by Val McDermid
It was a gentle rebuke, but one that reminded Carol she couldn’t lay her reactions over Paula’s and expect an exact fit. ‘You’re right,’ she admitted. Before she could say more, a nurse knocked and walked in.
‘What can I do for you?’ she said.
‘He needs pain relief but he won’t admit it,’ Carol said, standing up and gathering her things together.
‘Is that right?’
Tony nodded. ‘I suppose so.’
The nurse consulted his chart and said, ‘I told you, there’s no medals for martyrs here. I’ll bring you something.’
Carol followed her to the door. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back from London, but I’ll try and come by tomorrow.’
‘Good luck,’ Tony said. He wasn’t sorry to see her go; her visit had reminded him how little energy he had. It was a relief to know there would be no other visitors that evening. There were advantages to keeping the world at arm’s length.
For a long time, he had mistrusted those few overtures of friendship that had come his way. He’d believed they were based on the misconception that the face he presented to the world had anything to do with what was going on inside him. He was aware how slender was the connection between the two. And that his own history placed him closer to those he hunted than those on whose behalf he hunted. He knew the extent of his damage and understood that its gift of empathy had to be paid for somehow. By the time he’d plucked up the emotional courage to lay some of the blame on his mother, he’d also acquired enough knowledge to understand that was too easy an option. He had spent years feeling like a child with its face pressed to the window behind which the happy family were celebrating the perfect Dickensian Christmas. It had taken him that long to understand that most of those apparently happy families hid as many dark places as his own. That he was not the only one doing what he called ‘passing for human’. But by then he had built himself a life that willingly embraced solitude and spectatorship.
And then Carol Jordan had arrived. None of his psychology textbooks nor his thousands of hours of clinical practice had prepared him for someone who could walk straight through his defences as if they did not exist. It was both too simple and too complicated. If either of them had been different, they might have been able to fall in love and get it over with. But there had been too many snags and hitches at the start and now it seemed that every time they tentatively considered surrender, the world threw up mountains in their path.
Mostly, he wished it could be different. But sometimes, like now, he recognized that perhaps it was enough for each of them to know there was at least one relationship in their lives that was never going to be hamstrung by them acting out their needs. Whatever they did for each other meant itself alone. When she negotiated wireless access from a hospital bed for him, there was no ulterior motive. And now, he would trawl the world of information online and in his head to help her, just because he could.
When the nurse returned, he dutifully swallowed his medication and lay back, letting his mind wander free. Where there was no obvious motive, it was his talent to tease out meaning. What could Robbie Bishop’s murderer have gained from the act of killing? To understand that would be a giant step on the journey to giving this stranger face and form. It was, thankfully, the sort of giant step he didn’t need two functioning knees for. Just a brain that could possibly be helped on its way by the lovely, soothing chemicals infiltrating his bloodstream.
A twenty-four-hour news agenda is always hungry for headlines. Now that Robbie Bishop had died, the circus had moved from outside the hospital to the Bradfield Victoria stadium. The story had moved so fast that most of the media were there ahead of the fans, having quicker access to their vehicles. To begin with, there were more journalists and camera crew than there were mourners. They milled around in the chilly evening air, cracking black jokes and waiting for the action they knew would arrive soon enough.
Within an hour, they got what they wanted. Hundreds of people drifted around in the shadow of the cantilevered Grayson Street stand, breath puffing in clouds around their heads. Already the iron railings that marked the boundary had become the literal props for bunches of supermarket flowers, beribboned teddies, mourning messages, sympathy cards and photos of Robbie himself. Distraught women wept, men in canary yellow home strips looked as gutted as if they’d just witnessed a five–nil home defeat. Children looked bewildered, youths betrayed. Reporters moved among them, mikes and tape recorders thrust towards the banalities of manufactured emotion. A discreet police presence patrolled the mourners, a precaution against any kind of excess.
Yousef and Raj were among the first to arrive. Yousef felt conspicuous and awkward. He thought he was probably the only person apart from cops and media not wearing a Vics shirt or scarf. He politely declined when a couple of TV reporters asked for his comments and dragged a protesting Raj away from their mikes and cameras. ‘Why can’t I say summat?’ Raj said.
‘You’re supposed to be here because you’re in mourning, not to get your gob all over the TV,’ Yousef said. This isn’t about you, remember?’
‘It’s not fair. I really loved Robbie. I love the Vics. Half the people that’ll end up on the telly or the radio couldn’t give a toss about the team from one week to the next. They just want to get in on the act.’ Raj trailed behind his brother, scuffing his heels on the ground.
‘So let them.’
Another reporter thrust a tape recorder at them. ‘Some people are linking Robbie Bishop’s death to Muslim terrorist production of ricin,’ he gabbled. ‘What’s your view on that?’
‘It’s bollocks,’ Yousef said, finally goaded into speech. ‘Didn’t you hear what that cop said earlier? No reason to link this to terrorism. You’re just trying to stir up trouble. It’s people like you that provoke race riots. My brother here, the only thing he’s fanatical about is Bradfield Vics.’ He spat on the ground. ‘You’ve got no respect. Come on, Raj.’ He grabbed his brother’s sleeve and pulled him away.
‘Great,’ said Raj. ‘I don’t get to talk about Robbie, but you get to shout your mouth off, make us look like troublemakers.’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s not fair.’ Yousef steered Raj away from the media and towards the tributes at the railings. ‘But I’m so sick of that sort of shit. Why would terrorists kill Robbie Bishop, for fuck’s sake?’
“Cos he’s a symbol of the decadence of the West, dummy,’ Raj said, imitating the stupid parrot tones of the big mouths he’d heard sounding off in the kebab shops and the mosque car park.
‘That’s true, actually. But not a good enough reason to kill him. Killing Robbie doesn’t create terror, just outrage. For terrorism to work, you need to strike at ordinary people. But that’s too sophisticated an argument for the likes of that wanker with the microphone,’ Yousef said bitterly.
Without meaning to, they had reached the fringe of a growing crowd who had gathered round a cluster of night lights. The candles flickered in the light evening breeze, somehow more moving than all the other marks of respect piling up around them. Someone with a light tenor voice began singing the opening verse of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. Others picked it up and, before they knew it, Yousef and Raj were caught up in the definitive football fans’ anthem.
Yousef couldn’t help smiling as his voice rose in the chorus. He knew how it felt, not to walk alone. He understood the strength that gave a man. Walking in company, that made anything possible. Anything at all.
The miles unfurled steadily behind them. By this time of night, the traffic that choked the motorway by day had diminished. The six lanes were still busy, but now the cars and lorries were moving in a rhythmic rumble through the bottlenecks and chokes of the Midlands. Carol reached for the radio controls and switched from the measured tones of Radio Four to the manic beats of Radio One. Since they were on their way to talk to Bindie Blyth, they might as well check out her show.
The ten o’clock news led with Robbie Bishop’s death. At the wheel, Sam shook
his head as the newsreader managed to spin it with dramatic breathlessness into a major crisis. ‘They don’t get it, do they? A story this big, all they need to do is lay out the facts. The last thing we need is them getting all hysterical, winding the punters up.’
‘It’s what they do best,’ Carol said, weary at the excesses of the media. ‘With a few rare exceptions. And everybody just plays along. What’s the betting that the Prime Minister will have shoved his oar in by morning?’
Sam grinned. ‘Robbie’ll be “the people’s player” by breakfast.’
‘Only this time there’s a real murderer on the loose, not just the phantoms conjured up by the conspiracy theorists.’ She sighed. ‘And it’s our job to find him.’
The bulletin finished, segueing straight to a hectic dance track that seemed to go on for as long as the first act of an opera. Finally it subsided and a woman’s voice, low and warm, said, ‘Kicking off tonight’s show, Kateesha featuring Junior Deff, with “Score Steady”. This is Bindie Blyth, taking you through to midnight on Radio One, the beat nation’s favourite station. You’ll all have heard that Robbie Bishop died earlier this evening. Until a couple of months ago, me and Robbie were an item. He asked me to marry him and I said yes. We didn’t make it to the altar, but he was still my best mate. One of the reasons we stayed so close was the music. We both loved the same sounds, the sounds you hear every night here on the show. Now, everybody has their own personal top tens, and Robbie was no exception. Me and Robbie used to lie in bed on a Sunday morning, running through our favourite tracks, making up our imaginary Desert Island Discs. “Score Steady” always made it to Robbie’s hit list. Tonight, I’m sad. I’ve lost somebody that mattered a lot to me. So tonight’s show is going to be a tribute to a man I loved. A man who was really special. Don’t worry, I’m not going to go all tragic on you. No tears, not for the next two hours. Instead, I’m going to play the sounds that Robbie loved. Dance and trance, hip-hop and trip hop and maybe even a bit of acoustic chill. So button back your ears and let your feet go their own way to “Stack My Beats” from the Rehab Boys.’ The frantic beat started under her final words, building to a chest-vibrating drum and bass number.
Carol turned the volume down so they could hear themselves again. ‘Sounds like she’s got a better handle on things than the news reporters. What’s with her name? Bindie? Is that a nickname? Short for something?’
‘Short for Belinda, according to her website.’ Carol smiled. Of course Sam would have checked her out online. Sam never missed a trick when it came to acquiring information. Channelled properly, it could be a huge advantage to the team. But Sam wasn’t a team player by instinct. She always had to make sure he remembered to share. ‘Right. I bet her mum still calls her Belinda and it drives her crazy. So where is she from? I’m hearing something in her accent that isn’t standard Estuary, but I can’t make it out.’
‘She’s from East Anglia somewhere,’ Sam said, one finger beating a silent tattoo on the steering wheel. ‘Near Norwich, I think. She’s good.’
‘I think I’m a bit too old for this kind of thing.’
‘I dunno. I think it’s more about taste than age. Me, I think people fall into two camps where music’s concerned. You either listen for the rhythm because you like to feel that dance inside you, or you listen for the way the words and the music fit together. There’s not much crossover, really. The beats or the lyrics. I’d have you pegged as somebody who appreciates the lyrics.’
‘I suppose. Not that I get much time for music these days.’ They fell silent, letting the music wash over them.
When it ended, Bindie back-announced the track. ‘What we’re all hearing tonight is that somebody poisoned Robbie. Me, I can’t get my head round that. You gotta be a twisted individual to dose somebody up with a poison that takes days to kill them. That takes a lot of hate. And I don’t see how anybody could have hated Robbie enough to do that to him. How could you hate a man who loved this next track?’ She was right. There was an infectious bounce to the music that had Carol’s feet tapping in spite of herself. She checked the clock. They would be in London about half an hour before the end of Bindie’s show. Hopefully she’d still be wired with performance adrenaline and willing to talk. Carol needed Bindie to open up about Robbie. Making that happen tonight would help her keep the momentum of the investigation going. That was much more important than Bindie Blyth’s beauty sleep. Or, come to that, her own.
Eleven o’clock and Amatis was just starting to warm up. The lighting was subtle, the volume crushing and the air heavy with the stale smell of alcohol, cigarettes, perfume and hot bodies. Paula and Kevin had left Chris in the manager’s scruffy little office, ploughing through interviews with the bar staff and the door crew. She hadn’t held out much hope of getting anything from them. ‘By the time Robbie was hanging out with his old mate, it would have been Karno’s behind the bar,’ she’d said. ‘Too many punters trying to catch their eye. I doubt they’ll have even noticed who he was with. If any of them saw something hooky going on with his drink, it would have been pure chance and they’d have been on the bell to us or the red-tops by now. No, if anybody’s going to get lucky tonight, it’ll be you two.’
Somehow, Paula doubted it. For most of the people who came to Amatis, the idea of a good night out involved consuming sufficient drink and drugs to diminish to vanishing point the possibility of any detailed memory of the outing. Those were the ones who looked bemused when Paula asked if they had been there the previous Thursday. Once Paula had managed to convey who she was and what she wanted by a mixture of gesture, the display of her warrant card and a photo of Robbie, most of them mimed a yes or no, followed by a shrug that conveyed forgetfulness or indifference. The only variation on the theme came from those who had a mission beyond getting legless and/or laid–to spot someone whose name they could drop casually into conversation at work the next day. ‘Oh yeah, like I said to Shelley last night…You know Shelley, Shelley Christie, off Northerners…Course I know her, look, here’s her photo on my mobile, right?’ What slender hopes Paula had rested on them.
After an hour, she had to concede that luck wasn’t going her way. The stargazers she’d spoken to were either crestfallen that they’d missed the last chance for a happy snap with Robbie Bishop or bitter that they’d seen him but failed to record the fact. The nearest she’d got to a witness was one lad who’d admitted to seeing Robbie at the bar, drinking in company. ‘Was it a man or a woman he was drinking with?’ Paula had asked eagerly.
‘Some bloke. I didn’t recognize him, so I didn’t pay him any attention, like. I would’ve asked him to take a pic of me and Robbie, but I’d forgot to charge my phone and it was dead, so I never bothered.’
‘You ever seen him before, this bloke?’ Paula wasn’t prepared to let it go just yet.
‘I told you. I never paid him any mind. I dunno if I’ve seen him before. Maybe, maybe not. I didn’t notice anything about him.’
‘Tall? Short? Fair? Dark?’ Paula tried not to let her exasperation show.
The witness shook his head. ‘Tell you the truth, I’d had a few. I never took much of a look at him. That’s the thing about running into somebody like Robbie. You’re so busy checking them out, you don’t notice who they’re with. Unless it’s somebody else famous. Or some cracking bird. You’re just like, “Fucking hell, I’m standing next to Robbie Bishop.”’ He looked momentarily rueful. ‘Poor bastard.’
Dispirited, Paula pushed her way through to the corner of the bar and tried to catch the eye of one of the bar staff. She was sweating like a pig, needed to get some water into her system. Finally, one of the black-clad staff took her order. As she waited for her change, Paula gazed absently down the bar.
And drew her breath in sharply when she spotted the tiny video camera nestling among the spotlights that shone down on the sticky granite bar top. ‘Oh, you beauty,’ she said softly.
When the barman returned with a handful of coins, he was surprised to see hi
s customer had disappeared.
The heavy door that shut off the studio from the production booth opened and Bindie Blyth emerged, a half-empty bottle of mineral water dangling from one hand. With her other hand, she pulled off a headband in the colours of the ANC then shook her dark corkscrew curls free. They must have made a striking couple, Carol thought. Handsome Robbie with his traditional clean-cut Englishness and olive-skinned Bindie, small features resembling a pixie from an illustrated children’s fairy tale, framed in a riotous mass of ringlets. The volume of hair and the black jeans and clinging black top she wore emphasized the slightness of her frame. Carol reckoned she could probably get away with wearing kids’ clothes. ‘All right, Dixie?’ she said to the plump woman at the controls.
‘Spot on. Nice one, Bindie. You’ve got visitors,’ Dixie said, jerking her head towards Carol and Sam perched on the other two chairs.
Bindie glanced at them her shoulders slumping. ‘Do we have to do this now? I’ve just finished work.’
‘And we’re still working,’ Carol said, producing her warrant card and introducing herself. ‘It’s our job to find out who’s responsible for Robbie Bishop’s death.’
‘Yeah, well, he’s dead, isn’t he? What difference does it make who did it? All that matters is that Robbie’s gone. There’s nothing you can do to alter that.’ This was a very different Bindie from the one who had spent two hours playing music to celebrate and honour her dead friend. Now, she simply sounded bitter and angry. Dixie, the producer, was transfixed, her eyes swivelling between Bindie and Carol.
‘I’m sorry about Robbie,’ Carol said. ‘But in my experience, people who commit cold-blooded crimes like this generally don’t stop at one. I want to stop whoever killed Robbie from taking someone else’s life.’
