On the other side of the bed, Martin Flanagan stood, head bowed, hands clasped in front of him. Carol could see his face was screwed tight with the effort of not crying. After England’s last dismal World Cup exit, Carol had thought it was acceptable for real men to shed tears. Perhaps not for those of Flanagan’s generation, she thought.
As she watched, Robbie’s chest seemed to seize, his body to spasm. All over in seconds. When it was done, the heart monitor’s numbers 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 cafe–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
