Not Dead Enough

what you think,’ he retorted.
    ‘Mr Chancellor,’ Norman Potting said, playing good cop again, ‘I don’t suppose Mrs Bishop ever mentioned a gas mask to you?’
    ‘A what ?’
    ‘Did Mr Bishop’s fetishes ever include a gas mask, to the best of your knowledge?’
    The artist thought for a moment. ‘I don’t – I – no – I don’t recall her mentioning a gas mask.’
    ‘Are you sure?’ Zafferone said.
    ‘It’s not the kind of thing you forget easily.’
    ‘You seemed to forget she was a married woman easily enough.’ Zafferone pushed his barb in.
    ‘I think it’s time I had my solicitor present,’ Chancellor said. ‘You are out of order.’
    ‘Did you kill Mrs Bishop?’ Zafferone asked coolly.
    Chancellor looked fit to explode. ‘WHAT?’
    ‘I asked you if you killed Mrs Bishop.’
    ‘I loved her – we were going to spend the rest of our lives together – why on earth would I have killed her?’
    ‘You just said you wanted your solicitor present,’ Zafferone continued, like a Rottweiler. ‘In my experience, when people want their lawyer in the room it’s because they are guilty.’
    ‘I loved her very much. I—’ His voice began to crack. Suddenly he hunched forward, cradling his face in his hands, and began to sob.
    Potting and Zafferone glanced at each other, waiting. Finally Barty Chancellor sat up, composing himself. ‘I’m sorry.’
    Then Zafferone lobbed the question Grace had been desperate for one of them to ask. ‘Did Mr Bishop know about your relationship?’
    ‘Absolutely not.’
    Norman Potting cut in again. ‘Mr Bishop is by all accounts a very bright man. You and Mrs Bishop had an affair that had been going on for over twelve months. Do you really think he had no inkling?’
    ‘We were very careful – and, besides, he was away in London most weekdays.’
    ‘Perhaps he knew and never said anything,’ Zafferone suggested.
    ‘Possibly,’ Chancellor conceded grudgingly. ‘But I don’t think so – I mean, Katie was sure he didn’t know.’
    Zafferone flicked back some pages in his notebook. ‘You said earlier that you have no alibi for the time when Mrs Bishop left your house and the estimated time, perhaps less than an hour later, when she was killed.’
    ‘Correct.’
    ‘You fell asleep.’
    ‘It was nearly midnight. We’d been making love. Perhaps you’ve never tried making love? You’ll find out if you do that it can make you sleepy.’ He glared at Zafferone.
    Grace was making some mental notes himself. The affair had been going on for twelve months. Six months ago Brian Bishop had taken out a three-million-pound insurance policy on his wife’s life. He had a history of violence. What if he had found out about the affair?
    Chancellor had said that he and Katie were planning to spend the rest of their lives together. This was more than just a fling. Perhaps Bishop couldn’t bear the thought of losing his wife.
    All the right boxes were getting ticked. The man had a motive.
    Maybe he had planned this carefully for many months. The perfect alibi in London, except for one small slip-up that he wasn’t even aware of. The photograph of his car from the hidden camera near Gatwick airport.
    Grace watched the interview continue, Zafferone winding Chancellor up more and more. Sure, this artist was a possible suspect. He had clearly been desperately in love with the woman. Enough to kill her if she dumped him? Perhaps. Smart enough to murder her and set it up so it looked like her husband had done it? It could not be discounted. But at this moment the weight of the evidence seemed to be stacking up solidly against Brian Bishop.
    He looked at his watch. It was five fifteen. He had brought the video of the man in the Accident and Emergency waiting room from the Royal Sussex County Hospital CCTV straight to the film unit here at Sussex House for enhancement. He just had time now to go down and see how they were getting on, before his team meeting with Kim Murphy and Brendan Duigan to prepare for the six-thirty joint briefing.
    On the hospital’s low-grade recording, it was hard to make out the man’s features, because his face was so extensively obscured by his long hair, dark glasses, moustache and beard. With the technology they had here, they would be able to sharpen the image considerably. As he stepped out into the corridor, his phone rang. It was DS Bella Moy, talking excitedly through what sounded like a mouthful of Maltesers. The DNA test