His dad. Jake wanted to push him away, but he didn’t have the strength. An accident? Suicide? Security guards streamed past on either side. ‘It’s nothing,’ they were saying in Russian. ‘Nothing to see.’ Jake saw Janné’s face, contorted with horror. Devon Taylor’s eyes were wide with shock. Murder. Jake knew he was right. Daniel Powell had been murdered. He remembered his dad’s last words to the journalist, uttered so coldly: Be careful, Powell. Jake’s skin prickled with fear and the sickness took him again, coiling in his guts like a snake. He puked in the tunnel, spattering the concrete floor. ‘Get it all out, son,’ his dad said. A man and a woman, both in police uniforms, rushed towards the pitch. A siren blared in the distance. Jake wanted to grab one of the officers, tell them what he knew, but his dad kept ushering him forcefully into the belly of the stadium. They reached the lift and stepped inside. Jake wiped his mouth and stared at his reflection in the mirror on the wall.
