Beneath the Bleeding by Val McDermid

been given her life back, complete with its load of survivor guilt. But thanks to Tony Hill, she was starting to understand that she had to make that gift mean something. Robbie Bishop was as good a place to start as any.
     
    Not all of Robbie Bishop’s fans were outside Bradfield Cross. Those who lived in Ratcliffe had decided against the cross-town journey and settled for bringing their bunches of supermarket flowers and their children’s paintings to Bradfield Victoria’s training ground. They were propped along the chain-link fence that kept the punters away from the stars. Detective Sergeant Kevin Matthews couldn’t help a faint shudder of distaste as he waited for the gate security to call through and confirm their permission to enter the ground. He couldn’t be doing with these public outpourings of synthetic emotion. He wouldn’t mind betting that none of those who had made their pilgrimage to the Ratcliffe ground had ever exchanged more than a few words along the lines of, ‘And who shall I sign it to?’ with Robbie Bishop. It wasn’t so long since Kevin had had to mourn for real, and heresented the cheapness of their gestures. In his view, if the pilgrims lavished those emotions on the living-their kids, partners and parents-the world would be a better place.
    ‘Tacky,’ Chris Devine said from the passenger seat as if reading his mind.
    ‘This is nothing to what there’ll be in a couple of days, after he’s actually died,’ Kevin said as the guard waved them through, pointing to the parking area near the long, low building that impeded the view of the field from the street. He slowed as they passed the Ferraris and Porsches of the players. ‘Nice motors,’ he said approvingly.
    ‘You’ve got a Ferrari, haven’t you?’ Chris said, recalling something Paula had told her.
    He sighed. ‘Mondial QV cabriolet, Ferrari red. One of only twenty-four right-hand-drive cabs ever built. She’s a dream machine, and she’s going soon.’
    ‘Oh no. Poor Kevin. Why are you getting rid?’
    ‘She’s really only a two-seater and the kids are getting too big to squeeze in. She’s a single person’s car, Chris. I don’t suppose you’re interested?’
    ‘A bit rich for my blood, I think. I’d never hear the end of it from Sinead. She’d be telling me it was my mid-life crisis car.’
    ‘Shame. I’d like to be sure she’s going to a good home. At least I’ve managed to get a stay of execution for a bit.’
    ‘How come?’
    ‘There’s this journalist, Justin Adams. He writes for the car magazines and he wants to do an article about ordinary blokes who drive extraordinary cars. Apparently a cop with a Ferrari is right up his street.So I got Stella to agree that I get to keep the car till the magazine article comes out, so I don’t get the piss taken out of me for having my name and my photo in a magazine when I don’t own the car any more.’
    Chris grinned. ‘Sounds like a good deal to me.’
    ‘Yeah, well, the countdown begins next week, when we do the interview.’ Kevin sniffed as he got out of the car. ‘Digestive day,’ he said.
    ‘What?’
    He pointed to the west, where a two-storey brick building slumped along the boundary of the playing fields. ‘The biscuit factory. When I was a kid, I trained for a season with the Vic juniors. When the wind’s in the right direction, you can tell what biscuits they’re baking. I always thought it was a refined form of torture for teenage lads trying to keep fit.’
    ‘What happened?’ Chris asked, following him round the end of the changing pavilion.
    Kevin strode ahead of her so she couldn’t see the regret on his face. ‘I wasn’t good enough,’ he said. ‘Many are called but few are chosen.’
    ‘That must have been rough.’
    Kevin gave a little snort of laughter. ‘At the time, I thought it was the end of the world.’
    ‘And now?’
    ‘The money would have been better, that’s for sure. And I’d have a fleet of