“Mr Carter and I need to talk. Would you mind giving us a few minutes?” The taxi driver looked at me with concern written on his features. I nodded for him to go.
“I’ll be close by,” he said deliberately for the benefit of the stranger. He got out of the taxi and lit a cigarette just a few yards away.
“What is this all about, and who are you?”
“All in good time,” my companion said reverting to his natural tenor. “I would be obliged if you would let me explain this in my own way.” Presuming my acquiescence he proceeded to explain his problem. I listened intently to the intelligent and thoughtful man who so recently had seemed to me to be a madman.
My contact was called Alan Dobie. He was a solicitor but more importantly he was Roy Bennett’s solicitor. Until recently all that job had entailed was managing Roy’s debtors and repeatedly bailing him out of Police cells after drunken brawls. Then, just after Christmas, Roy had decided to write a will and Alan Dobie’s comfortable existence was thrown into turmoil.
The solicitor who worked for a small country practice in Knutsford could never have expected what was to come. He explained that Roy had broken down in the solicitor’s offices and had sobbed that he expected to die suddenly. Dobie assumed at first it was drink talking but as Roy rambled through his whole sordid story his strait laced solicitor began to cast his doubts aside.
It appeared that Roy had assisted, along with others, some Far Eastern gambling syndicates. His job was to approach soccer players in the English and Scottish leagues to fix matches. His contacts were a Singapore businessman called Mr Po and a well known footballer whom he refused to name. Whenever Roy had secured a result he was to fax his contact in Malaysia or any one of a number of European cities with his confirmation that a fix was in. Roy would then be telegraphed a fairly hefty sum of money as commission.
The scam worked well until a tabloid newspaper working on an anonymous tip off had put the squeeze on a totally innocent footballer exposing his ‘alleged’ match fixing. The wronged player got an apology but the syndicate realised that time was short. Sooner or later some journalist would carry out a more professional investigation and perhaps find the right men. The syndicate told their English associates that they needed one last big hit and Roy Bennett told them that he could provide it. But he wanted a hundred thousand pounds to sort it. The money was in his account the same day.
Having tried all of his regulars, who were presumably scared off by the press reports, Roy was desperate. He needed a convincing result. His mind turned to the minnows looking for glory in the third round of the cup. Surely Alex’s friend Aaron would take a bung. After all he didn’t have to lose the match, just let in a couple of goals. Misinterpreting Aaron Morgensen’s embarrassment as co-operation, Roy faxed his man in Singapore and millions of dollars were placed around the world on little Brackley to score two goals in the FA Cup third round against mighty United. The odds were significant.
Roy had listened to the drama unfolding on Radio Five. After all, he had fifty thousand of his own money riding on the result as well. When the referee blew the whistle at 6-1 to United, Roy expected instant retribution and so made his will. When, after a couple of weeks, the expected punishment failed to materialise, he began to relax. Unfortunately, he relaxed too soon.
I sat silently in the dark minibus trying to assimilate the information. Alan Dobie sensed my mood and waited patiently for a response.
“Why didn’t you report all of this to the police when Roy was killed?”
“Firstly I had no direct evidence to offer, only the ramblings of a confessed alcoholic.” His head dropped and he stared at the floor of the taxi.
“Secondly, and more importantly, I received a death threat directed at my wife and daughter.” He fell silent. I supposed that he was an honourable man who was just way out of his depth and terrified by the possible consequences of his actions. I sensed that he felt shamed by his unwillingness to get involved. I didn’t agree with his actions but I wouldn’t condemn him, I have a daughter of my own. He lifted his head and spoke softly as if to justify his position to himself.
“I just couldn’t risk their lives, not when Roy was already dead. Nothing I did would bring him back.” Even in the darkness I could see the tears welling in his eyes. I felt a lump rise in my own throat. The man was distraught.
“So why open it all up now? And why involve me?” His answer was to thrust a long thin envelope into my hand. “What is it?” I asked as I couldn’t see much in the dark bus.
“A letter from the dead. I found it yesterday.”
“How?”
“On Monday I was tidying up Roy’s estate and I came across an old dormant bank account at the City Centre TSB. It only contained about forty pounds and so I asked them to close the account and send me a cheque to the value of the balance. The young woman bank clerk then asked me if I also wanted the contents of the safety deposit box to be sent too. I was so surprised I just asked her to send whatever she had in the post. Yesterday morning that letter arrived along with a note to me begging me to get it to you.” The lawyer looked at me with a little more resolve. “I can’t do much but at least I can fulfil his last wish.”
“What does it say, Alan?”
Alan Dobie had slid open the door and was ready to leave.
“I don’t know. It says that I should pass it to you unopened.” He waited in the doorway before putting his hand on my good knee and squeezing gently. “Please be careful, my office has been burgled twice since Roy’s death and the second time the police found a listening device in the telephone. I honestly think that Roy’s letter is what they were looking for.”
************
The taxi wound its way through the quiet suburban streets as I sat deep in thought. Sooner than I expected I was shaken from my reverie by the arrival at my driveway.
“Is it OK if I drop you here Mr Carter? It’s a bit tight in your drive for this old bus and I don’t want to ruin your flower beds.”
“Yes. That’s okay. Here’s the fare we agreed.” I handed over a twenty pound note. “And keep the change.” The driver thanked me and offered to help me to the door. I declined his offer and he drove off. I was getting quite good with the crutches now.
As I moved along the drive I noticed that Tanya’s bedroom light was on but that she had forgotten to put on the porch light. The front of the house was in darkness and finding the key would be difficult. Stepping under the portico over the front door I felt something crunch under my feet. It didn’t feel like gravel, in fact it felt like broken glass. I looked up and saw that the porch light had been smashed. It didn’t take me long to work out that someone wanted me alone in the dark. I took the letter and crammed it down the front of my trousers. At least they wouldn’t get the letter. There was a rustle of bushes and a strong smell of liquor hit my senses before the fist hit my face. Normally I would have been able to parry the second blow but I couldn’t get my arms free of the crutches. A second blow connected with my temple and I crumpled into a dazed heap on the floor.
“Bastard!” The word was spat at me in a strong Scots accent. The voice seemed familiar but it seemed to come from the end of a long, long corridor. I fought to stay conscious as the attack was not yet over. A vicious kick was launched at my stomach but its impact was reduced as the offending foot got entangled with one of the crutches. Suddenly I was bathed in bright light and a searing noise assailed my ears. My attacker froze and the crudely fashioned ski mask exposed the fear in his eyes. Above me a hockey stick swung at the intruder’s head. He held up his arm in defence only to take a sickening blow on his forearm. He yelped at the pain of it and started to run. I was happy to let him go but as he pulled away he inadvertently took the crutch with him. Two steps further on he tripped over the offending article and came down heavily. He cried out again, this time it was the guttural sound of someone really hurt. As my eyes adjusted to the light I saw my assailant struggle to his feet and run off into the stre
et holding his right arm against his body.
***********
“Dad, Dad! Are you all right?” Tanya was worried and the tone of her voice reflected her panic.
“I’m fine,” I said, not meaning it. “I get worse than this every Saturday,” I said, lying. Tanya had set off the personal attack alarm before she opened the door and it still screamed out its klaxon like wail. Then there was silence. Stella appeared at the door.
“What’s going on?” she asked. Her bathrobe and wet hair suggested that she had been in the bathroom at the time of the attack.
“Dad has been mugged,” Tanya responded with a feel for the dramatic now that the real danger was over. As I stumbled inside I felt the letter digging into my groin. At least they went away empty handed. I reached inside my trousers and withdrew the brown envelope.
“Well that’s a relief,” Stella said light heartedly. “I was beginning to wonder what you were getting out.”
“Gran!” Tanya reprimanded, her face flushing more by the second. They both helped me to the recliner and Tanya went to close the front door.
“And what was that all about?” Stella asked in hushed tones.
“I’ll tell you later,” I whispered.
************
I expected the police to turn up, given the furore in our normally quiet neighbourhood. What I didn’t expect was for them to have found the culprit so quickly. In his painful retreat my attacker had forgotten to remove his mask and the police had spotted him. Apparently he gave up easily, he had no stomach for the chase. Not surprising really, as we later heard that he had dislocated his shoulder in the fall.
“We have taken the man to hospital, but he has absolutely no ID on him and he refuses to talk.” I wondered if he was one of the men that had turned over Alan Dobie’s offices but kept the thought to myself.
“Although, that is not strictly true.” The young policeman hesitated.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, he will speak, but only to you.”
My face must have told a story because the policeman said at last,
“Yes, that puzzled us too.”
A thousand possibilities careered through my fuzzy brain but I could reach no sensible conclusion.
“Well. I suppose I’d better see what he wants.”
“No, Alex. I won’t let you do it. That bang on the head has obviously affected your thinking. Or lack of it.” Stella was insistent. I was about to argue when the policeman stepped in.
“Miss Martin is right, sir. Whoever this man is he isn’t going anywhere tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough.” I relaxed into the chair and discovered that my head was throbbing.
“Would you be kind enough to sign an autograph for me?” the officer requested. I sat up in the chair to do my piece when I realised that he was talking to Stella. She signed with a flourish and thanked him for his kindness.
It was only eight thirty but I was ready for bed.
************
The Advil had taken care of my headache and I lay in bed with my plaster sticking out from the bedclothes. Stella had made me a cup of hot chocolate and bid me goodnight, kissing me on the forehead like some sick child. The envelope lay on the bedside table, beckoning me to read its contents. The bedroom door opened and Tanya came in. Without saying a word she came and climbed onto the big king sized bed beside me.
It’s a bit weird, really, when I think about it. Two years have passed since I shared this bed with Tanya’s mother and yet I still favour the side of the bed that was always mine. I should sleep in the middle I suppose and maybe in time I will, but somehow it just seems right to stay where I feel comfortable.
Tanya nestled her head in the crook of my arm and laid her arm across my chest. I stroked her hair and waited for the inevitable question. When it came it wasn’t quite what I expected.
“Why were you protecting that letter? What's so important that it's worth getting beaten up for?” I was taken aback and had to think quickly. My reply was unconvincing even to myself.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do, and I thought we promised always to honest with each other after Mum died.” She had me cornered.
“Okay. The letter is from Uncle Roy.” She was surprised by this revelation and raised herself up to rest on her elbow.
“What does it say?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t opened it yet.” She lay down again.
“That bad eh!” she sighed.
“You know Uncle Roy,” I said, leaving the rest unsaid.
“Dad.”
“Mmmm.”
“Can we go to Florida and stay with Gran in the close season?”
“Are you trying to protect me, Tanya?”
“No, I just want to go to Orlando.”
“I thought we were being honest with each other?” Silence. Then,.
“I am protecting you a bit, but I want to go to Florida as well.”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do. After my little operation I’ll recuperate in Orlando and you can have your run of Universal and Disneyworld.”
Tanya sat up beside me and looked at me with soft blue eyes.
“Dad. I’ve lost Mum and I don’t want to lose you too.”
“Don’t worry. Nothing is going to happen to me.” I crossed my fingers under the bedclothes.
************
The letter from Roy contained much of what I already knew of his illicit dealings along with a heartfelt apology at getting Aaron involved. In the letter Roy was more self deprecating than I had ever known him, but then the tone of the letter was that of a man who knew an early death was a strong possibility. I was moved by the letter and hoped that Roy had found some peace wherever he was now. The last paragraph was a warning for Aaron to be careful and for me to pass on the enclosed USB drive to the authorities. I looked at the black thumb drive and read the label. In what looked to be another man’s hand were the headings:
1.) Syndicate.dbs
2.) Hitlist.dbs
I was contemplating running it through my own computer to check its contents when the phone rang. I picked it up and announced myself.
“Hello, Alex. This is Tony McDonald.” The familiar Aberdonian brogue lifted my spirits.
“Hi, Tony. How’s life at Sky Sports?” I enquired.
“Busy as usual. Look, Alex, I would like to get together sometime soon and see if we can do something productive together while you are...resting.” I laughed.
“Tony, have they been sending you on a diplomacy course, or something? You’re usually a bit more blunt than that.”
“Sorry Alex, but I am serious. I have one or two ideas and I’d like your opinion.”
“Of course I’d be delighted. I’m getting sick of lying around anyway. How about Monday? I’m seeing my mother in law off on the plane at Heathrow.”
"That will be great. Just come to the gatehouse, anytime. I’ll be here.”
We said our goodbyes and I made a note to order a car. I was a little intrigued by the invitation because, whilst I had made the odd appearance on Sky previously, Tony clearly had something else in mind. As football producer for the only dedicated sports channels in the UK Tony was overseeing more than a hundred live matches a season. The inception of Sky Sports had been a boon to those of us in the game because Tony could give airtime to footballers and managers that the terrestrial broadcasters simply couldn’t afford. And, boring as it may seem footballers like nothing better than talking about the game when they’re not playing it. I began to look forward to Monday.
************
The phone rang again and I was invited to go along to the hospital and speak with my erstwhile attacker.
Once I had scraped two days' stubble from my face I looked half presentable. There was a red swelling on my jaw and a blue and yellow lump at the corner of my right eye. Nothing unusual for a footballer in the toughest league in the world. I pushed my unruly hair into some form of shape and
splashed on a liberal amount of cologne. Face still stinging from the cologne, I made my way downstairs to await my police escort. When it arrived it was a pretty WPC.
I squeezed into the small car and stretched my leg across the rear seat of the Vauxhall Corsa. The policewoman was talkative and we chatted as we drove along. It turned out that I had been to the same school as her brother. I couldn’t remember him but I asked her to pass on my regards anyway, whilst expressing the thought that it was a small world. Just how small a world I was about to find out.
The hospital smelled the same as every other hospital I had been in and after trudging along seemingly endless corridors, I found myself outside a private side ward with a policeman guarding the door. It was the young PC who had come to my assistance the night before.
“Do we know who he is yet?” I asked.
“Oh yes. We certainly do.” He paused and I thought I noticed a smile in the eyes, if not on his lips.
“Well. Who is he?” The policeman pushed open the door.
“I think you had better see for yourself,” he said.
I stepped into the room and my heavily bandaged attacker turned to look at me.
“Hello, Alex,” he said.
CHAPTER 7
“Hugh?” I gasped for breath. “There must be some mistake.” There was a brief silence.
“No mistake, Alex. It was me.” Hugh looked away.
I pulled up a chair by the side of his bed. This was really awkward. One of my team-mates, Hugh McIvor, had attacked me outside my own home, but why? I was desperate to ask for reasons but given the events of the past 24 hours I was almost afraid of the answer. I tried to imagine how I would feel if I were in Hugh’s position, but my limited imagination couldn’t comprehend the emotions written on his dark countenance.
Final Whistle Page 6