Beneath the Bleeding

Malcolm nodded. ‘You want to talk to Pavel Aljinovic and Phil Campsie. Robbie bunks up with Pavel when we’re in a hotel. And Phil’s his best mate.’ Malcolm made no move to summon the players.

‘Now, Mr Malcolm,’ Chris said.

Again the cheap and cheesy smile. ‘It’s Terry, love.’

It was Chris’s turn to smile. ‘I’m not your love, Mr Malcolm. I am a police officer investigating a very serious attack on one of your colleagues. And I want to talk to either Pavel Aljinovic or Phil Campsie right now.’

Malcolm shook his head. ‘They’re training. I can’t interrupt that.’

Kevin flushed an unbecoming scarlet, his freckles darkening across his cheeks. ‘Do you want me to arrest you for police obstruction? Because you’re going the right way about it.’

Malcolm’s lip lifted in a sneer. ‘I don’t think you’ll be arresting me. Your boss likes his seat in the directors’ box far too much for that.’

‘That cuts both ways,’ Chris said sweetly. ‘It means we have a hotline to your boss, too. And I don’t think he’d be very impressed to hear you’ve been impeding our inquiries into the attempted murder of his star player.’

Although Chris had spoken, it was Kevin who was on the receiving end of a glare of deep dislike. Malcolm was clearly one of those men who could only flirt with women and talk with men. ‘I’ll get Pavel.’ He gestured with his thumb towards the pavilion. ‘Wait inside there, I’ll sort you out a room in a minute.’

Five minutes later, they were sitting in a weights room that smelled of stale sweat and muscle rub. The Croatian international goalkeeper was hot on their heels. As he walked in, his nose twitched and a look of distaste crossed his chiselled features. ‘Stinks in here, sorry,’ he said, pulling a plastic chair from a short stack against the wall and sitting down opposite the two detectives. ‘I am Pavel Aljinovic.’ He nodded formally to them both.

The word that came to Kevin’s mind was ‘dignified’. Aljinovic had shoulder-length dark hair, normally pulled back in a tight ponytail on match days, but flowing free this afternoon. His eyes were the colour of conkers baked in the oven then polished on a sleeve. High cheekbones over hollow cheeks, full lips and a narrow, straight nose made him look almost aristocratic. ‘Coach says somebody tried to poison Robbie,’ he said, his accent faint but unmistakably Slavic. ‘How can this be?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Chris said, leaning forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped.

‘And Robbie? How is he doing?’

‘Not very well,’ Kevin said.

‘But he will be OK?’

‘We’re not doctors. We can’t say.’ Chris wanted to avoid making it clear that Robbie’s death was inevitable. In her experience, there was a substantial brake on what people were willing to say once the stakes were raised to murder. ‘It would help if we knew where Robbie was on Thursday and Friday.’

‘Of course he was at training sessions. Thursday night, I don’t know what he did.’ Aljinovic spread his big goalkeeper’s hands. ‘I am goalkeeper, not Robbie’s keeper. But on Friday night, we shared the hotel room. We all had dinner together, like usual. Steak and potatoes and salad and a glass of red wine. Fruit salad and ice cream. We always have the same thing, me and Robbie. Actually, most of the guys. We went upstairs about nine o’clock. Robbie took a bath and I called my wife. We watched the Sky football channel together until about ten, then we went to sleep.’

‘Did Robbie have anything out of the mini-bar?’ Kevin asked.

Aljinovic chuckled. ‘You don’t know much about football, do you? They don’t give us keys for the minibar. We’re supposed to stay pure. This is why we are in a hotel and not at home. They can control what we eat and drink and they can keep us away from women.’

Chris returned his smile. ‘I thought that was a myth, keeping your strength up before a match by avoiding sex.’

‘It’s not the sex, it’s the sleep,’ Aljinovic said. ‘They like us to have good sleep before a game.’

‘Did Robbie have any food or drink with him? Bottled water, whatever?’

‘No. There is always plenty of water in the room.’ He frowned. ‘You have reminded me. Friday evening, Robbie said he was very thirsty. He said he felt as if he was coming down with a cold or something. He didn’t make a big deal out of it, just that he wasn’t feeling great. And of course in the morning, he thought he had flu. I was worried in case I might catch it. This feeling like flu, is this the poison? Or is he sick too?’

‘It’s the poison.’ Kevin looked directly into his eyes. ‘Did Robbie take cocaine on Friday evening?’

Aljinovic reared backwards, an expression of affront on his face. ‘Of course not. No. Who told you that? Robbie didn’t use drugs. Why are you asking this?’

‘It’s possible he inhaled the poison. If it was mixed in with cocaine or amphetamine, Robbie might not have noticed,’ Chris said.

‘No. This is not possible. Not possible at all. I will not believe this about him.’

‘You said earlier that you’re a goalkeeper, not Robbie’s keeper. How can you be so sure he never uses drugs?’ Kevin said, his voice mild but his eyes intent.

‘We have talked about it. About drugs in sports. And for fun. Robbie and me, we think the same. It’s a fool’s game. You cheat yourself, you cheat the fans, you cheat your club. We both know people who use drugs and we both despise them.’ He spoke vehemently. ‘Whoever poisoned Robbie, they didn’t do it with drugs.’

By the time Carol arrived at Robbie Bishop’s flat, Detective Constable Sam Evans had already made a start on the search. The footballer’s home was a penthouse complete with roof terrace in the heart of the city. The building had been a department store; the main living area was bright with daylight that poured in through metal-framed Art Deco windows. Sam was going through the desk drawers, caught in a shaft of sunlight that made his coffee-coloured skin glow. He looked up as Carol walked in, giving her a rueful shake of the head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Not so far.’

‘What kind of nothing?’ She snapped a pair of latex gloves over her hands.

‘Neatly filed bills, bank statements, credit card statements. He pays his bills on time, he pays his credit cards off every month. He’s got an account with a bookie, gambles a few hundred a month on the ponies. Nothing that stands out. I haven’t looked at the computer yet, I thought I’d leave that for Stacey.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. You think she knows what football is?’ Carol said, crossing to look out of the window. A hawk’s-eye view of the city centre; people going about their business, trams criss-crossing, fountains playing, Big Issue sellers cajoling, shoppers dawdling by windows full of promises. None of them thinking about poisoning a premiership footballer with ricin, not today. Tomorrow or the day after, when Robbie Bishop finally died, it would be different. But not today. Not yet. She turned back. ‘What have you done so far?’

‘Just the desk.’

Carol nodded. She looked around. Sam had been right to start at the desk. There weren’t many other search options. The dining area, all glass and steel, had nothing to hide. There were a couple of groups of scarlet leather sofas, one centred on a huge plasma screen home cinema system complete with PlayStation, the other set around a low glass coffee table whose leading edge looked like a breaking wave. A wall of shelves housed a vast collection of DVDs and CDs. Someone would have to go through every one, but she’d leave that to the crime scene team. She walked over to the media collection. The CDs were mostly by people she’d never heard of. The names she did recognize were dance and hip-hop; she assumed the rest were similar in flavour.

The DVDs were roughly arranged – football on two shelves in the middle, popular action and comedy movies beneath them, TV comedy and drama above them. PlayStation and PC computer games filled the bottom shelf. The top one, appropriately, held the porn. Carol skimmed the titles, deciding Robbie’s taste in porn was as unadventurous as his taste in film and drama. Unless there was a secret stash somewhere, it appeared that Robbie’s sexual inclinations were not the sort to get him killed.

Carol wandered through to the bedroom, smiling wryly at the sight of a bed that must have been seven feet wide. The rumpled dark blue silk sheets were piled with fake furs, and a dozen pillows were scattered around. Another plasma TV dominated the wall opposite the bed, and the other walls displayed paintings of nudes that the vendor had almost certainly described as ‘artistic’.

A walk-in wardrobe ran the whole length of one wall. There was an empty section. Carol wondered if that had been where his fiancée had hung her clothes, or if he’d just been having a clear-out. At the far end were two rectangular baskets, one labelled ‘laundry’, the other ‘dry cleaning’. Both were almost full. Presumably, someone else took care of them. Luckily, they hadn’t been in since Robbie had been taken ill.

The top layer of the laundry basket consisted of a pair of Armani jeans, Calvin Klein trunks and an extravagantly striped Paul Smith shirt. Carol picked up the jeans and went through the pockets. At first, she thought they were empty, but as her fingers probed, they encountered a screw of paper rammed right down into the seam of the front right-hand pocket. She pulled it out and gently teased the creases and folds apart.

It was the corner of a page of lined paper, apparently torn from a notebook. Written in black ink was, ‘www.bestdays.co. uk’. Carol took it through to the living area and asked Sam for an evidence bag. ‘What you got, boss?’ he asked, handing one over.

Carol dropped the paper in the bag, sealing and dating it. ‘A url. Probably nothing. Take it back for Stacey, please. You find anything?’

Sam shook his head. ‘I tell you, he looks a pretty boring bastard to me.’

Carol went back through to the bedroom. Bedside tables held few surprises – condoms, breath mints, tissues, a blister pack of Nurofen, a pinkie-sized butt plug and a tube of KY. Carol was pretty sure that, these days, that counted as vanilla. Interestingly, the book tucked into the drawer on the left was Michael Crick’s critical biography of Manchester United’s boss, Alex Ferguson. Though Carol was far from knowledgeable about football, even she knew that in a world of celebrity soccer hagiographies this was an interesting choice.

Nothing in the ensuite bathroom gave Carol a moment’s pause. Sighing, she returned to Sam. ‘It’s almost spooky,’ she said. ‘There’s so little personality here.’

Sam snorted. ‘Probably because he hasn’t got one. These football stars – they’re all stuck in their adolescence. They get picked up by the big clubs before they’ve had their first kiss, and the management system takes over from their mums. If they make the grade, they’re cash rich and common sense poor by the time they’re out of their teens. They’re wrapped in cotton wool and models’ thighs. Way more money than sense or experience. Bunch of Peter Pans with added testosterone.’

Carol grinned. ‘You sound bitter. Did you lose a girlfriend to one of them, or what?’

Sam returned her grin. ‘The women I like are too smart for footballers. No, I’m just bitter because I can’t afford a Bentley GTC Mulliner.’ Sam waved an invoice at her. ‘His new car. Delivery next month.’

Carol whistled. ‘I know men who would kill for one of those. But probably not using ricin.’ As she spoke, her phone rang. ‘DCI Jordan,’ she said.

‘This is Dr Blessing. Mr Denby asked me to call you. Robbie Bishop’s taken a turn for the worse. We don’t think he’s got long. I don’t know if you want to be here?’

‘I’m on my way,’ Carol said. She closed her phone and sighed. ‘Looks like this is about to become a murder inquiry.’

They were waiting for Phil Campsie. Chris idly picked up a dumbbell and did a few forearm curls. ‘He’s the ugly one, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘The one who looks like a cross between a monkey and Mr Potato Head?’

‘Phil Campsie, you mean? Yeah, he’s ugly.’ Kevin stretched, yawning. His four-year-old daughter had recently lost the knack of sleeping through the night. His wife, not unreasonably, had pointed out that when Ruby had been breastfeeding, she had been the one who had had to deal with broken nights. Now it was Kevin’s turn to soothe his daughter back to sleep. It didn’t feel fair, not when he was going out to work and Stella was staying home. But it was hard to argue against without sounding like he didn’t love his daughter. ‘He’s very ugly,’ he said through the tail end of the yawn.

‘So it’s not just teenage girls who pair up according to looks.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Pretty one, ugly one. Symbiosis. The pretty one gets to look even better next to the ugly one, and the ugly one gets the pretty one’s cast-offs. Win-win.’

Kevin tutted. ‘That’s not very sisterly of you.’

Chris gave a derisive snort. ‘See, Kevin, you keep conflating lesbian and feminist. Try lesbian and pragmatist next time.’

He grinned. ‘I’ll try and remember. So, you think that’s what was going on with Robbie and Phil?’

‘To some degree. Of course, Phil is also rich and famous, which trumps ugly every time. But I bet it didn’t hurt, going out on the town with one of the most recognizable, handsome and eligible men in Europe. Not to mention sexy.’

‘You think Robbie’s sexy?’

‘Sex appeal is gender blind, Kevin. Don’t tell me you don’t think Robbie is sexy, deep down.’

Kevin flushed. ‘I’ve never thought about it.’

‘But you like the way he looks. The way he moves. The way he dresses,’ Chris persisted.

‘I suppose.’

‘It’s all right, it doesn’t mean you’re a poof. All I’m trying to say is that Robbie’s got sex appeal, charisma, call it what you will. David Beckham’s got it, Gary Neville hasn’t. John Lennon had it, Paul McCartney doesn’t. Bill Clinton has it, Dubya definitely doesn’t. And if you don’t have it, the next best thing is to hang around with somebody who does.’ Chris put down the dumbbell as the door opened. She turned on her best smile. ‘Mr Campsie. Thanks for making the time to talk to us.’

Phil Campsie hooked his ankle round the chair and pulled it a couple of feet further away from them before he sat down. ‘It’s for Robbie, innit?’ His London accent was almost as strong as Chris’s own. ‘Do anything for him. He’s me mate.’

Kevin made the introductions. Close up, Phil Campsie was even more unattractive. He had pale, mottled skin like a scrubbed potato, a flat nose that looked as if it had been broken a couple of times. His small grey eyes were set wide on his cannonball head. His reddish hair was cut close and already the shape of male pattern baldness was etched into his hairline. But when he smiled, as well as uneven yellowing teeth he revealed a genuine spark of cheeky warmth. Kevin led off. ‘We hear Robbie probably spends more time with you after work than any of his other teammates.’

‘’S right. Me and Robbie, we’re like that –’ Phil crossed the first two fingers of his right hand.

‘So, what kind of stuff do you guys get up to?’ Chris raised her eyebrows, as if to suggest that nothing he said could shock her.

‘This and that. I got a place outside the city. Bit of land, couple of miles of trout stream. Me and Robbie, we do a bit of rough shooting – rabbits, pigeons, that kind of thing. And we go fishing.’ He grinned, looking like the small boy he must have been not so long ago. ‘I’ve got this woman comes in from the village, cooks and cleans for me. She deals with the stuff we kill. Cooks it all up, sticks it in the freezer. There’s something really cool about eating something you’ve killed yourself, know what I mean?’

‘Impressive,’ Chris said, before Kevin could put his foot in it. ‘And what about a social life? What do you do for fun when you’re not slaughtering the wildlife?’

‘We go out in town,’ Phil said. ‘Nice bit of dinner somewhere smart, then on to a club.’ He gave a curiously self-deprecating little shrug. ‘The clubs like having us. Gives them a bit of a profile. So we get taken to the VIP areas, free champagne, very tasty girls.’

‘We’re interested in Robbie’s movements on Thursday and Friday,’ Kevin said.

Phil nodded, rolling his big shoulders as if squaring up to someone. ‘Thursday after training, we went back to Robbie’s flat. We played on the PlayStation for a bit. GT HD, you know? The new one, with the Ferraris? Well cool. We had a couple of beers then we went out for dinner to Las Bravas. It’s Spanish,’ he added, apparently trying to be helpful.

‘I hear it’s very nice there. What did you have to eat?’ Chris asked, mild as milk.

‘We had a load of tapas between us. We kind of left it to the waiter and he brought us a right old mix of stuff. Most of it was lovely, but I couldn’t be doing with some of the seafood.’ He pulled a face. ‘I mean, who wants to eat a baby squid? Yech.’

‘Did you both eat the same things?’ Kevin said.

Phil thought for a moment, his eyes turning up and to the left. ‘Pretty much,’ he said slowly. ‘Robbie didn’t have the garlic mushrooms, he doesn’t like mushrooms. But apart from that, yeah, we both gave everything a whirl.’

‘And drink?’

‘We was on the rioja. We got as far as the second bottle, but we didn’t finish it.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘We went on to Amatis. D’you know it? Dance club the far side of Temple Fields?’

Kevin nodded. ‘We’re police officers, Phil. We know Amatis.’

‘It’s a nice place,’ Phil said defensively. ‘Nice people. And great music.’

‘You into music, then? You and Robbie?’

Phil blew out a big breath, making his lips flap. ‘Me, I’m not bothered as long as it’s got a decent beat. But Robbie, he’s well into it, yeah. He used to be engaged to Bindie Blyth.’ Seeing their looks of incomprehension, he gave them more. ‘The Radio One late-night DJ. It was music what brought them together.’ He shifted in his seat, sticking his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. ‘Wasn’t enough to keep them together, though. They split up a couple of months back.’

Chris could feel Kevin come alert beside her. She tried for nonchalant. ‘How come?’ she said.

‘Why d’you wanna know about Bindie?’

Chris spread her hands. ‘Me, I’m just interested in everything. Why did they split?’

Phil looked away. ‘Just wasn’t going anywhere.’

‘Was he messing around behind her back?’ Chris asked.

Phil gave her a cagey glance. ‘This doesn’t go no further, right?’

‘Right. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,’ Chris said.

‘It’s the world we live in,’ Phil said. For an insane moment, Chris thought he was going to make some philosophical point about the human condition. ‘Every time we go out the house, we’re surrounded by people who want to make an impression. Women who want to shag us, blokes who either want to buy us a drink or fight us. And if your girlfriend’s a couple of hundred miles away most of the time, you’d have to be a saint. And Robbie ain’t no saint.’

‘So Bindie got the hump and gave him the elbow?’

‘Pretty much. But they didn’t want the tabloids all over them, so they both agreed they’d just say it was a mutual thing, too hard to keep it going with them both having high-pressure careers. No hard feelings, that sort of thing.’

‘And were there any hard feelings?’ Kevin butted in. Chris wanted to slap him for breaking her flow.

Phil cocked his head. ‘No.’ It came out firm and defensive. Then a frown slowly furrowed his forehead. ‘Wait a minute. You’re not thinking Bindie had anything to do with this?’ He gave a roar of laughter. ‘Fucking hell, it’s obvious you’ve never listened to her show. Bindie’s got balls. If she was that pissed off, she’d have sent Robbie home with his nuts in a paper bag. Bindie’s the kind of woman who lets you have it to your face. No way she’d be sneaking around with poison.’ He shook his head. ‘Mental.’

‘Nobody’s suggesting Bindie had anything to do with this, Phil. We’re just trying to get a picture of Robbie’s life. So, Thursday. Tell us about Amatis.’

Phil shifted in his chair, a man preparing to be less than candid. ‘Not much to tell. We was in the VIP area mostly, drinking champagne. There was a couple of the lads from Yorkshire Cricket Club there, that geezer that presents the TV show about making a mint from what’s in your attic, some twat that was on Big Brother a couple of series back. I didn’t recognize any other blokes. And the usual sort of birds. Tasty but with a bit of class. That’s the sort of bird you get at Amatis.’

‘Was Robbie with anyone in particular?’

Phil thought for a moment. ‘Not really. We was both up dancing, but he wasn’t with the same bird for long. He kept chopping and changing, like he couldn’t find one he really fancied.’ He smirked. ‘Not like me. I pulled practically right away. Jasmine, her name was. Legs up to heaven, tits out to here.’ He mimed substantial breasts. ‘So I wasn’t paying too much attention to Robbie, if you catch my drift. He went down the vodka bar for a while after I clicked with Jasmine. Me and her, we decided to go back to hers, so I went looking for Robbie. Found him on his way back from the toilet. I said I was going back to Jasmine’s, he was cool with that. He said he’d run into somebody he was at school with and they was having a drink.’ Phil shrugged. ‘Next time I saw him was training on Friday and he looked rough as a badger’s arse. I said he looked like he’d made a night of it. He went all sheepish, said he couldn’t actually remember. Well, that’s the way it goes sometimes, innit? You get so wellied, it’s all just a black hole the next morning.’

Chris realized she was holding her breath. She let it out and said, ‘This old school friend. Do they have a name?’

‘He never said. He never even said if it was a bird or a bloke.’ Phil looked upset. ‘I should have asked him, shouldn’t I? I should have taken better care of him.’

Chris hid her disappointment behind a smile. ‘Nobody’s blaming you, Phil. We don’t know when Robbie was poisoned. But in my experience, when somebody is determined to attack another person, it’s very hard to stop them succeeding.’

‘He’s going to be all right, isn’t he? I mean, the doctors know what they’re doing, right?’ He bit his lower lip. ‘He’s strong as an ox, is Robbie. And he’s a fighter.’

Kevin looked away, leaving it up to Chris to decide which way to go. ‘They’re doing their best,’ she said. ‘You guys’ll be out on the town again before you know it.’

Phil pursed his lips and nodded. He looked close to tears. ‘You’ll never walk alone, innit.’ He got to his feet. ‘Right then. I better get back.’

Chris stood up and put a hand on his upper arm. ‘Thanks, Phil. You’ve been a big help.’ She watched him go, broad shoulders bowed, all spring removed from his step. The door closed behind him and Kevin turned to her.

‘I’m guessing you don’t have him down as number one suspect?’

Chris shook her head. ‘He probably thinks ricin is something horses and greyhounds do. At least he gave us something.’

‘The old school mate?’

‘The very same. Lots of potential motive there. Was the golden boy a bit of a bully? Did he seduce somebody else’s girlfriend? Did he commit a dirty tackle that ruined somebody else’s chances of stardom?’

Kevin headed for the door. ‘Definitely a bone for the DCI to chew on.’

‘Just what she needs. Something to take her mind off the fact that nobody told her Tony was in hospital.’

Kevin winced. ‘Don’t. I tell you, if it had been anybody except Paula on duty this weekend, there would have been blood and teeth on the floor.’

‘What is it with Tony and the guv’nor? First time I met them, I was convinced they were an item. But everybody says no, nay, never. I don’t get it.’

‘Nobody gets it,’ Kevin said. ‘Least of all them, I suspect.’

If Sam Evans had a motto, it was that knowledge is power. His application of the aphorism was indiscriminate; he worked at acquiring information about and ahead of his colleagues as thoroughly as he did against criminals. So, after Carol had left Robbie Bishop’s apartment, he decided to sneak a quick look at the footballer’s computer ahead of Stacey. He knew there were good reasons why he should leave it alone, but from what he had gleaned of Robbie Bishop, Sam didn’t expect his computer to be equipped with a logic bomb primed to destroy all data if a stranger attempted to access it.