Then there was a knock on his door.
Probably room service wanting to turn down the beds, he thought, opening it. Instead he saw the two police officers who had first broken the news of Katie’s death to him.
The black one held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Branson and Detective Constable Nicholl. May we come in, sir?’
Bishop did not like the expression on their faces. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, stepping back into the room and holding the door open for them. ‘Do you have some news for me?’
‘Brian Desmond Bishop,’ Branson said, ‘evidence has come to light, as a result of which I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Mrs Katherine Bishop. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is that clear?’
Bishop did not respond for a moment. Then he said, ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘My colleague, DC Nicholl, is going to give you a quick body search.’
Almost mechanically, Bishop raised his arms, to allow Nicholl to frisk him. ‘I’m – I’m sorry,’ Bishop then said. ‘I need to call my solicitor.’
‘I’m afraid not at the moment, sir. You will be given that opportunity when we are at the Custody Centre.’
‘My rights are—’
Branson raised his broad hands. ‘Sir, we know what your rights are.’ Then he dropped his hands and unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt. ‘Please put your hands behind your back.’
What little colour there was in Bishop’s face now drained away completely. ‘You’re not going to handcuff me, please! I’m not going to do a runner. There’s a misunderstanding here. This is all wrong. I can sort this out with you.’
‘Behind your back please, sir.’
In a total panic, Bishop stared wildly around the room. ‘I need some things. My jacket – wallet – I – please let me put a jacket on.’
‘Which is it, sir?’ Nicholl asked.
Bishop pointed to the wardrobe. ‘The camel-coloured one.’ Then he pointed to his mobile phone and his BlackBerry, on the bedside table. Nicholl patted down his jacket, then Branson allowed him to put it on, and cram his wallet, mobile phone, BlackBerry and a pair of reading glasses into the pockets. Then he asked him to put his hands behind his back again.
‘Look, do we really have to do this?’ Bishop pleaded. ‘It’s going to be so embarrassing for me. We’re going to walk through the hotel.’
‘We’ve arranged with the manager to go via a fire exit at the side. Is your hand all right, sir?’ Branson asked, clicking shut the first cuff.
‘It wouldn’t have a bloody plaster on it if it was all right,’ Bishop snapped back. Still looking around the room, he said, panicking suddenly, ‘My laptop?’
‘I’m afraid that’s going to be impounded, sir.’
Nick Nicholl picked up Bishop’s car keys. ‘Do you have a vehicle in the car park, Mr Bishop?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. I could drive it – you could come with me.’
‘I’m afraid that’s going to be impounded too, for forensic testing,’ Branson said.
‘This is unbelievable,’ Bishop said. ‘This is unfucking believable!’
But he got no sympathy from either man. Their demeanour from when they had first broken the bad news to him last Friday morning had changed completely.
‘I need to make a quick call to the friends I’m having dinner with, to tell them I’m not coming.’
‘Someone will call them for you, from the Custody Centre.’
‘Yes, but they’re cooking dinner for me.’ He pointed at the hotel phone. ‘Please – let me call them. It’ll take thirty seconds.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Branson said, repeating himself like an automaton. ‘Someone will call them for you, from the Custody Centre.’
Suddenly Brian Bishop was scared.
84
Bishop sat next to DC Nicholl on the back seat of the grey, unmarked police Vectra. It was just past eight p.m., and the daylight beyond the car’s windows was still bright.
