were plummeting, the blood pressure sinking like a stone, the blood oxygen saturation falling in a blur of digital display. ‘I’m very sorry,’ Thomas Denby said. ‘We need to switch off the life support now.’
Mrs Bishop wailed. Just one long keening cry, then she fell forward, her head against the side of her boy, her hand clawing at his bloated chest, as if she could somehow thrust life back into him. Her husband turned away, his hands over his face, his shoulders shaking. Flanagan was slumped against the wall in a crouch, his head on his knees.
It was too much. Carol stepped away. When she emerged into the corridor, Denby was at her shoulder. ‘We’ll have to issue a statement, hold a press conference. I suggest we make it a joint one.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Half an hour enough for you to prepare?’
‘I’m not sure we should …’
‘Look, I’m going to have to tell them what we know, which is that Robbie Bishop died from ricin poisoning. They’re going to want to know what you people are doing. All I’m trying to do is to make sure the whole story comes out at once, rather than have a raft of speculation floating around any announcement I make.’ Denby sounded irritated, a man unaccustomed to being challenged.
Carol had never had any problem standing up to men like Denby, but she had learned to pick her battlegrounds. ‘I suppose I’ve had more experience than you at trying to do my job in the midst of a hostile media rattling their sabres,’ she said sweetly. ‘If it makes it easier for you to have my support at the press conference, I’m sure it can be arranged. Where will we be meeting the press?’
Thoroughly wrong-footed, Denby said curtly, ‘The boardroom on the second floor is probably the best place. I’ll see you there in twenty minutes.’ And he was gone, his white coat so starched it barely stirred in the wind of his passage.
‘Bastard,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘Problems, chief?’ Paula stood in the doorway of the family room where she’d earlier interviewed Flanagan.
‘Mr Denby doesn’t like hanging around. Pronounces death one minute, announces the press conference the next. I’d have liked a little more time to make sure I was up to speed, that’s all.’
‘You want me to ring round the team? Get the bullet points?’
Carol had trouble taking Paula’s eagerness at face value. When she’d found herself in a similar position professionally, she’d felt rage, resentment and a burning desire for vengeance. She couldn’t imagine any circumstances in which she could have worked for those who had let her down and betrayed her trust. Yet instead of hating her, Paula seemed to be even more driven to win her approval. Carol had asked Tony to explain it to her, but he’d been hampered by his own clinical involvement with Paula. All he’d felt able to say was, ‘She genuinely doesn’t blame you for what went wrong that night in Temple Fields. She understands that you didn’t hang her out to dry. That you did everything you could to keep her safe. There’s no hidden agenda here, Carol. You can trust that she’s on your side.’
So now she tried. She smiled and put a hand on Paula’s arm. ‘That would be a big help. I’m going to put some notes together down in the café – I need the caffeine. I’ll see you there in quarter of an hour.’
As she walked, Carol disregarded the hospital rule forbidding mobiles and called her boss. John Brandon, the Chief Constable of Bradfield Metropolitan Police, had been responsible for dragging her back into the world of policing when she’d desperately wanted to leave it for good. He’d created the Major Incident Team she headed up, and he was the one senior police officer she trusted without reservation.
She brought him up to date on the Robbie Bishop situation, explaining the need for a joint press conference.
‘Go ahead,’ Brandon said. ‘You’re the one on the ground. I trust your judgement.’
‘There’s only one thing I’m not sure of – I don’t know whether to go public with murder or stick with suspicious death.’
‘Do you think it’s murder?’
‘Hard to see how it could be anything else.’
‘Then go with murder. High-profile case like this, they’ll crucify us if they think we’re covering our backs. Call it as you see it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And, Carol – keep me on the page with you on this one.’
Carol ended the call not a moment too soon. As she thrust her phone back into her bag, a TV reporter standing on the fringes of the press battalion recognized her. He broke away, calling her name, running towards her.
Carol smiled and waggled her fingers in a wave. She was deep in the warren of hospital corridors before he reached the main door. It was beginning.
Yousef walked into the living room just after the regional evening news programme began. He started to speak, but Raj and Sanjar both shushed him. ‘What?’ he protested, giving Raj a shove so he’d move up and let Yousef squeeze in on the end of the sofa.
‘It’s Robbie Bishop,’ Sanjar said. ‘He’s dead.’
‘No way,’ Yousef protested.
‘Shush,’ Raj insisted. Of the three brothers, he was the only real football fan. Sanjar loved cricket, but Yousef had never caught the sports bug. Still, given his plans for the weekend, this story was interesting.
On the screen, the newsreader looked solemn. ‘And now we are going live to a press conference at Bradfield Cross Hospital where Robbie Bishop’s doctor, Mr Thomas Denby, is making a statement.’
The picture changed. Some geezer in a serious suit and a sharp haircut was sitting at a table flanked by a good-looking blonde and a nothing brunette in a white coat. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Robbie Bishop died in the Intensive Care Unit here at Bradfield Cross half an hour ago. His parents and Martin Flanagan, the manager of Bradfield Victoria, were with him when he died.’ Posh voice. Cleared his throat and went on. ‘We have known for some hours that there was nothing further we could do for Robbie except to make sure his last hours were as comfortable as possible.’ There was a buzz of voices in the background from reporters who didn’t have the patience or the manners to wait for Denby to say what he had to say. Just like his baby brother, who kept repeating, ‘So what did he die of?’
The posh geezer held up a hand, appealing for quiet. He gave it a few seconds then started again. ‘This morning, we received the results of lab tests that proved conclusively that Robbie Bishop was not suffering from any kind of infection. What killed Robbie Bishop was a substantial dose of the poison ricin.’ The room erupted.
‘Fucking hell,’ Sanjar breathed. ‘Isn’t that what they were arresting all them lads for making? Them so-called terrorists?’
‘Yeah, but most of them got let go,’ Yousef said. ‘I think there was one bloke went on trial for it.’
‘Then they’ll blame us,’ Raj said, his face solemn, his eyes bright. ‘They’ll say it was Muslim fundamentalists. I tell you, I’ve been supporting the Vics since I was a little kid, but that won’t make no difference now.’
Yousef patted his shoulder awkwardly. He felt sorry for Raj, but he had to think of the bigger picture. Which was looking
