Beneath the Bleeding

by Val McDermid

  He was, she thought, getting worse. His expression was bemused, his pulse more thready. ‘I’ve phoned down to the pharmacy. They’ve got thirty vials of Fab fragments in stock. I’m going down myself to pick them up and sign for them. It’ll take too long if we send a porter. Get the ECG under way ASAP, and if he goes into cardiac distress, go with the lidocaine.’

  The nurse nodded. ‘Leave it with me.’ He shook his head. ‘Hardly seems real, does it? You get a bomb, you get some guy acting like a hero and the next thing, he’s lying here poisoned. You couldn’t make it up, could you?’

  ‘Let’s see if we can give him a happy ending, at least,’ Elinor said, already on her way. Somehow, she didn’t think this was the week for happy endings.

  As soon as they turned out of Wilberforce Street, Paula slapped the magnetic blue light on top of the car. ‘Go for it, McQueen,’ she said.

  ‘How long do you think we’ve got?’ Kevin asked.

  ‘Depends how traumatized Imran’s mum and dad are by the Imperial Storm Troopers. I tell you, they scare the living shit out of me. But you can bet your bottom dollar there’s another busload of them waiting for another address to invade. So let’s work on the basis that we have no time to waste. Shouldn’t you be taking Downton Road?’ she said, snatching at the passenger grab handle as Kevin threw the car round a corner and into another grid of back streets.

  ‘It’ll be choked this time on a Saturday. All the shopping traffic from the Quadrant Centre. We’ll make better time this way.’

  When it came to traffic, Paula knew to trust Kevin. Once, he’d been a Detective Inspector but he’d blotted his copybook so dramatically he’d almost been kicked out of the force. His path to redemption had included a six-month stint in traffic, a job for which he had been so spectacularly over-qualified they’d been glad to see the back of him. But it had left him with a useful working knowledge of the city’s traffic patterns and the sort of short cuts that only taxi drivers appreciate. So she shut up and held tight.

  They made it to Vale Avenue in record time. Kevin gave a satisfied sigh when he pulled up outside cousin Yousef’s address. ‘I enjoyed that,’ he said. ‘Got those bastards out of my system.’

  Paula pried her fingers from the grab handle. ‘I’m glad it was good for you. So, what’s our line here?’

  Kevin shrugged. ‘Be straight with them. Was Yousef driving the van? Where is Yousef now? Can we look at Yousef’s room? Be helpful because we are the nice guys and you may need some friends. The next wave won’t ask.’

  Paula snorted as she got out of the car. The next lot won’t even wipe their boots.’ She looked up the steep drive at the brick semi perched on the side of the hill. It didn’t exactly say, ‘We’ve made it’, but it was certainly a few rungs further up the ladder than the Beggs’ house. An elderly Toyota Corolla and a four-year-old Nissan Patrol sat on the drive. ‘Somebody’s home,’ she said.

  The door was answered by a young man in his mid-twenties dressed in sports trousers and a V-necked cotton sweater. His haircut was razor sharp, his gold chains a hairsbreadth away from bling. He had the faintly insolent cock of the head that Paula had seen on too many men of his age, regardless of ethnicity. ‘Yeah?’ he said.

  They held out their ID and Kevin introduced them. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Sanjar Aziz. What’s all this about? You want to talk to Raj about the bomb or what?’ He seemed surprisingly cool.

  ‘Raj?’ Paula said.

  ‘Yeah, my little bro. He was at the game, innit? Gave his name to one of your lot and came home because he knew our mum would be going mental as soon as she heard about it. You wanna come in?’

  They stepped into the hallway. Laminate floor, a couple of rugs Paula wouldn’t have minded having in her own house. The air smelled of lilies, the fragrance coming from a large vase of stargazers on the windowsill. ‘Actually, Raj isn’t the reason we’re here,’ Kevin said.

  Sanjar stopped in his tracks and swung round. ‘Do what?’ Now there was a hostile edge to his stare. ‘What’s all this about, copper?’

  ‘We’re here about Yousef.’

  Sanjar frowned. ‘Yousef? What do you mean, Yousef?’ He sounded agitated. ‘You must have it wrong. Yousef is Mr Law Abiding. He doesn’t even talk on his phone while he’s driving. Whatever anybody’s said he’s done, they’re way wrong.’

  Kevin took a deep breath. Nobody ever thought their family members could do any wrong. At least, not when they were talking to the police. ‘Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk?’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean, sit down and talk? What is going on here?’ At the sound of Sanjar’s raised voice, a door opened. A teenage face appeared, scared and hollow-eyed. Sanjar caught the movement. ‘Shut the door, Raj. Lie down like Mama told you. She’ll be back from the shop soon, she’ll kill you if you’re wandering about.’ He flapped his hands, shooing the boy back inside. Once the door was closed again, he led them into the kitchen. A small table with barely enough room for four chairs sat against one wall, cream units lining the other three. The room smelled faintly of spices, warm and bitter at one and the same time. Sanjar gestured to the table. ‘Sit down, then.’ He threw himself into the furthest chair with ill grace. ‘So. What’s this about Yousef?’ he demanded.

  ‘Where’s your mum and dad?’ Paula asked.

  Sanjar shrugged impatiently. ‘My mum went down the shops to get some stuff for this soothing drink she wants to make for Raj. And Saturday afternoon, my dad’ll be down the mosque, drinking tea and arguing about the Koran.’ His face showed the perennial pitying contempt of child for parent. ‘He’s the devout one in this house.’

  ‘OK. When did Yousef go out?’ Paula asked.

  ‘After dinner. Mam wanted one of us to drop Raj off at the football. I had to go over to Wakefield and Yousef said he was going to meet someone in Brighouse about a new contract.’ He shifted in his seat. Paula wondered if he was hiding something.

  ‘New contract?’ Kevin interrupted.

  The family firm. First Fabrics. We’re in the rag trade. We deal both ends-with the fabric importers and with the middlemen who buy finished articles for the retail trade. I don’t know anything about who he was meeting in Brighouse, it was news to me. So, did something happen over there? Did he get in a ruck with somebody?’

  ‘Do you know what he was driving?’ Kevin asked.

  ‘He was driving our cousin Imran’s van: A1 Electricals. See, Yousef’s van needed some work doing, and Imran was off to Ibiza for a few days, so it made sense to borrow his wheels. Save on a rental, right? Look, for the last time, is one of you going to tell me what all this is about?’

  Kevin’s eyes slid round to Paula’s. She could see he really didn’t know how to say this. ‘Sanjar,’ she said, ‘can you think of any reason why Yousef would have been at Victoria Park this afternoon?’

  He looked at her as if she was crazy. ‘Yousef? No, you’ve got it wrong. Raj was at the game.’ He gave a nervous little laugh. ‘I don’t know how, but there’s been a mix-up. Raj gave his name to a cop, I don’t know how it’s ended up coming back as Yousef. Yousef didn’t give a toss about football.’

  ‘What was Yousef wearing when he went out?’ Paula asked.

  ‘Wearing? Shit, I don’t know.’ Sanjar shook his head and twisted his face into a thoughtful expression. ‘No, wait. He had black trousers and a shirt on at dinner. A plain white shirt. And when he was going off, I saw him putting Imran’s overalls on. He said the clutch kept slipping and if he had to get out and mess around with it, he didn’t want his shirt getting all mucky. He likes to make a good impression, my brother.’

  ‘You see, here’s the thing,’ Paula said gently. ‘Obviously you know what happened this afternoon, because of Raj.’

  Sanjar nodded slowly, a new look of caution on his face. He wasn’t stupid. ‘You’re telling me Yousef’s dead,’ he said. ‘You’re telling me he was at the football? And now he’s dead.’ His face begged to be contradicted. He d
idn’t want to believe what he thought they were telling him.

  ‘Not quite,’ Paula said.

  Kevin, conscious of the time slipping by, said, ‘A man wearing A1 Electricals overalls and driving your cousin’s A1 Electricals van was responsible for delivering and setting off the bomb in Victoria Park. Yes, we think Yousef’s dead, but not because he got caught by chance. We think your brother was a suicide bomber.’

  Sanjar skidded backwards on his chair, only saved from falling by his closeness to the kitchen cupboards. ‘No,’ he shouted, stumbling to his feet, ‘No fucking way.’

  ‘That’s how it looks,’ Paula said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Sanjar looked deranged. ‘Sorry? Fucking sorry? Don’t give me sorry.’ He waved his hands at them. ‘You are so wrong. My brother’s not a fucking terrorist. He’s…he’s…he’s just not like that.’ He punched the wall. ‘This is so fucked. So totally fucked. He’s going to walk in that door and laugh at you, man. No way. Just, no way.’

  Paula put a hand on his arm and he jerked away as if he’d been contaminated. ‘You need to get yourself together,’ she said. ‘We are the nice guys. Very soon, the Counter Terrorism Command team are going to be here and they are going to tear your house and your lives apart. I know what we’ve told you is a terrible shock, but you have to be strong, for Raj and for your parents. Now, you and me are going to sit down and make a list of all the people Yousef knew and hung out with. And my colleague is going to go upstairs and search Yousef’s room. Which one is it?’

  Sanjar blinked hard, as if he was trying to orientate himself in a world turned upside down. ‘Straight ahead at the top of the stairs. He shares with Raj. Yousef’s bed’s the one on the left.’ He felt behind him for the chair and slumped into it as Kevin left the room. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he mumbled. ‘There’s got to be some mistake.’ He looked up at Paula, his dark eyes red-rimmed. ‘There could be a mistake, right?’

  ‘It’s always possible. Tell you what, let me take a DNA sample from you, that’ll speed things up.’ She took a buccal swab kit from her bag and popped the lid. ‘Open wide.’ Before he could think twice about it, she swabbed the inside of his cheeks and sealed the tube shut. She opened her notebook and patted his hand. ‘Come on, Sanjar. Help us here. Everybody you can think of that Yousef knew.’

  Sanjar reached into his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. Paula knew by instinct that his mother didn’t allow smoking in the house. It was a measure of how distraught he was that he was even contemplating it. But if he went for it, so would she. Without a second thought. ‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘But these other people that are coming?’

  ‘The Counter Terrorism Command?’

  ‘Yeah. Are they going to like, arrest me and my family?’

  ‘I won’t lie to you,’ Paula said. ‘They might. The best way you can avoid that is to be totally honest. Never mind holding back anything you think they don’t need to know. Because they will find out, believe me. And if they find out you are not telling them the whole truth, then it will be very hard on you. Now, let’s have these names.’

  Carol sat in her office and seethed. The most challenging investigation of her career, and she was effectively sidelined. Already her HQ building was crawling with the CTC personnel. According to Brandon, there were two hundred and fifty of them either there or on their way. They already had dedicated lines set up between the HOLMES suite and Ludgate Circus. When she’d gone through to find out what they wanted from her team, she’d been told her services were not required, though they wouldn’t mind having Stacey Chen on a free transfer for the duration.

  She’d gathered the tatters of her dignity around her and withdrawn. Back in the MIT office, Stacey was already co-ordinating the transfer of digital CCTV footage around the stadium. ‘They want you next door,’ Carol said.

  Stacey sniffed. ‘Is it a request or an order?’

  ‘At this point, it’s a request. That could change, though.’

  Stacey glanced up from the screen she was working. ‘I’ll stay here, then. I take it we’re not just walking away?’

  Carol shook her head. ‘We’ll keep our fingers in the pie. It’s our patch. And we do still have Robbie Bishop’s murder to solve. Do you want a brew?’

  ‘Earl Grey, please. Stacey was already immersed in her screen again.

  Carol leaned against the wall, waiting for the kettle to boil. Chris Devine barrelled through the door looking thoroughly pissed off. ‘Fucking CTC bastards,’ she said to Stacey, who gestured with her head towards Carol. ‘Sorry, guv,’ she muttered, throwing her jacket over the nearest chair.

  ‘No need. You want a brew?’

  ‘I could use a large Scotch,’ Chris grumbled. ‘Failing that, a mug of builder’s tea would hit the spot.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was just wrapping up my interviews with the hospitality reception crew when half a dozen of them came barging in. You can hear them coming a corridor length away.’

  ‘It’s the boots,’ Carol said, pouring water on teabags.

  That and the swish of their musclebound thighs rubbing together. So in they come, and as soon as they see me, it’s “on your bike, love,” like I was a journalist or something. I was out of there before you could say jackbooted fascists. And before they’d let me come back here, they made me sit down and type up my interview product. Like I was going to sneak off and not let them look at my homework.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought I was leaving them SO12 arseholes behind when I moved up here.’

  Carol handed over the teas. ‘We have to co-operate,’ she said. ‘Which is not to say we can’t also plough our own furrow.’

  ‘Speaking of which, where’s the rest of the crew?’

  ‘Paula and Kevin are out there following up on the A1 Electricals van, see what they can get ahead of the CTC. People have a way of clamming up when the men in black kick the doors down,’ Carol said. ‘I’m not sure about Sam. He was checking out CCTV in the Vestey Stand last time I saw him.’

  ‘He’ll be off following some red-hot lead he doesn’t want to share with the rest of us poor imbeciles,’ Chris said dryly.

  ‘He’s his own worst enemy,’ Stacey said without looking up. ‘He does it for all the right reasons.’

  Chris and Carol shared a look. Neither could remember Stacey ever commenting on any of her colleagues. Her complete refusal to gossip was legendary. ‘Later,’ Chris mouthed conspiratorially at Carol. She slurped a mouthful of tea and breathed deeply. ‘I tell you, I never want to see the likes of that again. I still can’t get my head round the carnage. Thirty-five dead, they’re saying. I never thought I’d see that in Bradfield.’

  ‘It’s amazing it wasn’t more,’ Carol said. ‘If he’d planted it at the same spot on the opposite stand where there were just seats instead of corporate boxes, there would have been hundreds dead.’ She closed her eyes momentarily. ‘It’s too horrible to contemplate.’

  ‘There would have been more if the crowd hadn’t behaved so well. I expected more crush injuries. I tell you, I know it’s a cliché, but it is things like this that bring out the best in people. Did you see that woman on Grayson Street, set up a trestle table outside her house, making cups of tea for people? Spirit of the Blitz an’ all that.’

  ‘And sometimes it’s the unlikeliest people who end up being heroes,’ Carol said. ‘I saw a bloke this afternoon-one of the paramedics was taking him to an ambulance, he’d taken too much out of himself getting people out of the wreckage. And I knew this bloke. He used to be one of us till he got drummed out of the Brownies for planting evidence in a murder inquiry. He’s the last person I would have had down for helping anybody other than number one. So I suppose we’ve all got it in us to do the decent thing.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Except maybe the men in black.’

  Right on cue, one of the foot soldiers stuck his head round the door. ‘You got a DCI Jordan anywhere round here?’

  That would be me, officer. How can I help you?
’

  ‘You’re wanted down Scargill Street. Some spot of bother with one of your lads?’ He began to retreat but Carol stopped him with a look that would have corroded tungsten.

  ‘Who wants me?’

  ‘Whoever’s in charge. Look, I’m just the messenger, all right?’ He breathed heavily and cast his eyes upwards. ‘You already know all I know.’

  ‘I’ll finish my bloody tea,’ Carol muttered. But the defiance was only skin deep. Within five minutes, she was out the door, leaving Stacey and Chris to wonder what the hell Sam Evans had done this time.

  They didn’t have much time for speculation. Not long after Carol’s departure, Paula and Kevin burst in, looking pleased with themselves. Kevin, who was walking like a man with a bad back, made straight for Stacey, then opened his jacket and took out a laptop. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘The bomber’s laptop.’

  Stacey raised her eyebrows. ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘From the bomber’s bedroom.’

  ‘Alleged bomber,’ Paula cut in. ‘Yousef Aziz. He was certainly driving the van and wearing the overalls earlier today.’

  Chris came over and prodded the laptop with her finger. ‘I don’t think we’re supposed to have this.’

  ‘No, and I don’t think we’ll be hanging on to it for long, so I need to get as much off it as I can,’ Stacey said, reaching for it.

  ‘How did you get that away from the men in black?’ Chris said.

  ‘Speed,’ Paula said. ‘We were in and out before they got there.’ She explained their progress from Imran Begg to Yousef Aziz. ‘I suspect the CTC guys freaked them out so comprehensively it took them a while to give up Aziz and his address. They’re so bloody scary, it’s counter-productive when you’re dealing with decent law-abiding people. They just freeze up. Which worked to our advantage. We got a good twenty minutes with Aziz’s brother Sanjar, and the CTC were just turning into the street as we were driving out of it.’