estimated time of death.’
Grace thanked him, then turned to the burly figure of Guy Batchelor.
The Detective Sergeant told the assembled teams about the cash call Brian Bishop had made on the investors in his company, International Rostering Solutions PLC. He concluded by saying, ‘Although his business seems to be expanding and is well regarded, Bishop is hocked up to his eyeballs in debt.’
The significance was not lost on anyone in the room. Then he delivered his nuke. He told the two teams about Bishop’s criminal record.
Grace watched all their faces. There was a sense of progress in this room that was palpable.
Next, he had arranged for an abbreviated cut of Norman Potting and Alfonso Zafferone’s interview with Barty Chancellor to be played on the video screen. When it finished, Potting informed the team that he had made inquiries about the particular make and model of gas mask that had been found on both victims. The manufacturer had been identified, and they were awaiting information on the number that had been produced and a full list of UK stockists.
Next was DCI Duigan, who related what the neighbour who lived opposite the house where Sophie Harrington had her flat claimed to have seen. She had positively identified Bishop from the photograph that had been in the
Theatrically saving the best to last, Roy Grace turned to Bella Moy.
The DS produced a photograph of the number plate of Brian Bishop’s Bentley, relating that it had been taken by an ANPR camera, on the southbound carriageway of the M23, near to Gatwick airport at eleven forty-seven on Thursday night. She pointed out that despite Bishop’s alibi that he was in London, his car was seen heading in the direction of Brighton, no more than thirty minutes away, well within the frame of the estimated time of his wife’s murder.
But Grace privately had concerns about this, as the photograph had been taken at night. The number plate was clearly visible, but it was impossible to determine the make of the car. It was helpful secondary evidence, but no slam-dunk. A half-competent barrister would kick it into touch in seconds. But it was worth keeping in the mix. One more fact for jurors to debate.
Bella added that Bishop’s home computer contents were currently being analysed by Ray Packham, in the High Tech Crime Division, and she was awaiting his report. And then she delivered the killer blow.
‘We received the lab reports back on the DNA analysis of semen found present in Mrs Bishop’s vagina,’ she said, reading from her notes in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘There were two different spermatozoa ejaculates present in the samples taken by the Home Office pathologist at the post-mortem,’ she announced. ‘In the opinion of the pathologist, based on the mobility of the spermatozoa present in Mrs Bishop’s vagina, both ejaculates occurred on the night of Thursday 3 August, within a few hours of each other. One is as yet unidentified – but we believe DNA tests will show it to be that of Mrs Bishop’s lover, who has admitted they had sexual intercourse on Thursday evening. The other contains a 100 percent match with DNA taken from Brian Bishop.’
She paused for a moment. ‘This means, of course, that contrary to his alibi that he was in London, Bishop was in Brighton and had sexual intercourse with his wife – at some point close to the time of her death.’
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
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.
