by Val McDermid
Not all of Robbie Bishop’s fans were outside Bradfield Cross. Those who lived in Ratcliffe had decided against the cross-town journey and settled for bringing their bunches of supermarket flowers and their children’s paintings to Bradfield Victoria’s training ground. They were propped along the chain-link fence that kept the punters away from the stars. Detective Sergeant Kevin Matthews couldn’t help a faint shudder of distaste as he waited for the gate security to call through and confirm their permission to enter the ground. He couldn’t be doing with these public outpourings of synthetic emotion. He wouldn’t mind betting that none of those who had made their pilgrimage to the Ratcliffe ground had ever exchanged more than a few words along the lines of, ‘And who shall I sign it to?’ with Robbie Bishop. It wasn’t so long since Kevin had had to mourn for real, and he resented the cheapness of their gestures. In his view, if the pilgrims lavished those emotions on the living-their kids, partners and parents-the world would be a better place.
‘Tacky,’ Chris Devine said from the passenger seat as if reading his mind.
‘This is nothing to what there’ll be in a couple of days, after he’s actually died,’ Kevin said as the guard waved them through, pointing to the parking area near the long, low building that impeded the view of the field from the street. He slowed as they passed the Ferraris and Porsches of the players. ‘Nice motors,’ he said approvingly.
‘You’ve got a Ferrari, haven’t you?’ Chris said, recalling something Paula had told her.
He sighed. ‘Mondial QV cabriolet, Ferrari red. One of only twenty-four right-hand-drive cabs ever built. She’s a dream machine, and she’s going soon.’
‘Oh no. Poor Kevin. Why are you getting rid?’
‘She’s really only a two-seater and the kids are getting too big to squeeze in. She’s a single person’s car, Chris. I don’t suppose you’re interested?’
‘A bit rich for my blood, I think. I’d never hear the end of it from Sinead. She’d be telling me it was my mid-life crisis car.’
‘Shame. I’d like to be sure she’s going to a good home. At least I’ve managed to get a stay of execution for a bit.’
‘How come?’
‘There’s this journalist, Justin Adams. He writes for the car magazines and he wants to do an article about ordinary blokes who drive extraordinary cars. Apparently a cop with a Ferrari is right up his street. So I got Stella to agree that I get to keep the car till the magazine article comes out, so I don’t get the piss taken out of me for having my name and my photo in a magazine when I don’t own the car any more.’
Chris grinned. ‘Sounds like a good deal to me.’
‘Yeah, well, the countdown begins next week, when we do the interview.’ Kevin sniffed as he got out of the car. ‘Digestive day,’ he said.
‘What?’
He pointed to the west, where a two-storey brick building slumped along the boundary of the playing fields. ‘The biscuit factory. When I was a kid, I trained for a season with the Vic juniors. When the wind’s in the right direction, you can tell what biscuits they’re baking. I always thought it was a refined form of torture for teenage lads trying to keep fit.’
‘What happened?’ Chris asked, following him round the end of the changing pavilion.
Kevin strode ahead of her so she couldn’t see the regret on his face. ‘I wasn’t good enough,’ he said. ‘Many are called but few are chosen.’
‘That must have been rough.’
Kevin gave a little snort of laughter. ‘At the time, I thought it was the end of the world.’
‘And now?’
‘The money would have been better, that’s for sure. And I’d have a fleet of Ferraris.’
‘True,’ Chris said, catching up with him as he paused, looking out across the grass where a couple of dozen young men were dribbling balls around traffic cones. ‘But for most footballers, you’re on the scrapheap by the time you’re our age. And what’s left? Sure, a handful make it into management, but a lot more end up behind the bar in some shitty pub trading on their glory days and bitching about the ex-wife that cleaned them out.’
Kevin grinned at her. ‘And you think that would be worse than this?’
‘You know it would.’
As they rounded the building, a man in shorts and a Bradfield Victoria sweatshirt headed their way. He looked to be in his middle forties, but he was in such good shape it was hard to be certain. If his dark hair had still been in a mullet, he’d have been instantly recognizable to football fans and indifferents alike. But now it was cut close to his head, it took Kevin a moment to realize he was face to face with one of the heroes of his youth.
‘You’re Terry Malcolm,’ he blurted out, twelve again and besotted with the ball skills of the England and Bradfield midfielder.
Terry Malcolm turned to Chris with a smile and said, ‘I’ll be all right if I ever get Alzheimer’s. You’d be amazed how often people feel the need to tell me who I am. You must be Sergeant Devine. I’m only guessing, mind. In a hopeful sort of way, on account of he’s not my type and I can’t see myself calling him Devine.’ His expression said he was accustomed to people finding him funny and charming. Kevin, already disillusioned with his former hero, was pleased to see Chris Devine unmoved.
‘Mr Flanagan told you why we’re here?’ Kevin said, his tone slightly incredulous. As if he couldn’t quite believe anyone who worked for Bradfield Vic could be so flippant while their finest player lay dying.
Malcolm looked suitably chastened. ‘He did. And believe me, I’m gutted about Robbie. But I can’t afford to let my feelings show. There’s another twenty-one players on the squad who need to stay motivated. We’ve got Spurs in the premiership on Saturday and we can’t afford to be dropping points at this stage in the season.’ He gave Chris the benefit of his smile again. ‘I hope that doesn’t sound callous. Like I said, I’m gutted. But our boys need to be kept on their toes. On Saturday, we’ll be winning it for Robbie. All the more reason not to chuck our routines in the bin.’
‘Quite,’ Chris said. ‘And we need to check out Robbie’s movements in the forty-eight hours before he started feeling ill on Saturday. We want to talk to his mates. The ones who are close enough to know what he was up to between the end of training on Thursday and breakfast on Saturday.’
Malcolm nodded. ‘You want to talk to Pavel Aljinovic and Phil Campsie. Robbie bunks up with Pavel when we’re in a hotel. And Phil’s his best mate.’ Malcolm made no move to summon the players.
‘Now, Mr Malcolm,’ Chris said.
Again the cheap and cheesy smile. ‘It’s Terry, love.’
It was Chris’s turn to smile. ‘I’m not your love, Mr Malcolm. I am a police officer investigating a very serious attack on one of your colleagues. And I want to talk to either Pavel Aljinovic or Phil Campsie right now.’
Malcolm shook his head. ‘They’re training. I can’t interrupt that.’
Kevin flushed an unbecoming scarlet, his freckles darkening across his cheeks. ‘Do you want me to arrest you for police obstruction? Because you’re going the right way about it.’
Malcolm’s lip lifted in a sneer. ‘I don’t think you’ll be arresting me. Your boss likes his seat in the directors’ box far too much for that.’
‘That cuts both ways,’ Chris said sweetly. ‘It means we have a hotline to your boss, too. And I don’t think he’d be very impressed to hear you’ve been impeding our inquiries into the attempted murder of his star player.’
Although Chris had spoken, it was Kevin who was on the receiving end of a glare of deep dislike. Malcolm was clearly one of those men who could only flirt with women and talk with men. ‘I’ll get Pavel.’ He gestured with his thumb towards the pavilion. ‘Wait inside there, I’ll sort you out a room in a minute.’
Five minutes later, they were sitting in a weights room that smelled of stale sweat and muscle rub. The Croatian international goalkeeper was hot on their heels. As he walked in, his nose twitched and a look of distaste crossed h
is chiselled features. ‘Stinks in here, sorry,’ he said, pulling a plastic chair from a short stack against the wall and sitting down opposite the two detectives. ‘I am Pavel Aljinovic.’ He nodded formally to them both.
The word that came to Kevin’s mind was ‘dignified’. Aljinovic had shoulder-length dark hair, normally pulled back in a tight ponytail on match days, but flowing free this afternoon. His eyes were the colour of conkers baked in the oven then polished on a sleeve. High cheekbones over hollow cheeks, full lips and a narrow, straight nose made him look almost aristocratic. ‘Coach says somebody tried to poison Robbie,’ he said, his accent faint but unmistakably Slavic. ‘How can this be?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Chris said, leaning forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped.
‘And Robbie? How is he doing?’
‘Not very well,’ Kevin said.
‘But he will be OK?’
‘We’re not doctors. We can’t say.’ Chris wanted to avoid making it clear that Robbie’s death was inevitable. In her experience, there was a substantial brake on what people were willing to say once the stakes were raised to murder. ‘It would help if we knew where Robbie was on Thursday and Friday.’
‘Of course he was at training sessions. Thursday night, I don’t know what he did.’ Aljinovic spread his big goalkeeper’s hands. ‘I am goalkeeper, not Robbie’s keeper. But on Friday night, we shared the hotel room. We all had dinner together, like usual. Steak and potatoes and salad and a glass of red wine. Fruit salad and ice cream. We always have the same thing, me and Robbie. Actually, most of the guys. We went upstairs about nine o’clock. Robbie took a bath and I called my wife. We watched the Sky football channel together until about ten, then we went to sleep.’
‘Did Robbie have anything out of the mini-bar?’ Kevin asked.
Aljinovic chuckled. ‘You don’t know much about football, do you? They don’t give us keys for the mini-bar. We’re supposed to stay pure. This is why we are in a hotel and not at home. They can control what we eat and drink and they can keep us away from women.’
Chris returned his smile. ‘I thought that was a myth, keeping your strength up before a match by avoiding sex.’
‘It’s not the sex, it’s the sleep,’ Aljinovic said. ‘They like us to have good sleep before a game.’
‘Did Robbie have any food or drink with him? Bottled water, whatever?’
‘No. There is always plenty of water in the room.’ He frowned. ‘You have reminded me. Friday evening, Robbie said he was very thirsty. He said he felt as if he was coming down with a cold or something. He didn’t make a big deal out of it, just that he wasn’t feeling great. And of course in the morning, he thought he had flu. I was worried in case I might catch it. This feeling like flu, is this the poison? Or is he sick too?’
‘It’s the poison.’ Kevin looked directly into his eyes. ‘Did Robbie take cocaine on Friday evening?’
Aljinovic reared backwards, an expression of affront on his face. ‘Of course not. No. Who told you that? Robbie didn’t use drugs. Why are you asking this?’
‘It’s possible he inhaled the poison. If it was mixed in with cocaine or amphetamine, Robbie might not have noticed,’ Chris said.
‘No. This is not possible. Not possible at all. I will not believe this about him.’
‘You said earlier that you’re a goalkeeper, not Robbie’s keeper. How can you be so sure he never uses drugs?’ Kevin said, his voice mild but his eyes intent.
‘We have talked about it. About drugs in sports. And for fun. Robbie and me, we think the same. It’s a fool’s game. You cheat yourself, you cheat the fans, you cheat your club. We both know people who use drugs and we both despise them.’ He spoke vehemently. ‘Whoever poisoned Robbie, they didn’t do it with drugs.’
By the time Carol arrived at Robbie Bishop’s flat, Detective Constable Sam Evans had already made a start on the search. The footballer’s home was a penthouse complete with roof terrace in the heart of the city. The building had been a department store; the main living area was bright with daylight that poured in through metal-framed Art Deco windows. Sam was going through the desk drawers, caught in a shaft of sunlight that made his coffee-coloured skin glow. He looked up as Carol walked in, giving her a rueful shake of the head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Not so far.’
‘What kind of nothing?’ She snapped a pair of latex gloves over her hands.
‘Neatly filed bills, bank statements, credit card statements. He pays his bills on time, he pays his credit cards off every month. He’s got an account with a bookie, gambles a few hundred a month on the ponies. Nothing that stands out. I haven’t looked at the computer yet, I thought I’d leave that for Stacey.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. You think she knows what football is?’ Carol said, crossing to look out of the window. A hawk’s-eye view of the city centre; people going about their business, trams criss-crossing, fountains playing, Big Issue sellers cajoling, shoppers dawdling by windows full of promises. None of them thinking about poisoning a premiership footballer with ricin, not today. Tomorrow or the day after, when Robbie Bishop finally died, it would be different. But not today. Not yet. She turned back. ‘What have you done so far?’
‘Just the desk.’
Carol nodded. She looked around. Sam had been right to start at the desk. There weren’t many other search options. The dining area, all glass and steel, had nothing to hide. There were a couple of groups of scarlet leather sofas, one centred on a huge plasma screen home cinema system complete with PlayStation, the other set around a low glass coffee table whose leading edge looked like a breaking wave. A wall of shelves housed a vast collection of DVDs and CDs. Someone would have to go through every one, but she’d leave that to the crime scene team. She walked over to the media collection. The CDs were mostly by people she’d never heard of. The names she did recognize were dance and hip-hop; she assumed the rest were similar in flavour.
The DVDs were roughly arranged-football on two shelves in the middle, popular action and comedy movies beneath them, TV comedy and drama above them. PlayStation and PC computer games filled the bottom shelf. The top one, appropriately, held the porn. Carol skimmed the titles, deciding Robbie’s taste in porn was as unadventurous as his taste in film and drama. Unless there was a secret stash somewhere, it appeared that Robbie’s sexual inclinations were not the sort to get him killed.
Carol wandered through to the bedroom, smiling wryly at the sight of a bed that must have been seven feet wide. The rumpled dark blue silk sheets were piled with fake furs, and a dozen pillows were scattered around. Another plasma TV dominated the wall opposite the bed, and the other walls displayed paintings of nudes that the vendor had almost certainly described as ‘artistic’.
A walk-in wardrobe ran the whole length of one wall. There was an empty section. Carol wondered if that had been where his fiancée had hung her clothes, or if he’d just been having a clear-out. At the far end were two rectangular baskets, one labelled ‘laundry’, the other ‘dry cleaning’. Both were almost full. Presumably, someone else took care of them. Luckily, they hadn’t been in since Robbie had been taken ill.
The top layer of the laundry basket consisted of a pair of Armani jeans, Calvin Klein trunks and an extravagantly striped Paul Smith shirt. Carol picked up the jeans and went through the pockets. At first, she thought they were empty, but as her fingers probed, they encountered a screw of paper rammed right down into the seam of the front right-hand pocket. She pulled it out and gently teased the creases and folds apart.
It was the corner of a page of lined paper, apparently torn from a notebook. Written in black ink was, ‘www.bestdays.co.uk’. Carol took it through to the living area and asked Sam for an evidence bag. ‘What you got, boss?’ he asked, handing one over.
Carol dropped the paper in the bag, sealing and dating it. ‘A url. Probably nothing. Take it back for Stacey, please. You find anything?’
Sam shook his head. ‘I te
ll you, he looks a pretty boring bastard to me.’
Carol went back through to the bedroom. Bedside tables held few surprises-condoms, breath mints, tissues, a blister pack of Nurofen, a pinkie-sized butt plug and a tube of KY. Carol was pretty sure that, these days, that counted as vanilla. Interestingly, the book tucked into the drawer on the left was Michael Crick’s critical biography of Manchester United’s boss, Alex Ferguson. Though Carol was far from knowledgeable about football, even she knew that in a world of celebrity soccer hagiographies this was an interesting choice.
Nothing in the ensuite bathroom gave Carol a moment’s pause. Sighing, she returned to Sam. ‘It’s almost spooky,’ she said. ‘There’s so little personality here.’
Sam snorted. ‘Probably because he hasn’t got one. These football stars-they’re all stuck in their adolescence. They get picked up by the big clubs before they’ve had their first kiss, and the management system takes over from their mums. If they make the grade, they’re cash rich and common sense poor by the time they’re out of their teens. They’re wrapped in cotton wool and models’ thighs. Way more money than sense or experience. Bunch of Peter Pans with added testosterone.’
Carol grinned. ‘You sound bitter. Did you lose a girlfriend to one of them, or what?’
Sam returned her grin. ‘The women I like are too smart for footballers. No, I’m just bitter because I can’t afford a Bentley GTC Mulliner.’ Sam waved an invoice at her. ‘His new car. Delivery next month.’
Carol whistled. ‘I know men who would kill for one of those. But probably not using ricin.’ As she spoke, her phone rang. ‘DCI Jordan,’ she said.
‘This is Dr Blessing. Mr Denby asked me to call you. Robbie Bishop’s taken a turn for the worse. We don’t think he’s got long. I don’t know if you want to be here?’
‘I’m on my way,’ Carol said. She closed her phone and sighed. ‘Looks like this is about to become a murder inquiry.’
They were waiting for Phil Campsie. Chris idly picked up a dumbbell and did a few forearm curls. ‘He’s the ugly one, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘The one who looks like a cross between a monkey and Mr Potato Head?’