by Val McDermid
Carol was surprised. ‘You do? I don’t.’
‘You should. They do.’
‘I don’t think so.’ She struggled with the thought of David and Johnny doing anything as domestic as watching TV.
Tony nodded vigorously. They do, you know. That’s how they find out how far they can go.’
‘You’re trying to tell me that MI5 and CTC make their operational decisions based on a TV series?’ Carol tapped the side of her head with her forefinger. ‘Too many drugs, Tony.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you,’ he said earnestly. ‘Because they have people working for them who understand the psychology of sanction.’
‘The psychology of sanction?’ Carol’s repetition was laced with disbelief.
‘This is how it works. When they’re watching a show like Spooks, even sophisticated viewers suspend enough disbelief for the drama to work. And once that disbelief has been suspended, even a little, the viewer is conditioned to believe the real world is just like that. So it gives permission to those mad bastards in Five to push just that little bit further at the edges of the envelope.’ Tony spoke quickly, his hands gesturing.
Carol looked dubious. ‘You’re saying that what they see on the TV makes the punters accept more extreme behaviour from law enforcement?’
‘Yes. To greater and lesser degrees, depending on their credulity, obviously.’ He registered Carol’s scepticism. ‘OK, here’s an example. I don’t think there’s ever been an accredited case of an MI5 agent having their face shoved into a deep-fat fryer. But once you’ve shown that on a show with as much credibility as Spooks, even if it’s the bad guys who are doing it, you’ve created a constituency of opinion who will say, when an MI5 agent actually does shove someone’s face into a deep-fat fryer, “Well, he had to do it, didn’t he? Or they’d have done it to him.” The psychology of sanction.’
‘If you’re right, then why does anyone protest against torture? Why don’t we all just go, “Oh well, we’ve seen how well it works in the movies, let’s just go along with it”?’ Carol leaned on her fists on the edge of his bed as she spoke, her tumbled blonde hair falling into her eyes.
‘Carol, you might not have noticed, but there’s a significant number of people out there who do say just that. Look at the opposition in the US when the Senate decided to outlaw torture just the other year. People believe in its efficacy precisely because they’ve seen it in the movies. And some of those believers are in positions of power. The reason we don’t all fall for it is that we’re not all equally credulous. Some of us are much more critical of what we see and read than others. But you can fool some of the people all of the time. And when spooks and cops go bad, that’s what they rely on.’
She frowned. ‘You scare me sometimes, you know that?’
She could see the pain in his face. She didn’t think it was anything to do with his knee. ‘Yes, I know that. But I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. In my experience, when something scares you, it makes you all the more determined to beat it.’
Carol turned away, as usual made uncomfortable by his praise. ‘So you don’t think this is some kind of concerted action against the Vics?’
‘No. Because Danny Wade doesn’t fit.’
Carol sighed in exasperation. ‘Bloody Danny Wade. You and Paula between you, you could argue the hind leg off a donkey.’
Tony smiled. ‘I’ve never understood that expression. Why would anyone want to argue the hind leg off a donkey? And why a donkey, as opposed to a pig or an armadillo?’ He held up his hands to protect himself as Carol batted at him with a folded newspaper she’d snatched up. ‘OK, OK. But you know we’re right about Danny being connected.’
‘Whatever,’ she sighed, tossing the paper back on his table. ‘What I do know is that I’m going to need more than your psychological theories about targets to persuade anybody that this is not terrorism.’ She headed for the door. ‘I’ll try and swing by later. Good luck with the physio.’
‘Thanks. Oh, and, Carol? Somebody really should find out where Tom Cross went to school.’
Within minutes of Carol’s departure, the physiotherapist arrived, greeting Tony with a knowing wink. ‘Helping the police with their inquiries, were you?’ she said archly, handing him his elbow crutches. ‘I hope she hasn’t worn you out.’
‘DCI Jordan was running things at Victoria Park yesterday,’ he said in a tone that discouraged discussion. ‘I work with the police. She came round to run some things past me. And she was so exhausted she fell asleep in the chair.’ Tony knew he was being petty, but he couldn’t help himself. Whenever Carol was in the picture, he became over-sensitive to any personal references. It didn’t matter if it was his mother or a physiotherapist he was never going to see again after he left the hospital. He was always driven to set the record straight. Well, straight in technical terms, at least. The emotional context beneath the surface was nobody’s business but his.
Half an hour later, he was back in his room, tired but not exhausted as he’d been on previous days. ‘You’re doing incredibly well. You might want to get dressed today,’ the physio said. ‘See what it feels like to spend a bit of time in the chair, a bit of time moving around. Walk up and down the hall every hour or so’.
He turned the TV volume back up, keeping half an eye on it while he battled with his clothes. The news all revolved around the explosion at Victoria Park. Everything from football experts talking about the impact on the game; structural engineers speculating on the cost and the time involved in rebuilding the Vestey Stand; Martin Flanagan expressing his anger that Robbie Bishop’s farewell should have been so desecrated; friends and family of the dead talking about their loved ones; and Yousef Aziz’s brother Sanjar protesting that his brother was no fundamentalist. As Sanjar spoke against the backdrop of CTC officers removing cartons of stuff from his family home, Tony stopped wrestling with his sock and directed all of his attention to the TV.
He did not subscribe to the view that it was possible to tell the mind’s construction in the face, but years of watching people lie to him and to themselves had given him a reference library of expression and gesture that he could draw on to make his judgements about a person’s truthfulness. What he saw in Sanjar Aziz was a blazing conviction that, whatever had motivated his brother to blow a hole in Victoria Park stadium, it had not been religious fundamentalism. The CTC were stripping his home to the bricks and he wasn’t protesting about that. What was clearly driving him to distraction was having to repeat again and again what he knew to be true-his brother was not a militant Muslim. The TV interviewer wasn’t particularly interested in exploring alternative explanations for the bombing, however. All he wanted was for Sanjar to prostrate himself in apology. It was clear that wasn’t going to happen.
Tony’s attention drifted as the reporter returned them to the studio for yet another heavy-handed analysis of the consequences of the bombing for Bradfield Victoria’s season. Fan though he was, it exasperated him that this was even on the news agenda when thirty-five people were dead. What he really wanted to know was what Sanjar Aziz had to say beyond his denials. Tony had seen his frustration and couldn’t help wondering what lay behind it.
He struggled with his sock again, but failed to get it on. ‘Bugger,’ he said, reaching for the nurse call button. To hell with independence. He wanted to hear what Sanjar Aziz had to say, and he didn’t care if it cost him his independence. It was time to get off his backside and do something useful.
Carol gave her team the once over. Already they all looked as if they’d had insufficient sleep and too much coffee. Any murder inquiry provoked a kind of intensity that drove physical needs to the margins. If it went on too long, people fell apart. And so did their personal lives. She’d seen it happen too often. But there didn’t seem to be any easy way to avoid it. Officers felt impelled to work at this pitch because of the unique nature of the crime and what it meant to them as human beings. It wasn’t about emotional involveme
nt, she thought. It was about confronting one’s own mortality. Working a murder case as hard as was humanly possible was a kind of sacrifice to the gods, a symbolic way of protecting themselves and their loved ones.
They all paid close attention as Paula reported her conversation with Elinor Blessing, making a point of the mention of the mysterious Jake or Jack. When she reached the end of her notes, Paula looked up and said, ‘I got to thinking. Our three poison victims, they all originate from Bradfield. We know Robbie Bishop and Danny Wade both grew up in Harriestown and went to school there. I wondered if that was a connection worth pursuing. So after I left the hospital, I came back here and logged on to Best Days. Tom Cross wasn’t a member, but there are a couple of dozen people his age who are. They’ve got a section called “Photographs and Memories”, and that’s where I found this.’
She produced a print-out and handed it round. ‘Someone called Sandy Hall posted this. “Does anybody else remember the time Tom Cross locked Weasel Russell in the chemistry supply cupboard then fed laughing gas through the keyhole? Funny to think he ended up a senior policeman.” And Eddie Brant replies, “I saw Tom Cross a few months ago at a rugby club dinner. I’d have known him anywhere. He’s still larger than life, full of stories. He’s retired now. He had a big win on the pools a few years back so he’s very comfortably off, he said.” So I think we can safely say that, like Danny and Robbie, Tom Cross was a former pupil of Harriestown High.’
‘You could just have asked me,’ Kevin said. ‘I went to the Double Aitch too.’
Paula looked surprised. ‘I wish I’d known,’ she said, It would have saved me a bit of time. Anyway, at least we know now that it’s a link. I don’t know what it means, or if it means anything at all, but it’s definitely something they all had in common.’
‘There’s something else they had in common,’ Kevin said. ‘They were all rich. Robbie from football, Danny from the lottery and Popeye from the football pools. Some people thought he must be on the take, to afford a house on Dunelm Drive. But he wasn’t. He just got lucky.’
‘Interesting point, Kevin. And good work, Paula,’ Carol said.
‘Do you think we should be warning former pupils of Harriestown High who have gone on to make a mint?’ Chris said.
Carol looked startled. ‘I don’t think we’ve got nearly enough to be setting the cat among the pigeons like that. Can you imagine the panic that would set in if we did that? No, we need to have a much clearer idea of what’s going on here. I’m going to see Mrs Cross this morning. Let’s see what comes out of that. Paula, can you speak to Mr and Mrs Bishop, see if Robbie knew Tom Cross? And Sam, the same thing with Danny’s family. Kevin, the phone records have just come in for Aziz’s mobile. I want you to pursue that. Also, since you’ve got the connections, get hold of the head teacher at Harriestown High and see if the school had fostered some connection between the three of them. Like you said, they were all rich. Maybe the school had been hitting them up for donations? Maybe the head had invited them over for drinks? Check it out. And Chris, I want you to take the phone over to CTC. Apologize profusely for us getting our wires crossed and thinking we’d told them about the phone. Smile a lot. See what they’ve got. And guys? I want you all to keep an open mind on the bombing. I spoke to Tony last night and he has one or two ideas that seemed pretty off the wall to me. But he’s been right before in unlikely circumstances, so let’s make sure we don’t jump to conclusions based on preconceptions and prejudice. Let the evidence do the work. And speaking of evidence, how are you getting on, Stacey?’
‘Some interesting bits and pieces…Chris asked me to check out hopefully.co.uk to see if Aziz had saved his login details on the laptop. We got lucky. The login was on the machine. But he’d booked nothing else.’ Stacey paused. She did like to keep them dangling, Carol thought, noticing the expressions of her team. And how they hated it. ‘However,’ Stacey continued, ‘I was able to dredge up a list of things on the site he’d been looking at. And what attracted the Bradfield bomber were rental cottages in Northern Ontario. I have a list.’
‘He was planning to escape to a cottage in Canada?’ Kevin expressed the incredulity Carol thought they were probably all feeling. ‘Canada?’
‘He was thinking about it, at least,’ Stacey said.
‘You wouldn’t think Canada would be the destination of choice of an Islamic fundamentalist fugitive, would you?’ Chris said.
‘They’re very tolerant, the Canadians,’ Paula said.
‘Not that tolerant. But they do have a significant population from the sub-continent, Carol said. ‘OK. Kevin, you take care of the cottages. You probably won’t be able to do much before tomorrow, but make whatever start you can. Chris, when you get back from CTC, take over the mobile numbers from Kevin.’ She smiled at them. ‘You’re all doing really well. I know we’ve got a lot on our plates, but let’s show them what we’re made of. Make sure everything you get comes across my desk.’ She stood up, signalling the end of the meeting. ‘Good luck. God knows, we need it.’
Tony couldn’t help feeling sorry for the residents of Vale Avenue. Their normally quiet suburban boulevard, with its grassy central reservation and its flowering cherries lining the verge, was under siege. Now the eyes of the world were on a street where normally the most provocative event was a dog owner allowing their pet to foul the pavement. TV vans, radio cars and reporters’ vehicles were scattered along either side of the road. Police and forensic vans formed a tight cluster round 147. Sitting in the back of the black hack-the cab he’d ordered because it had enough room for his leg-Tony wondered again at the public’s capacity for every last drop of so-called news coverage.
As well as those who had more or less legitimate reasons for being there, there were the ghouls and gawpers. Probably some of the same people who had contributed to Robbie Bishop’s shrine. People whose lives were so limited they needed the validation of being somehow part of a public event. It was easy to despise them, Tony thought. But he felt they did perform a function, acting as a kind of Greek chorus, commenting in their unconsidered way on the events of the day. Paxman might interview the great and the good, inviting their incisive insights, but the people on the pavement also had something to say.
‘Drive right up to the police cordon,’ Tony said to the driver, who did as he was asked, crawling through the knots of people, using his horn to clear a path. When he had got as far as he could, Tony struggled upright and shoved a twenty through the gap in the window. ‘Wait for me, please.’ He opened the door, then manoeuvred his crutches on to the ground. It was ungainly and painful, but he managed to struggle out on to the road. Armed officers stood at intervals across the drive and along the hedge of 147. On the pavement, Sanjar Aziz was giving another interview. He was tiring. His shoulders were starting to droop, his stance was more defensive than before. But the passion in his face was still alive. The lights went off, the interviewer gave perfunctory thanks and turned away. A look of dejection spread across Sanjar’s face.
Tony swung himself over on his crutches. Sanjar looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed. ‘You want an interview?’
Tony shook his head. ‘No. I want to talk to you.’
Sanjar screwed his face up, incomprehending. ‘Yeah, right. Talk, interview, same thing, innit?’ He was looking over Tony’s shoulder, impatient for somebody else to talk to, somebody who would listen to what he had to say, not get into a verbal fencing match with him.
Tony gritted his teeth. It was amazing how much effort it took just to stand upright, never mind standing upright and talking. ‘No, it’s not the same. The interviewers want you to say what they want to hear. I want to hear what you have to say. The thing that they’re not letting you talk about.’
Now he had Sanjar’s attention. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, his good-looking face twisted into wounded aggression.
‘My name’s Tony Hill. Dr Tony Hill. I’d show you my ID if I could,’ he said, giving his crutches a frustrated glance
. ‘I’m a psychologist. I often work with Bradfield Police. Not this lot,’ he added, nodding towards the impassive riot-clad guards with a trace of contempt. ‘I think you’ve got things to say about your brother that nobody wants to hear. I think that’s frustrating you beyond belief.’
‘What’s it got to do with you?’ Sanjar snapped. ‘I don’t need no shrink, all due respect. I just want this lot–’ he gestured expansively at the media and police ‘-to understand why they’re wrong about my brother.’
‘They’re not going to understand,’ Tony said. ‘Because it doesn’t fit what they need to believe. But I do want to understand. I don’t think your brother was a terrorist, Sanjar.’
Suddenly he had a hundred per cent of Sanjar Aziz’s attention. ‘You saying it wasn’t Yousef that did this?’
‘No, I think it’s pretty clear that he did it. But I don’t think he did it for the reasons everybody is assuming. I think you can maybe help me understand why this happened.’ Tony gestured with his head towards the waiting taxi. ‘We can go somewhere and talk about it.’
Sanjar looked up at his home, where a white-suited forensic technician had just emerged with another plastic bag. He turned back to Tony, who felt he was being appraised. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to you.’
Dorothy Cross poured coffee from a silver pot into bone china cups decorated with roses whose exact shade of pink was picked up in the several patterns that adorned the walls. Two different wallpapers, one above and one below the dado rail, the curtains, the carpets, the loveseat, the two sofas and the scatter cushions each had a different pattern but they were united by toning shades of pink and burgundy. Carol felt as if she’d been sucked into one of those medical dramas where the camera journeys through internal organs. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation.
Dorothy stopped pouring and gave the two cups a critical look. Then she added a teaspoonful more coffee to one of them. Satisfied, she passed it to Carol. She pushed the silver milk jug and sugar bowl towards her then looked up with the desperate little smile of someone who is trying to keep herself from exploding into fragments. ‘It’s cream,’ she said. ‘Not milk. Tom likes cream in his coffee. Liked.’ She frowned. ‘Liked. I have to keep remembering. Liked, not likes.’ Her chin quivered.
