“Hello, Mr Fisher.” I was a little surprised at the call.
“You took some tracking down,” he said before continuing. “About this evening’s meeting. We need to see you as soon as possible.” I remembered that he had suggested a meeting on Tuesday evening but I had thought that it had been a tentative arrangement and when no-one had called to confirm, I assumed that it had been postponed. I looked at my watch. It was still early and I had plenty of time to spare, so I agreed to meet him at the stadium half an hour later.
“Sorry, Len. I wasn’t expecting that call.” I apologised at having to cut short the interview.
“No problem, Alex. We were almost through anyway.” He paused. “Besides, I’ll write what I like regardless of what you actually said.” I looked aghast and he laughed. “I was joking, Alex.” He enjoyed his joke. Unfortunately, with my recent experiences at the hands of the press I didn’t entirely believe that it was a joke.
************
It was dark when I reached the stadium but as I had requested the security guard was there to open the gate and to lock it firmly behind me. Bill Fisher probably thought that I was becoming eccentric but he conceded to my wishes. He had learned long ago that footballers were a strange breed and that it was easier to patronise them than to understand them.
As I stepped out of the car a motion sensor picked up the movement and I was bathed in a bright light which illuminated my way to the door. I walked along the dimly lit corridor and called the lift. I heard a noise behind me and turned around quickly to see the outside door clicking shut on the door closure. Lance’s warning had really put the frighteners on me but I was determined not to be so paranoid. The lift doors opened and I was greeted by the smiling chairman.
“Alex,” he gushed. “So good of you to come along. We have a lot to talk about.” I hoped that this wasn’t to be the end of my United career. I needed to feel part of the club during my recuperation. I needed their support financially and emotionally for the time being. Bill Fisher led me into the boardroom and sat me opposite him with my back to the big walnut double doors. The highly polished desk top was uncluttered and only one item was on display. It was a brown manilla folder with the words ‘Alex Carter- Personnel File’ stamped on the cover. Mr Fisher opened the file.
“My word, Alex. You have been a busy man since you were injured. The court case, operations, baby-sitting Aaron Morgensen and you still had time to crack Operation Ballgame. Its been a productive few months.” I listened to the appraisal and sensed that the chairman wasn’t entirely serious in his praise.
“I’d rather be out on the pitch playing, Mr Fisher,” I said honestly.
“I’d rather you were too, Alex.” There was a hesitation as he looked down at the file and then up to me. There was sadness in his eyes. “I really mean that, Alex.” The words were heavy with a meaning that I hadn’t grasped. I guessed that this was the precursor of bad news and so I steeled myself.
“Do I take it that the medical reports are worse than expected? Are they suggesting that I won’t make it back? Because if that is what they say then I can assure you….” Bill Fisher raised his hand in a gesture that clearly meant there was no need for me to explain further.
“I’m afraid that you won’t be playing for United again, Alex. In fact you won’t be playing for anyone again.” He closed the file slowly and rested his clenched hands on it. I looked down at the folder that had ended my career and at the trembling hands that rested upon it. Bill Fisher dyed his hair and was as active as ever but his age showed on his wrinkled neck and on the thickly veined hands that had laid a million bricks in their day. I found my voice.
“The prognosis is that bad, is it?” I asked.
“The prognosis is very bad, Alex. But it has nothing to do with your injury.” Puzzlement creased my brow and in response the United chairman pressed the intercom button. “I’m sorry, Alex. How rude of me. I haven’t introduced you to my partners, have I?”
The doors opened behind me and I turned to see Chris Smith in a jogging suit standing alongside a taller man with unkempt red hair. The chairman spoke and broke the trance brought on by my astonishment.
“I believe you know Chris Smith but I don’t think you know his colleague.” For once I was ahead of the game, I knew exactly who he was. The red headed man spoke softly.
“Pleased to meet you Mr Carter.” His voice was thick with a familiar brogue. “The name is Liam Watt.”
CHAPTER 23
I wanted to struggle but there was no point. Chris Smith tied my hands behind my back whilst the Irishman looked on, his gun pointing at my chest all the while.
“You won’t get away with this, you know,” I said firmly, hoping that they would have a crisis of confidence and decide to let me go after all. “Why don’t you just face the music? The prison sentence can’t be that bad. Not as bad as it would be for a second murder, at any rate.” They were unmoved by my reasoning.
“Alex. No-one is going to be murdered,” Chris Smith said calmly, but I didn’t believe him. “Its quite simple, really. Alex Carter, disabled United captain finds out his career is over and cannot face the future. He comes to the ground and throws himself off the new stand roof. Tragic, but understandable. In fact, I might even submit an obituary to the newspapers myself.” He laughed.
“The security guard saw me come in and he knows that Fisher is here,” I offered, immediately highlighting a flaw in his little plan. Smith slapped me hard across the face as his smile waned. I felt the salty taste of blood in my mouth. I winced as I probed for damage with my tongue, only to find the split in my lip.
“Alex, poor stupid Alex. The security guard works for Sportsec. He’s one of my best men.”
“Don’t mark him,” the Irish bomber chastised. “It has to look like a suicide.”
“Oh, he’ll be well marked when they find him in the morning.” Smith’s nasty smile returned to curl the ends of his vicious lips. I desperately wanted to deflate him, to score a point, and so I played my ace.
“You haven’t thought this out, have you?” Silence. I continued. “Len Bailey knows that I’m here and he knows that Fisher summoned me to a meeting here, this evening. How are you going to explain that away?” I smiled in triumph.
“I’m afraid they don’t have to, Alex.” I recognised the voice coming from the doorway. The portly reporter moved his bulky frame across the room and stopped right in front of me. The best I could come up with was;
“You!”
“I’m afraid so,” he replied. I began to realise the hopelessness of my situation but was determined not to give in. “They needed me, you see. Someone had to place the stories, get Hugh all riled up. We were hoping that he would do the job for us but he bottled it. Beaten off by a fifteen year old girl.” He shook his head in disgust. “Who’d have credited it? Still, this time tomorrow she’ll be a fifteen year old orphan.” I tried to jump up at the sour breathed hack but Liam Watt was ready for me and he swung the butt of his gun into my stomach with such a ferocity that all of the breath rushed from my lungs and I had to gasp for air. In the moments it took me to recover I thought about Tanya and how she would feel if she thought that I had taken my own life. For her sake and mine I had to fight on.
“That’s for Betts and Holden,” Chris Smith said, reminding me of my former tormentors. “How did you do that by the way? They were professionals and somehow you managed to turn the tables and put them in hospital.”
“They obviously weren’t professional enough,” I gasped. I realised that they had no idea what had happened that night and it was irking them. The two thugs were still isolated in protective custody. It felt good knowing something that this unholy band didn’t. Chris Smith’s kick connected with my injured leg and I groaned.
“You think you’re clever, don’t you? Well, let me tell you just how stupid you really are.” Smith’s face was an inch away from mine and contorted with rage. “Who do you think told Betts and Holden where to find you,
so that they could warn you off?” It was my turn to be surprised. I had always assumed that they had followed me from home. Too late I realised that the only person who knew that I was going to see Jim Duncan was in the room with us now. I looked up at Len Bailey who had given me the Duncan’s address and shook my head with disappointment. The pressman shrugged his shoulders. He must have called Smith as soon as I left his office. They were right, I had been stupid. Stupid and trusting. The thought of my gullibility being exploited so easily wound me up and provoked me into fighting back.
“You really do need some better help, Chris.” I jibed. “As I recall it was a slip of a girl that saw Betts and Holden off, too.” The punch to my kidneys was agonisingly painful but I suppressed a shout of anguish. I didn’t want to give them the pleasure of knowing I was hurting. Nevertheless, if I wasn’t careful they wouldn’t have to throw me off any roof, I’d die from a thousand bruises.
Through a haze of pain a picture began to form. These four men had been manipulating my life for months. They issued threats and were prepared to have me crippled for life if I ignored them. I was angry and with that anger came determination. It was Bill Fisher who spoke next, to tease and taunt me.
“You really ruined it for us, Alex. Why did you have to poke your nose into Roy Bennett’s death? It was nothing to do with you. He was a worthless drunk.”
“He was my friend,” I replied, weakly. For people purporting to be so well informed they knew little about human nature. They were so intent on exploiting people’s human weaknesses and moral frailties that they forgot all about traditional human strengths like friendship, support and defending those you care about.
“I didn’t want you hurt, Alex. At least not at first.” There was a sincerity in Fisher’s voice that made me believe him. “But you wouldn’t be warned off. Even after your injury you carried on interfering and yet you must have known that you were in danger?”
“Of course I knew that I was in danger but I thought I was doing what was right for me and for football.”
“You were on a mission,” the chairman responded, half in sympathy, half in sarcasm. “To be honest, we didn’t think you would get very far. But when you started asking Len about Chris Smith and then you turned up at Sportsec, well we had to act….” His words trailed off.
“That was when you started messing with my brain,” I spat out.
“You mean the photographs. That was Len’s idea. He had a friend and…. Well I’m sure you don’t need to hear the rest.” The old man relaxed back into his sumptuous chair and Smith began speaking.
“The drugs angle was my idea, and it would have worked if it hadn’t been for Eddie caving in under police pressure. It seems you have friends in high places, Alex. But they can’t help you now.”
“Maybe not, but they can put you away for a long time.” He looked unsettled for a moment. “You see, I broke into your house and retrieved the Hitlist and the Syndicate lists from your computer.” The colour drained from his face and I guessed that Bill Fisher’s name was somewhere on the corrupted part of the file that we couldn’t read.
“Well?” Bill Fisher yelled at Chris Smith. “Is that true?”
“He’s lying, can’t you see that?” Smith was wriggling and all eyes were on him. I decided to push him farther.
“I broke in the night you played at Saint James’s Park. I retrieved the data by undeleting the files and set the alarm off to cover my escape.” Realisation crossed his face and he began to shake. His fist flew at my face and I cringed waiting for the blow to land. It didn’t. I opened my eyes to see the Irishman twisting Smiths arm painfully up his back.
“I’ve told you once, no marks.” The terrorist whispered menacingly, looking directly into Smith’s terrified eyes.
“So that’s where the police got the names from,” Bill Fisher said, matter-of-factly, in the direction of the discredited Smith. “That was very careless of you, Chris, very careless indeed.” The chairman turned to me. His eyes were cold and empty. “I’m afraid this makes your imminent death all the more certain.”
************
I was left to lick my wounds whilst the other four men gathered around Fisher’s walnut desk in heated debate. I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying but Chris Smith looked decidedly uncomfortable. I wriggled about on the chair, testing the strength of my bonds. They seemed secure enough. I twisted my wrists around in the rope until they were red raw and sore. At least if I was thrown off the stadium roof, in an apparent suicide, the police would wonder how and why I had tied my own hands so securely only minutes before my demise. It wasn’t much of a stand but it was the best stand I could make at present.
I was sick of waiting around and so I shouted out to the United chairman.
“Mr Fisher, there is one thing that I still don’t understand.” The gathered heads turned towards me and when I had their attention I continued. “Why did you have your own goalkeeper beaten half to death? He’s the best in the world and worth a small fortune on the transfer market.” Fisher pondered a moment and considered whether my question deserved an answer. Obviously he felt that it would do no harm to explain.
“I’m not a man who relishes violence, Alex. I was persuaded that Aaron needed to be taught a lesson. After all, we lost four hundred grand, thanks to Morgensen’s antics. I agreed that Chris here could arrange for the big man to receive a beating in the close season. As long as he was fit for the new season. Unfortunately, Aaron fought back and Smith’s two thugs lost the plot and nearly killed him.” The old man scowled at his partner as he finished the sentence. I reflected on what he had said.
“Any more questions?” the chairman asked. “Because its almost time for you to join your friend, Roy Bennett, for one last great testimonial in the sky.” He grinned at his witty remark.
“I do have another question as it happens.” The prospect of dying made me bold. “Why?” I asked, pausing for a moment. “Tell me why a rich man like you would frame an old friend in the seventies, ruining his life in the process, and then resurrect the whole sordid affair again thirty years later.” The chairman’s eyes glazed over, old memories were flooding back. Things long buried were coming to his recollection. He walked over to the window and looked out over the football pitch as he spoke.
For the next few minutes we all listened in silence as he described the slump in the construction industry in the early seventies and how he had been very close to bankruptcy. He explained that there was no money in the club’s coffers and they needed players badly to avoid relegation. So, when a foreign businessman came up with an idea to carry out a series of betting coups in Europe and the far east, a desperate Bill Fisher fell into line. At first, things went well. But when United’s own goalkeeper refused to throw matches he had to be transferred. In his place the more co-operative young reserve goalie was elevated to the first team, much to the disgust of Jim Duncan the manager. That young goalkeeper was Chris Smith, or Mick Smith as he was known at the time. Unfortunately for the consortium, certain members got greedy and rumours began to circulate. Offended at being offered bribes, opposing managers started talking to the authorities and the chase was on. At that time a local sports reporter was making national headlines with his exposé’s of match rigging. Eventually that investigative reporter arrived on Bill Fisher’s doorstep with enough evidence to convict him. Bill Fisher took the reporter into his confidence - what else could he do? - and together they came up with a scheme that would simultaneously bring the reporter national acclaim and put the United chairman in the clear.
The reporter, Len Bailey, exposed Jim Duncan and, ironically, won award after award for his stories of corruption and graft, whilst taking money from Bill Fisher to do the United chairman’s bidding. Bill Fisher had a clear out at United and wrung his hands as he talked of his sorrow at finding match rigging here, at the very home of domestic football. The advantages were clear but the disadvantages were that the fixing had to stop and that some innocent, talent
ed men had to be sacrificed.
Business boomed in the eighties and it wasn’t until the recently, when ludicrous transfer fees, foreign billionaires and astronomical wage demands forced the chairmen of football clubs everywhere to look for additional revenue, that once again Bill Fisher considered match fixing as a potential source of income. He gathered around him his old match-rigging friends and they went to work with a passion. It was all going so well until they had to ‘discipline’ Roy Bennett and I started making waves. Fisher gave me far more credit than I deserved for disrupting their plans. Then, as now, I had only wanted to forget the whole thing and play football. But now it looked as though the next time I appeared on a football field would be after falling a hundred and fifty feet from the roof of the new stand.
“I’m genuinely sorry it had to end this way, Alex,” the United chairman said as he nodded silent instructions to the Irishman. Liam Watt lifted me from the chair and walked me to the door. As I was being ushered out I looked around, but neither Bill Fisher nor Len Bailey would meet my gaze.
************
Strangely enough, the thought of my imminent death did not scare me as much as I might have imagined. I was more concerned about Sara and Tanya and their reaction when they were told of my demise. The strongest feelings I had were those of injustice. Roy’s murder, my murder and the ruination of Jim Duncan would all go unpunished. Anger welled up in my stomach, knotting it as tightly as an inexperienced boy scout would knot a sheepshank.
I dragged my leg behind me, not because it hurt but because I was in no hurry to reach my destination. Liam Watt misread my reluctance and clearly believed that Chris Smith had done some real damage to my injured leg. The Irishman pocketed his pistol, untied my hands and helped me limp along. For the moment I decided that it would be wise to exploit this belief and I feigned injury so well that any Italian forward would have been proud of me. By the time we reached the end of the corridor the red haired terrorist was convinced that I was hardly able to walk. He said,
Final Whistle Page 28