Not Dead Enough

Branson. Then Branson closed the cell door.
    ‘Mr Bishop,’ he said, ‘please remove all your clothes, including your socks and underwear.’
    ‘I want my solicitor.’
    ‘He is being contacted.’ He pointed at the intercom grille. ‘As soon as the custody officer reaches him, he’ll be patched through to you here.’
    Bishop began stripping. DC Nicholl placed each item inside a separate evidence bag; even each sock had its own bag. When he was stark naked, Branson handed him the paper jump-suit and a pair of black, slip-on plimsolls.
    Just as he got the jump-suit on and buttoned up, the intercom crackled sharply into life and he heard the calm, assured but concerned voice of Robert Vernon.
    With a mixture of relief and embarrassment, Bishop padded over in his bare feet. ‘Robert!’ he said. ‘Thanks for calling me. Thank you so much.’
    ‘Are you all right?’ his solicitor asked.
    ‘No, I’m not.’
    ‘Look, Brian, I imagine this is very distressing for you. I’ve had a little bit of a briefing from the custody officer, but obviously I don’t have all the facts.’
    ‘Can you get me out of here?’
    ‘I’ll do everything I can for you as your friend, but I’m not an expert in this area of law and you must have an expert. We don’t really have anyone in my firm. The best chap down here is someone I know. His name’s Leighton Lloyd. Very good reputation.’
    ‘How quickly can you get hold of him, Robert?’ Bishop was suddenly aware that he was alone in the cell and the door had been closed.
    ‘I’m going to try right away and hope he’s not on holiday. The police want to start interviewing you tonight. So far, they’ve just brought you in for questioning, so they can only hold you for twenty-four hours, I think it is, with another possible twelve-hour extension. Don’t speak to anyone or do or say anything until Leighton gets to you.’
    ‘What happens if he’s away?’ he asked, panicky.
    ‘There are some other good people. Don’t worry.’
    ‘I want the best, Robert. The very best. Money’s no object. It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t be here. It’s absolutely insane. I don’t know what the hell’s going on.’
    ‘I’d better jump off the line, Brian,’ the solicitor said, a little tersely. ‘I need to get cracking for you.’
    ‘Of course.’ Bishop thanked him, then the intercom fell silent. He realized he was alone now and the door had been shut.
    The cell was completely silent, as if he were in a soundproof box.
    He sat down on the blue mattress and pushed his feet into the plimsolls. They were too tight and pinched his toes. Something was bothering him about Robert Vernon. Why wasn’t the man sounding more sympathetic? From his tone just now, it was almost as if he had been expecting this to happen.
    Why?
    The door opened and he was led into a room where he was photographed, his fingerprints were taken on an electronic pad and a DNA swab was taken from the inside of his mouth. Then he was returned to his cell.
    And his bewildered thoughts.

85
    For some officers, a career in the police force meant a constant, not always predictable series of changes. You could be moved from a uniform beat patrol one day to the Local Support Unit the next, executing arrest warrants and dealing with riots, then into plain clothes as a covert drug squad officer, then out at Gatwick airport, seconded to baggage crimes. Others found their niche, the way a snake finds its hole, or a squid finds its crevice in a sea wall, and stayed put in it all the way through their thirty years to retirement and, the bait on the hook, a very decent pension, thank you.
    Detective Sergeant Jane Paxton was one of those who had found their niche and stayed in it. She was a large, plain-faced woman of forty, with lank brown hair and a brusque, no-nonsense attitude, who worked as an interview coordinator.
    She had endeared herself to the entire female staff of Sussex House some years ago, legend had it, when she slapped Norman Potting on the face. Depending on who you talked to, there were half a dozen versions of what had happened. The one that Grace had heard was that Potting had put his hand on her thigh under the table during a meeting with the previous Chief Constable.
    DS Paxton was now sitting opposite Grace at the round table in his office, wearing a loose-fitting blouse so voluminous it gave the appearance that her head was sticking out of the top of a tent. On either side of her sat Nick Nicholl and