Not Dead Enough

solicitor.’
    ‘I’m afraid not at the moment, sir. You will be given that opportunity when we are at the Custody Centre.’
    ‘My rights are—’
    Branson raised his broad hands. ‘Sir, we know what your rights are.’ Then he dropped his hands and unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt. ‘Please put your hands behind your back.’
    What little colour there was in Bishop’s face now drained away completely. ‘You’re not going to handcuff me, please! I’m not going to do a runner. There’s a misunderstanding here. This is all wrong. I can sort this out with you.’
    ‘Behind your back please, sir.’
    In a total panic, Bishop stared wildly around the room. ‘I need some things. My jacket – wallet – I – please let me put a jacket on.’
    ‘Which is it, sir?’ Nicholl asked.
    Bishop pointed to the wardrobe. ‘The camel-coloured one.’ Then he pointed to his mobile phone and his BlackBerry, on the bedside table. Nicholl patted down his jacket, then Branson allowed him to put it on, and cram his wallet, mobile phone, BlackBerry and a pair of reading glasses into the pockets. Then he asked him to put his hands behind his back again.
    ‘Look, do we really have to do this?’ Bishop pleaded. ‘It’s going to be so embarrassing for me. We’re going to walk through the hotel.’
    ‘We’ve arranged with the manager to go via a fire exit at the side. Is your hand all right, sir?’ Branson asked, clicking shut the first cuff.
    ‘It wouldn’t have a bloody plaster on it if it was all right,’ Bishop snapped back. Still looking around the room, he said, panicking suddenly, ‘My laptop?’
    ‘I’m afraid that’s going to be impounded, sir.’
    Nick Nicholl picked up Bishop’s car keys. ‘Do you have a vehicle in the car park, Mr Bishop?’
    ‘Yes. Yes, I do. I could drive it – you could come with me.’
    ‘I’m afraid that’s going to be impounded too, for forensic testing,’ Branson said.
    ‘This is unbelievable,’ Bishop said. ‘This is unfucking believable!’
    But he got no sympathy from either man. Their demeanour from when they had first broken the bad news to him last Friday morning had changed completely.
    ‘I need to make a quick call to the friends I’m having dinner with, to tell them I’m not coming.’
    ‘Someone will call them for you, from the Custody Centre.’
    ‘Yes, but they’re cooking dinner for me.’ He pointed at the hotel phone. ‘Please – let me call them. It’ll take thirty seconds.’
    ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Branson said, repeating himself like an automaton. ‘Someone will call them for you, from the Custody Centre.’
    Suddenly Brian Bishop was scared.

84
    Bishop sat next to DC Nicholl on the back seat of the grey, unmarked police Vectra. It was just past eight p.m., and the daylight beyond the car’s windows was still bright.
    The city that was sliding by, playing like a silent movie projected on to the car’s windows, seemed different from the one he knew – and had known all his life. It was as if he was seeing the passing streets, houses, shops, trees, parks, for the first time. Neither officer spoke. The silence was broken only by the occasional crackle of static and a garbled burst from a controller’s voice on the two-way radio. He felt as if he was a stranger here, looking out at some parallel universe in which he did not belong.
    They were slowing suddenly and turning in towards a green, reinforced-steel gate that had started to slide open. There was a high, spiked fence to the right and a tall, drab brick structure beyond.
    They stopped beside a blue sign with white lettering displaying the words B RIGHTON C USTODY C ENTRE until a wide enough gap had opened. Then they drove on up a steep ramp, along past what looked like factory loading bays in the rear of the brick building, and made a left turn into one of them. Instantly, the interior of the car darkened. Bishop saw a closed green door directly in front of them, with a small viewing window.
    DS Branson switched off the engine and climbed out, the weak roof light barely changing the gloom inside the vehicle. Then he opened the rear door and motioned Bishop to step out.
    Bishop, his hands cuffed behind his back, worked his way awkwardly sideways, then swung his feet out of the car and down on to the concrete screed. Branson put a steadying hand on his arm to help him up. Moments later the green door slid open and Bishop was ushered through into a narrow, completely bare