by Val McDermid
She walked into a low-ceilinged entrance hall. A narrow flight of metal stairs led upwards. Two doors faced her, and two more black-clad cops, one at the foot of the stairs, the other between the doors. The one by the stairs stood to one side and said, ‘Up top, ma’am.’
Feeling as if she was in a low-budget spy movie, Carol climbed the stairs, a hollow clang at every step. Another vestibule, another guard, who nodded her through another door. She walked into a spartan conference room containing a metal-topped trestle table and eight folding chairs. John Brandon sat in one; three others were occupied by men in black leather jackets over black T-shirts. Two had a pale shadow of stubble on their skulls. The third had a short fuzz of dark hair. At first glance, the only way to tell them apart was the extent to which male-pattern baldness had carved out its territory.
The one in the middle said, ‘Thanks for joining us, DCI Jordan. Have a seat.’
‘Hello, sir,’ Carol said to Brandon as she sat down next to him. She turned to the one facing her. ‘And you are?’
He smiled. It did nothing to dispel his carefully cultivated air of menace. ‘We don’t do names and ranks. Security. You can call me…David.’
‘Security? I’m a DCI. I’ve worked for NCIS. Who do you think I’m going to tell?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing personal, Carol. I know your record and I’ve got nothing but respect for you. But we operate along very strict guidelines that are there for our protection. And given the work we do, us being protected means that everybody else is better protected.’
He might work out of Manchester, but his accent said London and the Met. He had that swagger she’d learned to detest when she’d worked there. She’d bet there weren’t many women working in CTC. It wasn’t a female-friendly environment. All that macho posturing, covering up for the fact that they didn’t really have any autonomy. They might like to pretend they ran the game, but the truth was they didn’t take a toilet break without the say-so of the dedicated antiterrorist team of the Crown Prosecution Service. The men in black might deliver the menace, but they were only the message-boys for their masters in Ludgate Hill. And it was clear Brandon had no stomach to stand up to the message-boys or their masters.
‘Fine. No names, no pack drill. And if you don’t mind, we’ll skip the pep talk about how we’re all on the same side and we’re all going to work together to nail the bastards who did this. I know the rules. My team and I are at your disposal.’
He breathed heavily through his nose. ‘Glad to hear it, Carol. I’m sure your local knowledge is going to be very helpful to us. Of course, we’ve got intelligence which you haven’t about the hothead fundamentalists on your patch. We’ll be shaking the trees and seeing who falls out. We’ll…’
‘Round up the usual suspects?’ she said sweetly. ‘Actually, we might have saved you a bit of time on that already. There’s a van parked down in the Grayson Street staff and players’ car park. A1 Electricals. Just before three, a young Asian man drove in. He had what looked like authentic paperwork to carry out an emergency electrical repair in the Vestey Stand. One of the security staff took him up to the junction box room and let him in. Less than ten minutes later, the bomb went off. I think it’s reasonable to assume our van driver was also our suicide bomber.’ She took out her notebook. ‘According to the PNC, the van is registered to an Imran Begg, 37 Wilberforce Street, Bradfield.’ She closed the notebook. ‘It’s about five doors down from the Kenton Mosque. You might want to tread carefully when you go knocking.’
‘Thank you, Carol. We’ll take it from here. If there’s anything we need your people for, we’ll let you know. Meantime, I know you’ve got a high-profile murder case to be getting on with, so we won’t keep you from that. We’ve also got our own dedicated forensic team, so we’ll be releasing your people back to you once we’ve collected their evidence.’
Carol tried not to show how she was seething inside. ‘Where will you be based?’ she asked. She knew their practice was to take over a police station and evict its usual inhabitants.
‘We were just talking about that,’ David said. ‘Normally we’d take any suspects back to our dedicated suite in Manchester.’
‘However, I suggested David and his team could use Scargill Street for interviews and custody,’ Brandon said.
‘Good idea,’ Carol said. Scargill Street had been taken out of mothballs for the Queer Killer investigation seven years before and had been kept on the back burner ever since, a perpetual Cinderella waiting for the refurb. Letting the CTC loose there would keep them out of the way without creating a pool of homeless officers trying to find perches on everybody else’s already overcrowded territory.
‘And that’s fine as far as it goes, given the scale of this investigation. In Manchester, we’re tooled up for specific, targeted raids, not the kind of sweep we’re going to end up doing here. But Scargill Street isn’t wired up for the latest kit. So we’re also going to use your Major Inquiry suite at HQ,’ David said.
This time, Carol couldn’t hide her dismay. ‘So where’s my team supposed to work from?’ she demanded.
‘David’s people can use the HOLMES2 office,’ Brandon said. ‘You’re not using that for Robbie Bishop’s murder.’
He was right. The Home Office Large Major Enquiry System had been set up as a means of filtering and classifying the volume of information generated either by a series of crimes or a single wide-ranging event. Each force had its own dedicated team of HOLMES2 officers. They were highly trained, skilled officers and Carol didn’t hesitate to use them when it was appropriate. But wherever possible she relied on Stacey and her prodigious talents to manage the MIT investigations.
The problem was that now it looked as if there might be linkage between Danny Wade and Robbie, the logical next step was to set up a HOLMES2 analysis of the material produced by both inquiries. But if CTC were in there, that avenue would be closed to them. She knew this was the time to protest, but she couldn’t do that without raising something Brandon knew nothing about. And this was not the time to undermine her Chief Constable.
‘And it’ll be nice and handy when we need you to help us out,’ David said cheerily. He pushed his chair back. ‘Right, I think we’re done here for now.’ He stood up.
Carol remained seated. ‘Do we have any numbers yet?’ she asked.
David looked down at the man on his right, the one with the quarter inch of hair. ‘Johnny?’
‘Thirty-five confirmed dead so far. Another ten or so critical in hospital. Somewhere in the order of a hundred and sixty injured, ranging from lost limbs to cuts and bruises.’
Now Carol stood up and took a couple of steps towards the door. ‘Oh, by the way, I probably should have mentioned: I’ve got a couple of officers on their way to Imran Begg’s address. Obviously, I sent them out before I knew you were here. I’ll let you know what they come up with, if you’ll give me a number I can reach you on?’
David’s face betrayed nothing. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ He took a card from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and crossed the room to give it to her. All it said was DAVID and a mobile number. ‘I look forward to hearing from you, Carol. But it’s time to call off the dogs.’
She walked out with Brandon at her heels. Once they were outside, she rounded on him. ‘Do you seriously expect me to ignore this? Not to investigate the biggest crime ever to take place on my ground?’
Brandon refused to meet her eyes. ‘It’s out of our hands, Carol. Force majeure.’
She shook her head. ‘A mad world. What about identifying the dead? Talking to their families?’
‘Uniform will handle that,’ Brandon said. ‘Do what you’re best at, Carol. Go and find Robbie Bishop’s killer. Believe me, you’re better out of this shit.’ He waved his arm to encompass the stadium and the CTC trailer. He shook his head sorrowfully and walked away.
‘We’ll see about that,’ Carol muttered. John Brandon seemed to have forgotten the crucial element of what
made her the copper she was. Like Sam Evans, she was a maverick. But what motivated her, what had always motivated her, was not self-interest but a passion for justice. Something David and Johnny still had a lot to learn about. ‘The lesson starts here,’ she muttered.
The architects of the Kenton Mosque had made no attempt to have their building blend in with the surrounding area. A grid of red-brick terraces dating back to the turn of the twentieth century surrounded the off-white walls and gilt-topped minarets. ‘It never ceases to amaze me that they got planning permission for that,’ Kevin said as they drove into Wilberforce Street. ‘How do you think they pulled it off?’
Paula rolled her eyes. ‘How do you think, Kevin? The planning committee know they’d be heading straight for a shitstorm if they said no.’
‘Careful, Paula. You’re sounding a tad racist there,’ Kevin said, teasing her. He’d worked with enough racist cops to recognize one who wasn’t.
‘It’s not race, it’s religion I have a problem with. Doesn’t matter if it’s Ulster Protestants, Liverpool Catholics or Bradfield Muslims. I hate loudmouthed clerics who play the bigot card every time anyone says no to them. They create a climate of censorship and fear and I despise them for it. I tell you, I’ve never been more proud to be gay than when Parliament passed that bill outlawing discrimination on the grounds of sexuality. Who knew there was a single issue that could unite the evangelical Christians, the Catholics, the Muslims and the Jews? My small contribution to ecumenism. There’s a space up ahead on the right,’ she added.
Kevin squeezed into the parking space and they walked back past half a dozen houses, aware that they were an object of curiosity, dislike or anxiety to everyone who clocked them. In this part of Kenton, the part that hadn’t been gentrified by the invading army of hospital workers and students, they were the exotics. They stopped outside number 37, neatly painted, anonymous, net curtains at the windows. The door was opened by a small, slight woman in shalwar kameez, a dupata covering her head. She looked horrified to see them. ‘What is it? Who are you?’ she said before either of them could say a word.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Matthews and this is Detective Constable McIntyre.’
Her hands flew to her face. ‘I knew it. I knew something bad would happen if he went there, I knew it.’ She moaned and turned away, calling, ‘Parvez, come here at once, it is the police, something has happened to Imran.’
Kevin and Paula exchanged looks. What was going on?
A tall stooped man in traditional dress appeared behind the woman. ‘I am Parvez Khan. Imran is my son. Who are you?’
Kevin explained again who they were. ‘We wanted to talk to Imran Begg,’ he said.
The man frowned and looked down at the woman. ‘You said something has happened to Imran? What has happened?’ He looked at Kevin. ‘What has happened to our son?’
Kevin shook his head. ‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding. We just want to talk to Imran. About his van.’
‘About his van? What is this about his van? He doesn’t have his van with him. You’re not here because he’s had an accident?’ the man asked, obviously perplexed.
Kevin didn’t want to be the one to say ‘bomb’. So he persisted. ‘Where is Imran?’
‘He is in Ibiza,’ the woman said. ‘He is on holiday. It was a gift from his cousin Yousef. Yousef took him to the airport on Thursday morning. He called us when he got there, just to let us know he was safe. He’s not coming back till tomorrow. So if his van has been in an accident, it is not Imran’s fault.’ Her bewilderment was obviously not an act.
‘Who’s got his van?’ Kevin said, trying to cut through the confusion.
‘His cousin Yousef. They went to the airport in Imran’s van,’ the man said. ‘Yousef is supposed to pick him up tomorrow in the van.’
‘And where can we find Yousef?’ Kevin asked.
‘Downton Vale. One four seven Vale Avenue. But what has happened? Has there been an accident?’ Mr Khan looked from one to the other. ‘What has happened?’
Kevin shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’ He flashed a quick, tired smile. ‘Be grateful your boy is out of the country. Thanks for your help.’
As they turned to walk away, a white Transit van screamed round the corner and raced down the street towards them. Kevin stopped and looked over his shoulder at the frightened faces of Imran Begg’s parents. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said. ‘Come on, Paula, time we were somewhere else.’
As the black-clad armed police officers piled out of the van, they hurried back to the car. They were almost there when a voice yelled, ‘Oi. You two.’
Kevin grabbed the car door, but Paula stopped him. ‘They’re armed, Kevin. Armed and hyped.’
He grunted something incomprehensible and turned round. One of the interchangeable men in black was a few feet away from him, Heckler and Koch at the ready. The others had disappeared into Parvez Khan’s house. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he demanded.
‘DS Matthews, DC McIntyre. Bradfield Police Major Incident Team. And who the fuck are you?’
‘That’s irrelevant. We’re CTC. This is our game now.’
Kevin took a step forward. ‘I want some ID,’ he said. ‘Something to prove you’re not just some private army.’
The man in black just laughed. ‘Don’t push your luck.’ He turned on his heel and sauntered away.
Kevin stared after him. ‘Can you believe that? Can you fucking believe that?’
‘Only too easily,’ Paula sighed. ‘Are we off to Downton Vale, then?’
‘Oh, I think so. Better not tell the DCI, though. If that lot are anything to go by, it’ll be easier all round if we leave her out of the loop for now.’
It didn’t matter how many drills you did, you were never prepared for the real thing, Dr Elinor Blessing thought. A&E was a chaos of voices and bodies, the walking wounded and the triage teams, harassed nurses and stressed doctors trying to cope with whatever they were going to have to deal with next. Elinor had dealt with the only two chest trauma cases fairly swiftly. Neither was life-threatening and she had them admitted to Mr Denby’s ward as soon as they were stable. As she leaned against the wall in a quiet corner, writing up their charts, a flustered nurse caught sight of her and came over.
‘Doctor, I’ve got a man who came in on one of the Victoria Park ambulances, but I can’t make sense of his symptoms,’ he said.
Elinor, who was close enough to her training to feel reasonably confident with medical emergencies outside her speciality, pushed herself upright and followed him to a cubicle. ‘What’s the story?’
‘Paramedics brought him in. He’d been helping to rescue the injured, but he was on the point of collapse. They reckoned he might be about to arrest,’ the nurse said. ‘His pulse is all over the place. First it’s up around 140, then it’s down to 50. Sometimes it’s regular, then it’s arrhythmic. He’s been sick three times, bloody vomit. And his hands and feet are freezing.’
Elinor glanced at the chart for his name, and looked at the big man on the bed. He was conscious, but clearly in distress. ‘When did you start feeling ill, Mr Cross?’ she asked.
Before he could answer his body was seized with an uncontrollable tremor. It was over in seconds, but it was enough to convince Elinor Blessing that this was no normal cardiac ailment. ‘Start of the match. Before the bomb. My guts were griping,’ he managed to force out.
She reached out and touched his hand. In spite of the warmth in the hospital, his hands were like ice. His pale gooseberry eyes stared up at her, fear and pleading evident on his face. ‘Have you had any diarrhoea?’
He gave a faint nod. ‘Came out of me like water,’ he said. ‘Two, three times.’
Elinor ran through the mental checklist. Nausea. Diarrhoea. Erratic heart rate. Central nervous system problems. Bizarre and unlikely though it seemed, this looked like her second poisoning case in a week. And both connected to Bradfield Victoria. She gave herself a mental shake. Sometimes coincide
nce was exactly what it was, no more, no less. And sometimes poisoning was more to do with ignoring food hygiene than criminality. It wasn’t yet against the law to eat something past its sell-by date. ‘What did you have to eat at lunchtime?’ she asked.
‘Lamb kebabs. Rice with a fancy sauce with herbs.’ He was having trouble speaking. As if his mouth wasn’t quite working properly.
‘In a restaurant?’
‘No. He cooked it. Jake…’ Cross frowned. What was the name? He couldn’t grasp it. It felt too far away, just out of reach.
‘Can you remember how long ago that was?’ Elinor asked.
‘Dinner time. One o’clock, half past?’
Three hours ago. Well past the magic sixty minutes where washing out his stomach was a worthwhile option. ‘OK, we’re going to try to make you a bit more comfortable,’ she said.
She took the nurse to one side. ‘I’m not sure but I think he’s got some sort of cardiac glycoside poisoning. Digoxin or something.’
The nurse stared at her, panic widening his eyes. ‘He came in from Victoria Park. Are you saying the terrorists used some sort of chemical weapon?’
‘No, I’m not saying that,’ she said impatiently. ‘Symptoms this serious don’t start that fast. He was already poisoned before he got to the football. I need five minutes to check out the differentials just in case I’m wrong and the treatments just in case I’m right. Meanwhile, I need you to administer oxygen and set up an IV and a pulse oximeter. We need an ECG and we also need constant cardiac monitoring. Can you get that started? I’ll be back in five.’
Leaving the stunned nurse behind her, Elinor headed for the nurses’ station and a web-enabled PC. It didn’t take long for her to dismiss the differentials. The treatment was straightforward too. The administration of Fab fragments was the standard antidote to cardiac glycoside poisoning. She printed out the treatment sheet and headed back to the cubicle where she’d left Tom Cross.