At 4 p.m., I made a decision. Mac had wandered away from the office, Faye had returned to Gina, so I decided to pay Brydon and Brandon Bishop a visit.
I’d gleaned the Bishop brothers’ address from the Internet; they weren’t shy about revealing their location; indeed, in media quotes they often boasted about it; in numerous articles they informed readers that their roots ran deep, that they were ‘local boys’.
Fittingly, given their nicknames of the Pope and the Cardinal, the twins lived in Llandaff, near the cathedral. Their house was a modest two-up, two down, a Victorian building with an extension stretching into the back garden, hardly the anticipated abode of criminal masterminds.
As I travelled to Llandaff, I thought about Gawain. I’d received no word from my father, had no idea where he was hiding. Probably, he feared discovery, if he should use his mobile phone, feared that the police would trace him, so he decided to keep stum. At least, I hoped that that was the scenario. The alternative did not bear thinking about.
Although feeling nervous, and guilty about lying to Mac, I reasoned that I had no option other than to meet the Bishops. During the afternoon, I’d concocted a plan; I would introduce myself as my alter ego, the journalist, Abigail Summer. From their media articles, it was clear that the Bishop brothers enjoyed talking about themselves, so it seemed a fair bet that they’d be willing to talk with me, if I posed as a journalist.
I knocked on the door of 23 Tremorfa Terrace and waited for someone to answer. The door was black, unblemished and shiny, with silver fittings. It reminded me of a funeral home, but I tried not to dwell on that.
After I’d knocked on the door a second time, it creaked open to reveal a man in his early fifties. From his media photographs, I identified the man as Brydon Bishop.
Tall at around six foot four and at least two stone overweight, Brydon had a rich mop of silver hair, combed back from his forehead. His eyes were stern, coal-black, hidden behind black-framed spectacles. A thick, mono eyebrow, thick lips and a large, bulbous nose dominated his face. Despite the hot weather, he wore a black suit, white shirt and a thin black tie. He looked like an undertaker, complete with a lugubrious expression.
“Hello,” I smiled, “my name is Abigail Summer. I’m a journalist; I’m researching an article and I wondered if I could have a word with you.”
“Summer?” he frowned. “Like the seasons?” He spoke in a dull, low monotone, with a puzzled edge, as though words were a stranger to him.
“That’s right,” I said, “Abigail Summer, like the seasons.”
“A journalist?” he frowned again.
“That’s right.”
“You’d like a word?”
“That’s right.”
“With me?”
This time, I kept silent and just nodded. Variety, the spice of life.
“Okay,” he said, opening the door wide, “you’d better come in.”
I followed Brydon into his living room. Two items caught my attention immediately: a large clock on the mantelpiece and a neat dining table. A wooden frame encased the clock; humpbacked, it ticked with menace, and that tick induced a flashback, offered an image of Frankie Quinn, of his mutilated body, as he lay sprawled in the longhouse. A pristine lace tablecloth covered the table, while a white china tea service sat on that tablecloth. A silver rim decorated the tea service.
“Sit down,” Brydon said, easing a straight-backed wooden chair away from the table. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”
“I’ve just had a snack,” I said; “thanks all the same.”
“Go on,” he insisted, as I smoothed the back of my skirt and sat at the table, “have a cup of tea, and a ginger nut biscuit.” He nodded towards a packet of biscuits, positioned on a china plate. “You like ginger nuts?”
“Love them,” I said; it seemed the prudent answer to a simple question, a question innocent in its conception, yet loaded with menace. Indeed, with his bulk and general demeanour, Brydon bristled with intimidation, although his manner also contained a strange, childlike quality.
“I like dunking my ginger nuts,” Brydon said. He sat beside me at the table. “Of course, there’s an art to ginger nut dunking; you have to get the biscuit soggy, but not too soggy, or it will fall into your tea. And that would be a disaster.”
“I can imagine,” I said.
“A soggy biscuit can ruin a cup of tea. Of course, I’m an expert, me; I know just how far to go, with my biscuits, with everything in life.”
“That’s a comforting thought,” I smiled winningly. Then, to change the subject, I said, “Lovely house.”
Brydon nodded. He dunked his biscuit, held it steady in the warm tea. “I live here, with my brother.”
“Brandon?”
“That’s right.” At the critical moment, Brydon removed his biscuit from the tea then dropped it into his mouth. “Of course, the house belonged to my mother. And my grandmother, and my great-grandmother.” He paused, swallowed his biscuit, then glanced at a series of family pictures lining the wall. “My mother’s in a home now,” he added morosely. “My grandmother’s in her grave.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“She was ninety-two when she died.”
“A good age.”
Brydon pushed out his bottom lip then nodded, slowly, deliberately. “We put flowers on her grave, every Sunday. Is your grandmother dead?” he asked, his expression curiously vacant, his head tilted to the right.
“Yes, she is.”
“And your mother?” he asked.
I nodded.
“That’s sad,” he said.
We sat in respectful silence. Then I said, “You mentioned your brother.”
“Brandon.”
“He’s not at home?”
“He’s doing a spot of business. We’re businessmen you see. I.T. That means information technology.”
“Computers,” I said.
Brydon nodded. He dunked another biscuit into his tea. “Do you own a computer?” he asked.
“I type my articles on one.”
“Of course,” he smiled. Despite the smile, a frown remained on his forehead. Indeed, the frown was a Brydon Bishop trademark, a permanent feature. “You want to write about me?” he asked.
“Actually, I’m researching an article about Frankie Quinn.”
“Frankie Quinn?”
“Yes. He died recently.”
“Really?” Brydon salvaged his ginger nut from the steaming teacup. He swallowed the biscuit, fingered the packet then glanced at me. He asked with choirboy innocence, “Natural causes?”
“Multiple gunshot wounds to the body and head.”
Once again, we paused, to allow my statement to sink in. During that pause, Brydon eased a third ginger nut from its packet; his fingers moved with exaggerated precision, while his eyes flicked furtively from the left to the right. A physical man in every sense, he tried to look affable, a look that did not become him.
“I understand that you and Frankie were friends,” I said.
“Acquaintances,” Brydon said. “Casual. We’d meet up for a chat. And a cup of tea. Now and then.”
“Frankie was murdered,” I said.
“So you said.” Brydon dipped his head, rolled his shoulders, looked on the point of losing control.
“Any idea who murdered him?”
Brydon pondered for a moment. He dunked his biscuit, then beamed with satisfaction, clearly pleased with his train of thought. In his customary low monotone, he said, “I heard Naz did it.”
“Who told you that?” I asked.
“A little bird.”
“Why did Naz murder Frankie?”
“Because he’s into that,” Brydon said.
“Murder?”
“Extreme violence.” Brydon scoffed his biscuit. For the first time, he sipped his tea. While he sipped his tea he crooked the little finger on his right hand, curved it in exaggerated fashion. “I blame the video games myself. And the government. The government’s got a lot to answer for.”
“True,” I said. “So Naz murdered Frankie.”
Brydon nodded. With exaggerated care, he placed his cup on its saucer, centred it then said, “Naz heard people were looking for Frankie. Decided to grab a piece of the action. Went along and shot him, just for the jollies. Naz likes to hurt people, just for the jollies.”
The hint of relish in Brydon’s voice, the elation in his tone suggested that he could have been talking about himself; gone was the monotone; now, his voice reverberated with excitement.
“You ever shot anyone?” he asked, his large right hand reaching for the teapot, topping up his cup of tea.
“I’m a journalist,” I lied. “The pen is mightier than the sword. What about you,” I asked; “have you shot anyone?”
“I’m a businessman,” he said solemnly. “I’m into I.T. That’s...”
“Information technology.”
“Computers,” Brydon nodded. He sat back and threw his hands up in the air, in a display of mock horror. “Where’s my manners?” he asked. “I haven’t poured you a cup of tea.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Anyway, I’m not a tea drinker; I prefer coffee.”
Brydon dropped three sugar cubes into his teacup. He added a splash of milk. As he stirred his tea, he eyed me with intent, as though my statement about coffee had transgressed the eleventh commandment; Thou Shalt Not Disagree With Brydon Bishop. The twelfth commandment probably ran ditto, regarding his brother.
“No offence,” he said, setting his silver spoon on a saucer, “but I must feed Cyril and Crespo now.”
“Cyril and Crespo?” I frowned.
“Our snakes. Boa constrictors. Would you like to see them?”
“Maybe next time,” I said.
I eased myself off the chair, gathered up my shoulder bag and walked to the front door.
“Call again,” Brydon said, his right hand reaching for the door handle.
“I will,” I promised.
“You got a card?” he asked.
“I’m right out,” I lied. I smiled then offered the casual pretence of searching through my shoulder bag.
“I always keep a supply of business cards on me,” Brydon said, his left hand delving into his jacket pocket. “Marks me out as a professional. Would you like my card?”
“Thanks,” I said while grinning from ear to ear; if I offered another false smile, I’d be in danger of inducing facial cramps, “I’d love one.”
“I’ll see you around,” Brydon said.
I studied his card. It depicted a computer on a chessboard along with the logo, B and B Bishop, I.T. Consultants. I slipped the card into my shoulder bag, risked another false smile and said, “I’m sure you will.”