Not Dead Enough

Sandy’s reaction to something he picked up. Whether she would like it too, in which case they would haggle the price, or whether she would reject it with a single, disapproving scrunch of her face.
    Most of the space in his office was occupied by a television and video player, a circular table, four chairs and piles of loose paperwork, his leather go-bag containing his crime-scene kit, and ever-growing small towers of files. Sometimes he wondered if they bred at night, on their own, while he was away.
    Each file on the floor stood for an unsolved murder. Murder files never closed until there was a conviction. There would come a point in every murder inquiry when every lead, every avenue, had been exhausted. But that did not mean the police gave up. Years after the incident room was shut down and the inquiry team disbanded, the case would remain open, the evidence stored in boxes, so long as there was a chance that the parties connected to it might still be alive.
    He took a swig from his Coke. He’d read on a website that low-carb drinks were full of all kinds of chemicals hostile to your body, but he didn’t care at this moment. It seemed that everything you ate or drank was more likely to kill you than provide you with nutrients. Maybe, he pondered, the next food fad would be pre-digested food. You would just buy it and then throw it straight down the lavatory, without needing to eat it.
    He clicked his keyboard. There was a British Airways flight out of Heathrow at seven a.m. on Sunday morning. It would get him into Munich at nine fifty. He decided to call the police officer he knew there, Kriminalhauptkommissar Marcel Kullen, to see if he would be free.
    Marcel had been seconded here in Sussex a few years back, on a six-month exchange, and they’d become friends during this period. The officer had extended an open invitation for Grace to come and stay with him and his family at any time. He looked at his watch. Nine fifty-five. Munich was one hour ahead, so it really was late to be calling, but there was a good chance of catching him in.
    As he reached out to pick up the phone, it rang.
    ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
    It was Brian Bishop.

42
    Grace noted that Bishop had changed out of the golfing clothes he had been wearing earlier. He now had on an expensive-looking black blouson jacket over a white shirt, blue trousers and tan loafers, without socks. He looked more like a playboy on a night out than a man in mourning, he thought.
    As if reading Grace’s mind as he sat down uneasily on the red armchair in the cramped Witness Interview Suite, Bishop said, ‘My outfit was selected from my wardrobe by your family liaison officer, Linda Buckley. Not quite my choice for the circumstances. Can you tell me when I will be allowed back in my house?’
    ‘As soon as possible, Mr Bishop. In a couple of days, I hope,’ Grace replied.
    Bishop sat bolt upright, furious. ‘What? This is ridiculous!’
    Grace looked at a rather livid graze on the man’s right hand. Branson came in with three beakers of water, set them down on the table and closed the door, remaining standing.
    Gently, Grace said, ‘It’s a crime scene, Mr Bishop. Police practice these days is to preserve a scene like this as much as possible. Please understand it’s in all our interests, to help catch the perpetrator.’
    ‘Do you have a suspect?’ Bishop asked.
    ‘Before I come on to that, would you mind if we record this interview? It will be quicker than if we have to write down notes.’
    Bishop gave a thin, wintry smile. ‘Does that mean I’m a suspect?’
    ‘Not at all,’ Grace assured him.
    Bishop signalled his assent with his hand.
    Glenn Branson switched on the audio and video recorders, announcing clearly, as he sat down, ‘It is ten twenty p.m., Friday 4 August. Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Branson interviewing Mr Brian Bishop.’
    ‘Do – do you have a suspect?’ Bishop asked again.
    ‘Not yet,’ Grace replied. ‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have done this?’
    Bishop gave a half-laugh, as if the question was just too ridiculous. His eyes shot to the left. ‘No. No, I don’t.’
    Grace watched his eyes, remembering from earlier. To the left was truth mode. Bishop had answered just a little too quickly, and almost a little too good-humouredly for a bereaved man. He’d seen this kind of behaviour before, the cool, slick, rehearsed answer to the questions; the lack of emotion.