‘Do you have children, sir?’ Nick Nicholl asked suddenly.
‘Not together. I have two by my first marriage. My son, Max, is fifteen. And my daughter, Carly – she’s thirteen. Max is with a friend in the South of France. Carly’s staying with cousins in Canada.’
‘Is there anyone we need to contact for you?’ Nicholl continued.
Looking bewildered, Bishop shook his head.
‘We will be assigning you a family liaison officer to help you with everything. I’m afraid you won’t be able to return to your home for a few days. Is there anyone you could stay with?’
‘I have my flat in London.’
‘We’re going to need to talk to you again. It would be more convenient if you could stay down in the Brighton and Hove area for the next few days. Perhaps with some friends, or in a hotel?’
‘What about my clothes? I need my stuff – my things – wash kit . . .’
‘If you tell the family liaison officer what you need it will be brought to you.’
‘Please tell me what’s happened?’
‘How long have you been married, Mr Bishop?’
‘Five years – we had our anniversary in April.’
‘Would you describe your marriage as happy?’
Bishop leaned back and shook his head. ‘What the hell is this? Why are you interrogating me?’
‘We’re not interrogating you, sir. Just asking you a few background questions. Trying to understand a little more about you and your family. This can often really help in an investigation – it’s standard procedure, sir.’
‘I think I’ve told you enough. I want to see my – my darling. I want to see Katie. Please.’
The door opened and Bishop saw a man dressed in a crumpled blue suit, white shirt and blue and white striped tie come in. He was about five foot ten tall, pleasant-looking, with alert blue eyes, fair hair cropped short to little more than a fuzz, badly shaven, and a nose that had seen better days. He held out a strong, weathered hand, with well-trimmed nails, towards Bishop. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace,’ he said. ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer for this – situation. I’m extremely sorry, Mr Bishop.’
Bishop gave him a clammy grip back with long, bony fingers, one of which sported a crested signet ring. ‘Please tell me what’s happened.’
Roy Grace glanced at Branson, then at Nicholl. He had been watching for the past few minutes from the observation room, but was not about to reveal this. ‘Were you playing golf this morning, sir?’
Bishop’s eyes flicked, briefly, to the left. ‘Yes. Yes, I was.’
‘Can I ask when you last played?’
Bishop looked thrown by the question. Grace, watching like a hawk, saw his eyes flick right, then left, then very definitely left again. ‘Last Sunday.’
Now Grace would be able to get a handle on whether Bishop was lying or telling the truth. Watching eyes was an effective technique he had learned from his interest in neuro-linguistic programming. All people have two sides to their brains, one part that contains memory, the other that works the imagination – the creative side – and lying. The
‘Where did you sleep last night, Mr Bishop?’
His eyes staring resolutely ahead, giving nothing away intentionally, or unintentionally, Bishop said, ‘In my flat in London.’
‘Could anyone vouch for that?’
Looking agitated, Bishop’s eyes shot to the left. To memory. ‘The concierge, Oliver, I suppose.’
‘When did you see him?’
‘Yesterday evening, about seven o’clock – when I came back from the office. And then again this morning.’
‘What time were you on the tee at the golf club this morning?’
‘Just after nine.’
‘And you drove down from London?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time would that have been?’
‘About half-six. Oliver helped me load my stuff into the car – my golf sticks.’
