Beneath the Bleeding

by Val McDermid

  ‘Bastard,’ she muttered under her breath.

  ‘Problems, chief?’ Paula stood in the doorway of the family room where she’d earlier interviewed Flanagan.

  ‘Mr Denby doesn’t like hanging around. Pronounces death one minute, announces the press conference the next. I’d have liked a little more time to make sure I was up to speed, that’s all.’

  ‘You want me to ring round the team? Get the bullet points?’

  Carol had trouble taking Paula’s eagerness at face value. When she’d found herself in a similar position professionally, she’d felt rage, resentment and a burning desire for vengeance. She couldn’t imagine any circumstances in which she could have worked for those who had let her down and betrayed her trust. Yet instead of hating her, Paula seemed to be even more driven to win her approval. Carol had asked Tony to explain it to her, but he’d been hampered by his own clinical involvement with Paula. All he’d felt able to say was, ‘She genuinely doesn’t blame you for what went wrong that night in Temple Fields. She understands that you didn’t hang her out to dry. That you did everything you could to keep her safe. There’s no hidden agenda here, Carol. You can trust that she’s on your side.’

  So now she tried. She smiled and put a hand on Paula’s arm. ‘That would be a big help. I’m going to put some notes together down in the café–I need the caffeine. I’ll see you there in quarter of an hour.’

  As she walked, Carol disregarded the hospital rule forbidding mobiles and called her boss. John Brandon, the Chief Constable of Bradfield Metropolitan Police, had been responsible for dragging her back into the world of policing when she’d desperately wanted to leave it for good. He’d created the Major Incident Team she headed up, and he was the one senior police officer she trusted without reservation.

  She brought him up to date on the Robbie Bishop situation, explaining the need for a joint press conference.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Brandon said. ‘You’re the one on the ground. I trust your judgement.’

  ‘There’s only one thing I’m not sure of-I don’t know whether to go public with murder or stick with suspicious death.’

  ‘Do you think it’s murder?’

  ‘Hard to see how it could be anything else.’

  ‘Then go with murder. High-profile case like this, they’ll crucify us if they think we’re covering our backs. Call it as you see it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And, Carol-keep me on the page with you on this one.’

  Carol ended the call not a moment too soon. As she thrust her phone back into her bag, a TV reporter standing on the fringes of the press battalion recognized her. He broke away, calling her name, running towards her.

  Carol smiled and waggled her fingers in a wave. She was deep in the warren of hospital corridors before he reached the main door. It was beginning.

  Yousef walked into the living room just after the regional evening news programme began. He started to speak, but Raj and Sanjar both shushed him. ‘What?’ he protested, giving Raj a shove so he’d move up and let Yousef squeeze in on the end of the sofa.

  ‘It’s Robbie Bishop,’ Sanjar said. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘No way,’ Yousef protested.

  ‘Shush,’ Raj insisted. Of the three brothers, he was the only real football fan. Sanjar loved cricket, but Yousef had never caught the sports bug. Still, given his plans for the weekend, this story was interesting.

  On the screen, the newsreader looked solemn. ‘And now we are going live to a press conference at Bradfield Cross Hospital where Robbie Bishop’s doctor, Mr Thomas Denby, is making a statement.’

  The picture changed. Some geezer in a serious suit and a sharp haircut was sitting at a table flanked by a good-looking blonde and a nothing brunette in a white coat. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Robbie Bishop died in the Intensive Care Unit here at Bradfield Cross half an hour ago. His parents and Martin Flanagan, the manager of Bradfield Victoria, were with him when he died.’ Posh voice. Cleared his throat and went on. ‘We have known for some hours that there was nothing further we could do for Robbie except to make sure his last hours were as comfortable as possible.’ There was a buzz of voices in the background from reporters who didn’t have the patience or the manners to wait for Denby to say what he had to say. Just like his baby brother, who kept repeating, ‘So what did he die of?’

  The posh geezer held up a hand, appealing for quiet. He gave it a few seconds then started again. This morning, we received the results of lab tests that proved conclusively that Robbie Bishop was not suffering from any kind of infection. What killed Robbie Bishop was a substantial dose of the poison ricin.’ The room erupted.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Sanjar breathed. ‘Isn’t that what they were arresting all them lads for making? Them so-called terrorists?’

  ‘Yeah, but most of them got let go,’ Yousef said. ‘I think there was one bloke went on trial for it.’

  ‘Then they’ll blame us,’ Raj said, his face solemn, his eyes bright. ‘They’ll say it was Muslim fundamentalists. I tell you, I’ve been supporting the Vics since I was a little kid, but that won’t make no difference now.’

  Yousef patted his shoulder awkwardly. He felt sorry for Raj, but he had to think of the bigger picture. Which was looking even better now. Recently, he’d been zoning out into a world of his own when he’d been planted in front of the TV, but for this, his mind was fully engaged. ‘Let’s see what they’ve got to say.’

  They dragged their attention back to the TV set, where the geezer in the suit had given way to the blonde. ‘My team have already begun our investigation into this tragic death,’ she was saying. ‘We are treating it as a murder inquiry.’ So, a cop, then. ‘We would like to talk to anyone who saw Robbie or spoke to him in the Amatis nightclub in Bradfield late on Thursday evening. We are also interested in his movements after he left the nightclub. We need to find the person who did this. If anyone has information, they should call this number.’ She held up a piece of paper with a free phone number and read it out.

  As soon as she finished speaking, the journalistic frenzy began again. ‘Is there any question of terrorist involvement?’ was the one that rose above the rest.

  The blonde’s lips pursed in a thin line. ‘There is no reason to suspect terrorism in this case,’ she said. ‘Nor is there any suggestion that anyone else is at risk from the event that killed Robbie Bishop.’

  ‘When did your investigation begin?’

  ‘The hospital informed us this morning,’ the cop said.

  ‘We called the police as soon as the ricin diagnosis was confirmed,’ the suit butted in.

  ‘Covering his arse,’ Sanjar said as the screen cut back to the studio, where the anchor promised any fresh information as soon as it was available. They moved on to a rapidly assembled montage of Robbie Bishop’s greatest moments on the pitch. Raj stared avidly, soaking up the magic that would never be repeated.

  ‘I was there,’ he said, as they showed Robbie’s spectacular shot from thirty yards out, the goal that had clinched the Vics’ semi-final slot in the previous season’s UEFA Cup. ‘Oh man, we got no chance in the premiership now. Not without Robbie.’

  Yousef shook his head. ‘You should stay away from the games. Till they’ve caught whoever did this.’

  ‘I’ve got a ticket for Saturday,’ Raj protested. ‘And the next European game.’

  ‘Yousef’s right,’ Sanjar said. ‘Till they find out who did this, there’s going to be people looking for scapegoats. Even though that cop woman said it wasn’t no terrorist thing, there’s still going to be fuckwits out there who think it’s an excuse to go paki-bashing. Feelings are going to run high, Raj. Better you stay clear.’

  ‘I don’t want to stay clear. Not from the matches, and not tonight either. Everybody’s going to be down the stadium, paying tributes and that. I want to be part of it. It’s my club too.’ Raj was close to tears.

  His elder brothers exchanged a look. ‘Sanjar’s probably righ
t about the matches. Once it’s sunk in, there’ll be bad feeling, no doubt about it. But I’ll come with you tonight if you’re set on that,’ Yousef said, understanding only too well the precariousness of the bridge between the two cultures that claimed his generation. ‘We’ll go together.’

  Tony turned the TV off and leaned back on his pillows. The intravenous morphine had worn off and he could feel the beginning of a dull ache in his knee. The nurse had told him sternly that he didn’t have to suffer, that he should summon a nurse and ask for pain relief. He tried moving his leg, testing the limits of his endurance. He reckoned he could wait a little longer. More drugs would just make him go to sleep, and he didn’t want to be asleep now. Not when there was the prospect of a visit.

  Carol was in the hospital. He’d just seen her on TV, doing a live press conference. She had a murder. And what a murder. Celebrity corpse and a creepy murder method. She’d want to talk to him about it. Of that he was certain. But he didn’t know when she’d be able to get away.

  He thought about Robbie Bishop and of the evenings he’d spent in the cosy cave that was his study, watching Bradfield Victoria on the satellite channel. He recalled a thoughtful player, seldom careless with his passes. In control of himself as much as he’d been in control of the ball. Tony couldn’t remember ever seeing Robbie Bishop pick up a yellow card. But being mindful of what he was doing hadn’t meant a lack of passion. Robbie in his number seven shirt would run himself into the ground. What had made Robbie special, though, were the gorgeous moves he’d created out of nothing, moments when there was no need to explain to unbelievers why football was the beautiful game.

  And somebody had wiped that skill and grace from the map. They’d done it in the cruellest of ways, left him a dead man walking. Why would someone choose such a death for Robbie Bishop? Was it personal? Or was it a more general statement? Either was possible. Tony needed more detail. He needed Carol.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Within ten minutes of the end of her press conference, Carol was shutting his door behind her, leaning against it as if expecting pursuit. ‘He doesn’t like anybody else getting the limelight, does he?’ Tony said, waving her towards the bedside chair.

  ‘My way or the highway,’ Carol said, abandoning her defence of the door and throwing herself into the chair. ‘Like just about every consultant I’ve ever dealt with.’

  ‘You should meet Mrs Chakrabarti. At least she lets you bask in the misapprehension that she’s taking notice of what you say. So, you’ve got the poisoned chalice, have you?’

  ‘Oh yes. CID took the call and as soon as they realized what they were looking at, they couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. I’m not looking forward to the next few days. But enough of me and my troubles.’ Carol made a visible effort to shrug off her problems. ‘How are you?’

  Tony smiled. ‘It’s me, Carol. You don’t have to pretend you’ve got room in your head for anything other than Robbie Bishop. And as for me, if you really want to know, I’ll feel a lot better as soon as you stop treating me like an invalid. It’s my knee that’s messed up, not my brain. You can run this past me, same as you would any other murder lacking an obvious motive.’

  ‘Are you sure? You don’t look like you’re firing on all cylinders, to be honest.’

  ‘I’m not, clearly. My concentration isn’t great, which makes reading anything complex impossible.’ He made a dismissive gesture towards the books he’d asked her to bring in. ‘But I’m off the intravenous morphine and my brain is returning to what passes for normal. When I’m awake, I’d rather be puzzling over this than watching daytime TV. So, what can you tell me?’

  ‘Depressingly little.’ Carol ran through what she and her team had established so far.

  ‘So, to sum up,’ Tony said. ‘We don’t know of anybody who hated him enough to kill him, he was probably poisoned in a nightclub crammed with people and we don’t know where the ricin came from.’

  ‘That’s about it, yeah. I did find a scrunched-up bit of paper in the pocket of the last pair of jeans he wore. It had a url on it that I’ve not had a chance to check out yet: www.bestdays.co.uk.’

  ‘We could look at it now.’ Tony offered, pressing the button to raise the bed and wincing as a fresh pain asserted itself. He flipped open the laptop and waited impatiently for it to emerge from hibernation.

  ‘You in pain?’ Carol asked.

  ‘A bit,’ he admitted.

  ‘Can’t they give you something for it?’

  ‘I’m trying to keep the painkillers to a minimum,’ Tony admitted. ‘I don’t like the way they make me feel. I’d rather have my wits about me.’

  ‘That’s just stupid,’ Carol said firmly. ‘There’s nothing helpful about pain.’ Without asking permission, she pressed the nurse call button.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Sorting you out.’ She pulled her chair round so she could see the screen.

  Tony typed in the url. It took them to a page with the banner heading, The Best Days of Our Lives.’ For only £5 annual membership, the site promised it would provide the best service in the UK for reuniting old school friends and workmates. A brief exploration revealed that by registering with the site, people could check out their old contacts and get back in touch via emails which would be forwarded by the website administration. ‘Why would Robbie Bishop be interested in contacting old school mates?’ Tony said. ‘I’d have thought they’d be falling over themselves to get back in touch with him.’

  Carol shrugged. ‘Maybe he wanted to look up an old flame who dumped him? He was footloose and fancy free after the end of his engagement.’

  ‘I don’t see it. He was good looking, rich and talented. Everywhere he went, women threw themselves at him. And apparently, he was quite happy to catch some of them. He was engaged to a very cool trophy babe. If he was still carrying a torch for somebody who dumped him when he was fifteen, he wouldn’t be behaving like that. And he’d have done something about it before now.’ He shook his head. ‘No, the psychology’s all wrong for that. Do we know for sure it’s Robbie’s handwriting?’

  ‘We don’t. It’s with forensics now. You think somebody gave it to him?’

  ‘He told Phil Campsie he was having a drink with someone from school. Maybe whoever he was drinking with suggested he should check out the site, look up some old mates. Robbie’s not interested but he doesn’t want to seem rude so he shoves it in his pocket and forgets all about it.’

  ‘Could be. It makes sense.’

  Tony opened a window and typed in, ‘Harriestown High School, Bradfield.’

  ‘You know where he went to school?’ Carol sounded suspicious.

  ‘I follow football, Carol. I know where he grew up. His mum and dad still live in the same house, in Harriestown. He offered to buy them a new place, but they wanted to stay where they belonged.’

  ‘You don’t learn stuff like that from following football.’

  Tony had the grace to look shame-faced. ‘So I surf the gossip from time to time. It doesn’t make me a bad person. Look at that.’ He pointed to the screen. There was a photograph of Harriestown High School, boxy sixties concrete and glass flanking the old Victorian brick core. Beneath a brief history of the school there was a section entitled ‘Famous Alumni’. A couple of MPs, two rock bands who had made a small dent in the charts during the Britpop era, a mid-list crime writer, a minor soap star, a fashion designer and Robbie Bishop. A couple of clicks and he’d brought up the names of Harriestown High School former pupils who had overlapped Robbie Bishop’s years in the school. ‘Whoever gave him the url, chances are the name is here.’

  Carol groaned. ‘I suppose it does whittle down the list a little. Rather than checking out every single person who was at school with Robbie, now we only have to go through the ones who are paid-up members of the Best Days of Our Lives.’

  ‘At least now you’re looking for a needle in a sewing box rather than a haystack.’

  ‘You think that makes it
easier? That’s the trouble with not having an obvious motive. You don’t know where to start.’

  Tony winced. ‘And that’s what I’m for, right? The one who narrows things down when “Who benefits?” doesn’t cut the mustard.’

  Carol grinned. ‘Something like that. And on that cheerful note, I’m going to leave you to it. I’m off to London to talk to Robbie’s ex.’

  ‘The lovely Bindie Blyth, would that be?’

  ‘I see what you mean about surfing the gossip. You’re absolutely right. And before I can take off, I need to sort out some bodies to acquire as much city-centre CCTV footage as we can get our hands on. And then the poor sods have to go through it all.’

  ‘Rather them than me. What’s the coverage like around Amatis?’

  Carol rolled her eyes. It ranges from overkill to nothing at all. The front of the club is well covered, and so are the routes to the nearest multi-storeys. But there’s a side exit near the VIP area. It opens on to an alley that runs down the side of the building. From there, you’re into the warren of Temple Fields back streets. And in spite of our best efforts, far too much of that is still CCTV-free.’ There was a moment’s silence while they both remembered past cases that had revolved around Temple Fields, an area that managed to combine the red-light district, the gay village, designer apartments in converted warehouses and a honeycomb of small businesses. Temple Fields was the cusp of cool and crap, where edgy met enterprising for denizens who spanned the spectrum from criminal to righteous.

  ‘It’s still the only part of town where anything can happen,’ Tony said, his voice almost dreamy. ‘Good and bad.’

  Carol snorted derisively. ‘I’ll have to take your word for the good.’

  ‘We only ever see the worst. I suspect there’s good magic there too.’

  ‘Tell that to Paula.’ Carol’s voice was sour, remembering how Paula had almost died in a dingy room in Temple Fields.

  Tony smiled. ‘Carol, Paula understands much more about transgression than you or I ever will. She knows what tempers the down side of Temple Fields. For a long time, it was the only place where people like her could be safe. There were gays in Temple Fields long before the gay village became a cool destination.’