probably the only person apart from cops and media not wearing a Vics shirt or scarf. He politely declined when a couple of TV reporters asked for his comments and dragged a protesting Raj away from their mikes and cameras. ‘Why can’t I say summat?’ Raj said.
‘You’re supposed to be here because you’re in mourning, not to get your gob all over the TV,’ Yousef said. This isn’t about you, remember?’
‘It’s not fair. I really loved Robbie. I love the Vics. Half the people that’ll end up on the telly or the radio couldn’t give a toss about the team from one week to the next. They just want to get in on the act.’ Raj trailed behind his brother, scuffing his heels on the ground.
‘So let them.’
Another reporter thrust a tape recorder at them. ‘Some people are linking Robbie Bishop’s death to Muslim terrorist production of ricin,’ he gabbled. ‘What’s your view on that?’
‘It’s bollocks,’ Yousef said, finally goaded into speech. ‘Didn’t you hear what that cop said earlier? No reason to link this to terrorism. You’re just trying to stir up trouble. It’s people like you that provoke race riots. My brother here, the only thing he’s fanatical about is Bradfield Vics.’ He spat on the ground. ‘You’ve got no respect. Come on, Raj.’ He grabbed his brother’s sleeve and pulled him away.
‘Great,’ said Raj. ‘I don’t get to talk about Robbie, but you get to shout your mouth off, make us look like troublemakers.’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s not fair.’ Yousef steered Raj away from the media and towards the tributes at the railings. ‘But I’m so sick of that sort of shit. Why would terrorists kill Robbie Bishop, for fuck’s sake?’
“Cos he’s a symbol of the decadence of the West, dummy,’ Raj said, imitating the stupid parrot tones of the big mouths he’d heard sounding off in the kebab shops and the mosque car park.
‘That’s true, actually. But not a good enough reason to kill him. Killing Robbie doesn’t create terror, just outrage. For terrorism to work, you need to strike at ordinary people. But that’s too sophisticated an argument for the likes of that wanker with the microphone,’ Yousef said bitterly.
Without meaning to, they had reached the fringe of a growing crowd who had gathered round a cluster of night lights. The candles flickered in the light evening breeze, somehow more moving than all the other marks of respect piling up around them. Someone with a light tenor voice began singing the opening verse of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. Others picked it up and, before they knew it, Yousef and Raj were caught up in the definitive football fans’ anthem.
Yousef couldn’t help smiling as his voice rose in the chorus. He knew how it felt, not to walk alone. He understood the strength that gave a man. Walking in company, that made anything possible. Anything at all.
The miles unfurled steadily behind them. By this time of night, the traffic that choked the motorway by day had diminished. The six lanes were still busy, but now the cars and lorries were moving in a rhythmic rumble through the bottlenecks and chokes of the Midlands. Carol reached for the radio controls and switched from the measured tones of Radio Four to the manic beats of Radio One. Since they were on their way to talk to Bindie Blyth, they might as well check out her show.
The ten o’clock news led with Robbie Bishop’s death. At the wheel, Sam shook his head as the newsreader managed to spin it with dramatic breathlessness into a major crisis. ‘They don’t get it, do they? A story this big, all they need to do is lay out the facts. The last thing we need is them getting all hysterical, winding the punters up.’
‘It’s what they do best,’ Carol said, weary at the excesses of the media. ‘With a few rare exceptions. And everybody just plays along. What’s the betting that the Prime Minister will have shoved his oar in by morning?’
Sam grinned. ‘Robbie’ll be “the people’s player” by breakfast.’
‘Only this time there’s a real murderer on the loose, not just the phantoms conjured up by the conspiracy theorists.’ She sighed. ‘And it’s our job to find him.’
The bulletin finished, segueing straight to a hectic dance track that seemed to go on for as long as the first act of an opera. Finally it subsided and a woman’s voice, low and warm, said, ‘Kicking off tonight’s show, Kateesha featuring Junior Deff, with “Score Steady”. This is Bindie Blyth, taking you through to midnight on Radio One, the beat nation’s favourite station. You’ll all have heard that Robbie Bishop died earlier this evening. Until a couple of months ago, me and Robbie were an item. He asked me to marry him and I said yes. We didn’t make it to the altar, but he was still my best mate. One of the reasons we stayed so close was the music. We both loved the same sounds, the sounds you hear every night here on the show. Now, everybody has their own personal top tens, and Robbie was no exception. Me and Robbie used to lie in bed on a Sunday morning, running through our favourite tracks, making up our imaginary Desert Island Discs. “Score Steady” always made it to Robbie’s hit list. Tonight, I’m sad. I’ve lost somebody that mattered a lot to me. So tonight’s show is going to be a tribute to a man I loved. A man who was really special. Don’t worry, I’m not going to go all tragic on you. No tears, not for the next two hours. Instead, I’m going to play the sounds that Robbie loved. Dance and trance, hip-hop and trip hop and maybe even a bit of acoustic chill. So button back your ears and let your feet go their own way to “Stack My Beats” from the Rehab Boys.’ The frantic beat started under her final words, building to a chest-vibrating drum and bass number.
Carol turned the volume down so they could hear themselves again. ‘Sounds like she’s got a better handle on things than the news reporters. What’s with her name? Bindie? Is that a nickname? Short for something?’
‘Short for Belinda, according to her website.’ Carol smiled. Of course Sam would have checked her out online. Sam never missed a trick when it came to acquiring information. Channelled properly, it could be a huge advantage to the team. But Sam wasn’t a team player by instinct. She always had to make sure he remembered to share. ‘Right. I bet her mum still calls her Belinda and it drives her crazy. So where is she from? I’m hearing something in her accent that isn’t standard Estuary, but I can’t make it out.’
‘She’s from East Anglia somewhere,’ Sam said, one finger beating a silent tattoo on the steering wheel. ‘Near Norwich, I think. She’s good.’
‘I think I’m a bit too old for this kind of thing.’
‘I dunno. I think it’s more about taste than age. Me, I think people fall into two camps where music’s concerned. You either listen for the rhythm because you like to feel that dance inside you, or you listen for the way the words and the music fit together. There’s not much crossover, really. The beats or the lyrics. I’d have you pegged as somebody who appreciates the lyrics.’
‘I suppose. Not that I get much time for music these days.’ They fell silent, letting the music wash over them.
