EQMM, March-April 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "And let that slimy Neil Woodville, take over? Oh, no!"

  "You could spike his guns. If you were to announce that you'd resign at the end of the season, there'd be no need to call that EGM. You'd be spared any humiliation."

  "What would be more humiliating than seeing Neil replace me?"

  "But that might not happen,” she reasoned. “If it was a straight fight between you and him, then he's in with a real chance. But if you were to nominate someone else as your successor, Neil could have the rug pulled from under him."

  "Nominate someone else?” He shrugged expressively. “Who?"

  "Simon Mifflin."

  The name made Hewlett blink. It was an interesting notion. A well-liked former player, Mifflin ran a profitable building company and had donated far more money to the club than anyone. When he built the new grandstand for Shelton RFC, he gave them a generous discount. He was older than either Hewlett or Woodville, but was as dedicated to the club as either of them. Mifflin commanded wide respect.

  "Simon could never beat you,” said Rosie, “but he'd leave Neil standing, especially if he had your endorsement. It could be the answer, Martin. You're spared the hassle yet you'd still have huge influence on affairs through Simon. It's the best of both worlds."

  "It would certainly leave Neil with egg on his face."

  "Why not give Simon a ring tomorrow?"

  "No,” he replied. “I'm not turning my back on a fight."

  "I don't want to see you hurt, Martin."

  "I've never lost a committee punch-up yet."

  "Think of the upheaval it will cause to the club."

  "All I'm thinking about is putting Neil in his place once and for all.” He squeezed her hand affectionately. “I know you have my best interests at heart, Rosie, and I love you for it, but I'm not afraid. I'll defy any motion of no confidence and come out of it stronger than ever."

  "Martin—"

  "No,” he said firmly. “My mind is made up. I stay."

  "In that case, I'll support you to the hilt. So will Peter."

  "God bless you both!"

  "By the way,” she said, opening the car door, “Peter thinks we should put someone else on the list of suspects."

  "And who's that?"

  "Neil himself. Let's get you inside, then I'll tell you why."

  * * * *

  After a storming victory against Crowford on the following Saturday, the players felt entitled to celebrate, even if it meant doing so on the bare floor of the clubhouse bar. The place was crowded and Doug Lomas was grateful for the assistance of a couple of volunteers. It was a long day for the barman. Having arrived midmorning, he would not come off duty until well after midnight. Lomas did not mind that. Long hours meant more money and he enjoyed the camaraderie that really blossomed on such occasions. He felt part of it. People like Neil Woodville might treat him with frank suspicion, but most of the club members liked their barman. He was friendly and hard-working.

  Because he had to drive home on his motorbike, Lomas never drank on duty. While others ordered round after round, he remained sober and was able to watch the effects of alcohol on them. Towards the end of the celebrations, he was washing glasses behind the bar with the help of Peter Rayment, always a man to take on some of the more menial chores when needed. Lomas drew his attention to Martin Hewlett.

  "He can really put his beer away. Did he always drink that much?"

  "No,” said Rayment. “Martin loves a pint but he didn't used to get plastered in the way he does now. I feel sorry for Rosie. He's a big man. It's not easy to put him to bed when he's in that state."

  "What was he like as a player?"

  "Martin? He was brilliant. First-team captain for five consecutive years. They were real glory days. Martin was good enough to play rugby as a full-time professional, but he was too loyal to Shelton."

  "Then he had that freak accident,” said Lomas.

  "I know. I was playing fullback in that match."

  "What exactly happened?"

  "Martin was on the wing,” recalled the other, “and they put in this high kick over his head. He ran back after it but the ball bounced way above his head. He leapt up like a basketball player to pluck it out of the air. Unfortunately, one of their players crash-tackled him from behind.” He gave a shudder. “There was this almighty thud as he hit the ground and that was that. It was gruesome, Doug."

  "So he was tackled when he was in midair?"

  "Yes, that was an offence, for a start. But the man who thundered into his back didn't worry about the rules. Martin had already scored two tries that afternoon, so it was a deliberate attempt to knock him out of the game. Not that there was any intention to cause permanent damage, mind you,” Rayment said. “But that was the result."

  "Poor man!"

  "A tragedy—for Martin and for his wife."

  "Yet he never talks about it."

  "That's him all over. No good crying over spilt milk, he always says. Since he can't play, he's devoted himself to running the club instead. And I, for one, think he's done a grand job."

  "So do I,” said Lomas, “but not everyone agrees, I'm afraid."

  "No, Doug."

  "I heard rumors that Mr. Woodville is trying to replace him."

  "We'll see."

  "If that happens, I can kiss this job goodbye."

  "Then we'll have to make sure that it doesn't happen, won't we?” said Rayment cheerily. “A good barman is worth his weight in gold."

  "I do my best."

  "I know that. More importantly, so does Martin.” He saw Hewlett waving to him. “Pull him a last pint, Doug, he wants one for the road."

  * * * *

  News of the outrage reached the club chairman on the following morning. Propped up in bed, Martin Hewlett was having a late breakfast when the telephone rang. Rosie was on hand to pick up the receiver. An anxious voice came on the line.

  "Mrs. Hewlett? It's Doug Lomas here."

  "Oh, hello."

  "Any chance of speaking to your husband?"

  "He's having his breakfast at the moment. Can you ring back?"

  "This is urgent. It won't keep."

  "In that case, hold on.” She passed the phone to Hewlett. “It's Doug Lomas and he sounds upset about something."

  "Doug?” said Hewlett, speaking into the receiver. “What's up?"

  "It's happened again,” replied Lomas.

  "What has?"

  "Someone's flooded the bar again."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I'm ringing from the clubhouse. When I got up today, I had this funny feeling that something was wrong so I drove over here just in case. It's maddening,” said Lomas. “To make sure we wouldn't lose any more beer, I disconnected the barrels before I left last night. Someone must have connected them up again and left the taps open."

  "Bastard!"

  "And that wasn't the only thing."

  Hewlett listened with horror as the barman told him what he had found. He became so agitated that Rosie lifted the tray from his lap and moved it to a place of safety.

  "Call the police, Doug,” said Hewlett. “I'm on my way."

  "You're not going anywhere in a hurry,” said Rosie, taking the phone from him. “What's all this about the police?"

  "Doug is at the clubhouse. Someone's vandalized the place."

  "Not again!"

  "It's worse this time,” said Hewlett. “The intruder wasn't content with spilling barrels of beer all over the place. He smashed our display cases, broke up all the team photographs hanging on the walls, and tore down the honors board."

  "That's dreadful,” said Rosie, knowing how much it meant to her husband to see his name on the board five times in gold lettering. “Who could possibly do a thing like that?"

  "Some clever dick from Crowford."

  "I can't believe that, Martin."

  "Never mind what you believe,” he said irritably. “I need to get over there. Help me to dress, Rosie. This is a crisis."
/>   "Then ring Peter. Let him take charge. Learn to delegate."

  "It's my responsibility. Drive me to the clubhouse."

  "But you haven't even shaved yet."

  "Who cares?"

  "At least finish your breakfast."

  "No,” he said, throwing back the bedsheets. “Food can wait. I have to be there before Neil Woodville catches wind of this. Hurry up, Rosie. There's no time to waste."

  * * * *

  Sunday afternoon found a hastily assembled work party clearing up the mess at the clubhouse. The police had come, but the intruder had left no visible clues for them. Rosie Hewlett had joined the others in removing the debris. Her husband sat alone before the shattered honors board on which the names of the club captains for the past fifty years were listed, along with the various trophies won by Shelton RFC. Hewlett was torn between tears and impotent rage.

  To his credit, Neil Woodville had rolled up his sleeves and taken his turn with a mop. When the bar was cleaned, and the worst of the stink had fled through the open windows, Woodville took Peter Rayment aside.

  "This proves that it was Doug,” he insisted.

  "That's absurd. It was Doug who raised the alarm."

  "Yes, but what brought him here in the first place?"

  "Instinct,” said Rayment. “Pure instinct. He had a strange feeling that something was amiss and he drove over here."

  "Well, I think that he wrecked the place when he arrived."

  "No!"

  "It all goes back to that wage rise we turned down."

  "This isn't to do with money, Neil. Look at the facts. The clubhouse has been attacked twice now but nothing at all has been stolen. There's hundreds of pounds’ worth of spirits and liqueurs here, not to mention all the silver cups we've won over the years. If Doug was the culprit,” argued Rayment, “don't you think he'd have made off with a tidy haul? And why would any man who'd committed a crime then report it to the police?"

  "That was a cunning ploy."

  "No, this was done by someone from Crowford."

  "Or by someone from Crowford who paid Doug Lomas."

  "Don't be stupid."

  "It's a possibility. I mentioned it on the quiet to the coppers."

  "No wonder they were giving our barman such a grilling."

  "Security cameras,” said Woodville solemnly. “That's what we should have installed. An isolated clubhouse like this needs protection. First thing tomorrow, I'm going to contact a security firm."

  "That's a committee decision."

  "This is too important to be left to the committee."

  "Then let Martin take over,” said Rayment. “He's the chairman."

  Woodville was determined. “I'm going over his head,” he said. “It's the only way to get anything done around here. Wait for Martin to take action and we could wait forever. This club needs a chairman with real initiative—not a bloody cripple trying to relive his playing days from a wheelchair."

  * * * *

  In spite of the protests of Martin Hewlett, closed-circuit cameras were installed almost immediately. Since he insisted on paying for them, Neil Woodville was the first person to see them in operation. He was certain that they would act as a deterrent and, for a couple of weeks, they seemed to do just that. There were no further incidents. Shelton RFC then won the cup in a thrilling final that was in the balance until the very last minute. It was an occasion for a riotous party in the clubhouse that went on into the small hours. Doug Lomas had a lot of clearing up to do afterwards. The last thing he did before he locked up was to switch on the burglar alarm and the cameras.

  The night wore on. It was almost dawn when a car pulled up in the lane at the rear of the clubhouse. A hooded figure got out and moved furtively across the field. Taking care to approach the building in a blind spot between two cameras, the intruder used a key to open the door and stepped quickly inside. The security system was switched off at once. The clubhouse was now at the mercy of its nocturnal visitor yet again. It was time to inflict some real damage.

  The intruder had brought some rags that had been soaked in paraffin. Shelton RFC would not merely lose its supply of draught beer this time. Its clubhouse would go up in smoke. Before a match could be struck, however, the lights suddenly went on and Doug Lomas came charging into the bar to jump on the arsonist. They fell to the floor and rolled over. The barman was just about to throw a first punch when he realized whom he had caught.

  "Mrs. Hewlett!” he cried. “What are you doing here?"

  * * * *

  Martin Hewlett was roused early that morning. After a night of steady drinking, he usually slept for twelve hours, but his wife shook him awake. He was surprised to see Doug Lomas standing at the foot of his bed.

  "Don't tell me there's been more trouble!” moaned Hewlett.

  Lomas shifted his feet uneasily. “Your wife will explain."

  "Explain what?"

  She took a deep breath and launched into her story. Hewlett was so shocked at what he heard that he felt as if he were being hit by the fatal crash tackle all over again. At the moment of impact, his whole body went numb. There was a mist before his eyes. The sense of panic and helplessness returned.

  "Can this be true?” he gasped.

  "I hate the game, Martin,” she confessed. “It gave me a lot at one time but it took away far more. It cost me my husband, my lover, my best friend, my chances of ever having that child we wanted."

  "Maybe I shouldn't hear all this,” said Lomas, embarrassed.

  "No, no,” she insisted. “You've earned the right. You stopped me from doing something I'd have been ashamed of for the rest of my life.” She bit her lip. “I was desperate, Martin. I married this wonderful man, then he disappeared in a split second one afternoon on a rugby field. Instead of being a wife, I'm nothing but an unpaid carer, feeding you, dressing and undressing you, seeing to your needs, taking you here and there, stage-managing your public appearances. And I don't mind doing any of that,” she went on with passion, “because you're my husband and I love you. But I simply couldn't go on putting this helpless drunk to bed every time you went to the clubhouse. I couldn't go on hearing the name of Shelton Rugby Football Club, morning, noon, and night. I just couldn't take any more. It was killing me."

  Hewlett was dazed. “Was I such a monster?"

  "It's not your fault, Martin. I can see that. It was the game itself. I felt that I just had to get you away from it somehow. It's ruining what we have of a life together. Our whole marriage has been crash-tackled.” She gave a wan smile. “At least I got what I wanted. You'll have to resign now. Shelton RFC can't have a chairman whose wife is serving a prison sentence."

  "That's not going to happen,” said Lomas firmly.

  "It must, Doug. I deserve my punishment."

  "They can't prosecute without a witness, and there's no way you'll get me into court again. I've been on the wrong side of the law, yet your husband gave me a second chance. I appreciate that. One good turn deserves another. Nobody need know what happened at the clubhouse tonight,” he went on, looking Rosie in the eye. “Especially Mr. Woodville. If he knew that I'd spent the night there, he'd probably sue me for trespass. My only concern is that the place is still standing and I still have a job as barman."

  "You deserve a medal for what you did, Doug,” said Hewlett.

  "Yes,” agreed Rosie. “Thank God you were there."

  "Let's keep the police out of this,” advised Lomas. “This is between the two of you—nobody else.” He moved to the door. “Goodbye."

  They stared at each other in silence, not even hearing the front door open and shut. Rosie was contrite, but it was her husband who felt most at fault. His obsession with the club had blinded him to the strain it placed on Rosie. His behavior had driven a law-abiding wife to commit a succession of crimes. It was a cry for help that had to be answered.

  Reaching for the telephone, he dialed a number and waited.

  "Simon?” he said as he heard the familiar voic
e of Simon Mifflin. “Good morning. Martin here. How would you like to be the next chairman of Shelton RFC? ... No, no, don't argue. I'm stepping down at the end of the season and want you to take over.... I'm sure that a large majority will vote you in. There's just one proviso, if you want my backing.... Doug Lomas must stay on as barman. He's been a real hero for us. At the next committee meeting, I'll make sure that we increase his wages.... And by the way, the insurance company has been bellyaching about our claims so—to hell with them! I'll foot the bill for any damage we incurred at the clubhouse. It's my parting shot as chairman.... What's that? ... I'll tell you when I see you, Simon. Cheerio.” Hewlett put the receiver down. “He was asking why I decided to retire."

  "What are you going to tell him?” she asked softly.

  "The truth, love. You talked me into it."

  "I'm so sorry, Martin. I was at the end of my tether."

  "Not anymore. You'll take precedence from now on, Rosie, and who am I to complain? When you're confined to a wheelchair,” he said with a ripe chuckle, “you have to let your wife push you around."

  Copyright (c) 2007 by Keith Miles

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  MAKEOVER by Bill James

  Art by Allen Davis

  * * * *

  Shortlisted in 2006 for the U.K.'s most prestigious award for new crime fiction, the Duncan Lawrie Dagger, for Wolves of Memory (first U.S. publication W.W. Norton 6/06), Bill James is one of the most innovative writers in the genre. He also has a new nonseries novel out in the U.S. See Letters from Carthage (Severn House).

  Of course, the murmur went around the Monty Club in Shield Terrace more or less immediately and—also, of course—reached its owner, Ralph Ember. Versions did vary in detail, but all said a club member, Cordell Maximillian Misk, known mostly as Articulate Max, somehow wangled himself into the team who did the copycat bank raid on International Corporate Diverse Securities and came away with a very delightful individual share in untraceables. So when Articulate turned up with his mother and great-aunt Edna at the club, asking to see Ralph personally, he had an idea what they wanted, even before any conversation began. Ralph was in his upstairs office at the time testing the mechanisms of a couple of Heckler & Koch automatics. A barman called on the intercom to tell Ember they would like a conference.