Foul Play

by Tom Palmer

  It didn’t move.

  The door was either stiff or locked. Danny didn’t want to force it and risk making a sound that might draw attention. There would probably be nothing in there anyway. It was just an electrical room.

  He decided to go back up the other end of the corridor to see if he’d missed anything.

  Turning, he saw a scuff mark.

  The floor of the corridor had been vigorously polished. That’s why his shoes had been squeaking so loudly. They must have cleaned it at the end of the season after nine months of studs, mud and grass. But among all this pristine whiteness there was one scuff mark. Black. Out of place. Ten centimetres long. Right outside the electrical-room door.

  An unconscious fear got the better of him. The scuff mark was something he’d not fully registered, but he knew that he couldn’t leave without investigating what had caused it. It could be an important lead.

  Before he tried to get into the room, he had to think. If he asked as many questions as he could and came up with an answer, however stupid they seemed, he would be better prepared.

  What was the scuff mark?

  A shoe? Probably. Or some piece of training equipment?

  Why had it been made?

  By someone running? If it was a shoe? Or someone escaping? Or something – or someone – being dragged somewhere they didn’t want to go.

  Had they brought Roberts here?

  Danny tried the handle again.

  It was still stiff, but it moved this time.

  He pushed down harder, still conscious it might make a noise and betray him. But the handle gave silently.

  In the electrical room there were dozens of switches with labels. A massive version of the electrical board they had at home in the cellar. The rest of the room was all wires and switches. The walls unpainted plaster.

  And there was a metallic smell.

  Danny knew that this was where the floodlights would be operated from. Plus the heating, air-conditioning and lights throughout the stadium.

  He scanned the room again. There was nothing else. Nothing unusual. If they’d brought Sam Roberts in here, he wasn’t here any more, scuff mark or no scuff mark. It had been a waste of time coming in.

  Danny grabbed at the door handle, frustrated.

  It wouldn’t move.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, under his breath.

  He tried the door again.

  It was stuck.

  Danny was trapped. He felt cold all over. And stupid. He could feel sweat on his hands where he’d gripped the door.

  What now?

  Was he going to be stuck down here until August? As the nation watched the European Championships, he’d be starving to death.

  Danny panicked.

  He looked around the room: four walls; no other doors; a ceiling of cables and pipes disappearing through holes upwards; a huge electrical console, buzzing.

  And a trapdoor in the far corner.

  He’d not noticed it the first time he’d looked.

  The trapdoor was about one metre square, made of four wide planks of wood. The handle was a length of iron, dead centre. It reminded Danny of the cellar doors you could walk over outside old pubs, the place they roll the barrels down. But smaller. His hand reached out to lift it. The handle felt rough, rusty. It made a loud creak as he pulled it away.

  ‘Boss?’ A voice from nowhere.

  Danny could barely breathe. He dropped the trapdoor and it bumped back into its original position.

  ‘Boss? Is that you?’

  Danny’s body went rigid. Instead of running, he waited. Almost as if he wanted to hear the voice again.

  It was a male voice. Deep. Gruff. Was it coming from outside the room? Or from under the trapdoor? Danny couldn’t work it out.

  He knelt next to the trapdoor. What would one of the heroes of Dad’s books do now? He didn’t know. Until he heard the sound of footsteps on metal. Maybe a ladder. Until he saw the trapdoor begin to vibrate as the footsteps came nearer.

  Danny lunged for the door. He had to get out. Now. Full of adrenalin, he slammed both hands down on the stiff door handle. Mercifully, it gave and Danny ripped the door open.

  ‘Boss?’ The voice again, breathless. Then, after a pause, ‘There’s someone up there. You stay put. Right?’

  Danny was halfway up the corridor when he heard the door of the electrical room slam behind him. Was someone after him? What should he do? Hide in another room? Go up the stairs he came from? Try the fire exit at the end?

  Danny heard another sound above the noise of his panting. A click. Then a voice, a shout.

  He didn’t look round. He just kept running as fast as he could, his shoes still stuffed down his trousers, rubbing into his back.

  All he could think about was putting one foot in front of the other. It was his best bet. He’d run at the fire escape. Push it open.

  It was a risk. It might set off an alarm. But he didn’t want to get caught, to have to explain why he was in this part of the stadium.

  He heard the bang a split second after the wall to the left of him exploded, a shower of breeze block scattering across the polished floor. A deafening noise ricocheted the length of the corridor and back. In the moment before the bang, Danny wondered why the wall was disintegrating, why a breeze block would just explode? But once he heard the bang, he knew.

  He jumped, shoulder-first, at the fire escape, his knee hitting the metal plate he needed to push to open the doors. They gave way easily.

  He was outside. The cooler, fresher air hit him, filled him with hope. The light was bright, hurting his eyes, even though it was overcast. And he could hear noises. Cars on the road. Voices. Birdsong.

  But above everything was the shock. And the feeling that his body was moving faster than it ever had. Faster even than when chased in the dark a few hours ago. Fight or flight. They’d done it in biology. This was flight. But not just flight. Fear too. He could feel it in his body. His heart. His lungs. His head. A tremor deep down that was shuddering through him.

  As Danny ran, his friend Paul came into his mind. He’d be sitting in double chemistry now. Bored perhaps, but safe. There’d be a spare stool next to him. Danny’s. Danny imagined himself there, wished he could be just a schoolboy again. Not here. Not this.

  Danny moved left, to be out of sight of the exit doors. He ran through the players’ car park – his feet in agony – past two TV cameras and a row of microphones all pointed at Sir Richard as he stood in front of the club crest. Another interview.

  And Danny thought – though he couldn’t be sure – that Sir Richard caught his eye. And for a second, in his panic, Danny felt like telling him everything. But he couldn’t stop running now. He had to get as far away from the corridor as possible.

  In seconds, Danny was outside the car park. Outside the stadium. On the main road, opposite the chip shop. With the corner of a building for cover, he stopped to look back, judging that no one could follow him – or shoot at him, come to that – if Sir Richard and half the world’s media were looking on.

  He looked.

  No one was coming after him.

  No one had emerged from the corridor.

  Sir Richard was still doing his interviews.

  And Danny wondered if the last sixty seconds had really taken place.

  Danny tried to hold his body still. He exhaled and realized, leaning his back against the wall, that he’d barely breathed since the bullet had hit the wall beside him. And it had happened. He was sure.

  Now his breathing was fast. Too fast. He felt far more uncomfortable than he should after such a short run. He was fit. He wondered if it was the shock. Was he about to have a heart attack? He’d seen it on TV. Men breathing hard, grabbing their chests, then plunging to the floor. But he knew it was just panic. What was he thinking? He had to get away from here as fast as he could.

  A bus was heading down the long approach to the stadium. Danny fumbled in his pockets, trembling so much he had to struggle t
o find any money.

  The bus arrived. Danny paid his £1 bus fare, walked upstairs and sat down.

  Had that really just happened? Sitting on the bus about to go away from City Stadium like he had a hundred times before, he wasn’t so sure.

  The bus moved off. Danny kept his head down, not sure if he was being followed. Why hadn’t he just run over to Sir Richard and told him everything? Wouldn’t that have been the easiest thing? Danny thought about it. Was it a gut feeling? Or was it proof? Yes, that was it. He couldn’t just run over to Sir Richard and tell him some story without any proof. In fact, Danny thought, he didn’t even know what the story was. He needed to know more. Fear or no fear, that had to be his next move.

  Saturday

  Crew Cut

  The taxi dropped them off in town just before eleven. Danny stood on the kerb and waited for his dad to pay, then held his arm out to lead him into the arcade.

  Today was going to be a normal day, with no burglars, no breathless chases and no bullets. Just a normal day with his dad. Otherwise Danny would go out of his mind.

  It was hot already, the sky a hazy blue. Danny noticed men in shorts, women in dresses, parasols on babies’ buggies. On the news the night before, the weatherman had said that today would be a scorcher.

  ‘I need a haircut,’ Danny had said to his dad after his mum had gone out.

  He’d been itching to get out of the house. The shock of what had happened to him the day before was impossible to make sense of. He almost didn’t believe it had happened. The more time he had to dwell on it at home the more real it might become. Someone had actually tried to shoot him. He could be dead right now if the man had been a better shot.

  ‘Me too,’ Dad said. ‘Let’s go into town.’

  They walked through the shopping centre – past HMV, TopShop, Woolworths and Primark – to the far side of town, towards the barber Dad always used: Franco’s.

  There were hundreds of shoppers, walking in pairs or groups, some sitting outside cafés, chairs and tables set out in the street. Since it had been pedestrianized, the town centre had a much nicer feel to it. A gentle wind was moving up the main street. HMV was blaring out The Killers, a group of year elevens from his school stood outside listening. Danny watched the girls among them out of the corner of his eye, looking away as he came closer.

  ‘Any more news on Roberts?’ Dad said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Have you heard anything this morning?’

  ‘No,’ Danny said, guarded.

  ‘Aren’t you bothered?’

  ‘Course I am,’ Danny said.

  But Danny felt uneasy. He normally told his dad everything. But could he tell him he thought Sam Roberts hadn’t been kidnapped? Or that he’d bunked off school yesterday? That he’d been shot at? No chance.

  ‘How do you feel about it?’ Dad said.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know how I feel.’

  ‘I thought you’d be as mad as hell.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Danny said. ‘That’s all. It’s weird.’ He tried to think of the things his dad would expect him to say, so he could get out of the conversation without him being suspicious. ‘I don’t think the club has the money.’

  ‘Sir Richard does. He’s been a miser all his life. He’s loaded.’

  ‘But not ten million. I mean, that’s a lot.’

  ‘Not for him. I reckon he’s got a lot more than that squirrelled away. The stuff he gets up to.’

  ‘Why do you have it in for him?’ Danny said. ‘Look what he’s done for the club. I don’t understand why you don’t trust him. He’s doing everything he can. If he had the money he’d have paid up already.’

  Dad said nothing. Danny noticed his half-smile disappear.

  ‘You worship that man, don’t you, Danny?’

  ‘No. I just like him. Look what he’s done for City.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘He didn’t sound like he could afford to pay up yesterday.’

  ‘He didn’t rule it out as far as I heard. Was it on the news?’

  Danny cursed himself. He’d slipped up. Again. He’d heard Sir Richard talking after the press conference. From the stairwell. Not his official line during the interviews.

  ‘I read it,’ Danny said.

  ‘Right,’ Dad said.

  Danny felt ashamed. This was the second time he’d lied to his dad in two days. Using his dad’s blindness to get himself out of a hole. Here he was leading his dad through town. He trusted Danny to negotiate crossings, to get him through shops, past obstacles. And Danny never let him down with that.

  It made Danny wish more keenly that he could tell him the full story. He was closer to him than anyone. But if he knew what had been going on, he’d be so worried life would be impossible. Danny would be grounded. His dad would go straight to the police. And – even though he was terrified of being shot at – Danny was excited about what was going on. And angry. He felt, at last, like a real detective. That he had come across a terrible thing, an unsolved crime. This was what he’d always wanted. All he needed was to look different and he could go back to the football stadium. This time to keep watch. All night, and the next night, if that’s what it took. He’d tell his dad when it was all over. It was best for his dad. Best for Sam Roberts. And best for Danny.

  But Danny wasn’t convinced, despite his attempts to persuade himself.

  They reached the barber’s, crossing the road at the lights. It was on the ground floor of a row of tall and ornate buildings near the station that Dad said used to be the railway hotel. A place famous people had stayed, even the Queen once. But now it was a downmarket row of sandwich shops, amusement arcades and pound shops, dwarfed by the huge glass and steel buildings of the twenty-first century city.

  ‘Peter! Peter! Cómo está, compañero?’

  The barber was a short man with long brown hair – dyed, Danny suspected – swept back and held in place by a pair of raised sunglasses. His face was angular, a big hooked nose and a large forehead.

  ‘Franco.’ Danny’s dad put out his hand.

  ‘The usual, Peter?’

  ‘Sί.‘

  ‘And Danny?’

  ‘A crew cut, please,’ Danny said.

  ‘A crew cut?’ Franco said. ‘That OK, Peter?’

  Danny’s dad paused.

  Danny watched his dad’s eyes flickering under their closed lids. ‘He’s his own man now, Franco. He can have it cut how he likes.’

  Danny felt extremely self-conscious leaving the barber’s. He had always had longish hair, dark and wavy. No style to speak of. He’d never bothered with a style. And he wasn’t bothered now. All he wanted was to look different to the way he’d looked at City Stadium yesterday.

  He’d changed his clothes so they were nothing like the school uniform he’d worn the day before. Today he was in worn jeans and a white T-shirt. The haircut completed the new look.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go for a coffee.’

  Danny said OK to his dad. He could feel the hot sun on his head as they walked. And the air. It felt good to have a short haircut on a day like this.

  But he felt wary. He knew his dad could pick up on changes, inconsistencies, better than anyone – he already felt sure Dad knew that something going on. He also knew his dad wouldn’t just say, ‘Right, what’s up with you?’ But that he’d wheedle it out of him subtly, with questions and affection. This coffee could be a move by his dad to find out what was wrong with him.

  This sort of thing was one of the reasons Danny loved him.

  ‘Starbucks?’

  ‘Starbucks.’

  Dad found a seat while Danny went to get two cappuccinos and two chocolate muffins.

  Once served, Danny carried the tray carefully through the maze of tables. He carried it so carefully, it was only when he reached the table that he noticed who was sitting adjacent to his dad, just getting up.

  Charlotte Duncan.
>
  She looked gorgeous. Shiny brown hair touching the nape of her neck. A necklace dangling at her throat.

  Charlotte stood up and smiled at Danny. But not the sarcastic smile of yesterday. Something was different. Her friend – Sally Graham, there again – scowled at Danny all the same.

  ‘What happened to you yesterday?’ Charlotte said. ‘I didn’t see you in chemistry.’

  Danny glanced at his dad and put his finger to his lips.

  Charlotte mouthed, ‘Sorry.’

  Danny’s eyes lingered on her mouth for a second too long, until he saw it crease into a smile again.

  ‘See you on Monday?’ she said, looking at his dad again, picking up several clothes-shop bags, marked H&M, Zara and TopShop.

  ‘Yeah. See you then,’ Danny said, surprised and confused.

  He was thinking about the note from the day before. Maybe Charlotte hadn’t known what was on it?

  Danny sat down next to his dad. He could feel his heart pumping. It was going hard and fast. After a moment he noticed that his hands were still gripping the two sides of the tray.

  ‘Now I know why you’re so jumpy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Danny said.

  ‘Those girls.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They were talking about you.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘While you were at the counter. I’m not sure about the other one, but the one with the deeper voice, the nice one, sounded quite pleased to see you. I think the haircut might have swung it for you.’

  Danny ran his hand across the top of his head. It felt good. He felt good. And he was confident it was disguise enough for him to go back to City Stadium. The man with the gun hadn’t seen his face. Just his clothes and his hair, from behind. Today all that was different. So long as he stayed where there were other people, he’d be fine.

  And, for the first time since he’d known her, Danny felt he had a chance with Charlotte Duncan.

  Schoolboy

  The stadium car park was jammed with huge television and radio outside-broadcast units, aerials and satellite dishes filling the skyline. Danny recognized several sports channel logos on the sides of the vans: BBC, ITV, Sky Sports, Eurosport. And there were channels from Germany, France, Italy and Spain.