Not Dead Enough

you took out for Mrs Bishop.’
    Bishop shook his head, looking genuinely astonished. Or making a good act of it.
    ‘Six months ago, sir,’ Grace said, ‘you took out a life insurance policy with HSBC bank, in your wife’s name, for the amount of three million pounds.’
    Bishop grinned inanely, shaking his head vigorously. ‘No way. I’m sorry, I don’t believe in life insurance. I’ve never taken out a policy in my life!’
    Grace studied him for some moments. ‘Can I get this straight, sir? You are telling me that you didn’t take out any life insurance policy on Mrs Bishop?’
    ‘Absolutely not!’
    ‘There’s one in place. I suggest you take a look at your bank statements. You are paying for it in monthly instalments.’
    Bishop shook his head, looking stunned.
    And this time, from the movement of his eyes, Grace saw that he was not lying.
    ‘I don’t think I should say any more,’ Bishop said. ‘Not without my solicitor present.’
    ‘That’s probably a good idea, sir.’

68
    A few minutes later Roy Grace stood with Glenn Branson outside the front of Sussex House, watching the tail lights of Bishop’s dark red Bentley disappear around the right-hand bend, below them, past the massive warehouse of British Bookstores.
    ‘So what do you think, old-timer?’ Branson asked him.
    ‘I think I need a drink.’
    They drove down to the Black Lion pub at Patcham, went in and stood at the bar. Grace bought Glenn a pint of Guinness and ordered a large Glenfiddich on the rocks for himself, then they installed themselves in a booth.
    ‘I can’t figure this guy out,’ Grace said. ‘He’s smart. There’s something very cold about him. And I have a feeling that he does know Sophie Harrington.’
    ‘His eyes?’
    ‘You saw that?’ Grace said, pleased at the way his protégé learned from him.
    ‘He knows her.’
    Grace drank a little whisky and suddenly craved a cigarette. Hell. One more year and smoking in pubs was going to be banned. Might as well take advantage. He went over to the machine and bought himself some Silk Cut. Ripping off the cellophane, he took out a cigarette and then went to get a light from the young female bartender. He inhaled deeply, loving every sweet second of the sensation as he drew the smoke in.
    ‘You should quit. Those things don’t do you any good.’
    ‘Living doesn’t do you any good,’ he replied. ‘It kills us all.’
    Branson’s face descended into gloom. ‘Tell me about it. That bullet. Yeah? One inch to the right and it would have taken out my spine. I’d have been in a wheelchair for the rest of my life.’ He shook his head, then drank a long gulp of his beer. ‘I go through all that goddamn recovery, get home, and instead of finding a loving, nurturing wife, what do I get? Fucking shit!’
    He leaned forward, cradling his face in his hands.
    ‘I thought you just had to get her a horse,’ Grace probed gently.
    His friend did not respond.
    ‘I don’t know how much a horse costs to buy or keep, but you’ll get compensation for your injury – quite a lot of money. More than enough, I would have thought, to buy a horse.’
    The young barmaid who had given him the light was suddenly standing over them. ‘Can I get you anything else? We’re going to be closing up soon.’
    Grace smiled at her. ‘We’re done, thanks.’ He put an arm around Branson, feeling the soft suede of his bomber jacket.
    ‘You know the irony?’ the Detective Sergeant said. ‘I told you, didn’t I? I joined the force so my kids could be proud of me. Now I’m not even allowed to kiss them goodnight.’
    Grace drank some more whisky and took another drag on his cigarette. It still tasted good, but not so good as before. ‘Matey, you know the law. She can’t stop you.’
    He stared at the long wooden counter of the bar. At the upturned bottles and the optics beyond; at the empty bar stools and the empty tables around them. It had been a long day. Hard to believe he’d had lunch beside a lake in Munich.
    ‘You,’ Glenn Branson said suddenly. ‘I didn’t even ask you how it went. What happened?’
    ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Don’t do what I did, Roy. Don’t screw it all up. You’ve got a good thing going with Cleo. Cherish her. She’s well lovely.’

    Cleo was smashed when he got to the wrought-iron gates of her townhouse, shortly after half past eleven.
    ‘Need your help,’ she said through the intercom. ‘God, I’m pisshed!’
    The