Not Dead Enough

murder, it’s going to nix that DNA evidence – the defence will argue that somehow it got planted there. If we are too hasty in linking the murders together, we could get that DNA evidence thrown out also, on the same grounds.’
    Justice, Grace had come to learn from bitter experience, was elusive, unpredictable and only occasionally actually done. Far too many things could go wrong in a court. Juries, which often consisted of people who were totally out of their depth in a court of law, could be led, swayed, bamboozled, seduced and confused; often they were prejudiced, or just plain stupid. Some judges were way past their sell-by dates; others seemed, at times, to have come from another planet. It wasn’t enough to have a watertight case, backed up with damning evidence. You still needed a lot of luck to get a conviction.
    ‘We have the witness who saw Bishop outside her home,’ Jane Paxton reassured him.
    ‘Yes?’ He was getting more irritable now by the minute. Was it the heat, he wondered? Or being so dog-tired? Or having to put up with his bloody lodger? Or Sandy pressing on a raw nerve?
    ‘Well – I think that’s strong,’ she said, sounding defensive.
    ‘We need to go through a formal identification process with that witness and double-check the time-lines there before we can really make it stand up. And there may be some other evidence that comes to light over the next few days. If we’ve got Bishop inside on a charge, then for the moment the time pressure’s off on Ms Harrington. At least we’ll have thrown the press a bone.’
    The phone rang. It was Kim, telling Grace that she had Phil Taylor on the line and was putting him through. Grace stepped away from the table and took the call on the phone on his desk.
    When he finished, Grace stood up again. ‘He’s agreed to meet me tonight in London. Sounds a straightforward enough man.’ He looked at Branson. ‘We’ll apply for a twelve-hour extension for Bishop, then go up to London straight after the six-thirty briefing. I’d like you to come with me.’
    Next he rang Norman Potting and asked him to contact the on-call PACE superintendent to make an application for a twelve-hour extension. Then he turned back to the trio in his office. ‘OK, I’ll see you all in the conference room at six thirty. Thanks very much, everyone.’
    He sat back down at his desk. Now he had another task that was just as hard, in its own, very different way. How to explain to Cleo that he was going to have to go to London this evening and, with the best will in the world, was unlikely to be back down this side of midnight.
    To his surprise, probably because she understood the twenty-four/seven nature of police work, she took it cheerfully.
    ‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m standing at the checkout in Sainsbury’s with a load of fresh prawns and scallops. Be a shame to waste them, so I’ll just have to eat them all myself.’
    ‘Shit, I’m so sorry.’
    ‘It’s OK. These murders are a lot more important than a few prawns. But you’d better hurry round when you get back down!’
    ‘I’ll probably have eaten – I’ll grab something in the car.’
    ‘I’m not talking about food!’
    He blew her a kiss.
    ‘Times ten!’ she replied.
    As he hung up, he smiled, relieved that Cleo seemed – for the moment at any rate – to have put his visit to Munich behind her.
    But had he?
    That would depend, he knew, on whether Marcel Kullen’s inquiries provided any leads. And suddenly, for the first time, he found himself – almost – hoping that he wouldn’t.

97
    Unusually, there were no empty spaces in the street outside the front gates of her home, so Cleo had to circle around, looking for one. Keeping a safe distance back, the Time Billionaire watched the tail of the blue MG disappear around a corner, its right-hand indicator winking. Then he smiled.
    And he sent a small, quick message of thanks to God.
    This street was so much better! Tall, windowless walls on the right. A sheer cliff face of red brick. On the left, running the whole length of the street, was a blue construction site hoarding, with padlocked gates. Rising above it was a ten-foot-tall artist’s impression of the finished development – a complex of fancy flats and shops – boasting the wording:
     
    LAINE WEST
    MORE THAN JUST A DEVELOPMENT
    – AN URBAN ECO-FRIENDLY
    LIFESTYLE!
     
    She had found a space and was reversing into it. Joy!
    He fixated on her brake lights. They