Not Dead Enough

Bishop was displaying the classic signs of a man who had committed a murder. But that did not mean he had. That laughter could equally well have been from nerves.
    Then his eyes dropped to the man’s right hand. To the abrasion on the back of it, just in from his thumb; it looked recent. ‘You’ve hurt your hand,’ he said.
    Bishop glanced at his hand, then gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I – er – bashed it getting into a taxi.’
    ‘Would that be the taxi you took from the Hotel du Vin to the Lansdowne Place Hotel?’
    ‘Yes, I – I was putting a bag in the boot.’
    ‘Nasty,’ Grace said, making a mental note to get the taxi driver to verify that. He also noted that Bishop’s eyes darted to the right. To construct mode. Which indicated he was lying.
    ‘It looks quite a bad graze. What did the driver say?’ Grace glanced at Branson, who nodded.
    ‘Did he give you any first aid or anything?’ Branson asked.
    Bishop looked at each of them in turn. ‘What is it with you guys? It’s like the bloody Inquisition. I want to help you. What the hell’s a graze on my hand got to do with anything?’
    ‘Mr Bishop, in our work we ask an awful lot of questions. I’m afraid it’s what we do. It’s in our nature. I’ve had a long day, and so has DS Branson, and I’m sure you must be exhausted. Please bear with us and answer our questions, and we’ll all be able to leave here quicker. The more you can help us, the sooner we’ll be able to catch your wife’s killer.’ Grace took a gulp of water, then said gently, ‘We’re a little curious as to why you checked out of the Hotel du Vin and went to the Lansdowne Place. Could you explain your reasons?’
    Bishop’s eyes moved as if he was tracking the path of an insect across the carpet. Grace followed his line of sight but could see nothing.
    ‘Why?’ Bishop suddenly looked up, staring at him intently. ‘What do you mean? I was told to move there.’
    Now it was Grace’s turn to frown. ‘By whom?’
    ‘Well – by the police. By you, I presume.’
    ‘I’m not with you.’
    Bishop opened his arms expansively. He gave a good impression of sounding genuinely surprised. ‘I was called in my room. The officer said that the Hotel du Vin was being staked out by the press and you were moving me.’
    ‘What was the name of the officer?’
    ‘I – I don’t remember. Umm – it may have been Canning? DS Canning?’
    Grace looked at Branson. ‘Know anything about this?’
    ‘Nothing,’ Branson replied.
    ‘Was it a male or female officer?’ Grace asked.
    ‘Male.’
    ‘DS Canning was his name? Are you sure?’
    ‘Yes. Canning. DS Canning. I think it was DS. Definitely Canning.’
    ‘What exactly did this man say to you?’ Grace watched his eyes intently. They darted left again.
    ‘That you’d booked me a room at the Lansdowne Place. A cab would be outside the rear entrance, by the staff door at the rear of the kitchens. That I should take the fire escape stairs down there.’
    Grace wrote down the name DS Canning on his pad. ‘Did this officer call you on your mobile or on the hotel phone?’
    ‘On the room phone,’ Bishop said after some moments’ thought.
    Grace cursed silently. That would make it harder to verify or trace. The hotel’s switchboard could log the time of incoming calls, but not their numbers. ‘What time was this?’
    ‘About five thirty.’
    ‘You checked into the Lansdowne Place and then went out. Where did you go?’
    ‘I went for a walk along the seafront.’ Bishop pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. ‘Katie and I used to love it down there. She loved going on the beach. She was a keen swimmer.’ He paused and took a sip of water. ‘I needed to call my kids – they’re both abroad, on holiday. I…’ He lapsed into silence.
    So did Roy Grace. There was no police officer called Canning on his team.
    Excusing himself, the Detective Superintendent slipped out of the room and walked down the corridor to MIR One. It took him just a few clicks on a workstation keyboard to establish that there was no officer of that name in the entire Sussex police force.

43
    Shortly before midnight, Cleo opened her front door wearing an unlaced black silk camisole. It covered the top two inches of her pale, slender thighs and little else. In her outstretched hand was a tumbler of Glenfiddich on the rocks, filled to the brim. The only other things she had on were a tantalizing, deep, musky perfume and the dirtiest grin