‘How would you describe Mr Bishop?’ Branson asked.
‘How would I describe him? He’s a top man. One of the best.’ He thought for some moments. ‘Absolute integrity, smart, reliable, efficient.’
‘Did you ever arrange any life insurance for him?’
‘We’re getting into an area of client confidentiality, gentlemen.’
‘I understand,’ Grace said. ‘There is one question I would like to ask, and if you don’t want to answer it, that is fine. Did you ever arrange a life insurance policy on Brian Bishop’s wife?’
‘I can answer that with a categorical no.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Is it correct, Mr Taylor, that you and Mr Bishop had dinner here, in this restaurant last week, on Thursday 3 August?’ Grace continued.
‘Yes, we did.’ His demeanour had become a little defensive now.
‘This a regular haunt of yours?’ Branson asked.
‘It is. I like to meet clients here.’
‘Can you remember what time, approximately, you left the restaurant?’
‘I can do better than that,’ Phil Taylor said, a little smugly. Fishing his wallet from his jacket, which was lying beside him on the bench seat, he rummaged inside and pulled out a credit card receipt from the restaurant.
Grace looked at it. Bishop hadn’t been lying, he thought, when he saw the items of drink that the two men had consumed. Two Mojito cocktails. Two bottles of wine. Four brandies. ‘Looks like you had a good evening!’ he said. He also privately noted that the prices were no higher than decent Brighton restaurants. He could afford to bring Cleo here. She would love it.
‘Aye, we did.’
Grace did a mental calculation. Assuming both men drank more or less equally, Bishop would have been way over the drink-drive limit when he left the restaurant. Could the drink have brought on a rage about his wife’s infidelity? And given him the courage to drive recklessly?
Then, studying the receipt carefully, he found towards the top right what he was looking for.
‘How did Brian Bishop seem to you last Thursday evening?’ Grace asked Phil Taylor.
‘He was in a great mood. Very cheerful. Good company. He had a golf match in Brighton next morning, so he didn’t want to be late, or drink too much – but we still managed to!’ He chuckled.
‘Can you remember how soon after you got the bill you left this place?’
‘Immediately. I could see Brian was anxious to get home – he needed to make an early start next morning.’
‘So he got a taxi?’
‘Aye. Doorman, John, got one. I let him take the first.’
‘So that was about eleven.’
‘Around then, yes. I couldn’t say exactly. Maybe a few minutes before.’
Grace paid the bill for the drinks, then they thanked him and left. As they turned the corner into Arlington Street, Grace was silent, doing some mental arithmetic. Then, just as they reached the Mondeo, he slapped Branson warmly on the back. ‘Every dog has his day!’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Suddenly, my friend, it is all your birthdays rolled into one!’
‘Sorry, old-timer, you’ve lost me!’
‘Your driving skills. I’m going to give you a chance to show them off. We’re going to drive first, at a steady legal speed to Bishop’s flat in Notting Hill. From there, you’re going to drive like the clappers! We’re going to see just how quickly Bishop could have made that journey.’
The Detective Sergeant beamed.
99
So what the fuck was this all about? Yesterday in Brighton you could throw a stick in any direction and you’d hit an MG TF. Now there wasn’t one to be seen anywhere in the whole city. Skunk stared angrily out of the windscreen of Beth’s mother’s little Peugeot.
‘Make me come!’ Beth said.
