could equally well have been from nerves.