by Val McDermid
What pissed off Yousef more than almost anything else was the way he was treated by people he’d known for years. He’d go into a factory or a warehouse where he’d been buying or selling for the seven years since he’d started working for his dad. And now, instead of the locals greeting him by name and having a laugh with him about the football or the cricket or whatever, their eyes slid away from him like he was slick with oil. Either that or they did that false, bright thing that made him feel patronized, like they were only being nice so they could preface their remarks in the pub with, ‘Of course, some of my best mates are Muslims…’
Today, though, he bit back his anger. It wasn’t like this was going to be for ever. As if to confirm the thought, his mobile rang just as he was pulling in to the car park behind Howard Edelstein’s factory. He recognized the ring tone and smiled, putting the phone to his ear. ‘How’s it going?’ the voice on the other end said.
‘All according to plan. It’s great to hear from you, I wasn’t expecting you to call this morning.’
‘Cancelled meeting. I thought I’d give you a quick bell, just to make sure everything was on track.’
‘You know you can rely on me,’ Yousef said. ‘When I say I’ll do something, it’s as good as done. Don’t worry about me bottling out.’
‘That’s the one thing I’m not worried about. You know we’re doing the right thing.’
‘I do. And I tell you, days like these make me glad we decided to do it this way.’
‘You having a bad one?’ The voice was sympathetic, warm.
‘The kind of arse-licking I hate. But I won’t be doing this for much longer.’
A chuckle at the other end of the phone. ‘That’s for sure. This time next week, the world will feel like a very different place.’
Before Yousef could respond, the familiar figure of Howard Edelstein himself loomed up beside his driver’s door, sketching a little wave and gesturing with his thumb towards the building. ‘I gotta go,’ Yousef said. ‘I’ll see you.’
‘Count on it.’
Yousef thumbed the phone shut, jumping out of the car with a smile on his face. Edelstein nodded at him, unsmiling. ‘Let’s get sorted, then,’ he said, leading the way indoors without waiting to see if Yousef was following.
This time next week, Yousef thought. This time next week, you bastard.
Carol stared at Thomas Denby, taking in the image. Prematurely silver hair swept back from his forehead, a single lock falling loose over one eyebrow. Greenish blue eyes, pink skin. A beautifully cut charcoal pinstripe suit, jacket thrown open to reveal a flamboyant scarlet lining. He could have sat for a portrait of the archetype of the successful young consultant. What he absolutely didn’t look like was someone whose idea of a good time was to wind up a senior police officer. ‘So let me get this straight. You’re reporting a murder that hasn’t happened yet?’ She wasn’t in the mood to be messed around, and keeping her waiting for the best part of fifteen minutes hadn’t been the best way to get things started.
Denby shook his head. ‘Murder is your word, not mine. What I am saying is that Robbie Bishop is going to die, probably within the next twenty-four hours. The reason he is going to die is that he has ricin in his system. There is no antidote. There’s nothing we can do for him except to limit his pain as much as possible.’
‘You’re sure about this?’
‘I know it sounds bizarre. Like some James Bond film. But yes, we’re sure. We’ve done the tests. He’s dying from ricin poisoning.’
‘Could it be suicide?’
Denby looked bemused. ‘I shouldn’t think so for a moment.’
‘But could it? In theory?’
He looked faintly annoyed. Carol thought he probably wasn’t accustomed to having his views questioned. He lined up his pen with the edge of the file in front of him. ‘I’ve been reading up on ricin since my SHO proposed it as the possible cause of Robbie Bishop’s symptoms. Ricin works by invading the cells of a person’s body and inhibiting the cells from synthesizing the proteins they need. Without the proteins, cells die. The respiratory system fails, the heart stops. I haven’t seen any suggestion in the literature that it’s ever been used for suicide. Against it, you’d have to say it’s far from readily available. You’d have to have some skills as a chemist to manufacture it, even supposing you could get your hands on the raw material. Either that or you’d have to have connections to a terrorist organization-they allegedly found it stockpiled in the Al-Quaeda caves in Afghanistan. The other aspect militating against it is that it’s a long-drawn-out and very painful way to go. I can’t imagine why anyone would choose it as a means of suicide.’ He spread his hands and raised his shoulders to emphasize his point.
Carol made a note on her pad. ‘So we could also rule out accident, by the sounds of it?’
‘Unless Mr Bishop was in the habit of hanging around castor oil factories, I would say so,’ Denby said brusquely.
‘So how did it get into his system?’
‘He probably inhaled it. We’ve examined him thoroughly and we can’t find any puncture wounds.’ Denby leaned forward. ‘I don’t know if you remember the case of the Bulgarian defector Georgi Markov in the late seventies? He was assassinated with a pellet of ricin fired from a doctored umbrella. Once we knew ricin was involved here, I had our ICU team make a thorough examination of Mr Bishop’s skin. No sign of any foreign body being injected.’
Carol felt bemused. ‘It’s hard to believe,’ she said. ‘It’s not the sort of thing that happens in Bradfield.’
‘No,’ Denby said. ‘That’s why it took us a couple of days to figure it out. I suppose it was the same for the doctors at UCH who treated Alexander Litvinenko. The last thing they expected to confront was radiation poisoning. But it happened.’
‘How could he be poisoned without realizing it?’
‘Quite easily,’ Denby said. ‘The data we have on ricin tell us that, if injected, as little as 500 micrograms could be enough to kill an adult. There’s animal research that indicates that inhaling or ingesting similar amounts could be lethal. A 500 microgram dose of ricin would be about the size of the head of a pin. Not hard to slip into a drink or into some food. In those quantities, it would be tasteless.’
‘So we’re looking for someone who had access to his food or drink?’
Denby nodded. ‘That’s the most likely route.’ He fiddled with his pen. ‘It might also be infiltrated into a recreational drug such as cocaine or amphetamine, something snorted. Again, one would not notice any taste or smell.’
‘Do you have blood and urine samples that you can test for recreational drugs?’
Denby nodded. ‘I’ll see that it’s done.’
‘How did you figure it out?’
‘My SHO, Dr Blessing. I think you or one of your colleagues spoke to her in the first instance?’
‘Yes, I know Dr Blessing contacted us. But what alerted her?’
Denby gave a little smirk. Carol liked him even less. ‘I don’t want to sound vain, but Dr Blessing reckoned that if I couldn’t work out what was wrong with Mr Bishop, then it must be something quite a long way out of the ordinary. She checked out the symptoms in our online database and ricin poisoning was the single thing that fit the bill. She brought her conclusions to me, and I ordered the standard test. It came back strongly positive. There really is no room for doubt, Chief Inspector.’
Carol closed her notebook. ‘Thanks for explaining this so clearly,’ she said. ‘You said you’d been reading up on ricin-is there any chance you could put some sort of briefing together for me and my officers?’
‘I’ll get Dr Blessing on to it right away.’ He stood, indicating that the interview was over as far as he was concerned.
‘Can I see him?’ Carol said.
Denby rubbed his thumb against his jaw. ‘Nothing much to see,’ he said. ‘But yes, I’ll take you through. His parents may have come back–they were in the relatives’ room. I had to break the news to them, and
they were understandably shocked and upset. I asked them to stay put until they were feeling a little calmer. It doesn’t help the ICU team if people are in an emotional state around the patients.’ He spoke dismissively, as if the smooth running of a hospital ward were infinitely more important than the anguish of parents about to lose a son.
Carol followed him to Robbie Bishop’s bedside. The two chairs by the bed were empty. Carol stood at the foot of the bed, taking in the various monitors, the tubes and machines that were keeping Robbie Bishop as stable as possible on what was going to be a short journey to death. His skin was waxy, a sheen of sweat visible on his cheeks and forehead. She wanted to hold this image in her head. This was going to be a nightmare investigation for all sorts of reasons, and she wanted to make sure she didn’t lose sight of the human being at the heart of it. The media would be clamouring for answers, the fans would be demanding someone’s head on a platter and her bosses would be eager to cover themselves in whatever glory she could drag out of the situation.
Carol was determined to find out who had destroyed Robbie Bishop, and why. But for her own sake, she needed to be sure she was pursuing his killer for the right reasons. Now she’d seen him, she could be a lot more sure of that.
Detective Constable Paula McIntyre knew all about shock and grief. She’d seen countless examples and she was still recovering from experiencing the extremes of both at first hand. So she didn’t read anything into Martin Flanagan’s behaviour other than the obvious fact that he had been shattered to the core by the news Dr Blessing had delivered.
His was the active, agitated response. He couldn’t keep still. It didn’t surprise Paula; she’d seen it before, particularly with men whose livelihoods centred round physical activity, whether on a building site or a sports field. Flanagan paced restlessly, then threw himself into a chair where he fidgeted with fingers and feet till he could stand the confinement no longer. Then he was back on his feet, quartering the room. Paula simply sat, the still point of his whirling world.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Flanagan said. He’d been saying it ever since Paula had arrived, the short sentence a punctuation between everything else he said. ‘He’s been like a son to me, you know. I can’t believe it. This is not what happens to footballers. They break bones, they strain muscles, they snap ligaments, you know. They don’t get poisoned. I can’t believe it.’
Paula let him wind himself up, waiting till he began to wind down before starting with her questions. She was used to waiting. She had become very good at it. Nobody was better at the art of the interview than Paula, and that was due in no small part to her knack of knowing when to dive in and when to hold back. So she waited till Martin Flanagan ran out of steam and fell silent, his forehead leaning against the cool glass of the window, his hands on the wall on either side of the frame. She could see the reflection of his face, haggard with pain.
‘When did Robbie first show signs of being ill?’ she asked.
‘Saturday breakfast. We always stay at the Victoria Grand the night before home games.’ Flanagan shrugged one shoulder upwards. ‘It’s a way of keeping tabs on them, you know. Most of them, they’re young and stupid. They’d be out on the town till all hours if we didn’t keep them on a tight leash. I sometimes think we should have them electronically tagged, like they do with cats and dogs and paedophiles.’
‘And Robbie said he was feeling ill?’
Flanagan sniffed. ‘He came over to my table. I was with Jason Graham, my assistant, and Dave Kermode, the physio, and Robbie said he was feeling out of sorts. Tight chest, sweaty, feverish. And his joints were aching, like he was coming down with the flu, you know. I told him to finish his breakfast and go to his room. I said I’d get the team doctor to come and take a look at him. He said he wasn’t hungry, so he’d just go upstairs and get his head down for a bit.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it, so I can’t.’
‘So Friday night, he definitely wasn’t out on the town?’
‘No way. He shares with Pavel Aljinovic.’ He turned to face Paula and slid down the wall into a crouch. The goalkeeper, you know. They’ve shared since Pavel came to Bradfield two seasons back. Robbie always says Pavel’s a boring bastard, keeps him honest.’ A sad smile tugged at his mouth. ‘There’s some I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw them, you know, but Pavel’s not one of them. Robbie’s right, Pavel is a boring bastard. He’d never have tried to sneak out for a night on the randan. And he wouldn’t have let Robbie do it either.’
‘I’m a bit at sea here,’ Paula said. ‘I don’t really have much of a sense of what Robbie’s typical routine was. Maybe you could run me through it? Say, from Thursday morning?’ Paula wasn’t sure how long the symptoms of ricin poisoning took to develop, but she reckoned going back to Thursday would cover the moment of its administration.
‘We had a UEFA cup match on Wednesday night, so they had Thursday morning off, you know. Robbie came in to see the physio, he’d taken a knock on the ankle and it was a bit swollen. Nothing serious, but they all take their physical condition seriously. It’s their living, you know. Anyway, he was done by half past ten. I assume he went home. He’s got a flat down in the Millennium Quarter, just off Bellwether Square. He turned up for training on Thursday afternoon. We just did a light session, you know. Concentrating on skills more than tactics. We were done by half past four. And I’ve no idea what he did after that.’
‘You don’t have any sense of how he spent his free time?’ Just like a son to you, Paula thought ironically. Robbie Bishop might be twenty-six years old, but if he was anything like most footballers she’d read about in the tabloids, he probably had arrested development. The lifestyle of a sixteen-year-old granted unlimited pocket money and access to beautiful women. The last person who would know what he was up to was anyone in a parental role.
Flanagan shrugged. ‘They’re not children, you know. And I’m not like some managers. I don’t barge into their homes and turn off their stereos and kick their girlfriends out. There are rules about not going out the night before a game. But apart from that, they do their own thing.’ He shook his head again. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘And what was Robbie’s thing?’
‘There’s a fitness centre where he lives. They’ve got a full-sized pool down in the basement. He likes to swim, relax in the sauna, that kind of thing. He’s good pals with Phil Campsie, he’s got a bit of land up on the edge of the moors. They go fishing and shooting together.’ Flanagan pushed himself upright and recommenced his restless pacing. ‘That’s about all I can tell you.’
‘What about girlfriends? Was Robbie seeing anybody special?’
Flanagan shook his head. ‘Not that I knew about. He was engaged for a while. Bindie Blyth, the Radio One DJ. But they called it a day about three months ago.’
Paula’s interest quickened. ‘Who called it a day? Robbie, or Bindie?’
‘I don’t know anything about that. But he didn’t seem to be that bothered, you know.’ He leaned his forehead against the window again. ‘What’s all this got to do with somebody poisoning Robbie, anyway? It’s not his team-mates or his ex who’d be doing that kind of thing.’
‘We have to look at all the possibilities, Mr Flanagan. So, since Bindie, he’s been what? Playing the field?’ Paula winced at her unintentional pun. Please let him not think I’m taking the piss.
‘I suppose.’ He turned back, rubbing his temples with his fingers. ‘You’d have to ask the lads. Phil and Pavel, they’d likely know.’ He looked longingly at the door that led to the ICU. ‘I wish they’d let me see him, you know. To say goodbye, at least. I can’t believe it.’
‘What about Friday? Do you know what he did then?’
‘We were at the training ground on Friday.’ Flanagan paused for a moment. ‘Come to think of it, he was a bit lacklustre. Head down, a bit slow off the ball. As if he was kind of dozy. I didn’t think anything of it, you know. They all have their off days and, frankly, you’d rather they had t
hem on a training session than a match. He wasn’t off it enough for me to do anything about it, though. And then when he said he had the flu on Saturday, I put it down to that.’
Paula nodded. ‘Anyone would have done the same. Now, I have to ask you this. Is there anyone you can think of who has a grudge against Robbie? Has he had any hate mail? Any problems with stalkers?’
Flanagan winced and shook his head. ‘You don’t get to where he is without pissing off one or two people along the way. You know? Like, there’s always been a bit of needle between him and Nils Petersen, the Man United centre-back. But that’s football. It’s not real life. I mean, if he ran into Petersen in a bar, they’d likely indulge in a bit of argy-bargy, but that’d be the size of it. It wouldn’t come to blows, never mind poisoning.’ He threw his hands into the air. ‘It’s insane. It’s like something in a bad film. There’s nothing more I can tell you, because none of it makes sense.’ He gestured towards the door with his thumb. ‘That lad in there is dying and it’s a tragedy. That’s all I know.’
Paula sensed she’d reached the end of Flanagan’s capacity for answers. They’d probably have to talk to him again, but for now she thought there wasn’t likely to be much more he could tell her. She stood up. ‘I hope you get to say goodbye, Mr Flanagan. Thank you for talking to me.’
He nodded, too distracted now to care what she had to say. Paula walked away, thinking about death and second chances. She’d been given her life back, complete with its load of survivor guilt. But thanks to Tony Hill, she was starting to understand that she had to make that gift mean something. Robbie Bishop was as good a place to start as any.
