“I think I’d better go now,” she said, “before things get too intense.”
“Are they likely to?” I asked, trying to gauge her inner turmoil.
“Oh yes,” she answered, as she retreated beyond the closing bedroom door. “They most certainly will.”
I lay back on the pillow, wanting her as much as I had ever wanted anything in my life before.
************
I awoke to the presence of the imposing James Calvert Duncan. He was standing over me with a steaming mug of tea. I sat up in the bed and he gave me the mug to hold as he pulled up a creaky wooden chair that had seen better days and looked incapable of bearing his weight. I winced as he eased himself down onto the rickety seat to the collective groans and creaks of stressed mortice and tenon joints.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked, without looking at me.
“Not too bad,” I replied. “I feel a bit like I do the morning after playing Arsenal.”
I thought I saw the trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth but he refused to let it take hold.
“Look, Mr Carter, there’s no easy way to say this.” He spoke seriously, still avoiding eye contact. “But I care about my dad and Sara and I don’t want you wafting in here on a cloud of self importance upsetting them. They’re very sensitive, those two, and they take to people very quickly. I don’t want them hurt. Just get on with your business and leave.”
I was taken aback by the harshness of the message but I recognised the concern behind it and spoke softly in reply.
“Jimmy. I hope you don’t mind me calling you Jimmy?” He nodded his consent. “I really like your sister and I wouldn’t knowingly hurt your father. That isn’t my style.”
“Perhaps not,” he turned his head to look into my eyes, “but Sara has spent her life in girl’s schools and colleges. Her experience with men, especially famous men, is limited. You say that you like her, fair enough, but don’t you lead her on and then drop her or you’ll be limping on the other leg as well. Understood?”
“Understood.” I said, knowing that he meant what he said and knowing that being captain of United and all round good guy wasn’t enough for Jimmy. I would have to earn his respect and it was a long time since I’d had to do that.
We agreed not to mention our discussion to Sara and he departed with a deliberate nod, which I took to mean that I was accepted, for the present.
************
When Jimmy and Sara left the house to attend to their daily chores, I was left alone with a more lucid Jim Duncan senior. Today was one of his good days. He was able to remember my telephone call and he clearly wanted to be of assistance but he couldn’t comprehend how his recollections of the seventies’ football scandals would help me with my investigation into nineteen nineties’ football corruption. I had to admit to him that I wasn’t sure myself. Nevertheless, we spent a productive and interesting morning looking through photograph albums of his playing and managerial careers as he talked with great warmth of his colleagues.
In the last album, we came across a photograph from an old programme that had been taken in the home team’s changing rooms at the United Ground. In the foreground were four figures, three of whom I recognised immediately: Jim Duncan, Bill Fisher (the chairman) and Ray Mattock (captain). The fourth figure, according to the caption, was Mick Smith, apparently the league’s youngest goalkeeper. The reason I was unable to identify him was that his face had, rather curiously, been scribbled out with a felt pen. In any case I couldn’t recollect anyone of that name playing at top level. Between them they were holding aloft the League Cup, as it was then, and grinning almost drunkenly. Of the three I recognised only Jim was out of football. Bill Fisher was still United chairman and Ray Mattock managed a Championship side. Within weeks of the photograph being taken Jim Duncan had been kicked out of football for match fixing, an accusation he strenuously denied in all of the press cuttings I saw in the album. I guessed that he wouldn’t want to talk about it, but deep down inside of me I knew that it was important for me to know the truth. I had to get through to the aged ex-United manager. On reflection, my words were almost a plea.
“Jim. In the last few months I, myself, have been threatened and attacked. Roy Bennett has been killed and Aaron Morgensen has been beaten senseless and now lies close to death in a hospital room. I’m certain that, in one way or another, these attacks are linked to Roy’s stupid and reckless efforts at match fixing. I need to know if the people who fixed the matches in your day are still around, and if so whether they could be the people behind the corruption in football today.”
Jim Duncan’s eyes glazed over and for a moment I thought I had lost him to his dementia, but he blinked away a tear and spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“Alex. The truth is I don’t rightly know who did the match fixing. I only know that it wasn’t me. Maybe you won’t believe me but I honestly believe that I won the League Cup fair and square.”
“I believe you, Jim, I really do, but you must tell me everything you know.”
I realised that somewhere in amongst the bitterness and heartache there might be one small clue as to who wanted me crippled and Aaron dead. Jim Duncan sighed an old man’s sigh and sunk deep into his chair to tell his tale. I managed to write down the gist of his story as he spoke.
It was the early seventies and football had been turned upside down. Famous clubs were struggling with prima donna players who would play brilliantly one Saturday and not turn up for the coach a week later. Less well known clubs were gaining promotion to the First Division as household names suffered the ignominy of relegation. Crowd numbers fell and revenues dropped. Managers who had traditionally come to expect a job for life were sacked. Some managers, by then in their sixties, were encouraged to ‘move upstairs’ to make way for a brash new breed of managers as flamboyant as any player. The pressure to win became the pressure to survive. Long term planning and building a team from the ranks of the reserves became a thing of the past, as managers scurried to buy the best players at almost any price. Costs escalated and only the successful could afford to stay in the game.
United suffered along with others and served their time in what was then the second division. When Jim Duncan took over the managerial reins he was faced with a demoralised team and a dwindling audience for their football. One of the world’s most famous clubs looked to be in serious trouble.
Jim set to work re-establishing the youth team and the reserve team, whilst letting some of the soccer icons go. At first there was uproar as the heroes of the terraces departed for new clubs but the bad feeling evaporated as United began a resurgence that led them to the top of the table and promotion. Still in serious financial straits, Jim was unable to buy without selling first, but his young team fought like lions to retain their first division position. Enthusiasm and hard work replaced flair and skill but United ground out the right results week in and week out. Jim Duncan was a hero, for a while.
Six points clear at Easter, the championship seemed assured. With only two points for a win in those days, Liverpool had little chance of closing the gap. But the young lions of United seemed to tire and points slipped away as the strikers hit a drought and the goals flooded in at the other end. Odds on to win the championship at Easter, United looked shaky and uncertain in defence. In a thrilling end to the season, Liverpool and United were neck and neck. On the last day both teams had to play away. United with a single point advantage had to win at middle of the table Albion and Liverpool faced an in form Palace. The matches were played simultaneously and fans stood on the terraces with their eyes on the game and cheap transistor radios crackling static filled match reports in their ears. The atmosphere was electric. A draw and United were safe, unless Liverpool scored six or more goals, which was highly unlikely. Nevertheless, United couldn’t afford to lose because to do so meant that a Liverpool win, with any score, would take the championship to Merseyside.
Jim Duncan couldn’t sit still as United stru
ggled to find their early season form. Both games remained goalless at half time. United started the second half brighter and pressed Albion back into their own half. Tony Graham was pulled down just inside the penalty area and the crowd fell silent in anticipation of the referee’s whistle. The Welsh referee blew a shrill tone that shattered the eerie silence, and the United crowd erupted. Tony made no mistake with the penalty and United fans around the country celebrated wildly. The cheering had barely dissipated when a sigh spread around the ground. Liverpool had scored in London.
Further sighs passed around the ground as Palace succumbed twice more. United needed another goal as a cushion. Albion forced a rare corner and the ball headed towards the far post. Mick Smith, the young United goalkeeper, came for it, arms raised high above his head but when his hands clasped together the ball was gone. Albion’s left side full back had the easiest of headers to score only the fifth goal of his long career. With ten minutes to go Albion piled on the pressure and United had to defend manfully.
Another Albion attack came to nothing and the ball rolled harmlessly to the United goalie. He looked upfield and motioned for his team-mates to push up. He bounced the ball and then kicked it out of his hands. The fans looked on in horror as the ball skewed off his foot and travelled only twenty yards along the ground to the Albion centre forward. The forward reacted most quickly and raced towards the box with the ball at his feet, leaving the United full backs in his wake. Mick Smith was left ‘one on one’ with one of the league’s most experienced centre forwards and seemed unable to decide whether to come out or stay back. In the end he did neither and the wily striker took advantage of the young keeper’s indecision and pushed the ball around him before slotting it into the now empty net. Liverpool took the championship and dominated the European cup competitions for the next few years.
Jim Duncan paused and his face creased in concentration, as if he were trying to remember some deeply buried memory.
“That ended Mick’s career at United,” he said slowly. “It was unfair really because the lad was in his first season of first team football. If I remember correctly the chairman refused to improve Alistair Stafford’s terms when his contract came up for renewal. Alistair was the first team goalie and had been at United for ten years but was coming to the end of his career in any case. Anyway, the chairman and he had an enormous bust up over Alistair’s wages. Alistair walked out, leaving me with no money to spend and a youth team goalkeeper who had only played twice at senior level. The chairman asked me to give Smithy a try until he could find some cash for a new signing, but as soon as the lad showed promise the money was spent elsewhere.”
“Winning a cup and coming second in the league hardly sounds like grounds for a sacking,” I prompted.
“No,” he replied. I had never known a single word to convey such sadness. There was a lull in the conversation and I decided to give him time. Farm sounds penetrated the silence and the noise of tractors and familiar voices seemed to calm my companion. Consequently he seemed quite relaxed when he spoke.
“After we lost the championship there were rumours of a major betting coup having taken place. A syndicate had placed a substantial sum of money on Liverpool to win the league some four weeks earlier when they were still eight to one outsiders. The police watched the BBC coverage of the Albion match and questioned the players and me. They spent some time with young Smith. Gave him a right grilling they did. But then it all went quiet and I flew to Spain with the family.
Being abroad the papers were always a few days behind and so the first I knew of the scandal was from a reporter of one of the tabloids who wanted to know if I wanted to make a statement as I reclined by the pool. Within the hour I was phoned by the club and the police. Eight hours later I was back in the UK.
It turned out that our second division, cup final opponents had made some serious allegations about my behaviour, at least that was what I was told. I didn’t realise at first the seriousness of the accusations. Apparently Bob Fordy, the opposing manager, had read of the police investigation into the betting coup and, believing that I was involved, further implicated me by accusing me of attempting to fix the cup final. He told the police that I had offered him a thousand pounds to throw the match, just a week before the Wembley final. Of course it was nonsense and so at first I treated the allegations with contempt, but then the police investigation got quite nasty and I needed a solicitor to protect me. I couldn’t understand the man’s motive for lying in this way. What had he to gain?
My solicitor told me that Fordy had allegedly received a call from me making the offer and that if he agreed to my terms he would have one thousand pounds deposited in a nominated bank account the same day. Fordy insisted that it was my voice on the phone but I promise you it wasn’t.”
I thought how easy it would be to impersonate the softly spoken Scotsman who sat before me.
“The police pressed on but the chairman stood beside me every step of the way and it was my word against Fordy’s. Eventually the bribery investigation slowed down and we thought it had all blown over.”
“But it hadn’t?” I asked.
“No. There was still a cloud hanging over the club over the allegation of match rigging against Albion. UEFA were refusing to give us our place in Europe until the whole thing was sorted out and our income for the following season was put in jeopardy. Under extreme pressure the chairman agreed to an independent review of the case by a UEFA tribunal. The whole business started again. Interviews, allegations, and questions that just couldn’t be answered.
I was sitting at home watching TV when I was summoned to the ground unexpectedly. It was a dark and wet evening and a solitary light was burning in the management suite when I arrived. It was the boardroom light. I walked along the corridor and into the boardroom. Bill Fisher, our chairman, and Hans Schroeder, the chairman of the tribunal, were deep in discussion. They asked me to sit down. There were no smiles.
I sat and listened to what they had to say. By the time they had finished I was in a state of shock. Seemingly, under interrogation, young Mick Smith had cracked and confessed that he had thrown the game. This was surprising enough but then came the real shock. He claimed that he was acting under instructions from me. That I had told him to throw the game.
I was speechless at first. It was a blatant lie. I protested, but to no avail. The chairman asked for my resignation and Hans Schroeder agreed that if I resigned no charges would be brought against me and the club would be allowed into European competition the following season. For the good of the club, I resigned.”
Jim Duncan didn’t need me to tell him that resigning whilst under a cloud of suspicion simply confirmed his guilt in the minds of his accusers. Jim walked out of the ground and out of football. Even the TV and radio stations were reluctant to offer him work. He was tainted.
With the settlement from United and his savings, he bought the small farm business and tried to forget about the game he loved.
************
Sara joined us in the living room and insisted that her father take a nap. Without further ado she led him upstairs as he feebly protested. I sat and reflected on his story as I flicked through his scrapbook. Either Jim was lying, and I couldn’t bring myself to accept that, or someone had framed him. But why? Had he upset someone? Was he a danger to someone? Did he have some knowledge that he didn’t realise was significant? I had all the questions but no answers.
“Dad looks drained,” Sara said, as she bounced back into the room. “But I think it did him good to talk about it. He’s bottled it all up for too long.”
“I agree,” I said, feeling a little tired myself.
“Was your discussion useful, then?” she asked.
“I hope so. I’m convinced that there is a link between the corruption in your dad’s day and whatever is going on now, but where we find the link I don’t know.”
“Perhaps we start here,” she said gently stroking my bruised cheek. I moved to kiss her and s
he anticipated my intention and moved back.
“Not that,” she said in a smiling rebuke. “Your eye. If you find out who it was that attacked you yesterday you’ll be half way to finding out why.”
“And how exactly do we find out who they were?”
“Simple,” she said triumphantly, “we know where they work. We’ll go and ask.”
I listened to her as she outlined her crazy plan and had to admit that with a few tweaks here and there it could be made workable. I told her that I was grateful for the idea and said that I would implement the plan soon.
“Well, there’s no time like the present,” she said brightly. “I’ll get changed.”
“Whoa. Hold on a minute, you’re not going anywhere.” Sara looked at me and her mouth set in a determined frown.
“And why not, pray tell?” The sarcasm bit deep but I was in earnest.
“Because it’s too dangerous. You could get hurt,” I paused, “and I couldn’t bear the thought of that.”
“Do I need to remind you that it was me who saved you from a good hiding yesterday? It seems that you are the one who is most likely to get hurt.”
“You can argue all you want, you’re not coming.” I was resolute in my words and slow on my feet. In an instant Sara had grabbed my car keys and run out of the house. I couldn’t keep up and by the time I reached the yard she stood triumphantly smiling with her arms folded.
“I don’t go, you don’t go!”
“Come on, Sara,” I said calmly, “give me the keys.”
“I’ve hidden them where you wouldn’t find them in a week of searching.” I looked around and the hiding places were endless.
“Sara, please. This is a little childish, isn’t it?”
“Dead right it is, Mr United captain. Do I go or not?”
Final Whistle Page 17