Beneath the Bleeding

by Val McDermid

  And so Yousef was sitting in the rooftop café of the Bradfield City Art Gallery, third table on the left-hand wall, inconspicuous among the late-morning coffee drinkers, back to the self-service array and the till. In front of him, a Coke and a wedge of the café’s notoriously calorific lemon drizzle cake. He’d only managed a couple of forkfuls; it stuck in his throat like a lump of sweet sandstone. It wasn’t just at home that he was having trouble eating. He had that morning’s Guardian strewn across the table, minus the sports section. He was pretending to read the G2 supplement, his left hand positioned so that he could read his watch. His right leg jiggled in nervous expectancy.

  As the minute hand crept towards ten past, his face grew hot and a slither of sweat spread across his neck and shoulders. Anticipation made his bowels clench.

  It was over in seconds. A woman in a swaggering raincoat passed close to his table. He only saw her from behind as she made her way through the doors and out on to the roof terrace, where she sat down with her back to him, a bottle of mineral water beside her. A dark headscarf covered her head. He wished he could go and sit with her to ease the loneliness he felt.

  On the table in front of Yousef was the sports section. He forced down the rest of the cake, swilling his mouth with Coke to get through it. Then, casually, trying not to show how sick he felt at the sudden accession of sugar, he gathered his newspaper together and strolled towards the exit.

  He couldn’t wait till he got back to the van. He slipped into the gents’ toilet outside the café and locked himself into the cubicle. With fingers made clumsy by nerves and sweat, he rustled through the sports pages. There, ironically enough between a two-page spread about Bradfield Victoria’s premiership chances without Robbie Bishop, nestled inside a plastic folder, was the paperwork that would take him where he needed to be tomorrow. A fax, supposedly from Bradfield Victoria’s general manager, to their usual electrical contractors, complaining of an urgent problem with a junction box under the Albert Vestey stand. And a second fax from their contractors to A1 Electricals, subcontracting the emergency work.

  Yousef breathed deeply, letting himself relax a fraction. It was going to work. It was going to be amazing. Tomorrow, the world would be a different place. Insha’ Allah.

  Tony summoned up all his nerve and swung the leg that was whole on to the floor. That was enough to send a jagged line of pain through the other leg in spite of the brace holding its damage firm. He clenched his teeth and used his hands to help drag the braced limb through an arc. As it reached the edge of the mattress, he let go and almost fell forward, letting gravity bring him into a more or less upright position. Sweat popped out across his forehead and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He had to master this before they would let him out of here.

  He paused, his weight distributed between his buttocks on the bed and his right foot. Once his chest stopped heaving, he reached for the elbow crutches he’d learned to use earlier that day. Carefully, he gripped them, making sure his forearms were inside the plastic cuffs. Rubber ferrules on the floor. Deep breath.

  Tony pushed himself upright, amazing himself by his steadiness. Crutches forward, swing with the good leg, let the bad leg follow, toes touching the floor, tiniest fraction of weight on the damaged knee. Jolt of pain. Not unbearable, though. Manageable with clenched teeth and buttocks.

  Five minutes later, he’d made it as far as the toilet. Going back took eight minutes, but even in that short time, he felt his movements were smoother, more assured; he’d have something to show Carol when she came next. He’d need her help if he was going to go home. It would be hard to ask for it, but he suspected it would be even harder to wait for her to offer it.

  Getting back in bed and making himself comfortable took another few minutes. He swore he would never again take for granted the simple act of getting up for a piss. He didn’t care if people laughed, he’d happily stand there going, ‘Look at me. I just got up and walked over there. Did you see that? Amazing.’

  Once settled, he had no excuse to avoid thinking about Robbie Bishop and Danny Wade. Or rather, Danny Wade and Robbie Bishop. It was possible that Danny Wade was not Stalky’s first victim, but after exhaustive trawling of the internet, Tony couldn’t find an earlier example of what might be considered his handiwork.

  ‘You love the planning and the outcome, but you don’t much care for the act,’ he said. ‘Technically you’re not a serial yet, but I think you’re going that way. And what makes you unusual is that, mostly, serial is about sex. It might not always look that way, but that’s what’s at the heart of it, time after time. Twisted circuits that need twisted scenarios to achieve what comes relatively naturally to most people. But that’s not what you’re about, is it? You’re not interested in them as bodies, as objects of desire. At least, not sexual desire.

  ‘So what are you getting out of it? Is it political? A kind of “eat the rich” message? Are you some neo-Marxist warrior intent on punishing the ones who achieve riches and don’t share them with the people who are still stuck where our heroes came from? It makes a kind of sense…’ He stared at the ceiling, turning the idea around in his head, examining it from different angles.

  ‘The problem is, if that’s who you are, why aren’t you shouting about it? You can’t deliver a political message if it’s written in a language nobody understands. No. You’re not doing this out of the need to make some abstract political point. This is personal, somehow.’

  He scratched his head. God, how he longed for a proper shower, a long soak under a torrent of water, cleaning his hair and clearing his head. Tomorrow, maybe, the nurse had said. Wrap his brace in cling-film, tape it to his leg and see what happens.

  ‘So if it’s not sexual and it’s not political, what’s the point? What are you getting out of it? If it was just Robbie, I could believe in revenge for something that happened at school-he took something from you, he made you feel small, he hurt you in some way he probably didn’t even know about. But it’s inconceivable that Danny Wade could have done any of those things. Danny was geek boy-model railways, for Christ’s sake. That’s so far down the food chain, the only thing lower was the ones who escaped from Special Needs.’ He sighed. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  What did make sense, however, was that the killer must have left tracks. Given that the locals had written it up as a tragic accident, there wouldn’t have been anything more than desultory inquiries on the ground at the time, especially since it was already established that Jana gained nothing from Danny’s death. But even now, if the right questions were asked, there might be answers. Someone may have seen Danny meeting up with his killer in the pub. Someone may have seen him arrive at Danny’s on the night of the murder. If only he wasn’t stuck in this hospital bed, it wouldn’t matter that Carol was dismissing his intuitions. He could go to Dore himself and talk to the locals. Though on balance that wasn’t always the best way.

  For every person he could connect with, there was usually at least one other who picked up on the weirdness in him and freaked out. All his life, Tony had felt he was passing for human. It was a masquerade that didn’t fool all of the people all of the time. And the leg brace wouldn’t help, that was for sure.

  None of which mattered, of course, because he wasn’t going to be able to go to Dore and sniff around on his own account. Tony gave a frustrated sigh. Then suddenly, his eyes widened. There was someone who could charm information from a Trappist. Someone who owed him a favour.

  Smiling now, Tony reached for the phone.

  Carol looked out at her team. Everybody was either staring at a screen or deep in a phone conversation. She slipped a miniature of vodka out of her drawer, uncapped it below desk level, then discreetly tipped it into her coffee. She’d learned from her own traumas in the job that alcohol was a good friend and a bad master. It had come close to making her its servant, but she’d clawed her way back from that and now she could readily convince herself that she was in charge. Her truth was that in ti
mes of stress and frustration, times like this, it was her refuge and her strength. Especially when Tony wasn’t there.

  Not that he would rebuke her. Nothing so blatant. No, it was more that his presence was a reproach to her, a reminder that there were other options for escape. Options they had come close to pursuing several times before. But always, whenever they drew close, something intervened. Usually something related to work. It was, she thought, the ultimate irony. That which brought them together invariably threw obstacles in their way. And neither of them could ever figure out how to overcome the obstacles until the moment of possibility had passed.

  She sipped the drink, loving the way she could feel it spread through her. God, but they needed something to break on this case.

  As if in answer to her fervent request, Sam Evans stuck his head round the door. Carol nodded him in. She always felt a certain ambivalence towards Sam. She knew he was ambitious, and because she had once shared that trait, she understood both how valuable and how dangerous that was for a cop. She also recognized his maverick instincts as being close to her own. He was no team player. But then, she hadn’t been much of one either when she’d been at his rank. She’d only become a team player once she’d found a team worth playing for. There was enough of her in Sam for her to understand him and thus to forgive. What she couldn’t forgive was his sneakiness. She knew he spied on his colleagues, though he did it well enough for them not to have worked it out. He’d once dropped her in the shit with Brandon to make his own achievements seem even better than they were. The bottom line was that she couldn’t trust him, which felt more of a liability the longer the unit was up and running.

  ‘I think I might have something, guv,’ he said, almost preening as he sat. He tugged the knees of his trousers to preserve the crease and squared his shoulders inside the well-ironed shirt.

  She hardly dared hope. ‘What sort of something?’

  He tossed the original email on to the desk and gave her a moment to read it. ‘I spoke to Bindie. This stalker, Rhys Butler, he jumped Robbie outside the team hotel in Birmingham. The cops lifted him, let him off with a caution. I spoke to the arresting officer. They went easy on Butler because Robbie and Bindie didn’t want the publicity. Anyway, this DC Singh kept an eye on Butler. Dropped round his place, made sure he took down his wank wall and stayed well away from them both. Butler swore he was over it. He’d lost his job and that had tipped him over the edge, he claimed. He played the good boy for a few months then he got a new job and moved to Newcastle. But here’s the kicker, guv.’ He gave it the dramatic pause. ‘He’s a lab rat in a pharmacology company.’

  Experience had taught Carol that there were more false dawns in murder investigations than decent meals in a police canteen. But in the absence of anything stronger to chase, she was more than willing to pursue this lead. ‘Great work, Sam. I want you to get on to Northumbria and see if they can help us with an address.’

  Sam’s smile reminded her of Nelson faced with a bowl of chicken livers. He laid a second piece of paper in front of her. ‘Work and home,’ he said.

  Now she let herself return his smile. The only question was whether to let Northumbria bring him in. It didn’t take long to make the decision. Carol told herself she wanted to see Rhys Butler’s home for herself. She didn’t want to delegate it to some uniform who didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for. She pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘So, what are we waiting for?’

  Yousef opened the fridge. The glass beaker sat on the shelf, clear liquid filling most of it. But the bottom layer was the crystalline powder he needed. Carefully, he took the beaker out and placed it on the worktop. He’d already set up a glass funnel lined with filter paper. He closed his eyes and muttered his way through a prayer asking the prophet to intercede and help his plan to fruition. Then he lifted the beaker and poured the liquid through the filter.

  It took less time than he’d expected. He peered through the window in his face protector at the heap of white crystals. It didn’t look enough to cause the mayhem he’d been told it would. But what did he know? Fabric and the rag trade, that was what he knew about. He had to rely on what he had been told. Nothing made sense otherwise. Not the sleepless nights, not the transformation of his spirit, not the pain he was going to cause his family. He couldn’t be the only one of them feeling this way. He just had to get past his weaknesses and focus on the goal.

  Gently, he lifted the filter paper out of the funnel and tipped the contents into a bowl of iced water. He swilled the crystals around, washing them clean of the liquid they’d been precipitated from. Then he distributed the explosive among a couple of dozen paper plates so it could dry with the least chance of an accidental explosion.

  He pushed up his face protector and shook his head in amazement. He’d done it. He’d made enough TATP to blow a hole in the main stand of Victoria Park. All that remained was for him to assemble the rest of the components in the morning.

  Then he could transport it to the place where it would demonstrate that the war on terror was definitely not being won. Yousef allowed himself a crooked smile. He’d show them what shock and awe really was.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Paula said firmly. She’d thought it often enough, but there had never really been an appropriate or opportune moment to say it.

  ‘Which part is the crazy bit?’ Tony asked sweetly.

  ‘Which part isn’t?’ She looked around. ‘Have you got a wheelchair? Can we get out of here?’

  ‘No and no. You don’t need a cigarette to have a conversation.’

  ‘I do when it’s this crazy,’ she said.

  ‘You keep saying that. But just because Carol Jordan doesn’t want to pursue it doesn’t make it a crazy idea. She’s not infallible.’ Which you know better than anyone hung in the air between them.

  Paula pointed at his leg. ‘And neither are you.’

  ‘I never said I was. The point is, Paula, this needs to be checked out. If I could do it myself, I would. But I can’t. Look at it this way. If I’m wrong, no harm done. But if I’m right, the investigation into Robbie’s death changes completely.’

  Paula could feel herself wavering. She had to defend herself against his logic and against the debt she owed him for helping her back to dry land when she was drowning in her own misery and self-pity. ‘It’s easy for you to say, “no harm done”. It’s not your career on the line. I can’t go storming all over some other force’s ground and hope it won’t get back to the chief.’

  ‘Why should it get back to her? In the first instance, all I’m asking you to do is to talk to people. The local pub, the local dog walkers, Jana Jankowicz. I’m not saying, “Go down the nick in Sheffield and tell them they fucked up, can you see the paperwork on the murder they didn’t recognize.”’

  ‘Just as well,’ Paula grumbled. ‘Now that would be career suicide.’

  ‘See? I’m not asking you to do that. Just a few questions, Paula. You have to admit, it’s worth a look.’

  And that was where he had her on the hook. She revered Carol Jordan. She knew she was maybe a little bit in love with her boss, But as he had implied, she knew better than anyone that the DCI sometimes got it wrong. Unconsciously, Paula rubbed her wrist. The wounds had long since healed, but there was still a network of fine scars barely visible across the base of her palm and her wrist. ‘It’s pretty thin,’ she said, trying to find a form of words to show she thought he might have something but which didn’t say flat out that Carol Jordan was wrong.

  ‘From what Carol tells me, thin is better than what you’ve got.’

  Paula moved restlessly round the room. ‘Maybe not. Her and Sam, they’re off to Newcastle on a hot lead. Some stalker of Bindie Blyth’s who took a pop at Robbie outside the team hotel.’

  Tony tutted. ‘Waste of time. I told her that when she called to say she wouldn’t be round tonight. When stalkers lose it, they want the world to know what they’re prepared to do for love. It’s John Hinckley trying to as
sassinate Reagan to make Jodie Foster love him. These are not secret squirrels, they’re shout it from the rooftop guys. Whoever killed Robbie, he wasn’t doing it to impress Bindie.’

  ‘And when exactly am I supposed to go and do these interviews?’ Paula said, realizing as soon as she’d spoken that she had capitulated.

  Tony spread his hands, the picture of bewildered innocence. ‘Tonight? Now you’re off duty.’

  ‘ am not off duty,’ Paula said, teeth clenched and lips bared. ‘I am not even supposed to be here. I am supposed to be helping Chris deal with the avalanche of emails from the Best Days website so we can go back out tonight to Amatis with a pile of photos to see if we can ID any of them.’

  Tony didn’t even flinch. ‘Well, maybe tomorrow, then?’

  Paula kicked the end of his bed, hoping it hurt. ‘Stop playing the fool, Tony. You know the way we work. When there’s something big on, we work every hour God sends. There’s no such thing as overtime on the MIT. We sleep when it’s over.’

  Tony shook his head. ‘Great speech, Paula. It might even work on somebody who doesn’t know how this MIT works. You talk a lot about teamwork. You fetishize the concept of a team. But I’ve seen you lot operate at close quarters. You’re like Real Madrid. A bunch of galacticos who ride your own hobby horses into the sunset. Sometimes you’re all riding in the same direction and it looks like you’re a team. But that’s more by accident than design.’