Beneath the Bleeding Read Free Page A

Robbie Bishop felt like an affront to his talent.
    As the SHO returned with the intubation kit and a couple of nurses, Denby sighed. He glanced at the door. On the other side, he knew, was Robbie Bishop’s team manager. Martin Flanagan had spent the night slumped in a chair next to his star player. His expensive suit was rumpled now, his craggy face rendered sinister by a scribble of stubble. They’d already gone head to head when Denby had insisted the pugnacious Ulsterman leave the room while the doctors consulted. ‘Do you know what that lad’s worth to Bradfield Victoria?’ Flanagan had demanded.
    Denby had eyed him coldly. ‘He’s worth exactly the same to me as every other patient I treat,’ he’d said. ‘I don’t sit on the touchline telling you what tactics to employ. So let me do my job without interference. I need you to give my patient his privacy while I examine him.’ The manager had left, grumbling, but Denby knew he’d still be waiting, his face pinched and anxious, desperate to hear something that would contradict the deterioration he’d already witnessed.
    ‘When you’re done with that, let’s start him onAZT,’ he said to his SHO. There was nothing left to try but the powerful retroviral medication that might just give them pause enough to figure out what was wrong with Robbie Bishop.

Monday
    ‘Remind me again why I let you open that third bottle,’ Detective Chief Inspector Carol Jordan sighed, putting the car in gear and inching forward a few yards.
    ‘Because it was the first time you’ve graced us with a visit since we moved to the Dales and because I have to be in Bradfield this morning and you don’t have a proper spare room. So there was no point in driving back last night.’ Her brother Michael leaned forward to fiddle with the radio. Carol slapped his hand away.
    ‘Leave it be,’ she said.
    Michael groaned. ‘Bradfield Sound. Who knew my life would come down to this? Local radio at its most parochial.’
    ‘I need to hear what’s happening on my patch.’
    Michael looked sceptical. ‘You run the Major Incident Team. You’re affiliated to the British equivalent of the FBI. You don’t need to know if there’s a burst water main causing problems for traffic on Methley Way. Or that some footballer’s been carted off to hospital with chest problems.’
    ‘Hey, Mr IT. Wasn’t it you who taught me the “micro becomes macro” mantra? I like to know what’s happening at the bottom of the food chain because it sometimes provokes unexpected events at the other end. And he’s not just “some footballer”. He’s Robbie Bishop. Midfield general of Bradfield Victoria. And a local lad to boot. His female fans will be staking out Bradfield Cross as we speak. Possible public order issues.’
    Michael subsided with a pout. ‘Whatever. Have it your own way, Sis. Thank god their reception doesn’t stretch far from the city. I’d have lost my mind if you’d made me listen to this all the way in.’ He rolled his head on his neck, wincing at the crackling it produced. ‘Haven’t you got one of those blue lights that you can slap on the car roof?’
    ‘Yes,’ Carol said, easing forward with the traffic flow, praying this time it would keep moving. She felt sweaty and faintly sick in spite of the shower she’d had less than an hour ago. ‘But I’m only supposed to use it in emergencies. And before you go there, no. This is not an emergency. This is just the rush hour.’
    As she spoke, the clotted traffic suddenly began to flow. Within a couple of hundred yards, it was hard to figure out quite why it had taken twenty minutes to travel half a mile when now they were moving relatively smoothly.
    Michael frowned slightly, studying his sister, then said, ‘So, Sis, how’s it going with Tony?’
    Carol tried not to let her exasperation show. She thought she’d got away with it. A whole weekend with her parents, her brother and his partner without any of them mentioning