Beneath the Bleeding (17 page)

The unmistakable snap of a lighter, then the inhalation of smoke. ‘Isn’t this where I’m supposed to say, “It’s all right, nothing’s personal in a murder investigation”?’ Bindie said in a passable American accent.

There was, Carol thought, no easy answer to that one. ‘I think it’s more that nothing’s private in a murder investigation. We need to find out everything we can about our victims, even if it turns out to be completely irrelevant. We’re not being prurient. Just prudent. She tutted at herself. ‘I’m sorry, that sounded glib. It wasn’t meant to be. I mentioned my colleague, the psychologist. He always reminds me that you can never know too much about the victim of a murder. So I hope you’ll forgive me for what might feel like prying.’

‘It’s OK, I’m kind of hiding behind flippancy. Fire away with your questions, I’m not going to take offence.’

Carol took a breath. There was no point in coyness here. ‘Did Robbie like anal sex?’ she asked.

A surprised snort of laughter exploded down the phone. ‘Robbie? Robbie take it up the arse? You have got to be joking. I tried to talk him into it, but he was totally convinced that any straight man who liked pegging was a secret gay.’

‘Pegging?’ Carol felt ancient and out of touch beside Bindie.

‘You know.
Bend Over Boyfriend
stuff. Shagging your bloke with a dildo. It’s called pegging.’

‘I’d not heard the term before.’

‘That’ll be living up North,’ Bindie said. Her tone said she was teasing, but Carol felt hopelessly provincial nonetheless. ‘My ex, the guy I was with before Robbie, he was really into it. I still have the harness and the dildos and all the gear. I tried to get Robbie to go for it, but honestly, you’d think I was suggesting we went out and found some stray dogs to shag. He didn’t even like having a finger in his arse when we were fucking.’

‘We found a butt plug in his bedside table drawer,’ Carol said neutrally.

A moment’s silence. ‘That would be mine,’ Bindie said. ‘It’s all right, I don’t want it back.’

‘Right,’ Carol said. ‘Thanks for being so frank with me.’

‘No problem. Now, what was the personal question?’ Bindie gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Sorry. I told you I was being flippant. Why do you want to know what Robbie liked to do in bed?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you details of an ongoing investigation,’ Carol said, aware she wanted to give Bindie something in return. ‘We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry. But I’ll be honest, it’s a slow process.’

Time’s not the issue, Chief Inspector,’ said Bindie, never more serious than now. The issue is catching the fucker who did this.’

Imran opened and closed the drawers in his bedroom once again. That made five times, Yousef reckoned. ‘You gotta have everything you need by now, man,’ he said. ‘You checked a million times already.’

‘Easy for you to say. I don’t want to get to the airport and bang, no iPod. Or get to Ibiza and find my number one Nikes are still under the bed here, know what I mean?’ Imran dropped to the floor and raked an arm under the bed.

‘You’re not going to get to the airport at all if you don’t get your arse in gear,’ Yousef said. That’s a clapped-out Vauxhall van you’ve got, not the Batmobile.’

‘And it’s not like you’re Jeremy Clarkson, cousin.’ Imran bounced back on his feet again. ‘OK, I’m sorted.’ He zipped up his holdall, still looking mildly uncertain, patted his pockets. ‘Passport, money, tickets. Let’s get gone.’

Yousef followed Imran downstairs and waited patiently while he said goodbye to his mother. Anyone would think he was going for a three-month trek in the Antarctic, not a three-night freebie to Ibiza. Eventually, they managed to get out of the house. Imran tossed the van keys to Yousef. ‘You might as well get used to it while I’m there to sort out any problems,’ he said. ‘Sometimes the clutch sticks a bit, know what I mean?’

Yousef didn’t care about the clutch. What he cared about was taking possession of a van that had ‘A1 Electricals’ emblazoned along the side. ‘Whatever,’ he
muttered, starting the van and slamming it into first. The stereo cut in, blasting out some Tigerstyle drum and bass remix so loud it made Yousef flinch. He reached for the volume control and turned it right down. ‘Cut it out, Imran,’ he complained. ‘My ears.’

‘Sorry, man. Them Scottish soldiers know how to hit it.’ Imran punched him gently on the shoulder. ‘Man, I’m gonna hear some great sounds in Ibiza. I really appreciate this, cuz.’

‘Hey, it’s cool. I mean, clubbing’s never been my thing,’ Yousef said. As soon as he’d realized their plan would be made much easier if he could lay hands on a proper tradesman’s van, he’d known his cousin Imran was the answer. The question then became how to separate Imran and his vehicle for two or three unsuspecting days. They’d talked it over a few times, trying to come up with a plan that would work, then Yousef had his brainwave. It wasn’t uncommon for customers and suppliers to hand out freebies, supposedly to encourage loyalty. Neither Yousef nor Sanjar was big into the club scene, but Imran loved to dance the night away. Yousef could pretend that he’d been given a three-day clubbing break in Ibiza then pass it on to Imran as a gesture of goodwill. Imran would be in Ibiza, and Yousef would have access to the van. It had worked like a dream. Imran had been so chuffed that he hadn’t even thought to question why they were going to the airport in his van rather than Yousef’s. Now, ‘You’re welcome, man,’ Yousef said. And he meant it.

‘Yeah, but, I mean, you could have sold it on to somebody, made some readies.’ Imran rubbed fingers and thumb together.

‘Hey, you’re family.’ Yousef half-shrugged one shoulder. ‘We should be there for each other.’ He felt a twinge of guilt. What he was planning would drive a stake through the heart of his family. It would twist the kaleidoscope and create a completely different picture of his actions. He didn’t think any of his relatives would be praising his family spirit any time soon.

‘Yeah, that’s what everybody says, but when it comes to putting money in their pockets, it’s a different story,’ Imran said cynically. ‘So yeah, I’m totally impressed with you, cuz.’

‘Yeah, well, you take it easy out there.’

‘I’ll be cool.’ Imran’s fingers crept towards the volume knob. ‘Just a little bit, yeah?’

Yousef nodded. ‘Sure.’ The music filled the van. Even at low volume, the bass reverberated in his bones. There were only two years between him and Imran, but he felt like his cousin was still a kid. He’d been like that himself not so long ago, but he’d changed. Things had happened to him, things that had made him grow up and take responsibility. Now, when he looked at Imran, he felt like they were from different generations. Different planets, even. It was amazing how someone else’s interpretation of the world could lead you to question what you’d taken for granted all your life. Recently, Yousef had come to understand the way the world really worked and it made a nonsense of pretty much everything he’d been encouraged to believe in.

‘Only thing I feel bad about is missing the match on Saturday, innit? It’s gonna be a big deal, saying goodbye to Robbie. Is Raj going?’

Yousef nodded. ‘Wild horses, man. You’d think it was me or Sanjar had died, not some football player.’

Imran reared back in his seat. ‘Whoa, that’s heresy, cuz. Robbie wasn’t just “some football player”.’ He signed the inverted commas in the air with his fingers. ‘He was
the
football player. Home-town boy turned hero. We loved Robbie, I tell you. Loved him. So you tell Raj, say goodbye to Robbie from me.’

Yousef rolled his eyes. Had the world gone mad? Hysterical grief over Robbie Bishop, and not a hair turned over the daily death tolls in Iraq and Palestine and Afghanistan. Something had gone badly wrong with their values. He couldn’t pretend that he’d been the world’s most perfect Muslim, but at least his thinking had never been as twisted as Imran’s.

Imran fell silent, his fingers beating time on his denim-clad thighs, his Nikes tapping on the rubber floor mat. It kept him occupied the rest of the way to Manchester Airport. Yousef pulled up in the drop-off zone outside Terminal One, keeping the engine running while Imran grabbed his bag and got out. He stuck his head in the door. ‘Be cool, Yousef. See you Monday.’

Yousef smiled. He wouldn’t be seeing Imran on Monday. But there was no need to tell his cousin that.

Tony drifted up from a delicious sleep. Delicious because it came from genuine exhaustion, not a drug-induced escape. Who knew it could take so much energy to get out of bed, move three metres into a bathroom clutching a walking frame, pee and then get back to bed? When he’d slumped back on the
pillows, he felt as if he’d climbed a small mountain. The physio had been happy with his progress; he’d been delirious. She’d promised him elbow crutches tomorrow. The excitement was almost too much for him.

He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and woke the laptop from its hibernation. Before sliding into sleep, he’d set up a final array of searches but he’d been out for the count before it finished. He hadn’t been optimistic; he’d even begun to accept that he might not find what he was looking for. That didn’t mean it wasn’t there, just that it was too well hidden.

The screen cleared and to his surprise, a little box in the middle of the display read, ‘(1) match found’. The brackets meant that the match wasn’t perfect but that it was over 90 per cent congruent with the terms of his search. Wide awake now, Tony summoned the search results.

It was a story from a free newspaper covering the west side of Sheffield. There wasn’t much detail, but there was enough to give Tony pause for thought as well as material for further detailed searches.

Eagerly, he typed in a new set of parameters. This was going to be interesting. It looked as if he might just have something to show Carol after all.

Sam Evans left his jacket hanging on his chair and strolled out of the office as if he had nothing more pressing on his mind than a trip to the toilet. Once the door closed behind him, however, he picked up speed and headed for the lifts. He descended to the car park and got into his car. Out came the mobile and he dialled Bindie Blyth’s number.

She answered on the second ring. When he identified himself, she groaned. ‘Not more questions. I’ve already had your DCI on this morning.’

Sweat popped out on Sam’s forehead. What if he’d called earlier, before Carol Jordan? How would he have explained himself to the woman who already had him marked down as too much of a maverick? Shit, he had to be careful with this stuff. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been bothered twice. We each have our own lines of inquiry,’ he said, hoping to Christ he wasn’t about to cover the same ground as his boss.

‘Well, that’s a relief. I didn’t fancy a second excursion into the wilder reaches of my sex life. So, how can I help you, Detective?’

‘Back in February, you wrote an email to Robbie about some guy that was bothering you. Turning up to gigs. Minor stalker stuff. Do you remember?’

Bindie groaned. ‘Do I remember? It would be hard to forget.’

‘Can you tell me a bit more about what happened?’

‘You can’t think this has anything to do with Robbie’s death? This was a pathetic little no-mark, not some criminal mastermind.’

‘I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t check out every possibility,’ Sam said. ‘So tell me all about this guy.’

‘It started off with letters, cards, flowers, that sort of thing. And then he began to turn up when I was DJ’ing at clubs. Mostly, they wouldn’t let him in because he looked too geeky or freaky or whatever. But sometimes he would get in and he’d hang around the stage or the booth, trying to talk to me, or have his picture taken with me. It was irritating, but it felt
pretty harmless. Then Robbie and I had a bit of a bust-up in public one night. You know how it is. A few drinks, things get a little out of hand? We ended up having a screaming match outside a club. The paparazzi picked it up, it was all over the papers and the mags. I mean, we’d made up by the time the pictures hit the streets, but it’s breaking up, not making up that gets the headlines.’ He heard her light a cigarette and waited for her to continue. Waiting. A trick he’d learned from Paula.

‘So this geezer takes it upon himself to defend my honour against this evil boyfriend who is not treating me as he should. He confronts Robbie as he’s leaving the team hotel in Birmingham. Starts reading the riot act. Nothing violent, just loud and a bit embarrassing, according to Robbie. Though of course, Robbie was the last man alive to admit to being scared. Anyway, the police were called, the geezer got carted off to the cells. Turns out that was just the wake-up call he needed. According to the cop I spoke to, once the potential consequences of his behaviour were explained to him, he saw the light. Desperately sorry, realized he’d got things out of proportion. And of course he would leave me and Robbie alone in future. So they let him off with a caution. And in fairness, I haven’t heard anything from him since. And that’s all I can tell you.’

Somehow, it all sounded too pat to Sam. From what he knew about stalkers, they didn’t just pack up and go home when somebody rattled their cage. If they were stupid, they kept on doing the same kind of thing only more so till they eventually got locked up for it. And by that stage, there was often blood and teeth on
the carpet. If they were smart, they either found another object for their warped affections or they became more subtle. And the smart ones often ended up causing even more blood and teeth on the carpet. Ask Yoko Ono about that. ‘You’ve really not heard from him since?’

‘Nope. Not even a sympathy card about Robbie.’

‘Have you had many of those?’ Sam asked.

‘Forty-seven delivered by hand yesterday at the BBC. I expect there’ll be more in the post today.’

‘We might want to have a look at those.’

Bindie made an exasperated noise. ‘She was right, your boss. Nothing’s private in a murder investigation. What do you want me to do? Bag them up and post them to you?’

‘If you could bag them up, I’ll have somebody collect them. At your convenience, obviously. If we could just backtrack…’