Not Dead Enough

he should reply. The solicitor told him to speak economically and be helpful but to give short answers. If there were any questions that either of them felt were inappropriate, the solicitor would step in. He also asked Bishop about his health, whether he was up to the ordeal ahead, or whether he needed to see a doctor or to have any medication. Bishop told him he was fine.
    ‘There’s one final question I have to ask,’ Leighton Lloyd said. ‘Did you murder your wife?’
    ‘No. Absolutely not. That’s ridiculous. I loved her. Why would I kill her? No, I didn’t, I really didn’t. You have to believe me. I just don’t know what’s going on.’
    The solicitor smiled. ‘OK. That’s good enough for me.’

90
    As Grace walked across the tarmac separating the back entrance of Sussex House from the custody centre, passing a row of wheelie bins, shadows jumped inside his mind. His mobile phone was clamped to his ear and the knot of anxiety inside his gullet was tightening more and more. His mouth was dry with worry. It was now over twenty minutes. Why hadn’t Cleo called back? He listened as her mobile phone went yet again straight to voicemail without ringing, then dialled the mortuary phone. As before, it was picked up on the fourth ring by the answering machine. He toyed with just jumping in a car and driving over there. But that would be irresponsible. He had to be here, scrutinizing the interview all the way through.
    So he phoned the resourcing centre and explained to the controller who he was and what his concerns were. To his relief, the man replied that there was a unit in that part of the city at the moment, so he would send it straight up to the mortuary. Grace asked if he could call him back, or have one of the officers in the patrol car call him when they were on site, to let him know the situation.
    He had a bad feeling about this. Really bad. Even though he knew Cleo always kept the mortuary doors locked, and there were security cameras, he did not like the idea of her being there alone at night. Particularly not after what had happened yesterday.
    Then, holding his security card up to the grey Interflex eye beside the door, he entered the custody centre, walked across past the central pod, where, as usual, some sad bit of lowlife – this one a skinny Rasta youth in a grubby vest, camouflage trousers and sandals – was being booked in, and headed through an internal security door up the stairs to the first floor.
    Jane Paxton was already seated in the small observation room, in front of the colour monitor, which was switched on but blank. Both the video and audio would be off to give Brian Bishop privacy with his lawyer, until the interview formally started. She had thoughtfully brought over two bottles of water for them. Grace put his notepad on the work surface in front of his empty chair, then went down to the small kitchenette at the end of the corridor and made himself a mug of strong coffee. It was a cheap brand in a big tin that looked like it had been there a while and smelled stale. Some prat had left the milk out and it had gone off, so he left his coffee black.
    As he carried it back into the room he said, ‘You didn’t want any tea or coffee, did you?’
    ‘Never use them,’ she said primly, with a faint reprimand in her voice, as if he had just offered some Class A drugs.
    As he set his mug down, the speaker crackled and the monitor flickered into life. Now he could see the four men in the interview room, Branson, Nicholl, Bishop and Lloyd. Three of them had removed their jackets. The two detectives had their ties on but their shirt sleeves rolled up.
    In the observation room they had a choice of two cameras and Grace switched to the one that gave him the best view of Bishop’s face.
    Addressing Bishop, with the occasional deferential glance at the man’s solicitor, Glenn Branson started with the standard opening of all interview sessions with suspects: ‘This interview is being recorded on tape and video, and this can be monitored remotely.’
    Grace caught his fleeting, cheeky, upward glance.
    Branson again cautioned Bishop, who nodded.
    ‘It is ten fifteen p.m., Monday 7 August,’ he continued. ‘I am Detective Sergeant Branson. Can each of you identify yourselves for the benefit of the tape?’
    Brian Bishop, Leighton Lloyd and DC Nicholl then introduced themselves. When they had finished, Branson continued, ‘Mr Bishop, can you run us through, in as much detail as