Not Dead Enough

On the screen a lean, angular man was lowering himself into one of the three red chairs in the Witness Interview Suite. He had a striking face, interesting rather than handsome, with untidy, tangled hair and a Dutch settler’s beard. He wore a baggy Hawaiian shirt hanging loose, blue jeans and leather sandals. His complexion was pale, as if he had spent too much of the summer indoors.

‘That’s Katie Bishop’s lover?’ Grace asked.

‘Yes,’ Potting replied. ‘Barty Chancellor.’

‘Poncy name,’ Grace said.

‘Poncy git,’ Potting replied, turning up the sound.

Grace watched the interview progress, with both detectives making frequent jottings in their notebooks. Despite his odd appearance, Chancellor spoke in an assured, faintly superior, public school accent, his body language relaxed and confident, the only hint of any nerves showing when he occasionally twisted a fabric bracelet on his wrist.

‘Did Mrs Bishop ever talk to you about her husband, Mr Chancellor?’ Norman Potting asked him.

‘Yes, of course she did.’

‘Did that give you a kick?’ Zafferone asked.

Grace smiled. The young, arrogant DC was doing exactly what he had hoped – winding Chancellor up.

‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ Chancellor asked.

Zafferone held his gaze. ‘Did you enjoy the knowledge that you were sleeping with a woman who was cheating on her husband?’

‘I’m here to help you with your inquiries in finding the killer of my darling Katie. I don’t think that question is relevant.’

‘We’ll be the judge of what’s relevant, sir,’ Zafferone replied coolly.

‘I came here voluntarily,’ Chancellor said, visibly riled now, his voice rising. ‘I don’t like your tone.’

‘I appreciate you must be very distressed, Mr Chancellor,’ Norman Potting cut in, speaking courteously, playing classic good cop to Zafferone’s bad. ‘I can understand something of what you must be going through. It would be very helpful if you could tell us a little bit about the nature of the relationship between Mr and Mrs Bishop.’

Chancellor toyed with his bracelet for some moments. ‘The man was a brute,’ he said suddenly.

‘In what way?’ Potting asked.

‘Did he beat Mrs Bishop up?’ Zafferone asked. ‘Was he violent?’

‘Not physically but mentally. He was very critical of her – the way she looked, the way she kept the house – he’s a bit of an obsessive. And he was extremely jealous – which was why she was extra careful. And . . .’ He fell silent for a moment, as if hesitating whether to add something. ‘Well – I don’t know if this is significant, but he’s quite kinky, she told me.’

‘In what way?’ Potting asked.

‘Sexually. He’s into bondage. Fetish stuff.’

‘What kind of stuff?’ Potting asked again.

‘Leather, rubber, that sort of thing.’

‘She told you all this?’ Zafferone asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Did that turn you on?’

‘What the hell kind of a question is that?’ Chancellor flared at him.

‘Did it excite you, when Katie told you about these things?’

‘I’m not some kind of a sick pervert, if that’s what you think,’ he retorted.

‘Mr Chancellor,’ Norman Potting said, playing good cop again. ‘I don’t suppose Mrs Bishop ever mentioned a gas mask to you?’

‘A what?’

‘Did Mr Bishop’s fetishes ever include a gas mask, to the best of your knowledge?’

The artist thought for a moment. ‘I don’t – I – no – I don’t recall her mentioning a gas mask.’

‘Are you sure?’ Zafferone said.

‘It’s not the kind of thing you forget easily.’

‘You seemed to forget she was a married woman easily enough.’ Zafferone pushed his barb in.

‘I think it’s time I had my solicitor present,’ Chancellor said. ‘You are out of order.’

‘Did you kill Mrs Bishop?’ Zafferone asked coolly.

Chancellor looked fit to explode. ‘WHAT?’