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 right 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