Foul Play

by Tom Palmer

  ‘I can’t knock off.’

  ‘OK. Will you cover for me? Say I was sick? I had to go home?’

  ‘Sure. If you want,’ Paul said. Then adding, as an afterthought: ‘And text me if you find out about Roberts.’

  Danny stormed out of school. He walked with purpose. He knew that if he looked suspicious, people would be suspicious. Half of him didn’t care if he got caught. He’d just keep going. Make up some lie, so they couldn’t stop him. A dead grandparent. A dead pet. A dead sister.

  Going past reception, he kept his eyes ahead. But there were half a dozen others coming in and out, so he was nothing unusual. There were eighteen hundred pupils at his school. No one would notice one boy slipping away.

  Danny walked to the car park, trying to look like he was going to be collected. Then he doubled back across the school fields towards the main road to the bus stops into town. And City Stadium.

  Kidnapped

  ‘I have an important announcement to make.’

  Sir Richard Gawthorpe was standing behind a table, flanked by a well-decorated and frowning senior policewoman and a man wearing a very expensive suit, both seated. The table was covered in a white tablecloth. Three black microphones leaned towards the speakers, their wires snaking to the floor under the edge of the tablecloth. Behind them was a background of logos: the club badge, the team sponsor and Gawthorpe Recycling’s logo.

  Danny couldn’t believe he was here. At a City press conference. Watching Sir Richard in the flesh. He’d seen them on TV, read about them in newspapers, but never imagined he’d be there at one.

  Danny arrived as Sir Richard and his two colleagues passed through the door. Fifty to sixty people had followed them in. A crush that reminded Danny of dinnertime at school. He slipped in unseen and sat at the back next to a man in an open-neck shirt and black suit, with dark, gelled hair. Danny watched the journalists, the TV crews and the technicians setting themselves up. The cameras were smaller than he’d thought they’d be. Not the massive ones you might see in TV studios. And everyone looked younger than he’d expected. All he’d ever seen were newsreaders in their fifties. But most of these journalists seemed like they were in their twenties.

  Danny felt safe at the back of the room. He hoped no one would notice him.

  Why should they? All eyes were glued on Sir Richard. In his sixties, but well preserved, he was wearing a dark blue pinstriped suit. His grey hair was swept back, his skin tanned. Danny noticed a thick gold bracelet slip down his wrist as he dusted his hand across his shoulders. He exuded confidence. This was his place and he knew exactly what he was doing. Danny felt thrilled to be in the same room as Sir Richard. His hero – after Sam Roberts. There was something about him.

  ‘Yesterday,’ Sir Richard went on, ‘we received a call from the England manager to ask why the City player, Sam Roberts, had not joined the England team for the Denmark game.’ Sir Richard glanced at the policewoman who nodded at him without losing her frown. ‘We contacted his agent, who also had no idea of his whereabouts. We tried to contact Sam himself. But he was not answering his mobile telephone.’

  Danny wondered where all this was going.

  Yesterday?

  If all this had gone on yesterday, this would surely end with Sir Richard saying they’d found Sam Roberts and brought him to the stadium at 4 a.m. and all was well. But what was going on? Was he injured? What about his eyes? What had happened to him in between going missing and being brought to the stadium in the middle of the night?

  ‘First thing this morning …’ Sir Richard cleared his throat, looking down at his notes and sighing. ‘First thing this morning, we had a call from an organization calling itself the I.K.G.P.’ Sir Richard paused to stare at the cameras and journalists. His face looked drawn and Danny saw his left eye twitching. ‘They claim to have kidnapped Sam Roberts and say that they will not return him until the club – or I – pay them ten million pounds.’

  Sir Richard looked again at his audience – their microphones, their cameras, their mobile phones – then stepped back. The policewoman stood to allow him into his seat, where he sat, his eyes cast down at the papers in front of him.

  For a second no one said a word.

  Then the noise was deafening. Fifty journalists asking questions at once. Cameras flashing.

  Who had received the call?

  Had Sir Richard said he would pay?

  Would this jeopardize England’s chances in the European Championships?

  Who were the I.K.G.P.?

  Were they terrorists?

  Had Roberts’ family been informed?

  The policewoman answered the media’s questions.

  Sir Richard had received the call. There was no comment on whether he would pay the ransom or not. Nobody knew who the I.K.G.P. were. Yes, Roberts’ family had been informed. They were present in the stadium, but had declined the offer to come to the press conference.

  Danny sat in disbelief at what he had just heard. His thoughts were all over the place. He’d wanted to put up his hand and say to Sir Richard that he didn’t have to worry about a thing, that he’d seen Sam Roberts coming into the stadium at four that morning, that all they needed to do was look for him. But intuition told him to think again. He’d learned this. Private detectives watch, say nothing, then head off to think before they act.

  Danny had seen press conferences on the TV. This was probably going out live on one of the Sky Channels. It’d be on the lunchtime news, in the evening papers, on Newsnight; then the story would hit the next day’s newspapers. And who knows, there might be more news by then.

  And what news?

  Danny felt shaken. He knew something that no one else seemed to know. Or did he? Sir Richard’s story didn’t make sense if Sam Roberts had been brought here. And he had been brought here.

  Danny was sure Sir Richard wouldn’t lie. But he knew what he’d seen. What if he was to go up to Sir Richard and ask for a word? Would he listen? Maybe. But if Danny told him exactly what he’d seen last night the newspapers would get hold of his name and the burglars might be able to trace him. He might get done for trespassing on the Portakabin yard. And for truancy. Except it wouldn’t be him who got into real trouble. It’d be Mum and Dad. And how would they take the news?

  That was why Danny had to think before he spoke. That and the fact that whatever was going on was way above his head and he didn’t have a clue what else it would bring to his door.

  His dad would have loved this. He’d have said something like, Are you so sure about Sir Richard now?’ If he’d been here. And if he’d been outside the stadium like last night. But he hadn’t. And Danny was sure Sir Richard was straight up. He’d brought the club so much success. He would have sold the stadium to developers if he was so dodgy.

  The press conference ended.

  As the room cleared, Danny sat wondering what to do. Should he leave? Would he be spotted? The senior policewoman was still there. Half the journalists had raced off. The other half were talking in low but excited voices into their mobile phones.

  Danny was about to slip out quietly, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  He looked round, expecting the worst.

  ‘Are you a fan?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Are you a City fan?’

  It was the journalist he’d been sitting next to at the back.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can I interview you? You’re nothing to do with the club are you?’

  ‘Yes. I mean no. I’m a fan. That’s all.’

  ‘Can I ask you a few questions? Anton Holt, Evening Post.’

  ‘Sure,’ Danny said automatically, still stunned by everything he had heard.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Me? Confused.’

  ‘Why confused?’

  Danny wondered whether to tell the journalist about the night before. But if he did he’d have to say where he’d been and what he’d been doing. He’d already decided to keep it to himself. He�
�d keep quiet. For now.

  ‘I’ll ask another question,’ the journalist said. ‘Are you worried about Roberts? What does he mean to you as a player?’

  ‘He’s everything,’ Danny said. ‘He’s our best player. England’s best player. And I don’t understand why they say he’s been kidnapped.’ It just slipped out. Danny stopped himself from talking.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Danny bit his lip.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’

  ‘Danny.’

  ‘Danny. Is there anything you want to say to me?’

  Danny was bursting to tell the journalist.

  ‘Nothing,’ Danny said. ‘I’m just shocked. He’s my favourite player. I just hope Sir Richard can sort it out.’

  ‘Thanks, Danny,’ the journalist said, keeping his eyes on him. ‘Look. Here’s my card. If you want to give me a call, feel free.’

  Danny took the card and slipped it into his back pocket.

  With the press conference room half empty and the journalist talking to an older man in a City tracksuit, Danny decided to leave. There was no one on the door. If he hung around any longer, someone might question him.

  Danny walked quickly out of the room, looking at the floor, the club’s crest woven into miles of thick pile carpet. He moved past glass cabinets full of small silver trophies and plaques and pendants. He’d looked at them briefly on the way in, thrilled to see them. They had names of football clubs he’d seen on Eurosport: Dynamo Zagreb, Újpest, Ferencváros. Teams City had played in the seventies, when they were briefly one of Europe’s elite.

  Danny went down the staircase that he thought was the one he had used half an hour before. But he soon realized he’d gone the wrong way. He was about to double back and find the proper way out when he heard voices coming from the direction he’d come.

  It was two men. But not just two ordinary men. Danny immediately recognized Sir Richard’s voice. The other man was clearly a journalist.

  ‘One more question, Sir Richard?’

  ‘Sorry, Pete. That’s it. I’ve got to get on. Sort this out.’

  ‘One more. Will you pay the money?’

  ‘Pete.’

  ‘Just this. Then I’ll be out of your hair.’

  ‘This has to be off the record, Pete. It’s too sensitive.’

  Danny held his breath, terrified he’d be found out. And wondering if Sir Richard would head his way after the conversation.

  ‘I’ll not be paying them a penny,’ Sir Richard said. And that’s final.’

  Danny moved quietly further down the stairs, in case Sir Richard did come down. But the voices faded. The two men had gone in other directions.

  Danny breathed a deep sigh of relief. He wasn’t sure how to feel about overhearing Sir Richard. On the one hand he was right behind him: who were these people to blackmail City? On the other hand, shouldn’t he just hand over the ten million? Danny wasn’t sure. But one thing he did know was that he trusted Sir Richard – because of what he’d done for City. He was sure Sir Richard was doing the right thing based on what he knew. And what was good enough for Sir Richard was good enough for Danny.

  He looked down the stairwell. The stair carpet stopped abruptly, to be replaced with concrete. Danny was faced with a double door at the bottom of the staircase.

  The door was open.

  Danny looked through it cautiously. All he could see was strip lighting and a blank white corridor. Then he realized where he was.

  He was under the main stand.

  The very stand he’d seen the men take Sam Roberts into the night before.

  Danger – Keep Out

  In every crime book Danny had read to his dad, the detective would, at some point, be somewhere he shouldn’t. In a powerful man’s office, rifling through a desk as the door handle turned. In someone’s apartment in the middle of the night, creeping around so that he wouldn’t be heard by a sleeping killer and his murderous cronies. Danny hated – and loved – those parts of books. His dad would always ask him to slow down, tell him he was reading too fast. But Danny couldn’t help himself. Once he was reading and the story was exciting – or frightening – he needed to know what was going to happen next.

  But Danny underneath City Stadium was not a story.

  It was a hundred per cent genuine.

  And it was also the last place Danny should be.

  With senior police officers upstairs after the kidnap of one of the world’s best footballers, there were probably few more sensitive places he could find himself.

  But he was determined to find out more. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

  There’d been a crime.

  He had a lead.

  And an opportunity to investigate it.

  This was what he’d been waiting for for months. And it seemed more natural to him to carry on down the staircase than to turn round and head back to normality, safety and being a schoolboy.

  And, if he did get caught, he could say he was lost. Play up the fact he was just a schoolboy.

  Danny smiled.

  Danny had worked out that the long corridor ahead of him ran under the bottom of the main stand, the stand he sat in at home games with his dad. This was where the players’ dressing rooms were. Where they emerged from on match days, caught by the cameras before they ran on to the pitch, talking to each other, stretching, staring up the tunnel with determination. Some raucous anthem booming out in the background.

  Before he began his search, the first thing Danny did was listen. He stood absolutely still and listened for every sound he could hear. He was trying to see without seeing. If he could hear anything – a conversation, footsteps, a machine – he’d know there was someone there without having to reveal his presence.

  He stood motionless for five minutes, timing it to the second, breathing deeply to try to keep himself calm.

  No footsteps.

  No voices.

  No balls bouncing.

  No machines.

  Nothing.

  He stepped off the staircase.

  The corridor was lit by a line of strip lights. The walls, ceiling and floor were painted white. As were the doors. There were no alcoves or other places anyone could hide. Now that Danny had left the staircase, if someone came out of a door they’d see him straight away. And he’d have no excuse.

  But Danny thought it was a risk worth taking. He was counting on the fact that because he couldn’t hear anyone, there was nobody there. He knew this wasn’t certain. But it was probable. Enough to go on.

  He turned left and walked carefully to the near end of the corridor, past a set of lift doors. He would search its whole length. Meticulously.

  At the near end there was a large double door. It was – Danny felt sure – the door that Sam Roberts had come in through the night before. Outside would be the car park, then behind that the Portakabin yard where Danny had hidden from the burglars.

  He pushed gently at the doors. They didn’t move – a fire exit. He wouldn’t open it; it might be alarmed. But he noted how to open it. A push to the metal plate. Easy. If he needed a quick exit, he’d use the fire exit rather than the stairs.

  Danny turned to face the length of the corridor. Still no footsteps. Still no voices.

  He started to walk.

  He was even more confident that he was alone now. There was a reason there was nobody down here. The football season had finished. No players would be around. Not voluntarily. If they weren’t training for the European Championship, they’d all be on expensive holidays: in the Caribbean or Australia, wherever that sort of person went. No referees either. There was no one to referee. That’s why Danny could hear nothing.

  Except his own footsteps.

  Danny looked down at his feet and realized he was wearing his school shoes, not his trainers. Whenever he went on an investigation, he wore his trainers. They were quieter. His school shoes were making the floor squeak.

  He stopped immediately, knelt down an
d took off his shoes. Then he loosened his belt and stuffed the shoes half way into his trousers, before fixing them there with his belt. He’d learned this in an American crime novel.

  The first doors Danny came to on the corridor were labelled home team and away team. He looked inside. Two square rooms. Benches going all the way round the walls. Hooks above the benches. Just what he’d expected. He tried to imagine the room full of his heroes. And the manager, shouting.

  Round the corner in each dressing room there was a row of six showers. All polished chrome, they looked new, unused.

  The only difference between the two rooms was that the away dressing rooms were noticeably smaller. Less room to move about. And the paint was a dull grey, as opposed to the vibrant orange of the home dressing rooms.

  Danny laughed.

  The next rooms were labelled kit room and interview room. Sam opened the door to the kit room slowly. He looked in. It was empty, apart from two washing machines and a tumble dryer.

  The interview room was empty too. In fact, it had been stripped and the carpet pulled up, glued underlay marking the floor in ridges. The walls criss-crossed with grooves carved out of the plaster. In preparation for rewiring, Danny thought.

  He let the door of the interview room close behind him.

  He’d had a feeling there’d be nothing in any of the rooms.

  Danny liked to trust his instincts. If he sensed a room was empty, he’d have a look. If he had a feeling there were people in it, he’d take more care. That was how he was going to do this. He trusted himself.

  There were two more doors at the far end of the corridor.

  The referee’s dressing room – with MATCH OFFICIALS on the door – and the electrical room. Danny knew it was the electrical room because of the yellow triangle with a skull and crossbones on the door. And the sign that said: danger – keep out.

  Like the other rooms, the referee’s room was empty. Danny had known it would be. But turning to enter the electrical room, he felt differently. Something about this room made him uneasy.

  The Bullet

  Danny tried the handle. But very carefully.