Then his eyes dropped to the man’s right hand. To the abrasion on the back of it, just in from his thumb; it looked recent. ‘You’ve hurt your hand,’ he said.
Bishop glanced at his hand, then gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I – er – bashed it getting into a taxi.’
‘Would that be the taxi you took from the Hotel du Vin to the Lansdowne Place Hotel?’
‘Yes, I – I was putting a bag in the boot.’
‘Nasty,’ Grace said, making a mental note to get the taxi driver to verify that. He also noted that Bishop’s eyes darted to the right. To construct mode. Which indicated he was lying.
‘It looks quite a bad graze. What did the driver say?’ Grace glanced at Branson, who nodded.
‘Did he give you any first aid or anything?’ Branson asked.
Bishop looked at each of them in turn. ‘What is it with you guys? It’s like the bloody Inquisition. I want to help you. What the hell’s a graze on my hand got to do with anything?’
‘Mr Bishop, in our work we ask an awful lot of questions. I’m afraid it’s what we do. It’s in our nature. I’ve had a long day, and so has DS Branson, and I’m sure you must be exhausted. Please bear with us and answer our questions, and we’ll all be able to leave here quicker. The more you can help us, the sooner we’ll be able to catch your wife’s killer.’ Grace took a gulp of water, then said gently, ‘We’re a little curious as to why you checked out of the Hotel du Vin and went to the Lansdowne Place. Could you explain your reasons?’
Bishop’s eyes moved as if he was tracking the path of an insect across the carpet. Grace followed his line of sight but could see nothing.
‘Why?’ Bishop suddenly looked up, staring at him intently. ‘What do you mean? I was told to move there.’
Now it was Grace’s turn to frown. ‘By whom?’
‘Well – by the police. By you, I presume.’
‘I’m not with you.’
Bishop opened his arms expansively. He gave a good impression of sounding genuinely surprised. ‘I was called in my room. The officer said that the Hotel du Vin was being staked out by the press and you were moving me.’
‘What was the name of the officer?’
‘I – I don’t remember. Umm – it may have been Canning? DS Canning?’
Grace looked at Branson. ‘Know anything about this?’
‘Nothing,’ Branson replied.
‘Was it a male or female officer?’ Grace asked.
‘Male.’
‘DS Canning was his name? Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Canning. DS Canning. I think it was DS. Definitely Canning.’
‘What exactly did this man say to you?’ Grace watched his eyes intently. They darted left again.
‘That you’d booked me a room at the Lansdowne Place. A cab would be outside the rear entrance, by the staff door at the rear of the kitchens. That I should take the fire escape stairs down there.’
Grace wrote down the name DS Canning on his pad. ‘Did this officer call you on your mobile or on the hotel phone?’
‘On the room phone,’ Bishop said after some moments’ thought.
Grace cursed silently. That would make it harder to verify or trace. The hotel’s switchboard could log the time of incoming calls, but not their numbers. ‘What time was this?’
‘About five thirty.’
‘You checked into the Lansdowne Place and then went out. Where did you go?’
‘I went for a walk along the seafront.’ Bishop pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. ‘Katie and I used to love it down there. She loved going on the beach. She was a keen swimmer.’ He paused and took a sip of water. ‘I needed to call my kids – they’re both abroad, on holiday. I . . .’ He lapsed into silence.
So did Roy Grace. There was no police officer called Canning on his team.
Excusing himself, the Detective Superintendent slipped out of the room and walked down the corridor to MIR One. It took him just a few clicks on a workstation keyboard to establish that there was no officer of that name in the entire Sussex police force.
43
Shortly before midnight, Cleo opened her front door wearing an unlaced black silk camisole. It covered the top two inches of her pale, slender thighs and little else. In her outstretched hand was a tumbler of Glenfiddich on the rocks, filled to the brim. The only other things she had on were a tantalizing, deep, musky perfume and the dirtiest grin Roy Grace had ever seen on a woman’s face.
‘Wow! Now that’s what I call a—’ he started to say, when she kicked the door shut behind him, the camisole falling even further open over her large, firm breasts. And that was as far as he got as, still holding the glass, she put both arms around his neck and pressed her moist lips against his. Moments later a whisky-flavoured ice cube was sliding into his mouth.
Her eyes, blurry, smiling, danced in front of his own.
Tilting her head just far enough back that he still could only see her in blurred focus, she said, ‘You’ve got far too many clothes on!’ Then, placing the glass in his hand, she began, ravenously, to unbutton his shirt, kissing his nipples, then his chest, then pressing another ice cube, with her mouth, deep against his belly button. She looked up at him with eyes that seemed to burn into him with happiness, eyes the colour of sunlight on ice. ‘You are so gorgeous, Roy. God, you are so, so gorgeous.’
Gasping, and crunching the remains of the ice cube, he said, ‘You’re sort of OK yourself.’
‘Just sort of OK?’ she echoed, distractedly tugging at his belt buckle as if the world’s survival depended on it, then jerking his trousers and boxer shorts sharply down over his shoes.
‘In the sense of being the most beautiful, incredible, gorgeous woman on this planet.’
‘So there are more beautiful women than me on other planets?’ In one deft movement, Cleo dug her fingers into the glass, popped another ice cube in her mouth, then scooped more ice from the glass and pressed it against his balls.
For a reply, raw air shot out of Grace’s throat. Pleasure burned in his stomach, so intense it hurt. He pulled the silky garment off her shoulders and buried his mouth into her soft neck, as she took him in her lips, deeply, all the way down the shaft, burying her face in his tangled pubic hairs.
Grace stood, intoxicated with the heat of the night, the smell of her perfume, the touch of her skin, wishing, somewhere in a recess of his brain, that he could freeze this moment, this incredible moment of sheer, utter joy, bliss, freeze it forever, stay here, with her gripping him in her icy lips, that smile in her eyes, that sheer joy dancing in his soul.
Somewhere, just inches away, a shadow hovered. Munich. He pushed it away. A ghost, that was all. Just a ghost.
He wanted this woman, Cleo, so much. Not just now, this moment, but wanted her in his life. He adored her to bits. He felt more in love at this moment than he could imagine any man on the planet had ever been before. More in love than he had ever dared to think could happen to him again, after these nine long wilderness years.
Forcing his hands through her long, silky hair, his words gasped breathlessly. ‘God, Cleo, you are so –
– incredible –
– so amazing –
– so—’
Then, with his suit jacket still on, his trousers and striped boxer shorts around his ankles, half in and half out of his shirt, he was lying on top of her, on a thick, white pile rug on her polished oak floor, deep, so incredibly deep inside her, holding her in his arms, kissing this wild, writhing beast of so many contrasts.