by Bill Kitson
‘You mean Jack Burrell, the boxer?’
‘That’s right. I understand he owes the bookies a fortune. I’ve heard it was almost a million.’
‘News to me, mate, and I would know. That’s one of the main parts of my job, keeping tabs on clients’ accounts. If a punter gets in too deep with any of us, we pass the word around. An enormous amount like that would have everyone on edge. Besides, nobody I know would let a punter get that far in, no matter how good their credit might be. Cash flow wouldn’t stand it, for one thing.’
‘Maybe I got it all wrong. You know how it is with rumours.’
Stanton puzzled the matter over for a long time after the Black Bull team had left, chastened by their defeat. He joined in the victory celebration, but only fleetingly, as he pondered what he’d been told. If Jack Burrell didn’t owe the bookmakers a load of money, where had the rumour come from? And if he didn’t need the money to pay off gambling debts, why had he used drugs to ensure he won the fight? Apart from that, Stanton had known Burrell since the boy came to him for lessons, and couldn’t believe he would stoop to drugs to win a fight — or for any other reason, for that matter.
It simply didn’t make sense, and Stanton didn’t like things that didn’t make sense. He’d have to try and find out more. He wasn’t quite sure how to go about it, but in passing, he wondered fleetingly if Gus Harvey was involved, but then dismissed the idea.
Stanton pondered what he’d learned as he walked home. He needed to speak to Jack. Something definitely wasn’t right. He remembered the angry look on the manager’s face after Burrell had won the fight, remembered too the strained atmosphere between the boxer and his seconds in his corner.
Above all, he recalled Jack as he had been when he’d trained him. Others might believe Burrell guilty of all that had been rumoured about him. They might even believe him capable of taking performance-enhancing drugs, but Stanton wasn’t convinced. That wasn’t the Jack Burrell he knew. Either something had gone sadly wrong in Jack’s life, or someone had a lot of questions to answer.
When he reached home, Stanton thought Amy looked stressed, more so than normal. ‘Any problems, love?’ he asked, trying to keep his tone casual.
‘Jack was here earlier. He called only a few minutes after you left for the pub. Didn’t you see him? I told him where you were, and he was setting off to go talk to you.’
Stanton relaxed. That explained Amy’s tension. Jack was a favourite. He was one of only a few people who knew about Amy’s illness. As Amy’s health deteriorated, her nerves had become more and more brittle. Nowadays, she rarely went out, not even to do the shopping, leaving that task to Wes. If the flat became unbearably claustrophobic she would venture forth, but even then only after dark and with Stanton alongside her. She was terrified of being seen, of people pitying her. Illogical, perhaps, but yet another symptom of what ailed her.
She realized that Wes had said something. ‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘I said Jack never arrived at the pub. Did he tell you what he wanted?’
‘No, to be honest I could barely make out what he was saying. He was upset, and he’d been drinking. He left you a note he’d written in case we were out.’ Amy gestured towards the mantelpiece. ‘Are you sure he didn’t get there?’
‘Of course I’m sure. Even if I hadn’t seen him, the landlord would have noticed him. He’s one of Jack’s biggest fans. Or was, until . . .’
Stanton picked up the piece of paper and thought about what Amy had said before he unfolded it. There was another thing that didn’t add up. Jack wasn’t a drinker. Stanton knew all the temptations that were strewn in the path of successful fighters. Drink, women, drugs. Jack Burrell would have none of them. Only a good-looking girl might tempt him, and Stanton knew he already had a girlfriend.
“Wes,” the note said, “it’s all lies. Whatever you hear isn’t true. I’m going to prove it as well. When that inquiry meets, I’ll tell my story and expose the lot of them. Jack.”
Stanton handed Amy the note and told her, ‘I got talking to a bloke in the pub tonight after we’d been playing darts. The guy works for a bookmaker, and he reckoned all those rumours about Jack owing the bookies a ton of cash are nonsense, which underlines what he wrote in this letter. It simply doesn’t make sense. I’m going to start asking a few questions.’
Amy looked concerned. ‘Just be careful, Wes. I know what you’re like when you get the bit between your teeth. If there is something seriously wrong, you don’t want to go upsetting the sort of people who might be involved in anything like this.’
* * *
Two days later, the headlines in the more sensational newspapers read, “Jack Burrell commits suicide”.
Chapter Three
Ronnie Thornton was a useful man to know. He was a collector of information, one who seemed to have the knack of gaining access to facts that were beyond the reach of anyone else. His job as a presenter and researcher for Helm Radio made this talent extremely useful. Much of what Ronnie Thornton learned during his news-gathering activities never reached the ears of the radio station’s listeners, however. Such are the laws of slander that if they had aired even a tenth of them, the station would have been out of business, bankrupt from the lawsuits that would ensue.
It was that stash of secret intelligence that Wes Stanton wanted to tap into. If anyone knew what lay behind the accusations that had been levelled at Jack Burrell before his death, Thornton would be the one. Stanton arranged to meet the newsman in the Cross Keys, one of Thornton’s favourite watering holes, and went along armed with a bottle of his man’s favourite malt whisky.
The radio researcher’s opening remark, having accepted Stanton’s offer of a pint, made Stanton’s job easier. ‘I bet you’re going to ask me about Jack Burrell, aren’t you?’
Stanton handed him the drink and they walked across to a table in front of the bay window, away from prying eyes and ears. ‘That’s right, I take it you know something about it.’
‘I know that Burrell wasn’t intended to win that fight.’
‘It was fixed?’
Thornton laughed. ‘And how! The problem was; nobody let Jack in on the secret. Not that I’m suggesting he’d have gone along with it if they had. Apparently someone lost their nerve. Word on the grapevine is that they were supposed to slip Burrell some sleepy pills but they chickened out. Of course, all this is hearsay, so none of it can be proved; which is a pity. It was a shame, what happened to him. I liked Jack. He didn’t deserve to end up the way he did. Have you heard they found sedatives in his bloodstream after he topped himself? That’s bloody ironic given what he was supposed to have done, don’t you think?’
More than ironic, Stanton thought. ‘Do you know who it was that wanted him to lose? Who was behind the fix, I mean? Was it just his manager, or is there more to it than that?’
Thornton looked almost offended at the idea that he might not know. ‘There was Burrell’s manager for one, that’s true, but I don’t think he was the prime mover. From what I was told, the manager owes a lot of money to someone locally, so he does what they tell him. He was given the order to make sure Burrell lost the fight, and they would forget about the money he owed.’
‘So he was blackmailed into it? Who does he owe the money to?’
‘A man that nobody wants to cross. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Burrell’s manager had been found floating down the River Helm without a canoe, if you get my meaning.’
‘Who is this mystery man that you’re frightened to name?’
Thornton looked round, ensuring there was no one within listening distance. ‘Think of a local builder and property developer, who now owns a bookmaking business, and I reckon you won’t be far off the mark.’
It was the information that Stanton was dreading. To be absolutely certain, he asked, ‘Are you referring to Gus Harvey?’
‘You said the name, I didn’t.’ Thornton drained his glass and picked up the whisky bottle before standing up t
o leave. ‘Thanks for this, Wes.’ He leaned forward and spoke quietly, ‘Take my advice; you should be very careful if you intend to go around asking questions about the builder. It isn’t reckoned to be a healthy occupation.’
Stanton was only too well aware how dangerous Harvey could be. And now he was faced with having to prove that Gus Harvey was behind the fixed fight that had led to Jack Burrell’s death. Not for one minute did Stanton believe that Burrell had committed suicide. Like others who had crossed Gus Harvey, Jack had met with a sudden and tragic end. Wes was determined to do something about it. However, there comes a time when even the best fighters are up against an opponent too powerful for them.
* * *
It was three weeks after Burrell’s funeral before Stanton was able to track down the address of the man acting as the second, who had been in the boxer’s corner at Jack’s last bout. This was the man Thornton had suggested had balked at administering the drug. However, he wasn’t at home when Stanton knocked on the door of his flat. After several attempts, he managed to attract the attention of the woman who lived next door. He was surprised to see that although it was late afternoon, the woman was wearing nothing but a skimpy dressing gown which did little to hide her voluptuous charms.
In answer to his question, she told him, ‘He said he was going to visit his sister in Spain and would be gone for six months.’
‘I don’t suppose he left you a contact address or phone number in case of emergencies, did he?’
She shook her head. ‘No, but he did say he’d call me at some stage.’ She smiled. ‘He often comes to visit me when he has money to spare.’
From that, Stanton gathered that the neighbour was on the game, which hardly surprised him.
‘If he rings, shall I tell him you want to speak to him?’
‘If you could; it’s quite urgent. I’ll jot down my name and phone number for you.’
When he had gone, the woman closed her door and walked across the tiny hallway to the small table, where she picked up the phone. She dialled a number that was scrawled on the notepad alongside and having identified herself, said, ‘You told me to call you if anyone came sniffing around asking about the man next door. Well, I’ve just been speaking to someone who wanted to contact him urgently. Yes, of course I got his name, and his phone number too, but it’ll cost you. How much? You tell me. How much do you think it’s worth?’
After a moment’s haggling, she said, ‘OK, the name is Wes Stanton.’ She heard the sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line and wished she’d held out for a higher price. She recited the phone number, and ended by saying, ‘You can send that money tomorrow. Cash, no cheques.’
Having put the phone down, she stared at it, then sighed. She wished she could earn fifty quid that easily more often.
* * *
Stanton returned to Bishopton, by now more convinced than ever that Jack had been set up, and that there was something more than a little suspicious about the boxer’s death. How it had been done, Stanton wasn’t sure, but he felt certain the urine sample that had tested positive for performance-enhancing drugs immediately after the fight had been tampered with. That was a mean, spiteful act of revenge, because someone had lost money on the result. The fact that Burrell’s corner man had run off to Spain — if that was where he had actually gone — suggested he was scared of retribution. Stanton wondered if the man would return once the six months was up. Probably not — not if he was that afraid.
Although he’d learned a lot, none of it was concrete. Short of getting someone to talk, there seemed little hope of proving that Burrell had been framed. Breaking that conspiracy of silence was going to be incredibly difficult, but Stanton was determined not to give up. He owed it to Jack, to his reputation, and to his family. And unlike the boxer’s second, Wes Stanton didn’t scare easily.
* * *
Clyde had just returned from an early morning run, pausing in the entrance hall of the Victorian building to collect what mail there was. As he let himself into the flat, he noticed most of it was junk. He separated that out and scanned the remaining envelopes with mild distaste. The top one contained a bank statement. That wouldn’t be good news.
He was about to discard the mail when the phone rang. He barely recognized his mother’s voice, so distraught was she with shock, and the horrific news she had to impart. He listened, but she had to repeat the message several times before he could grasp what she was saying. At first, he was numb with disbelief. It was only after his mother ended the call that his vision blurred. He carefully placed the mobile down on the table. Only then did he give way to his howling grief.
His medical studies would be over, that he knew for sure. Without help from his father, there was no way he could afford to continue at university. Apart from that, there was his mother to look after. She was not well enough to cope alone, and with his father gone, he would have to take over the dual roles of provider and carer.
* * *
A week later, the headlines carried the report.
“Trade Union Activist Named As Murder Victim
Police revealed yesterday that the victim of the fatal attack in Bishopton last week was Wesley Stanton, a well-known trade union activist who had campaigned for workers’ rights.
Stanton’s body was found early on Thursday morning in Barrow’s Wynd, off Bishopton High Street. Police say he had been savagely beaten by more than one assailant.
In a statement issued yesterday, police said the brutality of the attack, which they believe may have been racially motivated, was particularly shocking. ‘We think there were at least two attackers. In addition to beating him with clubs or other blunt instruments, the victim was kicked and stamped on, then left to die. A racist slogan and swastika were spray-painted near the body.’
Stanton’s father came to England from Barbados in the 1950s and settled in York, where he became well known in cricketing circles. Wes Stanton, who was unmarried, was convenor at Helmsdale Plastics, where he led the strike that caused a six months’ loss of production, and ultimately resulted in the company being taken over three years ago by an American conglomerate. In addition to his trade union activities, Stanton was well known for his work training young up-and-coming boxers. His greatest protégé was Jack Burrell, whose professional career ended in disgrace, and who committed suicide earlier this year.
Police are appealing for anyone who saw the dead man on Wednesday evening of last week to come forward. A spokesman said, ‘We are particularly keen to discover Mr Stanton’s movements after leaving work on the day shift at Helmsdale Plastics. It is possible that he had arranged to meet someone, but failed to arrive. We would like anyone with information, no matter how irrelevant it might seem, to come forward.’”
* * *
Six months later, at Netherdale Crown Court, the foreman of the jury stood up, an imposing figure of a man, with a rich, booming voice that echoed round the furthest corners of the courtroom. As he replied to the questions delivered by the usher, there was no shock; no sudden twist of logic. The only slight surprise being the verdict was not unanimous.
As one veteran reporter remarked to a junior colleague on hearing that there had been dissenting voices among the twelve, ‘It only proves how unpredictable juries can be. I remember one time . . .’
His colleague groaned inwardly. They had over an hour’s car journey back to their office, and his senior’s monologue was likely to fill the whole of the drive.
It was clear from the judge’s comments that he harboured grave doubts, but his was a difficult task. Misdirecting a jury during his summing-up, or even suggesting a possible outcome to the discussions that would take place in the jury room would lead to an appeal and calls for a mistrial to be declared. Once the verdict had been handed down, however, the judge was somewhat less fettered.
‘This was a cowardly, wicked, and brutal murder, committed without mercy against a defenceless victim in a vulnerable position. I cannot recall ever hearing of s
uch a heartless crime.’
He turned to the jury, and if his voice lost any severity as he addressed them, it was not noticeable. ‘Members of the jury, you have made your decision based on the evidence placed before you, and in the light of the lack of any challenge to the credibility of the witnesses, I can understand that it was difficult for you to reach any other conclusion. It is a decision you may reflect on in later life and wonder if, had the circumstances been otherwise, you might have reached another completely different verdict. However, that is a matter that must remain between you and your consciences. You are hereby dismissed, and exempted from jury service for the prescribed period, which is currently a minimum of two years.’
‘Phew,’ the junior reporter whispered, in an attempt to distract his colleague, ‘I think the judge disagrees with the verdict.’
‘They often do, but they’re usually more subtle about the way they express their doubts. I recall when I was covering the Old Bailey . . .’
Yes, the junior thought, it was definitely going to be a long car journey.
Six weeks later, the judge received a note from the most senior law officer in the land, one which contained a mild reprimand for his remarks. He read it through, before tearing the note into tiny shreds and allowing them to trickle slowly through his fingers, watching them flutter down to the wicker waste basket alongside his desk. His actions demonstrated his disagreement with the rebuke, just as he had disputed the jury’s decision. However, even the judge’s wisdom could not have predicted the dramatic chain of events that verdict would set in motion.
Chapter Four
2015
Clyde opened his mail, and stared at the letter bearing the logo of the local NHS Trust. He scanned the contents, which comprised an appointment at Netherdale General Hospital. The date set for his appointment was only two days hence. Clyde felt his guts churn with nausea. Two days — that meant bad news. If the tests they had carried out had revealed nothing sinister, they would not have called him in at such short notice. He had more reason than most to know how the system operated.