Beneath the Bleeding (13 page)

Fifteen minutes later, Sam drifted slowly down one
of Notting Hill’s grand crescents, searching in vain for a parking place. ‘Sod this,’ Carol said. ‘We could be here all night. Just double park. Leave a note with your mobile in case anybody needs you to move.’

Sam pulled up outside the number Bindie had given them. A security light came on as they mounted the steps under the white pillared porch, allowing them to read the names attached to the four intercom buttons. ‘Blyth’ was third from the top. Sam pressed it and waited, gently banging the litre of milk against his thigh. Carol stared grimly into the lens of a security camera.

Within seconds, a distorted voice said, ‘First floor,’ and the door buzzed. Their footsteps clattered on the black-and-white terrazzo tiles covering the narrow hallway before the sound was swallowed by the thick carpeting on the stairs. ‘Nice gaff,’ Sam muttered.

Bindie was waiting for them, leaning in the single doorway at the first-floor level, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles. At some point in the past quarter of an hour, she’d managed to apply a skim of make-up that seemed to put a little distance between them. She stepped back without a word and gestured for them to enter. The hall was big enough to accommodate a pool table, the balls racked and ready, four cues clipped to the wall behind it. Between the doors that led off in all directions, moody black-and-white photographs of pool halls and their familiars were spotlit by a rig suspended from the high ceiling. ‘Straight ahead,’ she said, shooing them forwards.

They walked into a splendid room that ran the whole width of the house. Squashy leather sofas and beanbags sprawled seemingly at random, with low
wooden tables scattered among them, their surfaces cluttered with magazines, newspapers and clean ashtrays. Three walls were lined with shelves of CDs and vinyl, the only gaps filled by an impressive sound system and a plasma screen; the fourth was taken up by the closed wooden shutters that covered the tall windows. Their panels were decorated with posters for gigs and new album releases. Most of the posters were signed. The room smelled of cinnamon and smoke. Carol recognized the sweet smell of marijuana mingling with the more acrid notes of Marlboro Gold. Light came from a handful of paper-shaded pillars placed strategically round the room. It felt curiously intimate.

‘Make yourselves at home,’ Bindie said. ‘I see you brought milk.’ She nodded at Sam. ‘Kitchen’s out there, door to the right of the front door. Tea, coffee in the cupboard above the kettle. Diet Coke, juice and water in the fridge.’

Sam looked momentarily flustered. ‘I’ll have a coffee, Sam. White, no sugar,’ Carol said, sharing a swift glance of complicity with Bindie.
Come on, Sam, catch on.
Sam caught on, realizing his boss was allying herself with Bindie for the benefit of the interview. She wasn’t really belittling him.

‘Can I get you something, Ms Blyth?’

‘No thanks, sweetie, I’m sorted.’ She pointed to a tall glass that was already sweating condensation. It could have been straight Diet Coke; Carol doubted it, though. Bindie folded herself into a beanbag next to the table with her drink and cigarettes.

‘Nice flat,’ Carol said.

‘Not quite the rock-and-roll lifestyle you were
expecting, eh? It’s not the BBC salary that pays the mortgage,’ Bindie said. ‘It’s club work. I’m not a bimbo, DCI Jordan. I’ve got a degree in economics which I also paid for with spinning and scratching. I know I’ve probably got a limited shelf-life up among the high earners, so I’m making the most of it while I can.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘I’ve always been sensible.’ She pulled a face. ‘Some might say boring. One of the things Robbie liked about me, he said. He knew I wasn’t going to tempt him into the things that would wreck his career. So, is it right, what they’re saying in the newsroom? Ricin? He was poisoned with ricin?’

The hospital ran tests while he was ill. We still have to confirm that. But yes, it looks as if he was poisoned with ricin.’

Bindie gave an impatient shake of the head. ‘It’s crazy. It’s like, does not compute. Robbie, ricin. What’s the connection?’

If I knew the answer to that, we could all go home.
‘Right now, I don’t know either. That’s one of many things I’m trying to find out.’

‘Fair enough. So, what do you want to ask me?’ Bindie reached for the Marlboros, flipped the pack open with her thumbnail and pulled one out.

‘What was he like?’

Bindie lit her cigarette and exhaled the first drag, squinting at Carol through the smoke. ‘You have no idea how many times I’ve been asked that. Usually a bit more breathlessly, though.’ Carol opened her mouth to assert herself, but before she could speak, Bindie waved her hands in a calming motion. ‘I’m
not being funny with you, I know you’ve got to ask.’ She sighed and smiled, her face softening. ‘What was Robbie like? He was a nice boy. And I use the word “boy” advisedly. He still had a lot of growing up to work his way through. He was talented and he knew it. Not arrogant, but aware, if you know what I mean? He knew his worth and he was proud of what he’d achieved. What else?’ She paused to inhale. ‘He adored music and football. If he hadn’t been a footballer, I think he would have been a DJ. He knew his stuff and he loved it. That was the glue between us.’ She swallowed a mouthful of smoke. ‘That and the sex, I suppose. He was good at that too.’ Now the smile was wistful. ‘At the start, I was so in love with him. But the whole being in love thing, it doesn’t last.’ She looked away, studying the burn of her cigarette.

‘If you’re lucky, it grows into something deeper,’ Carol said.

That only works if you’re both grown-ups. The trouble with Robbie, he had all the emotional maturity of
National Lampoon’s Animal House.
He always started out with good intentions, but they were easily derailed, especially when blondes and champagne collided in his vicinity.’ She stubbed out the cigarette and leaned back. ‘I just got fed up of the photos in
Heat
and the snide little sneers in the gossip columns. Gave him his ring back and told him we could maybe have another crack at it once he’d finished running around like a kid in a sweetie shop.’

‘So it was you who ended it?’

The click of balls followed by the soft clunk of one dropping drifted through the partly open door. Bindie smiled, gesturing towards the hall with her thumb.
‘Mr Tact and Diplomacy, eh? Yes, it was me that called it off.’

‘How did Robbie take it?’

Bindie reached for another cigarette. ‘He was upset at first. Hurt pride, mostly. That and worry that he wasn’t going to get invited to the coolest gigs any more. Then when he realized I meant it when I said I wanted us to stay friends, he brightened up. The last few weeks, we’ve been sweet. Talked on the phone most days, file-swapped some sounds, had dinner when the lads were down in London the other week for the match with the Arsenal.’

‘So you’d say it was amicable between you?’

Bindie frowned. ‘Wait a minute, you don’t think this is anything to do with me?’ She glared at Carol, fierce and forceful, tears suddenly sparkling on her lashes.

‘I’m trying to get a picture of Robbie’s life, that’s all,’ Carol said gently.

‘Yeah, well, check his phone records. Check mine. You’ll see how often we spoke, and how long for.’

‘When was the last time you spoke?’

‘I called him on Saturday morning,’ she said, her voice a little shaky now. ‘We always spoke before a game. He said he couldn’t talk, he thought he was coming down with flu and he was waiting for the team doctor.’ She blinked furiously. ‘He was already poisoned by then, right?’

Carol nodded. ‘We think so. Before Saturday morning, when did you last talk?’

Bindie thought for a moment. ‘Thursday. Early evening. He was going out with Phil.’

Bugger.
‘When you spoke on Saturday, did he say
anything about running into an old school friend on Thursday, when he was at Amatis?’

‘No. Like I said, he didn’t have time for a chat. I just wished him luck and told him to call me when he was feeling better.’ Comprehension sprang into her eyes. ‘You think this old school friend was the one who poisoned him?’

‘We’re keeping an open mind. But he mentioned to Phil that he’d run into someone he was at school with. They might be able to give us a clearer picture of Robbie’s evening. That’s all. Tell me, Bindie, did Robbie ever do drugs?’

‘Are you kidding? He wouldn’t even sit in the same room with anybody smoking a spliff. He loved a drink, but he would never touch drugs. He always said you knew exactly what effect alcohol was going to have on you. But when it came to drugs, you had no way of knowing what they were going to do to you. If you’re thinking someone got this drug into his system by pretending it was coke or whatever, you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

Maybe it was a whitewash, maybe it was the truth. Either way, the post mortem would show whether Robbie’s posse were painting a plaster saint whiter than white. ‘And there was nothing in your last conversation to suggest that had changed?’

‘No way. Like I said, we just exchanged a few sentences.’

‘At least you parted on good terms,’ Carol said.

‘There’s that…’ She tried a brave little laugh. ‘You know, if I’d have been going to kill Robbie, I’d have done it to his face, not behind his back. He’d have been in no doubt what was happening to him and
why. Only…’ Her face crumpled and she coughed on the smoke. ‘I never wanted to kill him. The blondes, maybe. But Robbie? No way.’

‘So who might have wanted to kill him? Who hated him enough to do this to him?’

Bindie ran a hand through her curls. ‘I have no fucking idea. He wasn’t the sort of guy who provoked that kind of reaction. Like I said, he was a nice boy. Some footballers, they go through life looking for a fight. They need to see themselves as hard men. Robbie wasn’t like that. He was polite, well brought up. More David Beckham than Roy Keane. Guys tried to mix it with him off the field, he’d just walk away. The only thing I can think of…’ Her voice trailed off and she shook her head.

‘What?’

‘It’s stupid, forget it.’

Carol leaned forward. ‘I’m clutching at straws here, Bindie. I’m open to any suggestions, no matter how stupid you think they are.’

She shook her head again, taking an angry toke on her cigarette. ‘It’s just…Gambling. I know there’s shitloads of money swilling around in gambling. You read about these syndicates, millions of pounds up for grabs. Australia, Hong Kong, Korea, the Philippines. A lot of the betting goes on football. There’s been exposés on Five Live and in the papers. I was just wondering…the Vics are doing better than everybody expected this season. They’re up there in contention. They’re giving the big boys headaches. What if…’ She reached for her glass and took a swig of her drink.

‘Would taking out one player make enough of a difference?’ Carol asked, thinking out loud.

Sam’s voice came from the doorway. ‘It would if it was Robbie. Think of all the goals that got scored because Robbie laid them on. Think of all the goals that didn’t get scored because Robbie got the crucial tackle in. Some players, they can lift a whole team. Robbie was like that.’

There was a long silence as they all considered Sam’s words. Then Bindie spoke. ‘I can’t tell you how much the thought of that pisses me off. Taking that much beauty out of the world just for money.’ Bindie made a spitting sound. She covered her mouth with her hand as she drew breath.

‘It’s an interesting suggestion,’ Carol said.

Bindie looked up at her, eyes swimming with tears. ‘My poor sweet boy,’ she said. She sniffed hard and fought her way out of the beanbag. ‘I think it’s time you left. I can’t think of anything else that would help you, and I’ve got music I need to listen to. If I think of anything else, I will call you. But right now, I need to be on my own.’

Out on the street, they leaned against the bonnet of the car, contemplating the dirty orange reflection from the clouds. ‘Interesting idea, the gambling syndicate,’ Sam said.

‘It’s the first thing I’ve heard that makes any sense,’ Carol said. ‘Hell of a way to do it, though. I’d have thought the last thing they’d want would be to draw attention to themselves. Wouldn’t they try to make it look like an accident?’

Sam yawned. ‘Maybe that’s what they thought they were doing.’

‘What do you mean?’ Carol pushed herself upright and held her hand out. ‘I’ll do the first hour’s driving.’

‘From what I can gather, most doctors wouldn’t have picked up that this was ricin poisoning,’ Sam said, walking round to the passenger side. ‘If it hadn’t been for Elinor Blessing’s little hunch, they’d probably have put it down to some sort of virus. That’s what they were treating him for before she had her brainwave.’

Carol started the car and eased it forward. ‘Good point, Sam. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we were never supposed to suss out that it was murder.’

4:27, according to the clock in the bottom right corner of the laptop screen. Sound sleep had never been one of Tony’s accomplishments, but general anaesthesia seemed to have buggered it up completely. He’d slipped easily enough into slumber around ten, but it hadn’t lasted. Sleep seemed to be coming in fifty-minute chunks, punctuated with varying intervals of wakefulness. While the fifty-minute hours did seem ironically apposite for a clinical psychologist, he could have wished for more therapeutic effects.

He’d last shimmered into consciousness just after four. This time, he knew instinctively that there was no going back in the immediate future. At first, he lay still, his thoughts circling the re-emergence of his mother in his life in spite of his best intentions to move on to something else. It didn’t matter that there was nothing there but frustration and regret, a tightening gyre of pain and bitterness that kept him from sleep. It seemed impossible to ignore.

With an effort of will, he wrenched his thoughts round to the death of Robbie Bishop. He’d moved on from his memories of Robbie’s grace and glories to
those elements that had more to do with his own expertise.

‘You’re not a novice,’ Tony said, his voice soft but distinct. ‘Even with beginner’s luck, you’d never have got away with this if it was your first outing. Not with someone as high-profile as Robbie. Whether you did this for personal reasons or because somebody paid you, you’ve done it before.’

He rolled his head against the pillows, trying to ease the stiffness in his neck. ‘Let’s call you Stalky. It’s as good a name as any, and you know I always like to make it a little bit personal. The question is, were you really an old school friend, Stalky? Maybe you were just pretending. Maybe Robbie was too polite to say he didn’t remember you. Or maybe he was conscious of the fact that his fame made him memorable compared to the other kids who were at school with him. Maybe he didn’t want to seem like an arsehole, acting like he’d never seen you before. Even so, even with Robbie’s reputation for being a nice guy, you’d still be taking a hell of a risk.

‘But if you were genuinely an old school friend, you were taking an even bigger risk. This is Bradfield, after all. Chances are that a fair chunk of the people in Amatis that night had also been at Harriestown High. They’d have recognized Robbie, for sure. But they might also have recognized you, unless you’ve changed a lot since schooldays. Very high-risk strategy.’

He found the bed controls and raised himself to a sitting position, wincing as his joints shifted. He pulled the bed-table across and flipped the laptop open, hitting the power switch. ‘You took a lot of risks,
either way. And you took them with confidence. You got right alongside Robbie and nobody noticed you. You have definitely done this before. So let’s find your previous victims, Stalky.’

The light from the screen morphed in colour and intensity as Tony began his search, casting light and shade on his features, creating movement where none existed. ‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘Show yourself. You know you want to.’

Carol opened the blinds that cut her off from the rest of the team. She’d called the case conference for nine, but although it was only ten past eight, they were all there. Even Sam, who hadn’t dropped her off till five to four. She wondered whether his sleep had been more refreshing than hers. She’d been conscious of him watching and waiting till she was safe inside the basement flat she rented from Tony. Then it had been her turn to watch and wait. As Carol fed the complaining Nelson, she kept an eye out until Sam’s lights swept across her kitchen window and the hedge that demarcated next door’s drive from theirs. Once she was sure he was really gone, she’d poured herself a resort-sized brandy and headed upstairs.

Picking up the mail from the doormat was a reasonable thing to do and it provided a pretext for her to climb the stairs to Tony’s first-floor office. She laid the letters on the desk, then subsided into the armchair opposite the one he habitually chose. She loved this chair-its depth, its width, its enveloping cushions that seemed to hold her close. In scale, it felt like a cave, as adult armchairs feel to children. In this seat, she’d discussed her cases, talked through her feelings
about her team members, explored the need for justice that drove her to do this job in the teeth of all the dangers and disappointments. He’d talked about his theories of offender behaviour, his frustrations with the mental health system, his burning desire to make people better. She couldn’t even hazard a guess at the number of hours they’d spent at ease with each other in this room.

Carol curled her legs under her and snuggled, glugging half of the brandy without a shudder. Five minutes, then she’d head back downstairs. ‘I wish you were here,’ she said out loud. ‘I feel like we’re getting nowhere. Normally, nobody would be expecting much progress at this stage in a case like this. But this is Robbie Bishop and the eyes of the world are watching. So getting nowhere isn’t going to be an option.’ She yawned, then finished the drink.

‘You scared me, you know,’ she said, burrowing more deeply into the squashy cushions. ‘When Chris told me you’d run into the mad axeman, I felt like my heart stopped, like the world went into slow motion. Don’t you ever do that to me again, you bastard.’ She shifted her head, butting a cushion into a more comfortable shape, closing her eyes and feeling her body unwind as the alcohol hit. ‘Wish you’d warned me about your mother, though. She’s something else. No wonder you’re as weird as you are.’

The next thing Carol had known was the blare of the radio alarm from the bedroom across the hallway. Stiff and disorientated, she’d stumbled to her feet and checked her watch. Seven o’clock. Less than three hours’ kip. Time to start all over again.

And here she was, showered, in fresh clothes,
caffeine levels already jitterbug high. Carol combed her thick blonde hair with her fingers and started skimming the pile of Robbie Bishop news stories Paula had already clipped for her. Focusing hard, because the last thing she wanted to do was examine how she had spent her night. She only looked up when Chris Devine knocked and entered, a brown paper bag in her hand. ‘Bacon and egg roll,’ she said succinctly, dropping it on the desk. ‘We’re ready when you are.’ Carol smiled at her retreating back. Chris had a knack for the gesture of solidarity, the little touches that made her colleagues feel supported. Carol wondered how they had managed before she’d joined them. The plan had been for Chris to be there from the off, but her mother’s terminal cancer had kept her in her old job with the Met for three months longer than she’d anticipated. Carol sighed. Maybe if Chris had been around from the get-go, Detective Inspector Don Merrick would still be among them.

‘Pointless,’ she chided herself, reaching for the bag and tucking in without really registering what she was eating. Hardly a day went by without her wondering whether this or that detail might have made a difference to Don. In her heart, she knew she was only trying to find a way to blame herself instead of him. Tony had told her more than once that it was OK to be angry with Don for what he’d done. But it still didn’t feel possible, never mind right.

As she ate, Carol made a few notes, sketching a rough agenda for the case conference. By quarter to nine, she was ready. There was no reason to wait for the prearranged time, so she emerged from her office and assembled the team around her. Carol stood in
front of one of the whiteboards that contained a digest of all the information they had amassed so far on Robbie Bishop.

On her word, Sam kicked off the proceedings with a recap of their interview with Bindie Blyth. He finished up with Bindie’s vague theory about gambling. ‘Anybody have any comment?’ Carol asked.

Stacey, their computer and ICT specialist, waggled her pen. ‘She’s right that there’s a huge amount of gambling money swilling around in the Far East. And a lot of it is staked on football. The Australians in particular have done a lot of investigative work into the way they use computer networks to rake the money in. And yes, there’s a lot of associated crime and corruption. But the point is, the gambling syndicates don’t have to resort to assassination to skew the odds in their favour. They can buy what they need.’

‘You’re saying that even with the amount of money we pay our footballers, they’ve still got their hands out for more?’ Paula feigned shock.

‘There’s more than one way to fix a game,’ Stacey said. ‘Arguably, the match officials have more influence over outcome. And they don’t earn mega salaries.’

Sam snorted derisively. ‘And they’re so crap, nobody would notice them doing it on purpose. If a referee can give one player three yellow cards in the same game when he’s supposed to send him off after the second one, imagine what he could do if he was taking backhanders. So you’re saying that while these gambling syndicates might cross the line to make sure the sums come out in their favour, you don’t think they’d go as far as murder?’

Stacey nodded. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. It doesn’t match the way they go about things.’

Kevin looked up from the gun he was doodling on his pad. ‘Yeah, but that’s what you might call the traditional end of dodgy gambling. See, this ricin thing, that spells Russian mafia to me. A lot of those guys, they’re ex-KGB and FSB. It was the KGB that helped the Bulgarians assassinate Georgi Markov using ricin. What if the Russians have decided they want a slice of the international betting cash? It would be just like them to be so bloody heavy-handed.’

Stacey shrugged. ‘It makes a kind of sense, I suppose. But I’ve not heard anything about the Russians getting into this sort of thing. Maybe we should ask Six?’

Carol shuddered. The last thing she wanted was to allow the intelligence services anywhere near her operation. Their reputation slithered before them, in particular their reluctance to go away empty-handed once they’d been invited in. Carol didn’t want to have her murder inquiry transformed into some sinister conspiracy until she was certain it wasn’t a straightforward murder for one of the customary motives. ‘Until we’ve got something more solid connecting the Russians to this, I’m not going near the spooks,’ she said firmly. ‘At this point, we have nothing to suggest Robbie Bishop’s murder was anything to do with gambling or the Russian mafia. Let’s wait till we have some evidence before we get over-excited about theories like Bindie’s. We’ll keep it in mind, but I don’t think it’s worth spending investigative resources on it right now. Stacey, what have you got for us?’

Never at her best when dealing with humans, Stacey shifted in her seat and studiously avoided eye
contact. ‘So far, I’ve found nothing of interest on Bishop’s computer. No emails sent after his night out on Thursday, except one to his agent agreeing to an interview for a Spanish men’s magazine. Also, he never visited the bestdays.co.uk website. Not from his home computer, at any rate. His history list is almost exclusively related to football or music. He bought some new speakers online just last week. Which kind of knocks the suicide idea on the head, if that was in anybody’s mind.’

‘I don’t know. If I was depressed, I might spend a few bob to cheer myself up,’ Sam said. Catching Carol rolling her eyes, he hastily added, ‘Not that we’re thinking suicide.’

‘Not with ricin. Too obscure, too painful, too slow,’ Carol said, echoing what Denby had said to her. ‘As for the Best Days website, given that Robbie did have the url on him, I think we can assume that whoever he was drinking with that night was familiar with the site. Stacey, do you think there’s any way they can help us?’

‘Depends on their attitude,’ she began.

‘And on whether they’re football fans,’ Kevin said.

Stacey looked dubious. ‘Maybe. What I thought we could ask for in the first instance is for them to send an email to all their Harriestown High subscribers asking them to contact us with a recent photo and an account of their movements on Thursday night. That way, we set things in motion without having to wait for a warrant.’

‘Isn’t that sending out a big fat warning to our killer?’ Kevin asked. ‘Tipping them off to our interest? I went to Harriestown High, you know. We weren’t
the most authority-friendly bunch. Harriestown wasn’t yuppified back then, it was pretty rough. Even in Robbie’s day, it wasn’t the sort of place where they fall over themselves to help the police. You’re dealing with the kind of people who could easily send a photo of someone completely different just to wind us up, never mind throwing us off the trail. I say we ask the site for the names and addresses of their subscribers and if they won’t come across, we go for the warrant.’

Carol saw the momentary flash of irritation in Stacey’s eyes. She normally kept her opinions on her colleagues’ lack of understanding of the world of information technology to herself; it was rare to catch a glimpse of her true feelings.

Assuming an air of weary patience, Stacey said, ‘The only address the website will have stored for their subscribers is the email address. It’s possible they may have credit card billing addresses, but even if they do, that’s covered by the data protection legislation and we definitely would need a warrant to get that. The important thing here is that, however we get in touch with these people, there’s no way to keep it secret. The first person we talk to will be online before we’re back in our cars, posting our line of inquiry. We might as well be upfront from the start. The online community is much more inclined to co-operate when they’re included in the process. We take them with us, we get their help. We treat them as potentially hostile and they’ll make our life twice as difficult.’ It was a major speech for Stacey. A measure, Carol thought, of how seriously she was taking this case.

‘OK. Give it a whirl, Stacey. See if you can get the
Best Days people to co-operate. If you hit a wall, come back to me. And, Kevin? You can cast an eye over the pics from your era, see if your old classmates are confounding your expectations and telling the truth. Chris?’ Carol turned to the sergeant. ‘How did you guys get on at Amatis?’

Chris shook her head. The bar staff who were on duty on Thursday remember seeing Robbie in the vodka bar, but they were too busy to pay attention to the company he was keeping. Same with the punters. I think we can probably rule out a stunning blonde. They would have noticed that, I suspect. Paula did notice one thing…’ Chris tipped a nod to Paula and took a sheet of paper out of a folder. ‘There’s CCTV covering the bar area. Unfortunately for our purposes, it’s there to keep an eye on the staff, not the punters. It’s the management’s way of making sure all the cash ends up in the till and that nobody is dealing drugs from behind the bar. So it’s not pointed at the customers. However, we did get this.’ She moved to the whiteboard and pinned up a grainy enlargement. ‘This is Robbie,’ she said, pointing to a hand on the very edge of the photo. ‘We know it’s him because of the Celtic ring tattoo on his middle finger. And next to him, we can see someone else.’ A couple of inches from Robbie’s fingertips was half a hand, a wrist and a section of forearm. ‘Male,’ she said, her expression a mixture of disgust and triumph. ‘A few more degrees of angle on the camera and we’d have him. As it is, all we know is that it is a him and that he doesn’t have a tattoo on the right half of his right hand, wrist or lower arm.’ She stepped away from the board and sat down again. ‘So at least Stacey
can tell the website people we’re only interested in the blokes.’