Not Dead Enough

five foot ten tall, pleasant-looking, with alert blue eyes, fair hair cropped short to little more than a fuzz, badly shaven, and a nose that had seen better days. He held out a strong, weathered hand, with well-trimmed nails, towards Bishop. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace,’ he said. ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer for this – situation. I’m extremely sorry, Mr Bishop.’
    Bishop gave him a clammy grip back with long, bony fingers, one of which sported a crested signet ring. ‘Please tell me what’s happened.’
    Roy Grace glanced at Branson, then at Nicholl. He had been watching for the past few minutes from the observation room, but was not about to reveal this. ‘Were you playing golf this morning, sir?’
    Bishop’s eyes flicked, briefly, to the left. ‘Yes. Yes, I was.’
    ‘Can I ask when you last played?’
    Bishop looked thrown by the question. Grace, watching like a hawk, saw his eyes flick right, then left, then very definitely left again. ‘Last Sunday.’
    Now Grace would be able to get a handle on whether Bishop was lying or telling the truth. Watching eyes was an effective technique he had learned from his interest in neuro-linguistic programming. All people have two sides to their brains, one part that contains memory, the other that works the imagination – the creative side – and lying. The construct side. The sides on which these were located varied with each individual. To establish that, you asked a control question to which the person was unlikely to respond with a lie, such as the seemingly innocent question he had just asked Bishop. So in future, when he asked the man a question, if his eyes went to the left, he would be telling the truth, but if they went to the right, to the construct side, it would be an indicator that he was lying.
    ‘Where did you sleep last night, Mr Bishop?’
    His eyes staring resolutely ahead, giving nothing away intentionally, or unintentionally, Bishop said, ‘In my flat in London.’
    ‘Could anyone vouch for that?’
    Looking agitated, Bishop’s eyes shot to the left. To memory. ‘The concierge, Oliver, I suppose.’
    ‘When did you see him?’
    ‘Yesterday evening, about seven o’clock – when I came back from the office. And then again this morning.’
    ‘What time were you on the tee at the golf club this morning?’
    ‘Just after nine.’
    ‘And you drove down from London?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What time would that have been?’
    ‘About half-six. Oliver helped me load my stuff into the car – my golf sticks.’
    Grace thought for a moment. ‘Can anyone vouch for where you were between seven o’clock yesterday and half past six this morning?’
    Bishop’s eyes shot back to the left, to memory mode, which indicated he was telling the truth. ‘I had dinner with my financial adviser at a restaurant in Piccadilly.’
    ‘And did your concierge see you leave and come back?’
    ‘No. He’s not usually around much after seven – until the morning.’
    ‘What time did your dinner finish?’
    ‘About half past ten. What is this, a witch hunt?’
    ‘No, sir. I’m sorry if I’m sounding a bit pedantic, but if we can eliminate you it will help us focus our inquiries. Would you mind telling me what happened after your dinner?’
    ‘I went to my flat and crashed out.’
    Grace nodded.
    Bishop, staring hard at him, then at Branson and Nick Nicholl in turn, frowned. ‘What? You think I drove to Brighton at midnight?’
    ‘It does seem a little unlikely, sir,’ Grace assured him. ‘Can you give us the phone numbers of your concierge and your financial adviser? And the name of the restaurant?’
    Bishop obliged. Branson wrote them down.
    ‘Could I also have the number of your mobile phone, sir? And we need some recent photographs of your wife,’ Grace requested.
    ‘Yes, of course.’
    Then Grace said, ‘Would you mind answering a very personal question, Mr Bishop? You are not under any obligation but it would help us.’
    The man shrugged helplessly.
    ‘Did you and your wife indulge in any unusual sexual practices?’
    Bishop stood up abruptly. ‘What the hell is this? My wife has been murdered! I want to know what’s happened, Detective – Super – Super whatever you said your name was.’
    ‘Detective Superintendent Grace.’
    ‘Why can’t you answer a simple question, Detective Superintendent Grace? Is it too much for anyone to answer one simple question?’ Getting increasingly hysterical, Bishop continued,