efficacy precisely because they’ve seen it in the movies. And some of those believers are in positions of power. The reason we don’t all fall for it is that we’re not all equally credulous. Some of us are much more critical of what we see and read than others. But you
She frowned. ‘You scare me sometimes, you know that?’
She could see the pain in his face. She didn’t think it was anything to do with his knee. ‘Yes, I know that. But I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. In my experience, when something scares you, it makes you all the more determined to beat it.’
Carol turned away, as usual made uncomfortable by his praise. ‘So you don’t think this is some kind of concerted action against the Vics?’
‘No. Because Danny Wade doesn’t fit.’
Carol sighed in exasperation. ‘Bloody Danny Wade. You and Paula between you, you could argue the hind leg off a donkey.’
Tony smiled. ‘I’ve never understood that expression. Why would anyone want to argue the hind leg off a donkey? And why a donkey, as opposed to a pig or an armadillo?’ He held up his hands to protect himself as Carol batted at him with a folded newspaper she’d snatched up. ‘OK, OK. But you know we’re right about Danny being connected.’
‘Whatever,’ she sighed, tossing the paper back on his table. ‘What I do know is that I’m going to need more than your psychological theories about targets to persuade anybody that this is not terrorism.’ She headed for the door. ‘I’ll try and swing by later. Good luck with the physio.’
‘Thanks. Oh, and, Carol? Somebody really should find out where Tom Cross went to school.’
Within minutes of Carol’s departure, the physiotherapist arrived, greeting Tony with a knowing wink. ‘Helping the police with their inquiries, were you?’ she said archly, handing him his elbow crutches. ‘I hope she hasn’t worn you out.’
‘DCI Jordan was running things at Victoria Park yesterday,’ he said in a tone that discouraged discussion. ‘I work with the police. She came round to run some things past me. And she was so exhausted she fell asleep in the chair.’ Tony knew he was being petty, but he couldn’t help himself. Whenever Carol was in the picture, he became over-sensitive to any personal references. It didn’t matter if it was his mother or a physiotherapist he was never going to see again after he left the hospital. He was always driven to set the record straight. Well, straight in technical terms, at least. The emotional context beneath the surface was nobody’s business but his.
Half an hour later, he was back in his room, tired but not exhausted as he’d been on previous days. ‘You’re doing incredibly well. You might want to get dressed today,’ the physio said. ‘See what it feels like to spend a bit of time in the chair, a bit of time moving around. Walk up and down the hall every hour or so’.
He turned the TV volume back up, keeping half an eye on it while he battled with his clothes. The news all revolved around the explosion at Victoria Park. Everything from football experts talking about the impact on the game; structural engineers speculating on the cost and the time involved in rebuilding the Vestey Stand; Martin Flanagan expressing his anger that Robbie Bishop’s farewell should have been so desecrated; friends and family of the dead talking about their loved ones; and Yousef Aziz’s brother Sanjar protesting that his brother was no fundamentalist. As Sanjar spoke against the backdrop of CTC officers removing cartons of stuff from his family home, Tony stopped wrestling with his sock and directed all of his attention to the TV.
He did not subscribe to the view that it was possible to tell the mind’s construction in the face, but years of watching people lie to him and to themselves had given him a reference library of expression and gesture that he could draw on to make his judgements about a person’s truthfulness. What he saw in Sanjar Aziz was a blazing conviction that, whatever had motivated his brother to blow a hole in Victoria Park stadium, it had not been religious fundamentalism. The CTC were stripping his home to the bricks and he wasn’t protesting about that. What was clearly driving him to distraction was having to repeat again and again what he knew to be true-his brother was not a militant Muslim. The TV interviewer wasn’t particularly interested in exploring alternative explanations for the bombing, however. All he wanted was for Sanjar to prostrate himself in apology. It was clear that wasn’t going to happen.
Tony’s attention drifted as the reporter returned them to the studio for yet another heavy-handed analysis of the consequences of the bombing for Bradfield Victoria’s season. Fan though he was, it exasperated him that this was even on the news agenda when thirty-five people were dead. What he really wanted to know was what Sanjar Aziz had to say beyond his denials. Tony had seen his frustration and couldn’t help wondering what lay behind it.
He struggled with his sock again, but failed to get it on. ‘Bugger,’ he said, reaching for the nurse call button. To hell with independence. He wanted to hear what Sanjar Aziz had to say, and he didn’t care if it cost him his independence. It was time to get off his backside and do something useful.
Carol gave her team the once over. Already they all looked as if they’d had insufficient sleep and too much coffee. Any murder inquiry provoked a kind of intensity that drove physical needs to the margins. If it went on too long, people fell apart. And so did their personal lives. She’d seen it happen too often. But there didn’t seem to be any easy way to avoid it. Officers felt impelled to work at this pitch because of the unique nature of the crime and what it meant to them as human beings. It wasn’t about emotional involvement, she thought. It was about confronting one’s own mortality. Working a murder case as hard as was humanly possible was a kind of sacrifice to the gods, a symbolic way of protecting themselves and their loved ones.
They all paid close attention as Paula reported her conversation with Elinor Blessing, making a point of the mention of the mysterious Jake or Jack. When she reached the end of her notes, Paula looked up and said, ‘I got to thinking. Our three poison victims, they all originate from Bradfield. We know Robbie Bishop and Danny Wade both grew up in Harriestown and went to school there. I wondered if that was a connection worth pursuing. So after I left the hospital, I came back here and logged on to Best Days. Tom Cross wasn’t a member, but there are a couple of dozen people his age who are. They’ve got a section called “Photographs and Memories”, and that’s where I found this.’
She produced a print-out and handed it round. ‘Someone called Sandy Hall posted this. “Does anybody else remember the time Tom Cross locked Weasel Russell in the chemistry supply cupboard then fed laughing gas through the keyhole? Funny to think he ended up a senior policeman.” And Eddie Brant replies, “I saw Tom Cross a few months ago at a rugby club dinner. I’d have known him anywhere. He’s still larger than life, full of stories. He’s retired now. He had a big win on the pools a few years back so he’s very comfortably off, he said.” So I think we can safely say that, like Danny and Robbie, Tom Cross was a former pupil of Harriestown High.’
‘You could just have asked me,’ Kevin said. ‘I went to the Double Aitch too.’
Paula looked surprised. ‘I wish I’d known,’ she said, It would have saved me a bit of time. Anyway, at least we
