Beneath the Bleeding

Sunday

Carol woke up with the low mutter of TV news in her ears. Her mouth tasted of stale wine and a needle of pain shot down her stiff neck as she tried to move. For a moment she couldn’t think where she was. Then she remembered. Carol coughed and opened her eyes. Tony was watching the TV news footage of the bombing. The newsreader was talking about the dead, their individual photographs appearing on the screen behind him. Happy, smiling faces, oblivious to their mortality. People whose death had punched holes through the lives of the living.

‘Did you get much sleep?’ Tony asked, glancing across at her.

‘Apparently,’ Carol said. They’d talked in circles through the rest of the bottle of wine, most of which she’d drunk. When she’d made a move to leave, he’d pointed out that she’d had too much wine to even think about driving. Both knew that the chances of getting a taxi in the small hours of Sunday morning in central Bradfield were low to vanishing. So he’d given her a blanket and she’d stretched out in the chair. She’d expected to doze restlessly, but to her surprise she’d woken feeling rested and alert. She cleared her throat and looked at her watch. Quarter to seven. Time enough to go home, feed Nelson, shower and change and get back in time for her morning conference.

‘Good. What are your plans for today?’ He turned the volume down on the TV.

‘Briefing with the team at eight, then I’m going to talk to Tom Cross’s widow.’ She pulled a face. ‘That’ll be fun, given how he always blamed me for his fall from grace.’ She stood up, trying to shake the creases from her trousers, not wanting to think about the state of her make-up or her hair.

‘You’ll be fine. There’s got to be a link there somewhere.’

Carol stopped midway through combing her hair with her fingers, struck by the sort of thought thrown up by the subconscious during sleep. ‘What if your crazy idea about this not being terrorism is right and this is all part of a vendetta against Bradfield Victoria?’

Tony smiled. ‘What? Alex Ferguson’s scared of what’ll happen when Manchester United come to Victoria Park next month?’

‘Very funny. Better not make jokes like that around CTC. It’s a well-known fact that you have to have your sense of humour surgically removed when you join them.’

‘I know that. I do watch Spooks.’

Carol was surprised. ‘You do? I don’t.’

‘You should. They do.’

‘I don’t think so.’ She struggled with the thought of David and Johnny doing anything as domestic as watching TV.

Tony nodded vigorously. They do, you know. That’s how they find out how far they can go.’

‘You’re trying to tell me that MI5 and CTC make their operational decisions based on a TV series?’ Carol tapped the side of her head with her forefinger. ‘Too many drugs, Tony.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you,’ he said earnestly. ‘Because they have people working for them who understand the psychology of sanction.’

‘The psychology of sanction?’ Carol’s repetition was laced with disbelief.

‘This is how it works. When they’re watching a show like Spooks, even sophisticated viewers suspend enough disbelief for the drama to work. And once that disbelief has been suspended, even a little, the viewer is conditioned to believe the real world is just like that. So it gives permission to those mad bastards in Five to push just that little bit further at the edges of the envelope.’ Tony spoke quickly, his hands gesturing.

Carol looked dubious. ‘You’re saying that what they see on the TV makes the punters accept more extreme behaviour from law enforcement?’

‘Yes. To greater and lesser degrees, depending on their credulity, obviously.’ He registered Carol’s scepticism. ‘OK, here’s an example. I don’t think there’s ever been an accredited case of an MI5 agent having their face shoved into a deep-fat fryer. But once you’ve shown that on a show with as much credibility as Spooks, even if it’s the bad guys who are doing it, you’ve created a constituency of opinion who will say, when an MI5 agent actually does shove someone’s face into a deep-fat fryer, “Well, he had to do it, didn’t he? Or they’d have done it to him.” The psychology of sanction.’

‘If you’re right, then why does anyone protest against torture? Why don’t we all just go, “Oh well, we’ve seen how well it works in the movies, let’s just go along with it”?’ Carol leaned on her fists on the edge of his bed as she spoke, her tumbled blonde hair falling into her eyes.

‘Carol, you might not have noticed, but there’s a significant number of people out there who do say just that. Look at the opposition in the US when the Senate decided to outlaw torture just the other year. People believe in its efficacy precisely because they’ve seen it in the movies. And some of those believers are in positions of power. The reason we don’t all fall for it is that we’re not all equally credulous. Some of us are much more critical of what we see and read than others. But you can fool some of the people all of the time. And when spooks and cops go bad, that’s what they rely on.’

She frowned. ‘You scare me sometimes, you know that?’

She could see the pain in his face. She didn’t think it was anything to do with his knee. ‘Yes, I know that. But I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. In my experience, when something scares you, it makes you all the more determined to beat it.’

Carol turned away, as usual made uncomfortable by his praise. ‘So you don’t think this is some kind of concerted action against the Vics?’

‘No. Because Danny Wade doesn’t fit.’

Carol sighed in exasperation. ‘Bloody Danny Wade. You and Paula between you, you could argue the hind leg off a donkey.’

Tony smiled. ‘I’ve never understood that expression. Why would anyone want to argue the hind leg off a donkey? And why a donkey, as opposed to a pig or an armadillo?’ He held up his hands to protect himself as Carol batted at him with a folded newspaper she’d snatched up. ‘OK, OK. But you know we’re right about Danny being connected.’

‘Whatever,’ she sighed, tossing the paper back on his table. ‘What I do know is that I’m going to need more than your psychological theories about targets to persuade anybody that this is not terrorism.’ She headed for the door. ‘I’ll try and swing by later. Good luck with the physio.’

‘Thanks. Oh, and, Carol? Somebody really should find out where Tom Cross went to school.’

Within minutes of Carol’s departure, the physiotherapist arrived, greeting Tony with a knowing wink. ‘Helping the police with their inquiries, were you?’ she said archly, handing him his elbow crutches. ‘I hope she hasn’t worn you out.’

‘DCI Jordan was running things at Victoria Park yesterday,’ he said in a tone that discouraged discussion. ‘I work with the police. She came round to run some things past me. And she was so exhausted she fell asleep in the chair.’ Tony knew he was being petty, but he couldn’t help himself. Whenever Carol was in the picture, he became over-sensitive to any personal references. It didn’t matter if it was his mother or a physiotherapist he was never going to see again after he left the hospital. He was always driven to set the record straight. Well, straight in technical terms, at least. The emotional context beneath the surface was nobody’s business but his.

Half an hour later, he was back in his room, tired but not exhausted as he’d been on previous days. ‘You’re doing incredibly well. You might want to get dressed today,’ the physio said. ‘See what it feels like to spend a bit of time in the chair, a bit of time moving around. Walk up and down the hall every hour or so’.

He turned the TV volume back up, keeping half an eye on it while he battled with his clothes. The news all revolved around the explosion at Victoria Park. Everything from football experts talking about the impact on the game; structural engineers speculating on the cost and the time involved in rebuilding the Vestey Stand; Martin Flanagan expressing his anger that Robbie Bishop’s farewell should have been so desecrated; friends and family of the dead talking about their loved ones; and Yousef Aziz’s brother Sanjar protesting that his brother was no fundamentalist. As Sanjar spoke against the backdrop of CTC officers removing cartons of stuff from his family home, Tony stopped wrestling with his sock and directed all of his attention to the TV.

He did not subscribe to the view that it was possible to tell the mind’s construction in the face, but years of watching people lie to him and to themselves had given him a reference library of expression and gesture that he could draw on to make his judgements about a person’s truthfulness. What he saw in Sanjar Aziz was a blazing conviction that, whatever had motivated his brother to blow a hole in Victoria Park stadium, it had not been religious fundamentalism. The CTC were stripping his home to the bricks and he wasn’t protesting about that. What was clearly driving him to distraction was having to repeat again and again what he knew to be true-his brother was not a militant Muslim. The TV interviewer wasn’t particularly interested in exploring alternative explanations for the bombing, however. All he wanted was for Sanjar to prostrate himself in apology. It was clear that wasn’t going to happen.

Tony’s attention drifted as the reporter returned them to the studio for yet another heavy-handed analysis of the consequences of the bombing for Bradfield Victoria’s season. Fan though he was, it exasperated him that this was even on the news agenda when thirty-five people were dead. What he really wanted to know was what Sanjar Aziz had to say beyond his denials. Tony had seen his frustration and couldn’t help wondering what lay behind it.

He struggled with his sock again, but failed to get it on. ‘Bugger,’ he said, reaching for the nurse call button. To hell with independence. He wanted to hear what Sanjar Aziz had to say, and he didn’t care if it cost him his independence. It was time to get off his backside and do something useful.

Carol gave her team the once over. Already they all looked as if they’d had insufficient sleep and too much coffee. Any murder inquiry provoked a kind of intensity that drove physical needs to the margins. If it went on too long, people fell apart. And so did their personal lives. She’d seen it happen too often. But there didn’t seem to be any easy way to avoid it. Officers felt impelled to work at this pitch because of the unique nature of the crime and what it meant to them as human beings. It wasn’t about emotional involvement, she thought. It was about confronting one’s own mortality. Working a murder case as hard as was humanly possible was a kind of sacrifice to the gods, a symbolic way of protecting themselves and their loved ones.

They all paid close attention as Paula reported her conversation with Elinor Blessing, making a point of the mention of the mysterious Jake or Jack. When she reached the end of her notes, Paula looked up and said, ‘I got to thinking. Our three poison victims, they all originate from Bradfield. We know Robbie Bishop and Danny Wade both grew up in Harriestown and went to school there. I wondered if that was a connection worth pursuing. So after I left the hospital, I came back here and logged on to Best Days. Tom Cross wasn’t a member, but there are a couple of dozen people his age who are. They’ve got a section called “Photographs and Memories”, and that’s where I found this.’

She produced a print-out and handed it round. ‘Someone called Sandy Hall posted this. “Does anybody else remember the time Tom Cross locked Weasel Russell in the chemistry supply cupboard then fed laughing gas through the keyhole? Funny to think he ended up a senior policeman.” And Eddie Brant replies, “I saw Tom Cross a few months ago at a rugby club dinner. I’d have known him anywhere. He’s still larger than life, full of stories. He’s retired now. He had a big win on the pools a few years back so he’s very comfortably off, he said.” So I think we can safely say that, like Danny and Robbie, Tom Cross was a former pupil of Harriestown High.’

‘You could just have asked me,’ Kevin said. ‘I went to the Double Aitch too.’

Paula looked surprised. ‘I wish I’d known,’ she said, It would have saved me a bit of time. Anyway, at least we know now that it’s a link. I don’t know what it means, or if it means anything at all, but it’s definitely something they all had in common.’

‘There’s something else they had in common,’ Kevin said. ‘They were all rich. Robbie from football, Danny from the lottery and Popeye from the football pools. Some people thought he must be on the take, to afford a house on Dunelm Drive. But he wasn’t. He just got lucky.’

‘Interesting point, Kevin. And good work, Paula,’ Carol said.

‘Do you think we should be warning former pupils of Harriestown High who have gone on to make a mint?’ Chris said.

Carol looked startled. ‘I don’t think we’ve got nearly enough to be setting the cat among the pigeons like that. Can you imagine the panic that would set in if we did that? No, we need to have a much clearer idea of what’s going on here. I’m going to see Mrs Cross this morning. Let’s see what comes out of that. Paula, can you speak to Mr and Mrs Bishop, see if Robbie knew Tom Cross? And Sam, the same thing with Danny’s family. Kevin, the phone records have just come in for Aziz’s mobile. I want you to pursue that. Also, since you’ve got the connections, get hold of the head teacher at Harriestown High and see if the school had fostered some connection between the three of them. Like you said, they were all rich. Maybe the school had been hitting them up for donations? Maybe the head had invited them over for drinks? Check it out. And Chris, I want you to take the phone over to CTC. Apologize profusely for us getting our wires crossed and thinking we’d told them about the phone. Smile a lot. See what they’ve got. And guys? I want you all to keep an open mind on the bombing. I spoke to Tony last night and he has one or two ideas that seemed pretty off the wall to me. But he’s been right before in unlikely circumstances, so let’s make sure we don’t jump to conclusions based on preconceptions and prejudice. Let the evidence do the work. And speaking of evidence, how are you getting on, Stacey?’

‘Some interesting bits and pieces…Chris asked me to check out hopefully.co.uk to see if Aziz had saved his login details on the laptop. We got lucky. The login was on the machine. But he’d booked nothing else.’ Stacey paused. She did like to keep them dangling, Carol thought, noticing the expressions of her team. And how they hated it. ‘However,’ Stacey continued, ‘I was able to dredge up a list of things on the site he’d been looking at. And what attracted the Bradfield bomber were rental cottages in Northern Ontario. I have a list.’

‘He was planning to escape to a cottage in Canada?’ Kevin expressed the incredulity Carol thought they were probably all feeling. ‘Canada?’

‘He was thinking about it, at least,’ Stacey said.

‘You wouldn’t think Canada would be the destination of choice of an Islamic fundamentalist fugitive, would you?’ Chris said.

‘They’re very tolerant, the Canadians,’ Paula said.

‘Not that tolerant. But they do have a significant population from the sub-continent, Carol said. ‘OK. Kevin, you take care of the cottages. You probably won’t be able to do much before tomorrow, but make whatever start you can. Chris, when you get back from CTC, take over the mobile numbers from Kevin.’ She smiled at them. ‘You’re all doing really well. I know we’ve got a lot on our plates, but let’s show them what we’re made of. Make sure everything you get comes across my desk.’ She stood up, signalling the end of the meeting. ‘Good luck. God knows, we need it.’

Tony couldn’t help feeling sorry for the residents of Vale Avenue. Their normally quiet suburban boulevard, with its grassy central reservation and its flowering cherries lining the verge, was under siege. Now the eyes of the world were on a street where normally the most provocative event was a dog owner allowing their pet to foul the pavement. TV vans, radio cars and reporters’ vehicles were scattered along either side of the road. Police and forensic vans formed a tight cluster round 147. Sitting in the back of the black hack-the cab he’d ordered because it had enough room for his leg-Tony wondered again at the public’s capacity for every last drop of so-called news coverage.

As well as those who had more or less legitimate reasons for being there, there were the ghouls and gawpers. Probably some of the same people who had contributed to Robbie Bishop’s shrine. People whose lives were so limited they needed the validation of being somehow part of a public event. It was easy to despise them, Tony thought. But he felt they did perform a function, acting as a kind of Greek chorus, commenting in their unconsidered way on the events of the day. Paxman might interview the great and the good, inviting their incisive insights, but the people on the pavement also had something to say.

‘Drive right up to the police cordon,’ Tony said to the driver, who did as he was asked, crawling through the knots of people, using his horn to clear a path. When he had got as far as he could, Tony struggled upright and shoved a twenty through the gap in the window. ‘Wait for me, please.’ He opened the door, then manoeuvred his crutches on to the ground. It was ungainly and painful, but he managed to struggle out on to the road. Armed officers stood at intervals across the drive and along the hedge of 147. On the pavement, Sanjar Aziz was giving another interview. He was tiring. His shoulders were starting to droop, his stance was more defensive than before. But the passion in his face was still alive. The lights went off, the interviewer gave perfunctory thanks and turned away. A look of dejection spread across Sanjar’s face.

Tony swung himself over on his crutches. Sanjar looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed. ‘You want an interview?’

Tony shook his head. ‘No. I want to talk to you.’

Sanjar screwed his face up, incomprehending. ‘Yeah, right. Talk, interview, same thing, innit?’ He was looking over Tony’s shoulder, impatient for somebody else to talk to, somebody who would listen to what he had to say, not get into a verbal fencing match with him.

Tony gritted his teeth. It was amazing how much effort it took just to stand upright, never mind standing upright and talking. ‘No, it’s not the same. The interviewers want you to say what they want to hear. I want to hear what you have to say. The thing that they’re not letting you talk about.’

Now he had Sanjar’s attention. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, his good-looking face twisted into wounded aggression.

‘My name’s Tony Hill. Dr Tony Hill. I’d show you my ID if I could,’ he said, giving his crutches a frustrated glance. ‘I’m a psychologist. I often work with Bradfield Police. Not this lot,’ he added, nodding towards the impassive riot-clad guards with a trace of contempt. ‘I think you’ve got things to say about your brother that nobody wants to hear. I think that’s frustrating you beyond belief.’

‘What’s it got to do with you?’ Sanjar snapped. ‘I don’t need no shrink, all due respect. I just want this lot–’ he gestured expansively at the media and police ‘-to understand why they’re wrong about my brother.’

‘They’re not going to understand,’ Tony said. ‘Because it doesn’t fit what they need to believe. But I do want to understand. I don’t think your brother was a terrorist, Sanjar.’

Suddenly he had a hundred per cent of Sanjar Aziz’s attention. ‘You saying it wasn’t Yousef that did this?’

‘No, I think it’s pretty clear that he did it. But I don’t think he did it for the reasons everybody is assuming. I think you can maybe help me understand why this happened.’ Tony gestured with his head towards the waiting taxi. ‘We can go somewhere and talk about it.’

Sanjar looked up at his home, where a white-suited forensic technician had just emerged with another plastic bag. He turned back to Tony, who felt he was being appraised. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to you.’

Dorothy Cross poured coffee from a silver pot into bone china cups decorated with roses whose exact shade of pink was picked up in the several patterns that adorned the walls. Two different wallpapers, one above and one below the dado rail, the curtains, the carpets, the loveseat, the two sofas and the scatter cushions each had a different pattern but they were united by toning shades of pink and burgundy. Carol felt as if she’d been sucked into one of those medical dramas where the camera journeys through internal organs. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation.

Dorothy stopped pouring and gave the two cups a critical look. Then she added a teaspoonful more coffee to one of them. Satisfied, she passed it to Carol. She pushed the silver milk jug and sugar bowl towards her then looked up with the desperate little smile of someone who is trying to keep herself from exploding into fragments. ‘It’s cream,’ she said. ‘Not milk. Tom likes cream in his coffee. Liked.’ She frowned. ‘Liked. I have to keep remembering. Liked, not likes.’ Her chin quivered.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Carol said.

The look Dorothy flashed her was sharp as a shard of glass. ‘Are you? Are you really? I thought the two of you never got on.’

Fuck. What happened to British reticence? ‘It’s true we didn’t see eye to eye sometimes. But you don’t have to be friends with someone to appreciate their worth.’ Carol could feel herself slithering around on a shiny surface of hypocrisy. ‘He was very popular with his junior officers. I’m sure you know that. And his actions yesterday…Mrs Cross, he was heroic. I hope you’ve been told that already.’

‘It doesn’t make any odds to me, DCI Jordan. What matters to me is that I’ve lost him.’ It took both hands for her to raise her cup to her lips. It was strange to see such a big, solid woman reduced to fragility. But Carol could see the signs of her unravelling. Her shampoo-and-set hair was strangely asymmetrical, her lipstick line a little smudged. ‘He filled this house with his personality, and he filled my life the same way. We met when we were only seventeen, you know. I don’t think either of us has seriously looked at anybody else since. I feel like I’ve lost half of myself. What it’s like is that whenever one of you forgets some detail from the past, the other remembers it. What am I going to do without him?’ Her eyes were bright with tears, her breath catching in her throat.

‘I can’t imagine,’ Carol said.

‘It makes no sense, you know.’ She kept touching her wedding ring with the tip of her right index finger. Again, she flashed Carol that incisive look. ‘I’m not stupid. I know there must have been plenty wanted him dead at one time or another. People he’d arrested, people he’d got across. But why now? Why seven years after he left the force? I’m sorry, I just don’t believe anybody stays angry for that long. And the sort of people he put away? They’re not poisoners. If one of them was going to come after them, it would have been a shotgun on the doorstep.’

‘I couldn’t agree with you more. I’ll be honest with you, Mrs Cross. We think this might be part of a wider investigation, but I can’t tell you what that is right now.’ Carol took a sip of the excellent coffee. ‘I know you’ll appreciate how it is.’

Dorothy looked pained, as if she didn’t like the idea of her husband’s death not being a unique event. ‘I want whoever did this to be caught and punished, DCI Jordan. I’m not bothered about any other investigation you’re dealing with.’

‘I understand that. And Tom’s death is our number one priority.’

Dorothy reared up in her seat, considerable bosom heaving, and looked down her nose at Carol. ‘You expect me to believe that? With thirty-five dead at Victoria Park?’

Carol put her cup down and looked Dorothy straight in the eye. ‘They’ve taken that away from us. That’s up to Counter Terrorism Command. We’re concentrating on Tom’s death and I have to tell you that, when it comes to investigating murder, my team has no equal.’

Dorothy subsided slightly. But being Tom Cross’s wife for the best part of forty years had left its mark. ‘They’d never have dared take the Bradfield bombing off my Tom. He’d have given John Brandon what for,’ she said, making it plain what she thought of Carol and Brandon both.

Carol told herself she was dealing with a grief-stricken widow. It wasn’t the time to debate Tom Cross’s views on policing. ‘I was hoping you could help me with Tom’s movements yesterday,’ she said.

Dorothy stood up. ‘I knew you’d want to know about it, so I looked it out for you. I’ll be right back.’ She bustled out of the room. Carol couldn’t help thinking that if there were to be a biopic of Tom Cross’s life, you’d have to cast Patricia Routledge as his wife.

Dorothy came back with a sheet of paper and handed it to Carol. While she poured more coffee, Carol read a letter from the head teacher of Harriestown High, asking Tom Cross to act as security consultant for a fundraiser. At the bottom of the letter, Cross had jotted the name Jake Andrews next to a phone number and the name of a restaurant. Beneath that, in a different pen but in the same hand, he’d written Saturday’s date, the name of a pub in Temple Fields, and ‘1 p.m.’.

‘Do you know who Jake Andrews is?’ Carol said.

‘He was organizing the fundraiser. Tom said it was going to be at Pannal Castle. Him and Jake had lunch a couple of weeks back in that fancy French place round the back of The Maltings. They were meeting in the Campion Locks pub yesterday then going on to Jake’s flat for lunch. Do you think that’s when it happened?’ Dorothy said. ‘Is Jake dead as well? Were you investigating him?’

This is the first time I’ve heard his name. Do you know his address?’

Dorothy shook her head. ‘According to Tom, they were meeting in the Campion Locks because Jake’s flat is hard to find. He told Tom it would be easier if they met in the pub then walked round to his place.’

Carol tried not to let her disappointment show. This case was full of frustrations. Every time they had something approaching a lead, it frittered out. ‘Is there anything else Tom said about Jake Andrews?’

Dorothy thought for a moment, stroking her chin in a peculiar gesture that reminded Carol of a man caressing a beard. Finally, she shook her head. ‘He said he seemed to know what he was about. That’s all. Is that when it happened?’

‘We don’t know yet. Before he met Jake-was there anyone else Tom was seeing?’

Dorothy shook her head. ‘He didn’t have time. His taxi came at half past twelve. Just right to get to the far side of Temple Fields.’

Carol couldn’t argue with that. ‘Had he had any threats? Did he ever speak of having enemies?’

‘Not specifically.’ She stroked her non-existent beard again. ‘Like I said, the people who had it in for Tom wouldn’t do anything subtle. He knew there were places he shouldn’t go in Bradfield. Places where he’d put too many of the locals away. But he didn’t live in fear of his life, DCI Jordan.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘He lived his life to the full. His boat, his golf, his garden…’ She had to stop for a moment, hand on her bosom, eyes shut. When she gathered herself together again, she leaned forward, close enough for Carol to see every line on her face. ‘You catch whoever did this. You catch them and you put them away.’

It felt strange being back inside his house. No wonder people spoke of becoming institutionalized. A week away and Tony felt as if his capabilities had been compromised. He led Sanjar into the living room and collapsed into his armchair with a surge of relief. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘As you can see, I’m not in a position to be very hospitable. This is the first time I’ve been home in a week. There won’t be any milk, but if you want some black tea or coffee, you’re very welcome to help yourself. There might even be some fizzy mineral water in the fridge.’

‘What happened to you?’ It was the first thing Sanjar had said to him since they’d left Vale Avenue. He hadn’t spoken in the cab, which Tony had been grateful for. He hadn’t anticipated how much energy the physical activity would take. But the twenty-minute cab ride had allowed him to recoup some of his resources.

‘I think the technical term is a mad axeman,’ Tony said. ‘One of our patients at Bradfield Moor had an episode. He managed to get out of his room and get his hands on a fire axe.’

Sanjar pointed at him. ‘You’re the bloke who saved them nurses. You were on the news.’

‘I was?’

‘Just on the local news. And they didn’t have no pictures of you. Just pictures of the mental case that went for you guys. You did good.’

Tony fiddled with the arm of his chair, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t do good enough. Somebody died.’

‘Yeah, well. I know what that feels like.’

‘There’s not really been any space for you to grieve, has there?’

Sanjar stared at the fireplace and sighed. ‘My parents are really fucked up,’ he said. ‘They can’t take it in. Their son. Not just that he’s dead, but that he took all those people with him. How can that be? I mean, I’m his brother. Same genes. Same upbringing. And I can’t get my head round it. How can they? Their lives are destroyed, and they’ve lost a son.’ He swallowed hard.

‘I’m sorry.’

Sanjar looked suspiciously at him. ‘What are you sorry for? My brother was a killer, right? We deserve all the shit we get. We deserve to spend the night in police cells. We deserve to have our home ripped to bits.’

The pain and anger were obvious. Tony had carved a career out of his capacity for empathy and imagination. He would have done almost anything to avoid being in the terrible place where Sanjar was. ‘No, you don’t. I’m sorry that you’re hurting. I’m sorry that your parents are suffering,’ he said.

Sanjar looked away. ‘Thanks. OK, I’m here. What did you want to know about my brother?’

‘What do you want to tell me?’

‘What he was really like. Nobody wants to hear what my brother Yousef was really like. And the first thing you need to know is that I loved him. Now me, I couldn’t love a terrorist. I hate those people and so did Yousef. He wasn’t a fundamentalist. He was barely a Muslim. My dad, he’s really devout. And he gets so pissed off with me and Yousef because we’re, like, not. Both of us, we’d find excuses not to go to the mosque. When we were kids, as soon as we were old enough, we quit going to the madrassa. But here’s the thing,’ he carried on, taking over the question Tony was trying to ask. ‘Even if we had been devout, even if we had been down the mosque every day, we wouldn’t have heard no radical shit. The Imam in the Kenton Mosque? He’s totally not into that shit. He’s the kind that talks about how we’re all sons of Abraham and we have to learn to live together. There’s no secret gangs meeting behind closed doors plotting how to blow people up.’ He ran out of steam as suddenly as he’d found it.

‘I believe you,’ Tony said, almost relishing the expression of bemused surprise on Sanjar’s face.

‘You do?’

‘Like I said earlier, I don’t think your brother was a terrorist. Which raises a question that interests me very much. Why would Yousef take a bomb into Victoria Park and blow a hole in the Vestey Stand?’ Tony deliberately didn’t mention the dead. Not that either of them was going to be forgetting the dead any time soon. But there was no need to drag them into the foreground. The last thing Tony wanted was to put Sanjar even more on the defensive.

Sanjar’s mouth twitched then set in a straight line. Time stretched out before he eventually said, TI don’t know. It makes no sense to me.’

‘I know this is going to sound kind of crazy,’ Tony said. ‘But is there any way he might have been paid to do it?’

Sanjar jumped to his feet and took a step towards Tony, hands bunched into fists. ‘What the fuck? You saying my brother was a hit man or something? Fuck. You’re as fucked in the head as those bastards saying he was some kind of fanatic.’

‘Sanjar, you don’t have to act like you’re defending the honour of the family. There’s only you and me here. I have to ask because there’s some evidence that suggests that maybe Yousef thought he was going to survive yesterday afternoon. That he was going to be able to leave the country afterwards. Now, that’s not the mindset of a suicide bomber. So I have to try and think of another explanation. OK? That’s all I’m doing.’

Sanjar paced, agitated. ‘You’ve got it wrong, man. Yousef, he was a gentle guy. He was the last man on the planet to be a hit man.’ He smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘He’d never been to no training camp. He’d never been to Pakistan or Afghanistan. Fuck, we’ve never even been to the bloody Lake District or the Dales.’ He clapped his hands to his chest. ‘We’re peaceful, me and Yousef.’

‘He killed those people, Sanjar. There’s no getting away from that.’

‘And it doesn’t make any sense,’ Sanjar moaned. ‘I don’t know how to get you to understand.’ He suddenly stopped, staring at the console table where Tony’s former laptop had been retired. ‘You got wireless? Can I turn your computer on? There’s something I want to show you.’

‘Go ahead.’

Sanjar waited for the machine to boot then navigated his way to a blog called DoorMAT-the portal for Muslims Against Terrorism. Meanwhile, Tony managed to get to his feet and cross the room. He leaned against the arm of the sofa and looked at the screen. At the login screen, Sanjar typed in an email address. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Yousef’s address. Not mine.’ At the password prompt, he typed ‘Transit350’. He looked back at Tony. ‘We always use our vehicles for our passwords. That way you don’t forget.’ Once accepted on to the site, Sanjay clicked the mouse a few times and up popped a listing of Yousef’s posts to the blog. Sanjay clicked at random.

OK, Salman31, I haven’t lived in a city where the BNP have seats on the council. But I know if I did, I would be making protests that got better headlines than the rabble on the streets in Burnley. The BNP thugs act like savages, it’s what people expect from chavs with shaved heads. Nobody thinks any worse of them, but we do the same, and suddenly we got no reputation, we should know better, ect, ect. We have to be better than them, we have to be.

‘You go through his posts, that’s what they’re like. That doesn’t sound much like a hit man, does it?’

‘No,’ Tony said, thinking how much he wanted to spend some time with Yousef’s posts when his brother wasn’t looking over his shoulder. ‘You make your point very well. So has anything changed recently? Has Yousef changed? Has there been anything different about him lately? New friends? New routines? New girlfriend?’

Sanjar’s brow furrowed in concentration. ‘He’s been a bit up and down the last six months or so,’ he said slowly. ‘Off his food, not sleeping. Up, like a geezer with a new lady, then down like she’d dumped him. Then up again. I didn’t see him with anybody, though. We’d go out together, clubbing or just for a meal with friends, and he wasn’t hanging with any of the girls in particular. I never saw him with a girl, not lately. He’d been working pretty hard too, nailing down some new contracts. A lot of meetings and shit. So he didn’t really have time for a new girl, innit?’

‘And he never said anything?’

Sanjar shook his head. ‘No. Not a thing.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Look, I gotta go. I promised my dad I would be back.’ He stood up and stretched a hand out to Tony. ‘I appreciate you listening. But I don’t think this is ever going to make sense.’

Tony searched his pockets till he finally unearthed a business card. ‘This is who I am. Call me if you want to talk.’

Sanjar pocketed it with the nearest Tony had seen to a proper smile. ‘No disrespect, like, but I don’t think I’m gonna need a shrink.’

‘I’m not a shrink. Not the way you’re thinking of it. I don’t have people lying on couches telling me about their miserable childhoods. I get too bored too easily. What I do is find practical uses for psychology. Often, I don’t know what they are till I get there. I like trying to fix what’s broken, Sanjar.’

The younger man smiled and reached for the pen and notepad beside the computer. He scribbled something and dropped it back on the table. ‘My mobile, innit? Call me if you want to talk. I’ll see myself out.’

Tony watched him go, feeling quite deeply disturbed. As Sanjar had said, same genes, same upbringing. If Yousef Aziz had been anything like his brother, Tony couldn’t imagine how he’d ended up blowing thirty-five people to kingdom come. He desperately wanted to read those blog contributions. But first, he’d better get back to hospital before they called the cops. Carol would really love that.

Kevin reckoned that Nigel Foster would never have made head teacher of the Double Aitch in his day. The man who had ruled the roost back then had the build of a prop forward and a voice like a foghorn. Foster was tall, already slightly stooped at forty-something. His polo shirt and jeans hung baggy on his thin frame. His head and neck had the defleshed look of a wasted old man. But his expression was lively, his eyes bright and watchful. He’d suggested meeting at his home, but Kevin had wanted to see the Double Aitch up close and personal. Foster had protested that it was too much hassle to disarm the building security, so they’d compromised. They’d settled on the rickety wooden stand that overlooked the football pitch. A swell of nostalgia surged through Kevin. He’d had some of his finest hours on that turf. He could still remember some of the plays. ‘I loved playing here,’ he said. ‘Not many schools had a proper spectator stand like this. You could almost believe you were doing it for real.’

‘It’s due for demolition, I’m afraid,’ Foster said in a pleasant tenor voice with traces of a Welsh accent. ‘Health and Safety. It would cost too much to fireproof it the way they want it.’

Kevin’s face twisted into a cynical sneer. ‘We mollycoddle them these days.’

‘We’ve developed a culture of blame and litigation,’ Foster said. ‘But I mustn’t waste your time. How can I help you with your investigation, Sergeant?’

It was, Kevin thought, a subtle rebuke for taking up the headmaster’s valuable Sunday. ‘Three men have died recently from a variety of poisons. We think the cases may be connected, and one of the links between them is that they are all former pupils.’

A quick flash of surprise crossed Foster’s face. ‘I knew about Robbie Bishop, of course. But there have been others?’

‘You might have missed the story, with all the news coverage of the bomb. But another man died yesterday, nothing to do with the explosion. Ex-Detective Superintendent Tom Cross.’

Foster frowned. ‘He died? I read something about him being one of the heroes of the hour.’

‘His death didn’t make the early editions. But he died from poisoning too, similar to Robbie. And a third man, Danny Wade. Also a former pupil. Also poisoned.’

‘That’s shocking. Terrible.’ Foster’s expression was troubled, like a priest who’s losing his faith.

‘The thing is, they were all rich men. And we wondered if you’d maybe brought them together for some fund-raising project? With them all being alumni…’ Kevin paused expectantly.

Foster shook his head rapidly. ‘No. Nothing of the sort.’ He gave a bitter little laugh. ‘It’s a good idea, but it never occurred to me. No, I’ve never met any of them. And as far as I know, none of them had any connection with FODA.’

‘FODA?’

‘Friends of the Double Aitch. It’s an alumni organization that organizes reunions and raises money. I’m surprised you’ve not been approached to join.’

Kevin gave him a flat, level stare. ‘Apart from the footie, it would be fair to say that these were not the best days of my life.’ Without taking his eyes off Foster, he pulled out his notebook. ‘We believe Tom Cross was lured to his death by someone purporting to be you,’ he said.

Foster literally flinched, as if Kevin had slapped him. ‘Me?’ he yelped.

Kevin glanced at the notes he’d taken from the conversation he’d had with Carol Jordan only minutes before meeting Foster. ‘A letter on what appears to be the school’s headed notepaper was sent to Cross, apparently from you, asking for his help arranging security at a charity fundraiser for the school.’ Kevin showed the phone number to Foster. ‘Is this the school number?’

Foster shook his head. ‘No. Nothing like it. I don’t recognize it.’

‘It connects to an answering machine that says it’s Harriestown High. According to Superintendent Cross’s widow, her husband left a message on the machine and someone claiming to be you called him back.’

Foster, agitated and twitchy, said, ‘No. This is all wrong. Nothing remotely like this ever happened.’

‘It’s all right, sir. We’re not treating you as a suspect. We think you’ve been impersonated. But I need to run these things past you.’ He almost wanted to pat Foster on the knee in a bid to calm his twittering.

Foster sucked his lips in and made a visible effort to pull himself together. ‘OK. I’m sorry, it’s just a little shaking to be told you’re implicated in a murder inquiry.’

‘I appreciate that. The fundraiser was supposed to be at Pannal Castle?’

‘No, this is mad. I don’t know Lord Pannal or anybody connected to him. I mean, it would be wonderful to do an event there, but no. Nothing has ever been suggested, never mind planned.’

Kevin continued without a pause. ‘Now, again according to Mrs Cross, the person claiming to be you told her husband to liaise with the event organizer, a man called Jake Andrews. Have you ever worked with anyone by that name? Jake Andrews?’

Foster breathed out heavily. ‘No. That name means nothing to me.’

Kevin, watching him carefully, saw nothing to indicate the man was lying. ‘I need you to check the school records,’ he said.

Foster nodded, his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down. ‘We’ve been computerized for a few years now, but all the old stuff is still on paper. I’ll call the school secretary. She knows where to find it. If there’s any record of this man, we’ll find it.’

‘Thanks. Sooner the better, really. We may want to come back and talk to some of your longer-serving staff members,’ Kevin said, getting to his feet. ‘One last thing–where were you yesterday lunchtime? Around one o’clock?’

‘Me?’ Foster seemed unsure whether to be angry or upset.

‘You.’

‘I was birdwatching at Martin Mere in Lancashire with a group of friends,’ he said, standing on his dignity. ‘We arrived around noon and stayed till sunset. I can supply you with names.’

Kevin fished out a card with his email address. ‘Send them there. I look forward to hearing from you.’ He gave the pitch a last lingering look, then walked away, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t often life presented him with the chance to make a teacher miserable in the course of duty. It was petty, he knew, but he’d enjoyed taking a small revenge on behalf of his sixteen-year-old self.

The Campion Locks had started life as a boatmen’s drinking house back when the canals of the north of England had shifted coal and wool back and forth across the Pennines. It was set back from the canal, near the basin where three major waterways came together. When it had been built, Temple Fields was a literal name for the area. Now, instead of animals grazing outside the pub, the Sunday-morning crowd grazed on bruschetta and bagels, calming their scrambled stomachs with eggs and smoked salmon.

As they approached, Chris checked out the eclectic mix of customers. She nudged Paula in the ribs and said, ‘Now this is a bit of all right. Jordan should send us places like this more often. We fit right in here, doll. I’ll have to bring Sinead down here one of these Sundays, remind her what young love feels like.’

‘You’re lucky you’ve got someone to remind,’ Paula said. ‘I’ve got to the point where sex feels like a past-life experience.’

‘You need to get out more. Find some gorgeous girl who’ll bring a smile to your chops.’ Chris steered a path through the drinkers milling around on the paved area beyond the tables, waiting for seats to be vacated.

That is so going to happen in this job,’ Paula said. ‘Every time I get a night off, all I want to do is sleep.’

They walked through the doors. It was almost as thronged inside, but much noisier because of the slate floors and low ceiling. ‘Speaking of which…’ Chris said. ‘How are you sleeping these days?’

‘Better,’ Paula said curtly, head down as she rooted in her bag for the photo of Jack Anderson.

‘Glad to hear it.’ Chris turned and gave Paula’s elbow a squeeze. ‘For what it’s worth, doll, I think you’re doing brilliant.’

They made it to the bar, where three bar staff and a waitress struggled to keep pace with orders for drinks and food. Chris flashed her warrant card at one of the barmen who laughed out loud and said, ‘You’ve got to be kidding. Come back in an hour when the rush has died down.’

Normally, her eagerness to get the job done would have made her remonstrate with the barman. But the sun was shining and they’d both seen too much unpleasantness in the past twenty-four hours. So much death had reminded Chris that there were times when it was important to pause and smell the flowers. So she smiled. ‘In that case, we’ll have two pints of lager shandy.’

Nursing their drinks, they found a stretch of wall facing the canal and sat companionably in the sunshine, talking in circles about the poisonings and the bombing. Gradually the crowds began to thin as people finished their drinks and headed off to make the most of the sunshine. ‘If we were on the TV, this would be the point where one of us had a penetrating insight that solved the whole case,’ Chris said, staring placidly out over the canal, where a brightly painted holiday rental narrow boat was negotiating the first of the three locks leading into the basin.

‘If we were on the TV, you’d never have bought the drinks,’ Paula pointed out. That would have been my job as the trusty but stupid sidekick.’

‘Damn, I knew I was doing something wrong.’ Reluctantly, Chris pushed herself upright. ‘Better get some work done, hadn’t we?’

There were no longer jostling crowds at the bar waiting for service. The barman saw them approach and came round the end of the bar to greet them. He looked like a student eking out his grant, his long black fringe and his wispy goatee supposedly marking him out as artistic and sensitive. He needed all the help he could get on that score, given his burly frame and budding beer gut. ‘What can I do for you, ladies?’ he said, a Welsh accent now apparent. ‘Sorry about earlier, but it gets mobbed on a Sunday lunchtime, and we can’t afford to let up. We’ve got this deal: if you don’t get your food within twenty minutes of ordering it, you don’t pay for it.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘And it comes out of our wages.’ He led them to a recently vacated table in the far corner and sat down. ‘I’m Will Stevens,’ he said. ‘I work weekends.’

They introduced themselves and Chris said, ‘Were you on yesterday lunchtime?’

Stevens nodded, twisting a chunk of his fringe round his finger. ‘Yeah. It’s not quite so crazy on a Saturday. What’s all this about, then?’

Paula spread a selection of photos on the table. ‘Do you recognize any of these men as having been in here yesterday?’

He pointed straight at the photo of Jack Anderson. ‘Him.’ Light dawned on his face. ‘He was drinking with that bloke that died after the bombing yesterday. What was his name…it’ll come to me, we were watching it this morning when we were setting up, and I went, “He was in here yesterday, I served him.” Cross, that was it. Sounds like he was a real hero yesterday.’ He paused. ‘Didn’t they say something about him being a copper before he retired?’

‘That’s right. So, he met this man-’ she pointed to the photo of Anderson ‘-in here? Lunchtime?’

‘That’s right. Cross, he was here first. He had a pint of something, I don’t remember what. Then this younger bloke, he arrived. They acted like they knew each other. He had a glass of house red. I wasn’t really paying attention to them, we were too busy. Next time I looked, they were gone.’ He tapped the photo of Jake. ‘I’ve seen him in here before. He’ll meet people in here, they’ll have one drink, then they’ll all go off together. Always the same routine. He never eats in here. I think it’s just a handy place to meet up with people. He probably lives local.’

‘I don’t suppose you know his name?’

Stevens nodded, his smile as smug as the party child who’s won Pass the Parcel. ‘I do. It’s Jake.’

‘You’re sure it’s Jake? Not Jack?’ Paula asked.

‘Jake. That’s what your Mr Cross called him. Definitely Jake.’

‘And they didn’t eat here?’

He shook his head. ‘No way. Just the one drink, then they were offski.’

Chris stood up. ‘Thanks, Mr Stevens. You’ve been very helpful.’

He looked up at them, beaming. ‘Is there a reward, then?’

There was a camaraderie among geeks that transcended other differences. Carol may have formally assigned Chris Devine to liaise with the CTC, but Stacey had already built her own connections. One of the many things beloved of geeks is back doors into other people’s systems, and Stacey had an admirable collection. When it came to swap-shop time, she always had something to trade. It didn’t hurt either that, in geek terms, she was the Mona Lisa.

She’d bonded over Aziz’s laptop with the CTC’s main geek, a rotund twenty-something with a skanky ponytail and an inadequate concept of personal hygiene. What Gerry lacked in personal charm, he made up for in his knowledge of systems and his willingness to deal. In exchange for a back door into a confidential social security database, he’d given her HM Customs and Revenue, probably the only major government access she didn’t already have. They were both well aware that what they were doing was illegal, but each was confident of their ability to stay out of jail. They were, after all, the only people in their organizations qualified to catch themselves.

Stacey hadn’t expected to need the new access quite so soon. But when Carol told her to start looking for a Jake Andrews living in central Bradfield, and Chris called to confirm that Jake Andrews and Jack Anderson were one and the same, she was pleased at the chance to play with her new toy.

What she was not pleased about was that Jake Andrews was as much an invisible man as Jack Anderson. At least there had been trace evidence of Anderson until three years before. But Jake Andrews, resident of Bradfield, had left not even a smudge on the official records. The violence of her reaction surprised Stacey herself. She’d been so sure she would be able to provide the crucial information with her unique systems access. But cyberspace had let her down. Some small-time killer had evaded her electronic spider’s web.

As pissed off as she’d ever been, Stacey marched into Carol’s office. Her boss looked up from the pile of witness statements CTC had asked her team to check. ‘Any luck?’ Carol asked.

‘He’s not on any of the records I can access. No phone. No mobile phone. No council tax. No National Insurance or tax ID. No TV licence. No car registered in his name. No passport or driving licence. No credit history. Mr Nobody, that’s who he is.’ She knew she sounded like a small child but she didn’t care.

Carol leaned back in her chair, linking her hands behind her head in a stretch. ‘I didn’t really expect you to find anything,’ she said. ‘But we had to look. If he went to all the trouble of killing off Jack Anderson, I didn’t think he’d be so obvious as to step straight into another documented ID. What’s your take on it?’

‘I think there’s a third ID,’ Stacey said. ‘He’ll have all his official stuff under that ID. He’ll use Jack Anderson when he’s luring people who might have known him at school, and Jake Andrews for anything else. And ID number three is the one that has left traces.’

‘And that’s the one we know nothing about,’ Carol sighed, getting up and walking round her desk.

‘I think it’s a fair bet he’s used the same initials,’ Stacey said. ‘It’s classic scammer behaviour. Strange but true.’

‘That’s not much use, is it? It’s not going to take us anywhere. It’s about as much use as Chris and Paula’s barman, the one who wanted a reward for overhearing a first name.’

Stacey shook her head. ‘Actually, it’s not useless. I have some pretty sophisticated search software. I built it myself. It might just get us somewhere.’

Carol looked faintly worried. It was a look Stacey was used to from her boss. ‘I sometimes think you really shouldn’t tell me all the things you can do, Stacey. OK, get cracking. Do what you can. We need to find this guy.’ She stepped out into the squad room behind Stacey. ‘Paula,’ she called. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’

The nurse bustled in with Tony’s chart and his medication, still emanating an aura of deep disapproval. ‘Oh good, you’re still here,’ she said.

He looked up from the laptop screen. ‘And there was me thinking this was a hospital, not a prison.’

‘You’re here for a reason,’ the nurse said. ‘Look at the oedema in that leg. You’re not supposed to go gallivanting when the mood takes you.’

‘The physio said I should get dressed and move around today,’ he said, obediently taking the pills and swallowing them with a glass of water.

‘She didn’t say you should leave the building,’ the nurse said severely, sticking a thermometer in his mouth and taking his pulse. ‘Please don’t disappear again, Tony. We were worried. We were afraid you’d fallen somewhere you couldn’t attract attention.’ She whipped the thermometer out. ‘You’re lucky you’re not in a worse state.’

‘Can I go off the ward if I tell you where I am?’ he said meekly. Not that he had any plans to move; his energy levels were too depleted for another adventure like this morning’s.

‘As long as you don’t leave the building,’ the nurse said sternly. ‘You’re very lucky we don’t have matrons these days. My auntie was one, you know. She’d have strung you up by your naughty bits.’ She was halfway to the door when she paused. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Your mum stopped by earlier. She wasn’t very pleased either.’

Tony felt a weight come down on him. ‘Did she say when she’d be back?’

‘She said she’d try and come by later this afternoon. Make sure you’re here, now.’

Left to himself, Tony made a fist and punched the mattress. He really didn’t want the distraction his mother would bring in her wake. He was operating well below his normal level and he needed all the acuity he could summon to focus on the bombing and the poisonings. In spite of the promise he’d made to the nurse, he thought he might be making another bid for freedom that afternoon.

But for now, he could restore his energy levels by lying here, doing nothing more strenuous than reading. He’d gone back to the blog Sanjar had taken him to. Reading through all Yousef Aziz’s posts had been fascinating. Here was a young man, intelligent but not articulate enough always to express himself clearly. Quite a few of his posts were made in response to people who had misunderstood a previous point because he hadn’t managed entirely to say what he meant.

The overall picture Tony formed was of someone who was frustrated at the inability of people to coexist peacefully. Aziz respected other people’s views; why couldn’t everyone see that was the sensible way to live? Why did some people seem to have such a big investment in conflict?

On his first pass through the posts, nothing struck Tony. But when he re-read the earlier posts with the later ones still fresh in his mind, he sensed something different. He went back and forth a few times, almost at random. He was right. There was something going on there. Something that chimed with what Sanjar had told him. Now he was definitely going to have to make a break for it.

It took more than a major bomb attack to stop premiership football. So Paula discovered when she turned up on Steve Mottishead’s doorstep to talk about the old school mate whose photo he’d sent to the police. ‘I’m watching the game,’ he said petulantly. ‘It’s Chelsea v Arsenal. I told you all I know about Jack Anderson when I spoke to you before.’

‘We can talk while you watch, can’t we?’ Paula smiled sweetly.

‘I suppose,’ he said, grudgingly holding the door open and letting her in. Steve Mottishead’s house was a former council property on the edge of Downton. The rooms were on the small side, but the house butted on to the golf course that formed the natural boundary between Moortop and Downton so the views from the through lounge he led her into were spectacular.

Paula was the only one interested in the view, however. Sprawled on the sofa in front of a vast TV were two other men who were definitely brothers under the skin. All three wore England shirts, tracksuit bottoms and big fat trainers. Each clutched a can of Stella Artois and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. This sporting life, Paula thought, picking her way across extended legs to the far end of the room where there was a rickety dining table and four spindly chairs.

‘I’ll need binoculars to see the game from here,’ Mottishead complained, scratching his belly as he sat on a chair Paula would have sworn couldn’t take his weight. He plonked his can on the table and took his cigarettes from his pocket. ‘I don’t suppose you’re allowed to have a beer while you’re working?’ He lit up, making Paula long for one herself. But she tried not to smoke during interviews, even when the punter did. She worried it could make her look weak and dependent.

‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’m surprised the game’s on after yesterday,’ Paula said.

‘It’s football, love,’ one of the others said. ‘Spirit of the Blitz. What made this country great. Two minutes’ silence then the show must go on. No fucking Paki bomber’s going to put a stop to our national game.’

‘He doesn’t mean it like that,’ Mottishead said. ‘It’s just that we’re all upset about what happened yesterday. We were there, like.’

‘Yeah, we were,’ his mouthy mate said. ‘So why aren’t you out there finding that bastard bomber’s mates instead of bothering Stevie?’

‘Because I’m too busy trying to find who killed Robbie Bishop,’ Paula said. ‘I’d have thought you’d approve of that.’ Her aggressor harrumphed and pointedly settled back into his game. Paula turned back to Mottishead. ‘I appreciate what you told us before. And it was very helpful. But what I want you to tell me is what Jack Anderson was like. Not the facts of his life, but his personality. What sort of lad he was.’

Mottishead scratched his stubbly head and grinned. ‘He was up for anything, Jack. After his dad died, it was like he went off his head a bit. Like he had to get everything crammed in before he died. He was shocking with the lasses-if they wouldn’t shag him, he dropped them like a hot potato. And if they did shag him, he’d get bored in a few weeks and dump them anyway. I heard tell he was into all sorts-threesomes, bondage…you name it, he’d have a crack at it. And if he liked it, he’d do it again. Drink, fags, drugs-he had to be the first to try everything that was going the rounds. It was like the brakes came off when his dad died, and they never went back on again.’

He sounded like a prince, Paula thought. Lucky for him their paths had never crossed. ‘Didn’t anybody try to get him to calm down? His mum? Teachers?’

Mottishead pushed his lips out and shook his head. ‘His mum was in a world of her own half the time. Looking back, I think she was popping Valium like Smarties. And the teachers weren’t interested in owt that happened outside the classroom. Jack was too smart to let his schoolwork go down the drain. He knew getting some qualifications was the only sure way to get out of Bradfield. And he wanted out.’

‘Did he ever talk about how he was going to get out? Did he have a career in mind?’

‘He never said what he was going to do for a living. He always said how he was going stratospheric. He was going to leave the likes of us behind and go all the way to the top.’ His forehead creased with the effort of memory. ‘One time, I remember, we were having a General Studies class and we were talking about ambition. And the teacher was going on about how that Tory bloke, what’s his name, Tarzan they called him…’

‘Michael Heseltine?’

‘That’s the one. Well, apparently when he was a lad, he wrote down a list of what he was planning for his future. Top of the list was Prime Minister. Well, he never made that but he got bloody close, and he did all the other things on the list. The teacher’s going on about this, and about setting goals. And we’re all thinking, “Get a job, get a girlfriend, get a season ticket for Victoria Park.” But not Jack. He’s writing down stuff like, “Get a Ferrari. Own a house on Dunelm Drive. Make a million by the time I’m thirty.” We all laughed at him, but he was serious.’

‘Sounds pretty ambitious,’ Paula said.

That was Jack.’ Mottishead turned serious. ‘If you’re thinking Jack killed Robbie Bishop, I won’t be the one on the telly going, “I can’t believe it.” The road that Jack was on all those years ago? Murder would just be another taboo to walk all over. And he’d make a bloody good job of it. You’d have your work cut out to catch him, never mind to put him away.’

Paula felt herself shiver. This team he used to do the pub quiz with? The Funhouse? Did they all work together?’

‘No, they’d got together because they all play those online games. You know, I’ll be a wizard and you be a dwarf and we’ll have a fight? Anyhow, they’d worked out they all lived local and they decided to get together for the pub quiz. Nice blokes, but a right bunch of anoraks apart from Jack. He didn’t really fit in with them. Mind you, he never really fitted in anywhere. For all his antics, he never really had proper mates. Just people to do the mad stuff with.’

‘And you’ve no idea where he is now?’

‘Not a Scooby. Sorry. I asked around after I spoke to you the other day, but nobody’s seen hide nor hair of him for years.’

‘I don’t understand that,’ Paula said. ‘We believe he’s got a flat in Temple Fields. We think he was in Amatis the night Robbie was poisoned. He must be out and about. I can’t believe nobody’s seen him around.’

Mottishead took a swig from his can. ‘Maybe that’s because he doesn’t live there. A lot of those fancy flats in the city centre, they’re just crash pads for rich sods that live some other place. Maybe Jack made it after all. Maybe he just comes to town when he’s got somebody to kill.’

Hands and shoulders aching from the crutches, Tony made his way down the third-floor corridor. He didn’t remember it being this far from the lift to the MIT squad room. But then the hospital corridor also seemed to have stretched since that morning.

He’d lied to the nurse. He’d said he was going down to the café on the ground floor to do some reading accompanied by decent coffee, and not to expect him back for a while. The truth was he worked best when he could talk and listen to the team face to face. He wanted to show Carol Yousef Aziz’s blog posts, because he didn’t think he could convince her without showing her what he meant. And as much as these things, he wanted to avoid another destructive encounter with his mother.

He was disappointed when he walked in to find the only person around was Stacey. Not that he had anything against Stacey. It was impossible not to respect her abilities. He knew from past experience how vital her skills had been to the team’s success. There were people walking around Bradfield who wouldn’t be if it hadn’t been for Stacey’s intimate understanding of silicon and cyberspace. It was just that she’d never quite mastered human communication. He always felt awkward around her, perhaps because he could understand how his own social skills might have been that stunted if he hadn’t worked so hard at passing for human.

Tony swung across the room, smiling as Stacey looked up. Her eyes widened and she jumped to her feet, placing a second chair behind her desk. He sat down gratefully, unslinging his computer bag from across his body. ‘We didn’t know you were coming in.’ He knew it wasn’t meant to be an accusation, but it sounded like one.

‘I was getting stir crazy,’ he said. ‘And besides, this is where I belong at a time like this.’

‘It’s good to have you back,’ she said with all the animation of a talking doll. ‘How’s your knee?’

‘Incredibly uncomfortable. Sometimes very painful. But at least I can get around with this leg brace and the crutches. But I need to take my mind off my leg, which is why I’m here. Do you know if DCI Jordan’s due back?’

‘She’s in a meeting with the Chief Constable,’ Stacey said, already staring at the screen, far more interested in that than in him. ‘She went off about twenty minutes ago. She didn’t say when she’ll be back.’

‘OK, I’ll wait. I need to talk to her about Yousef Aziz.’

Stacey sneaked a quick glance at him. ‘You’re working on the bombing?’

‘And the other stuff. What are you on?’

Stacey gave him a little smile, like a cartoon cat who’s just done something horrible to the dog. ‘I’d rather not say how, but I’ve got all the data from the First Fabrics computer.’

‘First Fabrics?’

‘Yousef Aziz’s family textile business. I’ve printed out all the correspondence and sent Sam off to find a quiet corner to read it in. He’s better at picking up the human interface stuff than I am,’ she said.

‘Did you just take the piss out of yourself?’ Tony said.

She flicked a quick glance his way, a twinkle in her eye. ‘I may be a cyborg, but I still have a sense of humour.’

Tony acknowledged her response with a mock salute. ‘So what are you looking at?’

‘The financials.’

‘And?’

‘It’s stupendously dull, for the most part. They buy textiles from half a dozen different sources, they sell on finished garments to a couple of middlemen.’

‘Middlemen? I don’t understand.’

Stacey took her hand off the mouse. ‘Rag trade 101. The end user is the retailer. They have suppliers who are in effect the wholesalers. The retailer tells the wholesaler what they want to buy and what price they’re prepared to pay for it. The wholesaler goes to the middleman and tells him what the order is. The middleman parcels out the order to the manufacturers. Who may not be in this country. Or, who might be illegal sweatshops. Some legit manufacturers, like First Fabrics, also do their own samples, which they pass up the line to try and get orders for.’

‘It seems…over-complicated?’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But apparently that’s the way it works. And every step of the way, there are profits to be taken. You buy a shirt in a shop for twenty-five quid, the chances are the manufacturer didn’t get more than fifty pee. So the machinists have to make a lot of shirts so their bosses can stay in business.’

‘Aren’t you glad you’ve got a skill that earns more than sewing shirts?’ Tony said, sighing.

‘You bet. Anyway, like I said, that’s what First Fabrics does. Buy cloth, make clothes. Sell clothes to one of two middlemen. At least, that’s what they did until about six months ago.’

Tony’s attention quickened. Anything relating to Yousef Aziz six months previously interested him. ‘What happened then?’

‘This company appears in the accounts. B&R, they’re called. They’re paying more per item than the middlemen. From what I can figure out, the price B&R are paying First Fabrics is roughly half way between what a middleman would pay and what a wholesaler would pay the middleman.’

‘And this started six months ago?’

Stacey clicked with her mouse and brought up a new screen. She swung her monitor round towards Tony. ‘There.’ She pointed to a ledger entry. ‘First time they show up.’

‘So who are B&R?’ he asked.

Stacey tutted. ‘I don’t have access to Companies House database, and they don’t issue detailed information like directors and company officers on a Sunday. All I have is a registered address, which is an accountant’s office in north Manchester, and the nature of the business.’

‘Which is?’

‘Garment wholesaler.’

‘So for some reason, six months ago, First Fabrics discovered the joy of cutting out the middleman?’

‘That’s about the size of it, yes.’

He could sense her impatience to continue with her work. ‘That’s really interesting. Now I need to make a phone call.’ He pushed off with his good leg and the wheeled chair scooted a few feet away. He swung round so his back was to Stacey, then dialled the number Sanjar Aziz had given him. The phone was answered on the third ring. But not by Sanjar.

‘Hello,’ said the voice. Deep, Mancunian and cautious.

‘Is this Sanjar Aziz’s number?’ Tony said, equally cautious.

‘Who’s calling?’

‘This is Dr Tony Hill. Who am I talking to?’

‘Mr Aziz is not available right now. Can I take a message?’

‘No message,’ Tony said and ended the call. He was about to ask Stacey how to find out whether Sanjar Aziz had been arrested when Kevin walked in with a sheaf of papers.

‘Hiya, Tony,’ he said, looking genuinely pleased to see him. He perched on a desk opposite and ran through the usual questions about the mad axeman and the knee. ‘You here to give us a hand?’

‘I hope so,’ Tony said. ‘I need to talk to Carol. And you? What are you working on?’

‘This and that. I went to see the Double Aitch’s headmaster. All three of the poison victims went there, but the head says he’s never met any of them and he didn’t set up the trap that reeled Popeye in. For what it’s worth, I think he was telling the truth.’

‘Wait a minute. What trap?’

Kevin outlined what Cross’s widow had told Carol. ‘He’s not leaving much to chance, is he?’ he concluded.

Tony looked thoughtful. ‘No,’ he said. But his mind was racing. Sophisticated, elaborate. You’ve lined up your targets in advance. You take risks, but they’re carefully calculated in advance and you do everything you can to minimize their effects. You like connection with your victims but you don’t need to see them die. I think you’ve planned this whole campaign out in advance, beginning to end, and you’re methodically working your way through it. And I don’t understand what’s in it for you. What’s the pay-off here? He sighed. ‘None of which takes us much further forward. So, what are you up to now?’

‘Aziz’s mobile.’ We got the call records this morning and I’ve been shut in a cupboard checking out all the numbers.’

‘Anything interesting?’

Kevin shook his head. ‘Mostly business and family. A few mates, but we already had their names. There’s only one thing that looks a bit dodgy.’ He pointed out a number to Tony. ‘It’s a pay-as-you-go phone bought with a false name and address. Those fucking phone shops would sell a phone to Osama bin Laden if he walked in with the cash. They’re supposed to ask for ID, but do they buggery. Anyway, as you can see, there’s a lot of calls and SMS traffic between the two phones. Unfortunately, Aziz erased all the texts. I tried ringing it, but nobody’s home.’

‘When did these calls start?’ Tony asked.

‘Dunno. Aziz only got this phone six months ago. The calls are there more or less from the beginning.’

Again, the magic six months. Before Tony could say more, the door swung open and Carol walked in, speaking over her shoulder to someone in the corridor. When she turned and spotted him, she shook her head in obvious despair.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said. ‘Did they discharge you already?’

‘Not as such,’ he said. ‘I wanted to talk to you, and I wanted to avoid my mother. You know?’

‘Will you excuse us, Kevin? Unless you have something that won’t wait?’ Kevin backed off and headed for his own desk. Carol pushed his chair further away from Stacey and pulled up another next to him.

‘Are you crazy?’ she said. ‘They keep you in hospital for a reason, you know.’

‘You sound like the nurses.’

‘Well, maybe they’re right, did you consider that?’

He rubbed his jaw. ‘I need to be working, Carol. It’s all I know. I don’t do smelling the flowers.’ He saw the spark of understanding in her eyes. She’d once spent three months trying not to do her job. It hadn’t healed her. It had nearly finished her. Nobody knew that better than him. He pointed to his computer bag on Stacey’s desk. ‘I have something I want you to look at. I think I’m seeing something, but I’m not sure if it’s just that I want to see it.’

Carol fetched the laptop and waited while Tony opened the file he’d made of Yousef Aziz’s blog posts. ‘Where did you get this?’ Carol asked.

‘Sanjar Aziz showed it to me, he said, distracted by the screen.

‘When did you talk to Sanjar Aziz?’

This morning. There, have a look at that.’

Carol put a hand on his arm. ‘You know the CTC have brought him in for questioning?’

He stared at the keyboard, head bowed. ‘That’s what I was afraid of.’ He squeezed the bridge of his nose. ‘He’s no more a terrorist than his brother was.’

‘Yes, well, there’s a lot of people round here who wouldn’t agree with your assessment,’ Carol said. ‘His brother did blow up a football stadium, Tony. It’s not unreasonable of them to bring him in.’

‘Why didn’t they do it yesterday?’

They were trying not to inflame the Muslim community. His brother was dead, his parents and his younger brother were in distress, he wasn’t going anywhere.’

‘So why now? They’ve got a funeral to arrange. When’s that going to be? Tomorrow? Are they going to let him out in time to bury his brother?’ His voice was rising and Carol put her hand on his arm again.

‘Did Aziz tell you anything useful?’

Tony told her what had passed between them and what he thought he had seen in Aziz’s blog posts. ‘I think I can see a shift in his position. He starts off talking about how we should all learn to live together in respect. His tone is more despairing than angry. It’s like, I can see this, why can’t our leaders, why can’t everybody else? But gradually, it changes. By the end, he sounds much more angry. Like he’s taking it personally that there are these cultural and religious conflicts that mess up people’s lives. Look, I’ll show you what I mean.’ He started moving back and forth between posts, pointing out examples of what he meant. After they’d gone through a dozen or more, he looked anxiously at Carol’s face. His confidence, he realized, was nearly as messed up as his leg. ‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know. I see what you’re getting at, I’m just not sure if it’s significant. I’m not even sure where we’re going with this. Because if Yousef Aziz wasn’t a terrorist, then there’s not a terrorist cell and we’re all wasting our time.’

‘CTC are, but not necessarily you,’ Tony said. ‘There could be something else going on. Maybe he was hired to deliver the bomb but something went wrong. Maybe he was blackmailed into it, his family threatened. It may not have been terrorism, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other people out there involved in this. We should be looking at victims, Carol. That’s where we always start. Who died? Who were they? Who gained from their death? I need victim information, Carol. That’s what I need right now.’ He was so fired up he didn’t register the new arrivals.

‘And who’s this, Carol?’ the shaven-headed man in the black leather jacket said.

Tony frowned, cocking his head back to take in the newcomer’s full height and breadth. ‘I’m Tony Hill,’ he said. ‘Dr Tony Hill. And you are?’

‘That’s none of your business, really,’ he said. Then, to Carol, ‘What is he doing here? There’s nothing for your tame profiler to do on this one.’

Carol turned to Tony. This is David. He’s with CTC, as you’ve no doubt worked out for yourself. I’m told they don’t do manners.’ She stood and faced up to David. ‘He’s not working on this one. He’s working on another one. It may have escaped your notice, but we’ve got a poisoner on our patch. That’s what Dr Hill is helping us with.’

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t involve getting anywhere in a hurry,’ David said. ‘Mind you, from what I’ve heard of your exploits, it’s probably just as well you can’t get around. Carol, say goodbye. We need you next door.’ He turned on his heel and walked out.

‘Christ,’ Carol exploded. ‘What is it with those people?’

‘He almost certainly has a small penis,’ Tony said. ‘And he’s most likely read the briefing paper I did for the Home Office on what CTC should consist of.’ He smiled sadly. ‘If they’d listened, it wouldn’t be run by people like him.’ He winked at her and was relieved to hear her snort of laughter.

‘Come on, I’ll walk you to the lift,’ she said.

‘You’re sending me away?’ he said.

‘Yes, but not because of that twat. Because you should be in bed. You look like shit. I’ll try to come and see you later.’ She helped him to his feet and walked ahead of him so she could open the door. They moved slowly down the hall, Tony conscious that his energy was dwindling fast. ‘By the way,’ she said. ‘You asked me where Tom Cross went to school. Paula had already checked it out. Harriestown High. So there’s your link, I guess.’

‘Yes, Kevin told me. That’s one link,’ he said, leaning against the wall by the lifts.

‘There’s more?’

‘Luck, Carol. They were all lucky.’

Carol looked incredulous. ‘Lucky? They were all poisoned. They died horrible deaths. How is that lucky?’

The lift arrived and Tony staggered in. The luck came first. And I think it might be what got them killed.’

It was late and Carol was tired of CTC’s antics by the time she made it to the hospital. The night nurse tried to say something to her as she shot past, but she was in no mood for conversation. She knocked softly on Tony’s door and opened it quietly, hoping not to disturb him if he was sleeping. If he was out cold, she’d just leave the bundle of print-outs relating to the stadium bomb victims and go.

There was a pool of light over his bed table, and Carol could see Tony’s hand holding a pen, resting on top of some papers. He was groggy from drugs and sleep, his head lolling on his shoulder. But his were not the only hands on the table. Holding the papers still, guiding his hand to the right place was a perfectly manicured claw with scarlet talons.

‘Good evening, Mrs Hill, Carol said loudly.

She tried to snatch away the papers, but Carol was too quick for her. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Vanessa demanded. ‘This is none of your business.’

Carol snapped on the overhead light. Tony blinked furiously as he came round. ‘Carol?’ he said. She was too busy scrutinizing the papers Vanessa had been trying to get him to sign. Vanessa herself was lunging at Carol, edging round the bed all the while, desperate to get her hands on the papers.

‘I should remind you that I’m a police officer, Mrs Hill,’ Carol said in the tone of voice she normally reserved for the more contemptible of the criminals she dealt with. ‘Tony? What do you think these papers are? The ones your mother is trying to get you to sign?’

He rubbed his eyes and struggled to sit up. ‘It’s to do with my grandmother’s house. I half-own it. I need to sign the papers so we can sell it.’

‘Your grandmother’s house?’ Carol wanted to double-check before she delivered what she suspected would be a bombshell.

‘Yes.’

‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying,’ Vanessa protested.

‘I do so,’ he said, stroppy as an over-tired toddler. ‘You’ve been on at me to sign them ever since you tracked me down in here.’

‘And was your grandmother called Edmund Arthur Blythe?’ Carol said, feigning an innocence that was calculated to infuriate Vanessa.

‘How dare you,’ she hissed at Carol.

‘What?’ Tony said. ‘Who’s Edmund Arthur Blythe?’

Vanessa lunged at Carol again and she straight-armed her away without a moment’s compunction. Vanessa staggered back, hitting the wall. She stood there for a moment, face stricken, hands to her mouth. Then she slid down the wall like a drunk and huddled on the floor. ‘No,’ she moaned. ‘No.’

Carol stepped over to the bed and said, ‘Someone who thought he was your father.’