by Val McDermid
‘What makes them right for you, Stalky? Is Harriestown High the important connection? What happened there to make you care so much?’ He considered the options, but couldn’t come up with something that could have linked Robbie Bishop and Danny Wade in their schooldays. ‘But that changed,’ he mused. ‘By the time they died, they did have something in common. Rich men, both of them. And the rich are different. So they’d become different. They’d left the rest of Harriestown High in the dirt. They were lucky, you could say. Danny definitely. No skill in the lottery. Just blind luck. But Robbie was lucky too. Right club, right manager. We’ve all seen it go the other way-great talent pissed up against the wall.’ He was struggling and he knew it. Two cases just didn’t yield enough data. It was the hardest thing about his job. The more people who died, the easier it was for him.
So, nothing much to link the victims. What about the murder method? Plant poisons. It was like Dorothy L. Sayers or Agatha Christie. Some village murder mystery. ‘Historically, poisoners were assassins or family members. But now we’ve got guns for the assassins, and forensic toxicology knocked family poisoning on the head a long time ago…So why use it? It’s hard to get your hands on, and getting hold of it leaves a trail. Its only advantage is if you don’t get your kicks out of killing.’ He nodded to himself. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? What you like is not killing, it’s having killed. You like the sense of power but you’ve not got a taste for the dirty work. It’s almost as if you’re keeping your distance. Your innocence. When you left them, they were fine. You don’t have to see yourself as some low-life killer.’ He paused for a moment, lost in thought. ‘You can almost convince yourself you’re giving them a chance. Maybe they’ll be able to beat it, or maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll get lucky. Or maybe their luck’s just run out…And speaking of running out, there are my boys.’ On the screen, the familiar canary yellow shirts were emerging from the tunnel, black bands circling the upper arms of all the players. The Tottenham Hotspur players followed, also wearing black armbands, heads bowed.
The two teams lined up facing each other and Tony edged the volume up in time to hear the commentator say, ‘…for a minute’s silence in memory of Robbie Bishop, who died tragically this week.’
Tony bowed his head and joined the silence. It seemed to pass almost too quickly. Then the crowd roared, the players shuffled their feet and moved into position. Robbie had been formally consigned to memory. Now it was showtime.
The streets around Victoria Park were choked with fans promenading towards the stadium. No cars allowed, held back and diverted by police officers in yellow fluorescent jackets. Just pedestrians and horses, the mounted division relishing home games for the peaceful exercise they almost invariably offered. Through the middle of the yellow streams of home fans was a demarcated ribbon of white, where Spurs supporters strutted their defiance in the enemy’s territory.
There was another, smaller patch of white among the yellow. The A1 Electricals’ van eased forward through a crowd reluctant to part for anything or anyone. Behind the wheel, Yousef prayed steadily, his lips barely moving, his mind racing. If he concentrated on the details, he didn’t have to confront the horror of what he was about to do. The paperwork had got him past the first checkpoint. A policeman stopping traffic heading for the stadium had glanced over the two fake faxes and Yousef’s equally false ID and waved him through without comment. Next came the acid test.
He checked the time. He was right on schedule. The Grayson Street stand loomed ahead of him, the tall wrought-iron gates with the club crest clearly visible. The entrance to the car park for staff and players was a dozen yards past the gates, the way blocked by a barrier and a cordon of security men. He pulled his baseball cap further down so it better obscured his features from above.
Yousef passed the gates, tapping his horn to clear a way through the supporters. The road was even more clogged than usual because the pavement was entirely occupied by the shrine to Robbie Bishop. His photo smiled out at Yousef again and again, the confident grin of a man who sees the world turning his way. He’d been so wrong, Yousef thought.
He swung the wheel round, pointing the van at the barrier. As he drew close, he was surrounded by security men. They looked identically menacing with their black-and-yellow Vics bomber jackets, black jeans and shaved heads. He lowered his window and smiled. ‘Emergency electrical repair,’ he said. ‘There’s a problem with the mains supply under the Vestey stand.’ He produced the faxes. ‘If it blows, there’ll be no power to corporate hospitality.’
The nearest security guard sneered. ‘Poor bastards won’t be able to find their prawn sandwiches in the dark. Gimme a minute, let me show these to the guy on the barrier.’ He took the paperwork and went over to the small cabin by the guard barrier. Yousef could see him showing the faxes to the man inside. He felt the sweat in his armpits and the small of his back.
‘That’s quite a display, innit?’ he said to the guard who had stepped up to take the first one’s place. ‘Poor sod.’
“No kidding,’ the guard said. ‘What kind of evil bastard would do a thing like that?’ He did a double take, as if only just realizing he was speaking to a young Asian male, the tabloid archetype of a contemporary bogeyman. ‘Sorry, mate, I didn’t mean…You know?’
‘I know. We’re not all like that,’ Yousef said, his toes literally curling with discomfort. Not because he was lying, but because he was lying so cravenly. Before they could get into it any further, the first guard came back with the paperwork.
‘You’ll need to let me take a look in the back of the van,’ he said.
Yousef turned off the engine, took out the keys and walked to the back of the van. He could feel his hands trembling, so he tried to put his body between the lock and the security man. He told himself that he had nothing to worry about, that it was all going to be OK. He swung the door open. The van was lined with cable holders and plastic boxes full of clips, fuses, screws and switches. Reels of various gauges of cable were piled together behind a fence of bungee cord, and Imran’s toolbox sat to one side, a long squat metal box covered in chipped blue paint.
‘You want to open the toolbox?’ the security guard said.
‘Sure.’ Yousef swallowed hard and unclipped the lid. He spread the first layer open to reveal an array of pliers, wire strippers and screwdrivers. ‘OK?’ He laid his hand on the tray, as if he was going to open it further. His bowels were clenching, his bladder bursting. If the bastard guard didn’t back off, the next thing he was going to see was a bomb.
The guard glanced over the tools. ‘Looks like an electrician’s kit to me. OK, mate,’ he said. ‘Park over at the far end.’ He pointed to the extreme edge of the parking area. ‘You’ll see a gate over there. The security bloke there knows you’re on your way. He’ll let you in. You follow the walkway round the corner and it’ll bring you to the staff entrance. They’ll show you where you need to be.’ He winked. ‘They might even let you see a bit of the game if you get the job done quick.’
Yousef did as he was told, hardly able to believe it was all so easy. Once past that first barrier, it was clear that he was accepted as someone with a valid reason to be there. Ten minutes later, head down to avoid the CCTV cameras, he was carrying Imran’s toolbox with its deadly cargo down a narrow service corridor under the middle tier of the giant cantilevered Vestey Stand. The stand, named after Albert Vestey, England and Bradfield Vics’ legendary striker of the inter-war years, contained the media centre up on the top tier as well as the corporate hospitality boxes. As they walked, the ebb and flow of the fans’ chanting and cheering accompanied their steps. Yousef was surprised by how loud it was. He’d thought it would be much quieter inside the stand, insulated by concrete and bodies. But here it was almost as strident as being one of the shouting spectators.
Yousef’s destination was a small room off the service corridor where the electricity junction boxes were housed. From here, the electrical supply to the media centre and the corp
orate boxes was controlled. Immediately above, separated by a tracery of girders and poured concrete, was the partition wall between two boxes, each of which held a maximum of a dozen spectators. Both of those were flanked by identical boxes. All four boxes, like the others that stretched out on either side of them, were full of people enjoying food and drink at someone else’s expense. The football, it often seemed, was incidental. What mattered was being there.
The guard who had accompanied Yousef from the staff entrance stopped in front of a grey door which featured a yellow plaque with a black lightning bolt on it. ‘Here we go, mate,’ he said, unlocking the door and opening up. He pointed to a house phone on the corridor wall a few feet away. ‘Call down on that when you’re done and I’ll come and lock up behind you.’ He pushed the door open, reached for the light switch then stood back, waving Yousef into the small space. ‘And if you’re done before full time, we’ll find you somewhere to perch for the rest of the match.’
Yousef felt sick, but he managed to smile and nod. The door closed behind him with a soft click. The room was dim and cramped. It smelled of dust and oil. The junction boxes covered the far wall. Cables festooned the walls, their surfaces silted with greasy dust. He didn’t think anyone was going to bother him here, not when there was a match going on a few hundred feet away. But to be on the safe side, he jammed the end of the toolbox against the door. If anyone tried to get in, he’d know about it.
Without warning, Yousef felt his throat tighten as tears welled up in his eyes. This was a terrible thing to be doing. It was the right thing, no doubt about that. The best way to achieve their goal. But he hated that he had to live in a world where things like this were necessary. Where violence became the only language that people listened to. Where violence was the only language available to those who were frustrated at every turn by the way the world was run. George Bush had been right, it was a crusade. Just not the one that bastard in the White House thought it was.
He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. This wasn’t the time or the place for grief or for second thoughts. Yousef opened the toolbox and lifted out the top shelf. Underneath, wrapped in layers of bubble wrap, was the bomb. It didn’t look much. Somehow, Yousef felt it should be grander. More of a statement than could be made by a ghee tin and a kitchen timer.
He checked his watch. He was doing just fine. Twelve minutes past three. He took out a roll of duct tape and fastened the bomb to a bunch of cables halfway up the wall. Then, his mouth dry and his stomach churning, he started to set the timer.
Two minutes in, and Phil Campsie had made a blinding run down the left side, only to be brought low by in a bruising but fair tackle. ‘Oh no,’ Tony cried.
‘Oh no is right,’ Carol said, marching in, all flags flying indignation. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Tony gave her the bemused look of a man who has only been doing what men are supposed to do, not taking in her body language at all. ‘I’m watching the footie,’ he said. ‘The Vics and Spurs. It’s only just started, pull up a chair.’
Carol slapped the screen of his laptop shut. Tony looked outraged. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘How dare you suborn my staff to run around the countryside in pursuit of your little fantasies,’ she shouted.
‘Ah.’ Tony grimaced. That would be Paula, then.’
‘How could you? Especially after I said I didn’t think there was any point?’ Carol paced agitatedly to and fro.
‘Well, that’s precisely why I had to.’ Tony eased his laptop open again. ‘If I could have done it myself, I would have. But as it is, you’re saved the embarrassment of having to admit you passed on the best lead you’ve got so far.’
‘Bullshit. We have a suspect who is nothing to do with Danny Wade.’
Tony tapped the mouse pad to bring the match up again. ‘And I have no doubt that you will also find he’s nothing to do with Robbie Bishop. At least, not as far as his murder’s concerned.’ He gave her a brilliant smile. ‘And now Paula has given you another lovely lead. I mean, she must have. Because if she’d drawn a blank, you’d never have been any the wiser.’
Carol stabbed her index finger at him. ‘You are bloody impossible. You are bang out of order. Paula works for me, not for you.’
Tony gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘I could say she helped me out in her own time,’ he said. ‘Because she likes me so much.’
Now it was Carol’s turn to smirk. ‘But that would be a lie. She did it on Bradfield Police’s time, when she was supposed to be working for MIT.’
Tony shook his head, his blue eyes darkening as he prepared to play hardball. He looked at the game on his screen but his words were directed at Carol. You can’t have people working completely undefined hours and then claim all of their waking time is dedicated to your service. Paula’s entitled to breaks. You can’t really complain if she rolls them up into one big slice of time off. I bet she didn’t get eight hours clear between coming off duty last night and starting again this morning. Even your prisoners are entitled to that.’
Carol glared at him. ‘I hate it when you twist things to suit yourself. You were out of order, and you know it. And Paula of all people. You know she’s vulnerable.’
‘I think when it comes to Paula’s mental state, I’m probably a better judge than you.’ He scrutinized her, trying to gauge how angry she still was. ‘Come on, come and sit down and watch a bit of the football with me. The lads are playing their hearts out for Robbie. It’d bring tears to a glass eye, I promise you.’
‘You can’t just deflect this, pretend it didn’t happen,’ Carol said. But he could see she was softening.
‘I’m not. I agree, I was out of order. All I can say is that normally, I would have done it myself. And I thought it was too important to a murder investigation to leave it undone. I will apologize to Paula for putting her in an awkward position, but I’m not going to apologize to you for putting your investigation on the right track.’ He patted the arm of the chair next to the bed. ‘Now, will you sit down and watch the bloody game?’
With obvious ill grace, Carol threw herself into the chair. ‘You know I hate football,’ she grumbled.
‘We’re the ones in yellow,’ he said.
‘Fuck off. I know that,’ she said.
‘So, are you going to tell me about Paula’s brilliant new lead?’ he said as Spurs gained possession and began to make ground.
‘Hasn’t she told you all about it herself?’
He grinned. ‘No, we both understand the chain of command too well.’
‘You ganged up on me,’ she said. He could tell the storm was over.
‘Be grateful we care enough to want to save you from falling on your arse. Like he just did.’ He pointed at a Spurs player apparently tripping over a blade of grass.
As they watched, the commentary was drowned out by a tremendous roaring rumble. Smoke drifted across the screen, then a storm of debris began to rain down on one side of the pitch. Carol and Tony stared at the screen, dumbstruck. Then the commentator’s voice, hysterical, shouting, ‘Oh my God, oh my God, there’s a hole…I can’t hear. Oh my God, there are body parts…I think there’s been a bomb. A bomb, here at Victoria Park. Oh Jesus Christ…’
Now the director had got his act together. The scene changed from the pitch to what had been the Vestey Stand. In the centre of the middle tier, nothing could be seen except a billowing grey cloud of dust. In the rows of seats below the corporate boxes, people were stampeding for the aisles. The shot changed to a close-up of one of the exits, where some fans were fighting to get out while others were passing children over heads to get them clear. Then they were looking at the stand again, only this time there were flames licking the edges of the dust cloud and black spirals of smoke curling up as the dust cloud moved downwards. And now the people were screaming.
Carol was already on her feet and halfway to the door. ‘I’ll call you,’ she said, opening the door and running. Tony barely notic
ed her going. He was transfixed by the unfolding of tragedy on the screen before him. Without taking his eyes off the laptop screen, he reached for the remote and turned on the TV. It was almost impossible to comprehend what he was seeing.
Bradfield had joined that most exclusive club. The Twin Towers. Kuta Beach. Madrid. London. A list no city wanted to join. But now Bradfield was among them.
And there would be work to be done.
Tom Cross had served most of his years in the police in the shadow of Irish Republican terrorism. Twelve dead in the M62 coach bombing, two kids blown to bits in Warrington town centre, over two hundred injured and a city centre devastated in Manchester. He and his colleagues had learned vigilance, but they’d also been taught what was expected of them.
So when the bomb went off in Victoria Park stadium, Cross’s instincts were to move towards the seat of the explosion. The other 9,346 people in the Vestey Stand did not share his reaction. A floodtide of humanity surged for the aisles and the exits and Cross, sixteen rows below the hospitality boxes, put his head down, grabbed the back of his seat and let it flow over him.
As the press of bodies around him eased, he pulled himself hand over hand to the middle of the row, where there were no people. He started to clamber upwards as fast as he could, wishing he hadn’t eaten so much of the delicious lamb stew Jake Andrews had served him for lunch. His stomach felt distended and tender, as if it was swollen to a drum, its contents swilling from side to side like rainwater in a discarded tyre. Fuck, he thought as he struggled upwards. Bodies everywhere and he was thinking about the state of his guts.
As Cross grew closer, he could see through the dust and smoke to the hole in the stand. Shattered concrete and twisted metal thrust out into the air, as if a giant fist had punched through from behind. Bodies lay at grotesque angles on the wreckage, most of them clearly dead, many of them lacking limbs. Through the claustrophobic ringing in his ears, he could hear the crackle of flame, the moans of the injured, the PA system begging people to leave in an orderly manner, the sound of distant sirens getting louder. He could smell blood and smoke and shit, taste them on his tongue. Carnage. That’s what he was tasting.