by Alex Gray
The police presence at Dundee’s football ground was much greater than usual, augmenting Tayside’s usual numbers with some of Strathclyde’s own. Uniformed men and women strained their eyes gazing into a crowd that was hyped up by the recent events at Kelvin FC and the fact that Dundee and Kelvin were rivals for the top spot in this season’s league. Lorimer had driven up with Maggie. It was a good way to distract themselves from Rosie’s condition. He was keen to see the match, observe the players and it would be a day out together, he’d promised her. Now they were here, sitting amidst the sea of black-and-white scarves held aloft as the Keelies sang their alternative version of ‘Lord of the Dance’.
The detective’s eyes scanned the ground. There were TV cameramen on the opposite stand, their cameras covered in grey tarpaulin, and others situated behind each of the goals next to the sports photographers. Once this fixture was underway, their cameras would be swivelling this way and that, according to the pace of the game.
‘Now let’s hear it for Blake Moodie, today’s mascot,’ a voice called from the loudspeaker and a scatter of handclapping broke out as a wee tow-haired lad trotted out, clutching the hand of one of the club officials.
‘Now make some noise for your home team, Dundeeee!’ Yells and stamping followed as the home team emerged, followed by a mixture of catcalls and whistles as Kelvin’s players ran on to the pitch.
Maggie gave her husband a quizzical glance but he just grinned back, his spirits lifted by the familiar sounds. This was par for the course, after all, at an away game. He looked down, noting a white metal gate set near the mouth of the tunnel, bearing the club’s familiar insignia of laurel leaves and the date of its inception, 1893. Further along, the advertising hoardings displayed the name of a local blacksmith specialising in wrought ironwork and Lorimer nodded to himself, making the connection. Now the players and match officials were on the pitch, the latter wearing bright turquoise strips to differentiate them from the players’ more sombre colours.
‘And you can hear the sound that reverberates down the tunnel and that familiar anthem of theirs sung with passion and expectation,’ the commentator insisted. ‘Now we’re just moments away from kick-off. Looking at today’s team it seems very much that Ron Clark has decided to play a three-three-four formation. Referee is looking at his watch and yes! The ball is way up into Kelvin’s half and Farraday is chasing after it...’
Lorimer glanced at Maggie. Her cheeks were flushed with the sun and she seemed to be enjoying the atmosphere. It wasn’t often he had the chance to combine work and home, he thought ruefully. They’d go for a decent meal afterwards, maybe even drive over to St Andrews. He watched as the ball sailed off the boot of Farraday, the Dundee striker, and passed within inches of the goal. A huge ‘Ohhh!’ went up, then chants of ‘Easy, easy, easy!’ came from the Dundee fans. Lorimer nodded. Farraday’s shot hadn’t been too far off. Kelvin’s defence would have their work cut out if the striker was on form today.
‘And now Gemmell has passed to Devitt who beats Baz Thomson – Thomson, you remember, who made that terrible error last season, saw Kelvin relegated – now it’s picked up by Sweeney who passes back to Friedl, ball’s played down the middle … oh, too long for McKinnery. And Dundee keeper O’Hagan kicks it back up the field. Now Morgan is sprinting for the ball but the whistle goes and Kelvin take possession once more.’
Maggie followed Thomson’s progress as he passed under their view, heard the thwack of boot on leather then joined in the groans around her as he lost the ball in a hard tackle. Dundee’s dark blue jerseys seemed to outnumber the opposing team’s black-and-white and she found herself counting the players in each team just to make sure. Bill had told her on the drive up that Kelvin had not beaten Dundee at home in any of their Scottish cup ties. Ever. It seemed an astonishing statistic, especially when Kelvin had reached the ranks of the Scottish Premier League when Dundee had still been languishing in the first division. Football was a funny game and she doubted that she could ever have the same passion for a team that all these fans seemed to feel. Round about her, the expressions of the Kelvin fans showed a determination bordering on fanaticism as they watched the players move back and forwards. Had the killings been the work of some obsessed fan? Maggie gave a shudder, wondering what sort of personalities lay behind these faces. Her eyes strayed back to the perimeter of the pitch where a linesman was directing his lime-and-orange chequered flag towards Kelvin’s half.
‘Now the whistle goes and Sweeney takes the free kick, sending the ball across to Rientjes who runs with the ball, passes it to Thomson, back to Sweeney, away to McKinnery who can’t quite make it and it’s a throw-in to Dundee. Kelvin need to keep possession of the ball, make more of their chances, if they are to have any hopes of regaining their Premier League status this season. Dundee is their Achilles heel, of course. They’ve never beaten a team at Dens Park. Can they defeat these odds today? Now Dundee’s Farraday is screaming for the ball. He’s onside and Gemmell is moving forward, opens up the middle of the field, quick shimmy to Devitt and – oh! A lovely little one-two, outwitting Rientjes, and Farraday has the ball at his feet and he drives it … Oh! What a shot! Just hit the post! The Dundee striker has shown an early determination and I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t open Dundee’s account soon.’
‘What’s the referee stopping them for?’ Maggie asked.
‘Offside,’ Lorimer told her briefly, eyes on the pitch.
‘Rubbish!’ snorted the Kelvin fan at his side, overhearing them.
Lorimer didn’t respond. There was no way he was going to let himself be drawn into an argument with a belligerent Keelie. Nor did he feel like stopping to explain the offside rule to Maggie. The Dundee striker had the ball at his feet once more and, illuminated by the silver light of camera flashes, he took his second shot, but Carmichael threw his body sideways, his punch sending the ball out of play. Lorimer joined in the clapping, nodding approval of the Kelvin keeper’s save, but anxious too for the corner kick that it gave to the home team. There was a scramble for the ball and it see-sawed between opposing players until Carmichael scooped it up once more with a massive kick that sent it way into Dundee’s half.
‘Fancy a pie and Bovril?’ he asked Maggie.
She wrinkled up her nose, but then laughed. ‘Och, go on, why not. Show a girl a good time, why don’t you?’
Lorimer squeezed past the spectators in his row, then headed for the stairs that would take him to the catering stalls behind the stand. It wasn’t quite half-time but, going now, he’d avoid the rush. Besides, he had a notion to check out the directors’ area, see who had come across from Glasgow to watch their team today.
Maggie Lorimer listened to the chat behind her. The teams had disappeared back into the bowels of the stadium following the referee’s half-time whistle and she was being entertained not only by the Seventies music blaring from the loudspeaker system but also by snatches of dialogue from Kelvin supporters.
‘Rubbish game. Whit’s Clark no playin Thomson up front fur? Can he no see the wee man’s gaggin fur the ba?’
‘Aye, like he was against Queen of the South?’ came the dry response. ‘D’ye no think he’s bein a bit cannier today? Mean, he disnae lose out on a league match efter bein red-carded, but he’ll need tae watch hisself, know whit ah mean?’
But Barry Thomson’s fate at the hands of his two erstwhile critics was silenced as the fans moved out of earshot just as Lorimer arrived bearing a grey cardboard carton full of half-time treats.
Maggie had no sooner finished the scalding cup of Bovril than the players were back on to the pitch and she glanced from left to right, familiarising herself with the change of ends.
‘Yes, it looks as if Celtic are making a play for Hammond. Taking him on a loan basis if they can. After he scored that vital goal against Kelvin last season,’ the radio commentator continued. ‘But, back to today’s game against Dundee. And it’s a magnificent day here at Dens Park, sun splitting the stones. Gre
at turnout too, and despite the nil–nil score-line the fans seem to be enjoying this game. Kelvin haven’t really shown any great pace today – one wonders if recent events have any bearing on the players’ morale – and question marks remain about their defensive capabilities, though I must say that was a cracking save from Gordon Carmichael to deny Farraday the opening goal. Now we’re into the second half and let’s see if the home side can capitalise on their excellent start. No goals so far, if you’ve just joined us, but this Dundee side have entertained us for the first forty-five minutes with some great football. And Sweeney kicks the ball high into the air, it comes down on to the head of Clark who passes it to Friedl. Now the mid-fielder takes it steady, tip-toeing it forward, but there’s a terrific challenge by Morgan, typical of him, then he passes it down the line, taken by Knight – not seen too much of the ball this afternoon – but Knight sends it down to Morgan … a terrific pass, but Morgan couldn’t quite control the top spin and the ball’s gone out of play...’
Maggie yawned, gazing over the rows of spectators. The sky seemed to beat down on them, a relentless blue devoid of any trace of cloud. In Mull she’d welcomed the occasional nightly showers that had left a sweet scent in the air before the day’s heat had turned the grasses harsh and brittle. They’d passed a low-lying place between their cottage and the village of Craignure, a flat area jutting out towards the water, two sets of goalposts staring blankly across the green. Maybe there would be a couple of teams there right now, knocking a football back and forth between them. Could the locals muster enough talent for a proper match, or would it just be five-a-side? Somehow Maggie found it difficult to imagine that pristine patch of ground being kicked up into sods by a crowd of tackety-booted islanders, but she’d overheard someone talking about local teams: the Tobermory Tigers and the Dervaig Bears.
‘… and Woods is onside, dodges his marker and strikes, but the effort was just a bit too obvious and O’Hagan takes it with no difficulty. Now Devitt picks it up and turns to pass it and – oh! Gemmell goes down, clutching his leg. Looks like a sore one. You can hear the crowd shouting abuse at Clark and the referee seems to agree. Yes, there’s the yellow card … now Gemmell’s back on his feet … no harm done and Dundee have the free kick. Sweeney comes tearing in, forcing Devitt to play it long. Kelvin’s forwards are staying up the field and I can’t help but think this is allowing their markers to mark them a little bit more easily – Kelvin will have to be sharper on the ball. And here comes Thomson, intercepts Morgan’s pass and runs past one, then two defenders, takes a shot at goal but puts it straight into O’Hagan’s arms. Nice try though, and you can hear the fans clapping their approval. Best chance Kelvin have had all afternoon...’
Lorimer gave a sigh. Some games were like this. Try as they might, the strikers simply couldn’t put the ball past the post. Dundee had had more chances and their striker Farraday would probably earn himself the accolade of Man of the Match. He watched, dispassionately now, as the Kelvin players struggled to take and keep possession of the ball. It was as if they were trying to pick their way through a minefield; Dundee were piling on the pressure, forcing the Glasgow team into making just too many mistakes. Twice he’d watched, hope soaring, as Kelvin rattled the woodwork. But this simply epitomised the afternoon’s play. It was a nervy and edgy Kelvin side and he wondered, not for the first time, just what was going on inside the heads of these eleven men.
CHAPTER 21
Ron Clark tried to remind himself that gaining one point was a damn sight better than none, but he experienced a sense of failure nonetheless. If only he could concentrate on the players, the forthcoming matches. They were due to play the Pars at home next week, maybe things would be better by then, back to some semblance of normality. An atmosphere of disquiet still hung about the dressing room and sometimes he sensed the unspoken fears that clung to his players. A sense of horror had gripped the entire community; the tributes of flowers that had been left by the club’s main entrance included messages expressing a collective grief. But instead of being a comfort, their daily presence had made the manager feel increasingly depressed.
Clark climbed the stairs to his den, glad for once that his wife was still out shopping. A bit of a browse on the computer would settle this disquieting feeling he’d had all day, take his mind off things. He logged on to the sports pages, though he’d listened to the round-up programme on the way back from the match. It was still interesting to see who’d scored what and when, who’d been sent off. A shiver went down his spine as he read of a controversial decision from a well-known referee. He flicked from page to page then, as if his fingers had a life of their own, he logged on to Kelvin’s own website, curious to see if anyone had remarked on today’s non-event of a game. There was no comment as yet so he went on to the club’s unofficial page where anyone could log on, without having to register.
Ron Clark’s mouth opened as he read then reread the words. Hands shaking, he reached for his mobile phone.
‘I can’t believe it either,’ Lorimer told the Kelvin manager. ‘It must be some sort of a hoax.’ He bit his lip before adding that there must be any amount of nutters who could have sent the message. A copy of it was up on his own screen now.
Patrick Kennedy will be next. For disservices to Kelvin Football Club.
The sender had signed himself The Kelvin Killer in bold lettering as if to flaunt his self-conferred title.
Ron Clark’s voice was becoming agitated; Lorimer could hear a rising note of panic as he requested police protection for his chairman.
‘Has he asked for it?’ Lorimer wanted to know.
There was a pause before Clark answered, ‘Not exactly.’
‘Does he know about this message, Mr Clark?’ Lorimer enquired.
‘Well...’
‘Look,’ Lorimer began with a sigh, ‘we can’t authorise any further police presence at the club or at his home unless Mr Kennedy asks for it himself. Even then it’s doubtful that an officer would be detailed to stand guard. I suggest you make him familiar with this and let him decide what he wants to do about it.’
Lorimer scrolled down the unofficial website’s chat-room page to see if there had been any response to the threatening message. So far the rest of the page was blank. But for how long that would last was anyone’s guess and as it was out in the public domain, there might be any number of replies. It was probably just some daft wee boys logging on in their bedroom, bored out of their minds during the long school holidays, especially as today’s game had been guaranteed to disappoint anyone looking for another sensation. Not something Strathclyde Police should take too seriously. Patrick Kennedy would throw a fit if he heard that his manager had tried to gain special police protection for him.
He sat back, his mind drifting away from the case. His initial enthusiasm for it had waned in the aftermath of Rosie’s accident. Suddenly what became of the pathologist figured far more prominently in his thoughts than this latest development, if he could dignify it in such terms, ever could.
Glasgow’s Royal Infirmary sat close to the M8 motorway on one side and near to the mediaeval cathedral and the Glasgow Necropolis on the other, a symbol of hope sandwiched between life, death and all its mysteries. Solly watched the traffic streaming along on the main artery that connected Scotland’s two major cities. Thousands of commuters flashed past, oblivious to the quiet drama being played out in this hospital room. Life went on regardless, people speeding towards the city, to nights out at the concert halls, dinner dates or simply to the safe sanctuary of their own homes. His flat on the hill above Kelvingrove had become home to them both these past months, ever since Solly had asked her to stay for Christmas. And they’d made plans, talked about a wedding, a trip Down Under, how many children they’d have: Solly smiled at the memories even as he felt the tears run down his cheeks. What dreams they had! What glorious beautiful dreams! And was that all he would have left: dreams of what might have been?
Looking down at Rosie’s st
ill, pale face, Solly shook his head. No, he wouldn’t give up hope, not now, not until they came to tell him that there was nothing left to hope for. The sounds of the machines by her bed whirred and clicked in subdued monotone, discreet and necessary. He examined the monitors, afraid to see any sudden change that might break that slender thread of existence, but there was no change at all, simply patterns repeating themselves over and over.
Outside, things were happening; Lorimer’s triple murder case was no doubt spawning reams of paper down at the divisional HQ but they would have to continue the investigation without his input. At least for now.
‘You did what?’ Patrick Kennedy’s voice rose in a crescendo that made the man before him take one step backwards. ‘When did you suddenly become my keeper, Ron?’ The chairman’s tone contained a sneer that made Ron Clark’s cheeks flush.
‘I just thought—’
‘You’re not paid to think, Ron, you’re paid to manage a football team. When I need you to cover my back I’ll ask you. Okay?’
The Kelvin manager nodded, tight-lipped, and turned on his heel. The door behind him closed with a shudder as if he wanted to slam it hard but lacked the guts to do so.
Pat Kennedy glared at the door for a moment then gave an enormous sigh. That had been a bit stupid. He needed Ron on his side. To alienate him was not just daft, it was potentially lethal. Still, DCI Lorimer was right: this crazy website message was probably a schoolboy prank. He’d not give it any more thought than it deserved.
Kennedy drummed his fingers on the desk. The incident had ruffled him, though. Maybe it would be best to keep a low profile for a bit. Tell Marie to cool things off until all this had blown over. It was too dodgy to have her here after hours or even in a country house hotel where he might be recognised by the media. They’d pick up again at some future date, he thought. Better to spend time with Barbara doing family stuff. Safer, too, added a little voice. Kennedy’s mouth twisted in a grimace. He just needed to keep his head straight then he could gain total control of the club, and be shot of his wife into the bargain. To show his hand too soon was risking everything. He hated all this enforced caution with the press at every gate. The club had suddenly become smaller and more confined, as if there was no place to hide. But from what, Pat Kennedy asked himself, was he hoping to hide?