Marcel had been seconded here in Sussex a few years back, on a six-month exchange, and they’d become good friends during this period. The officer had extended an open invitation for Grace to come and stay with him and his family at any time. He looked at his watch. Nine fifty-five. Munich was one hour ahead, so it really was late to be calling, but there was a good chance of catching him in.
As he reached out to pick up the phone, it rang.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
It was Brian Bishop.
42
Grace noted that Bishop had changed out of the golfing clothes he had been wearing earlier. He now had on an expensive-looking black blouson jacket over a white shirt, blue trousers and tan loafers, without socks. He looked more like a playboy on a night out than a man in mourning, he thought.
As if reading Grace’s mind as he sat down uneasily on the red armchair in the cramped Witness Interview Suite, Bishop said, ‘My outfit was selected from my wardrobe by your family liaison officer, Linda Buckley. Not quite my choice for the circumstances. Can you tell me when I will be allowed back in my house?’
‘As soon as possible, Mr Bishop. In a couple of days, I hope,’ Grace replied.
Bishop sat bolt upright, furious. ‘What? This is ridiculous!’
Grace looked at a rather livid graze on the man’s right hand. Branson came in with three beakers of water, set them down on the table and closed the door, remaining standing.
Gently, Grace said, ‘It’s a crime scene, Mr Bishop. Police practice these days is to preserve a scene like this as much as possible. Please understand it’s in all our interests, to help catch the perpetrator.’
‘Do you have a suspect?’ Bishop asked.
‘Before I come on to that, would you mind if we record this interview? It will be quicker than if we have to write down notes.’
Bishop gave a thin, wintry smile. ‘Does that mean I’m a suspect?’
‘Not at all,’ Grace assured him.
Bishop signalled his assent with his hand.
Glenn Branson switched on the audio and video recorders, announcing clearly, as he sat down, ‘It is ten twenty p.m., Friday 4 August. Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Branson interviewing Mr Brian Bishop.’
‘Do – do you have a suspect?’ Bishop asked again.
‘Not yet,’ Grace replied. ‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have done this?’
Bishop gave a half-laugh, as if the question was just too ridiculous. His eyes shot to the left. ‘No. No, I don’t.’
Grace watched his eyes, remembering from earlier. To the left was truth mode. Bishop had answered just a little too quickly, and almost a little too good-humouredly for a bereaved man. He’d seen this kind of behaviour before, the cool, slick, rehearsed answer to the questions; the lack of emotion. Bishop was displaying the classic signs of a man who had committed a murder. But that did not mean he had. That laughter could equally well have been from nerves.
Then his eyes dropped to the man’s right hand. To the abrasion on the back of it, just in from his thumb; it looked recent. ‘You’ve hurt your hand,’ he said.
Bishop glanced at his hand, then gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I – er – bashed it getting into a taxi.’
‘Would that be the taxi you took from the Hotel du Vin to the Lansdowne Place Hotel?’
‘Yes, I – I was putting a bag in the boot.’
‘Nasty,’ Grace said, making a mental note to get the taxi driver to verify that. He also noted that Bishop’s eyes darted to the right. To construct mode. Which indicated he was lying.
‘It looks quite a bad graze. What did the driver say?’ Grace glanced at Branson, who nodded.
‘Did he give you any first aid or anything?’ Branson asked.
Bishop looked at each of them in turn. ‘What is it with you guys? It’s like the bloody Inquisition. I want to help you. What the hell’s a graze on my hand got to do with anything?’
‘Mr Bishop, in our work we ask an awful lot of questions. I’m afraid it’s what we do. It’s in our nature. I’ve had a long day, and so has DS Branson, and I’m sure you must be exhausted. Please bear with us and answer our questions, and we’ll all be able to leave here quicker. The more you can help us, the sooner we’ll be able to catch your wife’s killer.’ Grace took a gulp of water, then said gently, ‘We’re a little curious as to why you checked out of the Hotel du Vin and went to the Lansdowne Place. Could you explain your reasons?’
