Not Dead Enough (46 page)

‘The same,’ Grace said, although, still faced with the nightmare of the drive back with Branson, he could have used a pint of single malt. ‘We’ll pay for these, sir. It’s very good of you to see us at such short notice,’ Grace began.

‘It’s not a problem. How can I help you?’

‘Can I ask you how long you have known Brian Bishop?’ Branson said, putting his pad down on the table.

Grace watched the movement of the man’s eyes, as he thought.

‘About six years – yes – almost exactly six years.’

Branson noted this down.

‘Am I under caution?’ Phil Taylor asked, only half in jest.

‘No,’ Branson replied. ‘We’re just here to try to confirm some times with you.’

‘I did give them to one of your officers yesterday. What exactly is the problem? Is Brian in trouble?’

‘We’d rather not say too much at the moment,’ Grace replied.

‘How did you meet him?’ Branson asked.

‘At a P1 meeting.’

‘P1?’

‘It’s a club for petrol heads that Damon Hill – the racing driver – former world champion – runs. You pay an annual subscription and get the use of various sports cars. We met at one of their cocktail parties.’

Eyeing the key fob, Glenn Branson asked, ‘Is that your Ferrari, around the corner in Arlington Street?’

‘The 430? Yes – but that’s my own car.’

‘Nice,’ Branson said. ‘Nice motor.’

‘Be even nicer without all your damned speed cameras!’

‘Can you give us a little bit of background about yourself, Mr Taylor?’ Grace asked, not rising to the bait.

‘Me? I qualified as a chartered accountant, then I spent fifteen years with the Inland Revenue, most of it on their Special Investigations team. Looking into tax abuse scams, mostly. Through it I saw how much money the IFA community – the Independent Financial Advisers – made. I decided that’s what I should be doing. So I set up Taylor Financial Planning. Never looked back. Wasn’t long after I started that I met Brian. He became one of my first clients.’

‘How would you describe Mr Bishop?’ Branson asked.

‘How would I describe him? He’s a top man. One of the best.’ He thought for some moments. ‘Absolute integrity, smart, reliable, efficient.’

‘Did you ever arrange any life insurance for him?’

‘We’re getting into an area of client confidentiality, gentlemen.’

‘I understand,’ Grace said. ‘There is one question I would like to ask, and if you don’t want to answer it, that is fine. Did you ever arrange a life insurance policy on Brian Bishop’s wife?’

‘I can answer that with a categorical no.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Is it correct, Mr Taylor, that you and Mr Bishop had dinner here, in this restaurant last week, on Thursday 3 August?’ Grace continued.

‘Yes, we did.’ His demeanour had become a little defensive now.

‘This a regular haunt of yours?’ Branson asked.

‘It is. I like to meet clients here.’

‘Can you remember what time, approximately, you left the restaurant?’

‘I can do better than that,’ Phil Taylor said, a little smugly. Fishing his wallet from his jacket, which was lying beside him on the bench seat, he rummaged inside and pulled out a credit card receipt from the restaurant.

Grace looked at it. Bishop hadn’t been lying, he thought, when he saw the items of drink that the two men had consumed. Two Mojito cocktails. Two bottles of wine. Four brandies. ‘Looks like you had a good evening!’ he said. He also privately noted that the prices were no higher than decent Brighton restaurants. He could afford to bring Cleo here. She would love it.

‘Aye, we did.’

Grace did a mental calculation. Assuming both men drank more or less equally, Bishop would have been way over the drink-drive limit when he left the restaurant. Could the drink have brought on a rage about his wife’s infidelity? And given him the courage to drive recklessly?

Then, studying the receipt carefully, he found towards the top right what he was looking for. TIME 22.54.

‘How did Brian Bishop seem to you last Thursday evening?’ Grace asked Phil Taylor.

‘He was in a great mood. Very cheerful. Good company. He had a golf match in Brighton next morning, so he didn’t want to be late, or drink too much – but we still managed to!’ He chuckled.

‘Can you remember how soon after you got the bill you left this place?’

‘Immediately. I could see Brian was anxious to get home – he needed to make an early start next morning.’

‘So he got a taxi?’

‘Aye. Doorman, John, got one. I let him take the first.’

‘So that was about eleven.’

‘Around then, yes. I couldn’t say exactly. Maybe a few minutes before.’

Grace paid the bill for the drinks, then they thanked him and left. As they turned the corner into Arlington Street, Grace was silent, doing some mental arithmetic. Then, just as they reached the Mondeo, he slapped Branson warmly on the back. ‘Every dog has his day!’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Suddenly, my friend, it is all your birthdays rolled into one!’

‘Sorry, old-timer, you’ve lost me!’

‘Your driving skills. I’m going to give you a chance to show them off. We’re going to drive first, at a steady legal speed to Bishop’s flat in Notting Hill. From there, you’re going to drive like the clappers! We’re going to see just how quickly Bishop could have made that journey.’

The Detective Sergeant beamed.

99

So what the fuck was this all about? Yesterday in Brighton you could throw a stick in any direction and you’d hit an MG TF. Now there wasn’t one to be seen anywhere in the whole city. Skunk stared angrily out of the windscreen of Beth’s mother’s little Peugeot.

‘Make me come!’ Beth said.

‘Fuck off,’ he said. ‘Find me a fucking MG.’ Women. Shite!

It was half past ten. They’d done the round of all the regular car parks. Nothing. Nothing, at any rate, that matched Barry Spiker’s specification, and after his last experience with the car handler, he wasn’t going to repeat the mistake of getting the wrong model. An MG TF 160. Blue. Any spec. Couldn’t be clearer than that.

He was wired as hell. Needed some brown badly. He had it all worked out two hours ago. DC Packer had agreed. He would grab the car, take it to Spiker. Packer would wait until he’d left with his cash from Spiker. All organized. Packer would pay him tomorrow. He’d buy his brown tonight with Spiker’s money.

Now came the hitch. There were no blue MG TF 160s to be found anywhere. Not one. It was like they’d been hoovered up from the planet.

They were heading up Shirley Drive, one of the central and smartest arteries of Hove. It flowed with conspicuous cash instead of blood. Swanky houses, showy wheels on the driveways. Anything you could ever imagine you might want to buy if your lottery number came up. Beemers, Mercs, Porsches, Bentleys, Ferraris, Range Rovers, you name it. Gleaming, expensive metal as far as the eye could see and the credit cards could stretch.

‘Turn right,’ he commanded.

‘At least finger me!’

‘I’m busy, I’m working.’

‘You shouldn’t be in the office this late!’ she scolded.

‘Yeah? Tell you what. Find that car and I’ll fuck you all night. I’ll get some stuff we’ll do together.’

Bethany leaned over and kissed him. The ring in her lip tingled his cheek. ‘You know I adore you, don’t you?’

Skunk looked at her. She was quite pretty from some angles, with her snub nose and cropped black hair. Something welled up deep inside him. Something he’d never felt during all the shitty years of his childhood, and didn’t know how to handle now. He took a deep breath, fighting back tears. ‘You know, Beth, you’re the only nice thing that ever happened to me in my life.’ He shrugged. ‘I mean it. I want you to know that. Now fuck off and drive. We’ve got work to do.’

And then, as she made the right turn, he suddenly leaned forward in excitement. His seat belt jerked him sharply back. ‘Accelerate! Quick!’

Bethany stoked the gears and the Peugeot surged forward, up past the smart, detached houses of Onslow Road, gaining on the tail lights in front of them. They caught up with the MG, waiting for a gap in the traffic, to turn right into Dyke Road.

Skunk stared ahead, the headlights giving him a clear view of the little MG. It was a TF 160, dark blue, with a blue hardtop. Why the driver had the hardtop on during glorious summer weather like this mystified him, but that wasn’t his problem. And surely Spiker would be pleased. The hardtop would be an added bonus.

The MG pulled out.

‘Follow him! Don’t let him see us, but don’t lose him!’

‘What’s going on, Bear?’ Bear was her pet name for him, because she didn’t like to call him Skunk.

‘I’m working. Don’t ask questions.’

Grinning, amused by his strange ways, Bethany pulled out, right in front of another car. Blinding lights. A squeal of brakes and the blast of a horn.

‘Shite!’ he said. ‘You’re a fucking lunatic driver.’

‘You said follow him!’

‘Don’t let him see us.’

She slowed. The MG sped away down the road. Then stopped at traffic lights. Bethany pulled up behind it. Skunk saw the back of the driver’s head at the wheel. Long, dark hair. It looked like a woman.

‘When are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ Bethany demanded.

‘Just follow her. Keep your distance.’

The Time Billionaire was concerned about the headlights right behind him. Was the car following him? A police car? The lights turned green and he accelerated, keeping rigidly below the 30-mph speed limit. To his relief, the car behind stayed put, then moved forward very slowly.

It pulled up behind him again at the next lights, the junction with the Old Shoreham Road. It was halted right beneath a lamppost and he could see that it was just a crappy little old Peugeot 206. Definitely not a police vehicle. Just some slapper and a prat she was driving. No worries.

Five minutes later he pulled up in the street alongside Cleo Morey’s home and double-parked beside the bird-shit-spattered Volvo. He moved his Prius out of the parking space, then drove the MG back into it. Perfect! The bitch would have no reason at all to suspect a thing.

Skunk, standing at the top of the street, concealed in the shadows, watched the curious manoeuvre with interest. He had no idea what was going on. Nor what the woman was doing spending so much time in the MG, fiddling about, with the Prius double-parked, blocking the street.

Then the woman climbed out of the car, and he saw that he was wrong, it was a bearded bloke. Skunk watched him get into the Prius and glide off.

Then he walked back to the Peugeot, parked a short distance away, and dialled PC Paul Packer’s number.

‘Hi, mate!’ Packer said. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve found me car.’

‘OK. I’ve a slight problem for a couple of hours – I’ve been called to a job. Can you hang tight?’

‘For how long?’

‘Couple of hours, max.’

Skunk looked at the Peugeot’s clock. It was ten fifty. ‘No more,’ he said. ‘I can’t wait no more than that.’

‘Gimme the location. I’ll get it sorted.’

Skunk told him where he was. Then he hung up and turned to Bethany. ‘Get your panties off.’

‘I’m not wearing any!’ she said.

100

Grace checked his watch. Seven minutes past eleven. Then he glanced at the speedometer. They were doing a steady 135 mph. Lights streaked past; darkness rushed at them. He was concentrating on the cars ahead, trying to keep Glenn out of trouble. As they closed on each vehicle, he tried to check whether it was a police car. It was hard because there were so many unmarked patrol cars used on this stretch of road, but he knew some of the tell-tale signs to look for – two figures in the car, a clean, late-model four-seater and external aerials were the best clues – and he also knew there weren’t many out late at night – there was a preference for marked cars then, a visible police presence.

He was already going to have to pull some strings – not an easy task when the police were under ever-increasing public scrutiny – to avoid Branson getting fined and points on his licence for the four Gatso cameras that had double-flashed them on their way out of London. Four cameras, three points each – maybe even more for the speed at which they had hit a couple of them. At least twelve points on his licence. An instant ban.

He grinned at the thought, imagining his friend’s protests.

‘What’s funny?’ Branson asked, having to raise his voice above the Bubba Sparxxx rap song that was playing at maxed-out volume on the radio. ‘What you grinning at?’

Grace was tolerating the din because Glenn had told him he needed the music to put him in the zone for a fast drive. ‘My life,’ he replied.

Eight minutes past. They were well beyond Junction 8 and Junction 9 should be coming up at any moment. He scanned the dark road ahead for the signs.

‘Your life? I thought your life was just sad. Didn’t realize it was a comedy.’

‘Just drive! I’m having one of those – what do you call them? – near-death experiences. When your whole life flashes in front of your eyes. It’s been like that since we left Notting Hill.’

The big blue and white sign for the Gatwick airport turn-off and the Junction 9 marking were now looming ahead. They hurtled past. A short way in the distance Grace could see the silhouette of the flyover across the motorway.

Thirty seconds later, as they passed under it, Grace’s eyes swung from his watch to the car’s milometer. ‘OK, you can slow down now!’

‘No way!’

Bubba Sparxxx ended, to Grace’s relief. He leaned forward to turn down the volume, but Branson protested. ‘It’s Mobb Deep coming on next, man. He’s like well out of your depth, but he’s my kind of music.’

‘If you don’t slow down, I’m going to find some Cliff Richard!’ Grace threatened.

Branson slowed down, a fraction, shaking his head.

For a moment, Grace tuned out Branson and his music and concentrated on some mental calculations. They had covered just over twenty-eight miles from outside Bishop’s apartment building in Westbourne Grove, Notting Hill, some of which was through built-up, urban areas and some on dual carriageway and motorway.