Bishop’s eyes moved as if he was tracking the path of an insect across the carpet. Grace followed his line of sight but could see nothing.
‘Why?’ Bishop suddenly looked up, staring at him intently. ‘What do you mean? I was told to move there.’
Now it was Grace’s turn to frown. ‘By whom?’
‘Well – by the police. By you, I presume.’
‘I’m not with you.’
Bishop opened his arms expansively. He gave a good impression of sounding genuinely surprised. ‘I was called in my room. The officer said that the Hotel du Vin was being staked out by the press and you were moving me.’
‘What was the name of the officer?’
‘I – I don’t remember. Umm – it may have been Canning? DS Canning?’
Grace looked at Branson. ‘Know anything about this?’
‘Nothing,’ Branson replied.
‘Was it a male or female officer?’ Grace asked.
‘Male.’
‘DS Canning was his name? Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Canning. DS Canning. I think it was DS. Definitely Canning.’
‘What exactly did this man say to you?’ Grace watched his eyes intently. They darted left again.
‘That you’d booked me a room at the Lansdowne Place. A cab would be outside the rear entrance, by the staff door at the rear of the kitchens. That I should take the fire escape stairs down there.’
Grace wrote down the name
‘On the room phone,’ Bishop said after some moments’ thought.
Grace cursed silently. That would make it harder to verify or trace. The hotel’s switchboard could log the time of incoming calls, but not their numbers. ‘What time was this?’
‘About five thirty.’
‘You checked into the Lansdowne Place and then went out. Where did you go?’
‘I went for a walk along the seafront.’ Bishop pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. ‘Katie and I used to love it down there. She loved going on the beach. She was a keen swimmer.’ He paused and took a sip of water. ‘I needed to call my kids – they’re both abroad, on holiday. I . . .’ He lapsed into silence.
So did Roy Grace. There was no police officer called Canning on his team.
Excusing himself, the Detective Superintendent slipped out of the room and walked down the corridor to MIR One. It took him just a few clicks on a workstation keyboard to establish that there was no officer of that name in the entire Sussex police force.
43
Shortly before midnight, Cleo opened her front door wearing an unlaced black silk camisole. It covered the top two inches of her pale, slender thighs and little else. In her outstretched hand was a tumbler of Glenfiddich on the rocks, filled to the brim. The only other things she had on were a tantalizing, deep, musky perfume and the dirtiest grin Roy Grace had ever seen on a woman’s face.
‘Wow! Now that’s what I call a—’ he started to say, when she kicked the door shut behind him, the camisole falling even further open over her large, firm breasts. And that was as far as he got as, still holding the glass, she put both arms around his neck and pressed her moist lips against his. Moments later a whisky-flavoured ice cube was sliding into his mouth.
Her eyes, blurry, smiling, danced in front of his own.
Tilting her head just far enough back that he still could only see her in blurred focus, she said, ‘You’ve got far too many clothes on!’ Then, placing the glass in his hand, she began, ravenously, to unbutton his shirt, kissing his nipples, then his chest, then pressing another ice cube, with her mouth, deep against his belly button. She looked up at him with eyes that seemed to burn into him with happiness, eyes the colour of sunlight on ice. ‘You are so gorgeous, Roy. God, you are so, so gorgeous.’
Gasping, and crunching the remains of the ice cube, he said, ‘You’re sort of OK yourself.’
‘Just sort of OK?’ she echoed, distractedly tugging at his belt buckle as if the world’s survival depended on it, then jerking his trousers and boxer shorts sharply down over his shoes.
‘In the sense of being the most beautiful, incredible, gorgeous woman on this planet.’
