The ice rink had emptied once the stretcher had been carried out.
The spectators had taken refuge in the foyer, as orderly as Jennifer had just demanded, but order was not the same as calm. Traces of the awards ceremony still glistened on the ice: scuff marks, a lost glove, a single drop of dark liquid that was probably just mulled ginger ale but still looked out of place.
The trophy was gone. That did not make the spot where it had stood any less conspicuous.
Dana was kneeling where Franklin had collapsed. She had taken off her coat, rolled up the sleeves of her dark suit, and was examining the ice with the same serious precision with which other people read a map. Fox had already shooed away two nosy local politicians, a photographer and a man from the gala committee, thereby preventing the place from being accidentally turned into a doormat.
Jennifer stood alone at the edge of the rink. Her face was calm, her gaze was not. Shane Hollander had crept up from behind, even though his team had long since been sent off to the changing rooms. He stood too upright. Too still. That’s exactly how people stand when they believe every wrong move could give too much away.
Dana stood up and went over to Jennifer. Her voice was soft, but it cut cleanly through the tense air.
“That wasn’t a typical heart attack.”
Shane leapt out from behind the barrier and startled the two women with his unrelenting questioning. “What do you mean, typical?”
“It means his collapse didn’t fit with what the tournament doctor claimed straight away.”
Jennifer looked at her. “He said cardiac.”
“He said it too quickly.” Dana glanced at the side door. “Before he’d properly checked his pulse, pupils, breathing and neurological signs.”
Shane swallowed. “But it could still have been a heart attack. And why did you want to inject him with gonadotropin? That’s not a treatment for a heart attack. I’ve just googled it.”
“Study medicine first before you question my decisions,” said Dana. “The irritation on his hand, the sudden failure of his left side, the timing when he touched the trophy, and the way he could still move his gaze deliberately all point against a simple cardiac collapse. I’m thinking a stroke or something worse.”
Jennifer fell very quiet. “Poison?”
Dana looked at her. “Possible.”
“Via the trophy?” asked Shane.
“Possible.”
“It wasn’t Ilya,” whispered Shane.
Jennifer turned her head towards him.
Dana did too.
Shane realised the effect of his words a moment too late. “I mean, in case anyone gets that idea. He just accepted the trophy.”
“No one’s accused him,” said Dana.
“Not yet.”
Jennifer looked at Shane with interest. “That was quick.”
Shane tensed his shoulders. “He was in front of all the cameras. He had both hands on the trophy. He wouldn’t have had any chance to give Franklin anything.”
“He had contact with the trophy,” said Dana matter-of-factly.
“Everyone had contact with the trophy. Franklin. The assistants. The tournament doctor. Probably some bloke wearing gloves. Luc was closer than Ilya when Franklin stepped forward.”
Shane continued, speaking faster than before: “Cemil was close enough too. He could have touched the trophy beforehand. Or Kenji. Japan were at the edge of the pitch early on. Maybe someone from Japan used an old lacquer technique, something involving metal and skin contact, like in the Luzon War?”
Dana looked at him.
Jennifer looked at him very kindly, which was worse.
“Shane,” she said, “that was a remarkably international spread of suspicion.”
“I’m just saying that Ilya wasn’t the only one nearby.”
“No one said Captain Rozanov is a suspect,” said Dana.
“But everyone will think so.” His voice grew rougher. “Soviet captain wins. Philanthropist says something about a familiar name and the Soviet Union. Then he collapses whilst Ilya is holding the trophy. It writes itself.”
Jennifer nodded slowly. “That does sound rather suspicious; I hadn’t thought of it that way. The story is ugly, but it’s simple. Simple stories travel fast.”
Dana looked back at the spot on the ice. “Then we must ensure the truth comes to light.”
Jennifer pulled her gloves tighter, even though she wasn’t cold. “We have another problem. Franklin had a strong motive not to die, but plenty of others might have had a motive to get rid of him.”
Jennifer turned to Dana. “Franklin was broke.”
Shane blinked. “What?”
“Not short of cash. Not temporarily illiquid. Broke in the sort of way where lawyers start writing polite letters to one another and, in the end, nobody’s polite anymore.”
Dana pricked up her ears. “How do you know that?”
“From his files.”
Dana raised her eyebrows. “You have his files?”
“I’ve seen them.”
“In an office?”
“In a very unromantic equipment room.”
Jennifer cleared her throat. “We happened to come across some files.”
Jennifer cleared her throat. “The scholarship fund he’s been so solemnly touting this evening doesn’t seem to be covered. The trust collateral is either encumbered multiple times or hasn’t been contributed yet. What’s more, there are unpublished asbestos findings in the hall. The demolition costs have at least doubled.”
Dana closed her eyes briefly, as if sorting through the information. “So after the tournament, Franklin would have had to provide sixteen million for the Soviet Union, which he presumably didn’t have.”
“And further sums for the runners-up,” said Jennifer. “Eight, four, two, one million. Even if the scale of payments had partly consisted of collateral, an audit would have been inevitable.”
Jennifer looked towards the VIP stand. “It would be a shame if someone had killed him for the money. Or for an inheritance. Or because his death would delay the payout.”
Shane turned slowly.
“I know what you’re trying to do.” Her voice remained calm. “But if it was murder, then excuses won’t help us. Not even far-fetched ones.”
Shane fell silent.
Dana looked at Shane. “Did he speak to you as well?”
Shane shook his head. “No.”
“To Ilya?”
Shane hesitated for too long.
“I don’t know.”
Dana noted the hesitation. She didn’t press him. Not yet.
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. “I’m requesting records. All five captains. Full travel history, medical history, family relationships, known contacts with Franklin, the tournament doctor and the scholarship fund. Plus everything available on the hall, the trophy and the asbestos findings.”
Dana dialled, turned halfway away and spoke quietly, precisely, with the patience of someone who knew that bureaucracy sometimes moved faster if you didn’t give it a chance to explain itself.
Meanwhile, Jennifer watched Shane.
Dana finished the call and came back. Her face offered no comfort.
“The tournament doctor had him taken to his medical room. I want to see the resuscitation measures, including the medication, who was in the room, who opened which ampoule, what was documented, how much atropine and gonadotropin he was injected with; and whether he administered the purgative.”
Jennifer looked towards the side door. “You don’t trust the tournament doctor?”
“No.”
“Because he was too quick?”
“Because he was too untested, because he diagnosed too early, because he’s dodging my questions, and because Franklin had a skin reaction on his hand that I won’t ignore.”
Shane stepped forward immediately. “I’m coming with you.”
“No,” said Dana.
“I saw him fall.”
“So did many others.”
“If anyone is going to—”
“That’s exactly why you’re staying here.” Dana looked at him intently. “You’re not helping him if you look as though you’re trying to destroy evidence.”
That hit home.
Shane stepped back, but it was clearly a struggle for him.
Jennifer placed a hand lightly on his arm. “Sometimes you protect someone better by not standing right next to them.”
“That sounds like something adults say when they’ve no idea what’s going on.”
“Often. This time, though, it’s the right thing to do, given my authority.”
Dana was already heading for the side door. Jennifer followed, but paused once more and looked back across the ice.
The trophy was gone, the sponsor in the hospital ward. But the case had only just begun. Dana opened the door to the corridor behind the stands.
“Now,” she said, “let’s see how a heart attack is harvested.”