Not Dead Enough

Spinella nodded, holding up the closed notebook.

‘No comment!’ Grace delivered his most acidic smile, and this time went through the door, closing it firmly behind him.

Ten minutes later, together with Branson, Grace sat down in one of the red, bucket-shaped chairs in the Witness Interview Suite, opposite a wretched-looking Brian Bishop. He had been driven over from his hotel by WPC Maggie Campbell, who was waiting outside.

Grace, his jacket off and wearing a short-sleeved shirt, placed his notebook down on the small coffee table, then dabbed perspiration off his forehead with his handkerchief. Branson, wearing a fresh white T-shirt tight as skin, thin blue jeans and trainers, seemed in a less desolate mood today.

‘OK if we record again, to save time, sir?’ Grace asked Bishop.

‘Whatever.’

Branson switched on the apparatus. ‘The time is three minutes past twelve p.m. Saturday 5 August. Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Branson interviewing Mr Brian Bishop.’

Grace took a sip of water, observing that Bishop was dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, apart from a different top – today a lime-green polo shirt. He was looking much more grief-stricken than yesterday, as if the reality of his loss had hit him. Perhaps yesterday he had been running on adrenaline from the shock, which sometimes happened. Grief affected everyone in different ways, but there were long-trodden stages most bereaved people went through. Shock. Denial. Anger. Sadness. Guilt. Loneliness. Despair. Gradual acceptance. And, Grace was aware, some of the coolest killers he had encountered had delivered Oscar-nominee performances of these.

He watched Bishop leaning forward in his chair, very intently stirring the coffee that Branson had brought him with a plastic paddle, and frowned as he clocked the sudden intense concentration on Bishop’s face. Was the man counting the number of times he stirred?

‘How’s your hand today?’ Grace asked.

Bishop raised his right hand until it was in plain view. Grace could see scabbing on the grazes. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘It’s better. Thank you.’

‘Are you normally an accident-prone person?’ Grace went on.

‘I don’t think so.’

Grace nodded, then fell silent. Branson shot him a quizzical glance which Grace ignored.

If Bishop had killed his wife, he could have incurred the wound in the process. Or he could have just injured his hand through clumsiness. Bishop did not look like a man who was normally clumsy. It was perfectly conceivable that, distraught with grief, he was making misjudgements, but there were other possible explanations for his injury. Most criminals became a bag of wired nerves in the hours following their crime.

Are you in a red mist, Mr Bishop?

‘What progress have you made?’ Brian Bishop suddenly asked in a croaky voice, looking at each of them in turn. ‘Have you any clue who might have done this?’

Yes, I have, and I’ve a feeling I’m looking at him, Grace thought, but ensured he did not let it show. ‘I’m afraid we’re not any further along than we were last night, sir. Have you had any more thoughts? Did you and Mrs Bishop have anyone you’d upset? Any enemies that you were aware of?’

‘No – not – not at all. Some people were jealous of us, I think.’

‘You think.’

‘Well, Katie and I – we – we are – were – you know – one of the city’s golden couples. I don’t mean that in a vulgar or boasting sense. Just a fact. Our lifestyle.’

‘Thrust upon you, was it?’ Grace couldn’t help himself saying, and caught Branson’s smirk.

Bishop gave him a humourless smile. ‘No, actually, it was our choice. Well – more Katie – she liked the limelight. Always had big social ambitions.’

A fly scudded erratically around the room. Grace followed its path for a few seconds before saying, ‘That rather distinctive Bentley you drive – was that your choice or did your wife choose it?’

Bishop shrugged. ‘My choice of car – but I think Katie had something to do with the colour – she really liked it.’

Grace smiled, trying to disarm him. ‘Very diplomatic of you, I’m sure. Women can get a bit negative about boys’ toys, if they’re not involved.’ He shot a pointed look. ‘And vice versa sometimes.’

The DS grimaced back at him.

Bishop scratched the back of his head. ‘Look – I – I need – I need some help from you – about – I need to make funeral arrangements – what do I do about that?’

Grace nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m afraid it will be up to the coroner when the body is released. But in the meantime it would be a good idea to engage an undertaker. Linda Buckley will be able to help you with that.’