Foul Play

by Tom Palmer

  It was a strange scene. Here in a shallow valley, a noisy motorway running past warehouses and out of town shopping parks, hills and fields all around them, something dramatic was unfolding.

  The forecourt in front of the main stand was cordoned off, dozens of men and women were standing at its edge, some with microphones, some with notebooks. If anybody in a suit or tracksuit came out of the stadium, a series of camera flashes were followed by questions.

  What was the latest on Roberts?

  Was the club going to pay the ransom?

  Had the kidnappers been in touch?

  Outside the stadium several police cars were parked along the edge of the south stand, cordoned off by cones and guarded by a pair of police officers on horseback.

  And then there were the fans. Some queuing at the club shop to buy the Roberts number nine shirts, Roberts posters, Roberts T-shirts on display in the three club-shop windows. Some hanging around, waiting to hear news of their hero. A boy in a City top, carrying a City bag. A short man with thick arms, city till I die tattooed on his left forearm. Two teenage girls wearing matching Sam Roberts T-shirts. Danny was among them. Keeping a low profile. Being another fan.

  The chaos reminded Danny of a Champions League tie he’d been to. City against Barcelona. All the TV channels in the world seemed to be there. Plus all the newspapers. But today it was different. The fans were either queuing at the club shop or were clustered around a heap of flowers that had been piled against one of the gates to the stadium car park.

  It was like a shrine, Danny thought.

  Standing between the main gates, taking it all in, Danny didn’t immediately hear the beep of a catering van that wanted to come past him into the car park. Ripley Vegetarian Catering. The driver waved a thank you to Danny as he moved out of the way.

  Danny waved back and smiled.

  Today, he felt like a different person to the schoolboy he’d been the day before. He felt older. Things had changed.

  After he’d taken his dad home, for instance, he’d gone into his local newsagent to get a paper for updates on the kidnap situation. He’d been going to this newsagent for years, but the woman behind the desk hadn’t even recognized him. Then at the bus stop outside the newsagent, he’d seen two girls from his year. For a few seconds they looked at him. Then they started whispering to each other and giggling. It was only as the bus moved alongside them that one of them – looking again – gasped, ‘Danny! It’s you!’

  The haircut had worked.

  But, whether he looked older or not, he still felt nervous standing a few metres from where he’d been shot at.

  He was taking a big risk.

  But, last night, reading to his dad, he’d realized that to be a detective you had to challenge yourself. You had to go back to the scene of the crime again and again. You had to be there so you could see what was going on. And what wasn’t going on. You had to talk to people to find out more.

  That’s what he was doing at City Stadium.

  And – surrounded by hundreds of football fans, a dozen media outlets, cameras, microphones, journalists, policemen on horses, in cars and on foot – he was safe. And, with his new haircut and clothes, extra safe.

  Now he could concentrate on doing what he had to do.

  But what was a private detective supposed to do in a situation like this?

  He could just watch. See what was going on. That way he’d learn a bit. But what? He wasn’t sure.

  On the other hand, he could make things happen.

  A seasoned detective wouldn’t have time to hang around, eat bags of crisps and drink a bottle of Coke. He’d be watching police movements, finding invaluable clues. He’d be talking to security men, taxi drivers, journalists.

  Danny noticed the house adjacent to the gates of the football club. An old lady was standing in the garden. She looked friendly enough, watering her roses and gazing across the road at the chaos.

  Danny waited for a break in the traffic, then walked across the road.

  He stirred himself. This was the beginning of something big. He had to do it convincingly.

  The woman had grey hair swept back into a ponytail. She looked about sixty-five. But Danny could never tell with old people. Her garden was filled with colour. Reds and blues. Purples and yellows. The lawn was immaculate. Danny looked at her house as he approached her. He noticed that some of the wood was rotting in the window frames. That the base of garage door was overgrown with clumps of grass.

  Then he walked straight past her.

  He had intended to say hello, then ask her a question. But, as soon as he got near, he realized he had nothing to say. Nothing plausible. ‘Hi, I’m Danny. I got shot at in the stadium yesterday and wondered if they’ve taken a shot at you?’ just wouldn’t work.

  ‘It’s all going on, love. Eh?’ The woman started the conversation.

  ‘I know,’ Danny said, turning round.

  The woman paused. ‘Are you a fan?’

  ‘Yes,’ Danny said.

  ‘You must be worried?’

  ‘Yes,’ Danny said.

  His mind drifted again to the books he’d read. By now the detectives would have all gathered key clues from this witness. They wouldn’t be answering her in monosyllables.

  ‘Do you believe it?’ the woman said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you believe he’s been kidnapped?’

  ‘Yes,’ Danny said, not sure what else he could say. The woman had put into words something that was in his mind, but that had barely come to the surface.

  ‘Hmm,’ the woman said. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. You can’t trust that Gawthorpe as far as you can throw him.’

  ‘Sir Richard? Why not?’ Here was someone else doubting Sir Richard.

  ‘He’s a crook.’

  ‘Is he?’ Danny couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Sure he is.’ She pointed over Danny’s shoulder. ‘You remember those houses over there?’

  ‘Where the Premier Car Park is?’

  ‘The Premier Car Park!’ The woman snorted. ‘They make it sound so grand, don’t they? Well, the Premier Car Park used to be a nice little set of terraced houses until Gawthorpe came along.’

  Danny’s mind fired. Now he was ready to ask questions.

  ‘What happened?’ he said.

  The woman put down her watering can and took off her gardening gloves.

  ‘There were eighteen families in that terrace,’ she said. ‘Fifteen of them accepted Gawthorpe’s inflated money for the houses. A hundred thousand each. For houses worth eighty. Three of the families wanted to stay. So Gawthorpe arranged for one or two of the more – how can I put it – “physical” families to intimidate them. Dustbin fires at night. Cars mysteriously damaged. Poisoned pets. Two families gave in. But not Fred Hope. Oh no. He wasn’t having it. He’d been through a war. He’d been on the frontline against Hitler. Some jumped up Sir So-and-so who’d only seen action at the cinema wasn’t going to get him out of his house. So he stood his ground and refused to sell. Until he went to his daughter’s for a week’s holiday. Then his house mysteriously burned down.’

  ‘Was he your friend?’ Danny said gently.

  ‘He was. He couldn’t take that. Fred. His house lost like that. He said it wasn’t an accident, but nobody would listen. He died soon after. Heartbroken, he was.’

  The woman picked up her gardening gloves again. Her eyes were red. ‘I should get on,’ she said. ‘Holding you up with all these old stories.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your friend. If there’s anything I can do …’ Danny had heard people say this to the bereaved. It sounded crass. But he meant it.

  ‘Thank you, son,’ the woman said. ‘You can bring me Gawthorpe’s head on a plate. That’d do me.’

  Danny shrugged. He didn’t know what to think. Or say. He noticed tears forming in the woman’s eyes. Behind her smile.

  ‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ he said again.

  The Clue

  It
was time to eat. And to think.

  Danny had eaten fish and chips with his dad at Hand of Cod hundreds of times. It was part of the match build-up. The bus into town. The bus from town to the stadium. Match day programme. Fish and chips. Then the match itself.

  It was odd walking into the chippy. The smell of the oil and the vinegar meant match day to him and he could feel his shoulders tensing in anticipation.

  ‘All right, son?’ The man behind the counter looked at him strangely. ‘Nice haircut.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Danny smiled, happy at first to be recognized – then uneasy. Would the man with the gun recognize him if the man in the chippy did? Danny tried to reassure himself, reminding himself that the gunman had only seen the back of his head as he ran out of the stand.

  The chip shop had City wallpaper throughout: a long counter of steel and glass cut the space in two, a fixture list from last season on the wall and signed photos of all the great players going back decades. Including Roberts.

  The man behind the counter was very tall with broad shoulders. Although he was old – maybe even in his seventies – he was athletic looking. He had a slight foreign accent. Danny had always imagined him to be a former Eastern European footballer who had once played under the floodlights at City Stadium, perhaps during the 1966 World Cup, and had decided to settle here.

  ‘Haddock and chips, please,’ Danny said.

  ‘Coming up.’

  Danny was determined to ask some questions this time. And he knew the guy behind the counter. Sort of. He had a good excuse to make conversation.

  ‘Have you had lots of extra customers?’ Danny said. ‘With all this going on?’

  ‘We have,’ the man said. ‘Hundreds. We’ve had to step up orders to our suppliers to near match-day levels. Even in this heat,’ the man said, shovelling chips into a metal scoop, then dropping them into a carton. ‘I mean, I’d rather have Roberts safe and sound, but we’ve had more media types in here this week than in a whole year. And coppers. They like their chips, that lot. I just hope they find him, though.’

  The man behind the counter took a pair of tongs and lifted a piece of battered fish on to some paper next to the chips.

  Danny could smell the oil and the chips and the fish.

  ‘Do you want anything on them?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Danny said.

  Danny was just about to take the food when the man behind the counter started gesticulating.

  ‘There it is again!’ he shouted. ‘Ripley Vegetarian Catering. What the heck is Gawthorpe doing getting posh caterers in for? He’s always been happy enough with a haddock until now. Ten years he’s been coming over here. Haddock. Chips. Red sauce. That’s it. But now all the media is here, he’s got fancy posh food shipped in three times a day. I’d do him a vegetable pie if he wants to be all ethical. Drives me nuts.’ The man glanced at Danny and smiled shyly. ‘Sorry, lad. You didn’t need to hear that. Catering gets a bit competitive.’

  ‘What? That van comes three times a day?’ Danny said, wanting to tease out any detail that sounded different, even if it seemed inconsequential.

  ‘Yep. Eight in the morning. One thirty in the afternoon. Six in the evening. Like clockwork. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Stops at the gate to get a security pass. Then goes behind the entrance and along the side of the main stand. Drives me nuts. It’s not in there long. Five minutes. Then it’s out. Funny thing is the driver comes here yesterday for his dinner. Nice guy. Just the driver. Meat pie. Chips. Can of Coke. I didn’t say anything. Meat pie!’

  Danny sat on the wall outside the stadium eating his fish and chips. He made sure he was in the shadow of a tree. The sun was bright. Ferocious. He figured the shadow would obscure him more and he’d be able to watch without worrying about standing out.

  He felt satisfied with his afternoon’s work. He’d found out about Sir Richard’s dealings with the locals. True or not, there was something disturbing in the woman’s story about the Premier Car Park. The things he’d heard – added to what his dad always said – challenged how he felt about Sir Richard. Was he really so bad? The man that had done so much for City? Danny knew there was opinion against him. But in his heart he couldn’t believe Sir Richard could be so bad. Why would he have put so much money into the club otherwise?

  Why had he always thought so highly of Sir Richard? Because of what he’d done for City. And because of what he’d heard Sir Richard say about himself. About always living in the city. About how he was a self-made man. About the club.

  But should he go on what someone says about himself? Or what a stranger, a seemingly nice old woman, and his own father thought of him? Or what had happened to Sam Roberts: things going on in City Stadium that the boss knew nothing about? So he said.

  If Danny took away everything he had heard Sir Richard say about himself, how did things look then?

  He wouldn’t make a decision about Sir Richard yet. There was something more important: the catering van.

  Why was the club having posh food bought in?

  Danny had known immediately.

  Posh vegetarian food. Sam Roberts was a vegetarian. If he was still in the stadium, it might be for Roberts. But he couldn’t be there. Surely it would make no sense to keep him at his own club? And yet, Danny had been chased out of the stadium. Shot at. Something was going on.

  Danny looked again at the long queue snaking into the club shop. A big window display with Roberts shirts, posters, mugs. A run on Roberts merchandise.

  Danny’s mind was working overtime. He had to get into the stadium. Try to find out what was going on.

  He had a theory. He could tell the press, but why would they believe him? Just like they hadn’t believed the gardening lady about her friend Fred Hope. And even Danny wasn’t certain. He needed to prove his theory before he could do anything about it. And no one else could do it. It was down to him.

  And Danny knew just the way into the stadium.

  Stowaway

  Danny pulled the back door shut, found a lever in the dark and locked it.

  He’d had three seconds to make it from the Sam Roberts shrine into the catering van while it stopped for security clearance. He judged that if he made his move as a double-decker bus swept past, no one would notice anything but the engine noise and the wind the bus left in its wake. People invariably look down when a bus comes past at speed.

  The bus arrived on cue and Danny lunged up the steps of the van.

  It was cold inside. Very cold. Danny grimaced at the thought that he could be locked in a freezer overnight, running out of air just as the sun came up and the police found the van.

  Now all he had to do was hold his nerve.

  The plan was to wait for the van to stop and unload by the main stand, just like the man at the chippy had said it would, then jump out and find a way of disabling the fire-escape lock from the outside.

  Simple.

  This was the 6 p.m. delivery. Dead on time.

  Danny moved forward in the dark, his arms in front of him. Almost immediately he hit his shins hard against something. A box he’d not seen as he scanned the space before plunging himself into darkness? Standing still, enduring the pain, his dad came into his mind.

  How did he do it? Walk through town all by himself, often on new routes just to challenge himself? How could he walk alone to the toilets at half time during matches, jostled by five hundred people, and still make it back?

  With this thought – in utter darkness – Danny felt scared. He wished his dad was with him. He’d be the perfect accomplice on a mission like this.

  Eventually he found the back of the van and hid behind what felt like a huge rack of silver platters.

  The van moved off. Forward.

  Security check successful, Danny thought.

  As the van moved, he tracked its movements in his head to cope with the dark. A gentle left. A gentle right. They were alongside the main stand now. Then a sudden left. But he’d expected a right to get to the main stand doors.
Then the van stopped. Danny stood up, confused. The van moved off quickly again. In reverse. Danny fell, his palms hitting a bowl of wet and slimy something, what smelled like tuna all over his hands.

  The van stopped. Danny fell on his backside.

  He stood up and wiped his hands down his trousers, panicking. The van had not done what he’d expected. He wasn’t sure he was at the side of the stadium. He knew he was near it, but he had to be on his guard, to be ready for anything.

  He ducked as light burst into the van, heard the driver pick up a crate, then put it on the tarmac outside a fire exit. Danny moved to the door of the van to see what was going on. The driver had his mobile phone out. He was making a call.

  ‘Ripley Caterers,’ the man said.

  Danny listened.

  ‘OK,’ the man said, leaning down and picking up the crate of food, his back to Danny.

  This was the moment. Without stopping to think, Danny jumped out of the back of the van and ran for cover.

  The first things he saw were three huge rubbish bins. He knew immediately where he was. The ones from last night. Three bins: three men. In the bright sunlight, they were all he could focus on. He was aware of the huge stand stretching above him. The sun hitting windows and reflecting in his eyes. But he had to move quickly. He hid behind the bins. They stank.

  ‘Evening, mate.’

  A man came out of the fire exit. Tall, muscular, shaven headed. Wearing a tight black T-shirt and jeans. He had two bags of rubbish. He threw them towards the bins. They slumped on the floor.

  ‘All right, Andy,’ the van driver said.

  Danny made a mental note. Andy. The name of the man who’d come out of the stadium. Probably the man with the gun from last night.

  ‘Bring it in,’ Andy said.

  The van driver picked up the food crate and disappeared into the stand with the other man.

  Danny had seconds, if he was lucky.

  How could he disable the door’s lock?

  He stood up – careful not to make a sound – and walked to the door. Inside, the two men were talking. They were twenty metres away from Danny. Danny looked at the fire exit. He’d read about doors being disabled before. Smashing a bolt. Weakening the wood. He could do neither with this door. It was a big clumsy mechanism. But there was one weakness. The hole where the bolt rested. Perhaps he could block it. But how? He looked around on the ground, desperate to find something before the guy called Andy turned round.