Foul Play

by Tom Palmer

  There was nothing on the ground. Danny grabbed at the insides of his pockets. All he had was some money, his phone and the card from the journalist he’d met the day before. He looked at it. It would have to do. Quickly, he folded the business card three times, so it was impossible to fold it any more. It was like a little cube of card. Then he shoved it into the hole and pushed it hard.

  It didn’t fall out.

  He ran for cover.

  Four hours later Danny was still outside the fire exit, his back against the wall. Everything was cooler now the sun was down. The air. The bricks. The tarmac. But the bins still stank.

  Danny looked over at the Portakabin yard on the other side of the car park. He smiled. That had been two nights ago, but it seemed like half a lifetime ago. He’d been scared hiding in that yard. And he was scared now. But excited too. He wondered where the burglars were. If they’d read his notebook? If they’d acted on it? But he had other things to think about for now.

  Danny checked his watch. His parents would be starting to get worried about him soon. It was way past the time he said he’d be home. And nearly ten o’clock – his deadline for being home.

  He imagined he could smell fish and chips from the chippy, just two hundred metres and a locked gate away. He was hungry again. Why hadn’t he grabbed a few sandwiches from the catering van when he had the chance?

  His thoughts drifted back to his parents. Should he phone them? Wouldn’t it only make things worse? What could he say?

  No. He’d leave it. For now.

  For the first time that night the security lights in the Portakabin yard came on. Danny squinted to look if he could see anyone. What looked like a small cat moved across the yard. But he could tell by its almost skipping gait that it wasn’t a cat. It was a rat. A big one. One of the rats he’d heard scrabbling around the old Portakabins while he hid from the burglars. Danny shivered, feeling even more vulnerable.

  His mind kept going back to Sir Richard. His father’s coolness towards the chairman. What the old woman had said. The vegetarian food coming into the ground: how could it be going on without Sir Richard knowing? The caterers. The gunman. Sam Roberts arriving in the middle of the night. It all pointed to one thing. This man that Danny had worshipped could very easily be involved. But why kidnap one of his own players? Even if Sir Richard was involved, it still didn’t make sense.

  Danny wanted to talk to his dad.

  He took his mobile phone out of his pocket. He flipped it open without thinking. He would call home after all.

  The phone rang once before it was picked up.

  ‘Hello?’ said an anxious voice.

  On hearing Dad’s voice, Danny realized he had to lie. Again. He didn’t have a lie ready. All he’d wanted was to talk to his dad.

  ‘It’s me, Dad.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At Paul’s. Can I … can I stay over?’

  ‘You didn’t say.’

  ‘He only just asked.’ Danny hoped Paul hadn’t called him in the last few hours. If he had, his lie would be blown.

  ‘OK.’ Danny’s dad paused before he said this. ‘You’ll be back in the morning?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK. See you tomorrow.’

  Danny put his phone away. Now he felt alone. He knew what he was doing was stupid, but it was important to him. He knew that lying to his dad was bad. This was a one off, he told himself. He sensed he was close to finding out what was going on with Sam Roberts. He imagined all the people – Roberts’ family, all the City fans, all the England fans – who needed Roberts back.

  Well, here was his chance to do something about it. He could sit there all night, wait for the gates to open and just walk home. Or he could do something.

  He decided it was worth the lie. And that his dad – one day – would understand.

  Face to Face

  The fire exit would not give. Danny tried to get his fingers round the edge where the two doors met. But it wasn’t moving. He tried again, hurting his fingers in the gap as the door gave way a little, then snapped shut on him. The pain went right through him like electricity.

  It was 11.30 p.m. The time Danny had decided he would go in.

  The sky was huge and cold. With no cloud cover, the heat of the day had gone and left a thousand stars.

  As Danny put his fingers round the lip of the door again he heard someone inside, coughing. He leapt away and sprinted round the back of the bins. A man emerged from the fire exit. Andy.

  Danny could barely breathe, he felt so shocked.

  How close was that?

  The first thing Andy did was look carefully up the side of the stadium. Then he took out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He sparked up.

  Danny watched him breathing smoke out.

  Danny had once thought that it might be a good idea if he took up smoking. Lots of detectives in his books smoked. Sitting in their offices, thinking. Standing on street corners, watching. But since his sister started smoking he realized that, as well as smelling awful, she looked stupid. Now he knew that he could never smoke. Besides, he lived his life trying not to be like his sister.

  Danny watched him smoke another cigarette. He timed him. The two cigarettes took twelve minutes and forty-one seconds. Danny made a mental note. The information might come in handy later on.

  Twenty minutes after Andy had gone, Danny tried the door again.

  This time it opened easily. The piece of card he had stuck there had worked. Or the man hadn’t shut it properly.

  Danny stared down the length of the corridor. This was it. Here he was. Again.

  Before he went in, he glanced at the wall where he thought the bullet had hit. There was a hole in the breeze block, exposed grey against the uniform white of the rest of the walls. He checked the floor. All the debris had gone.

  He walked the length of the corridor and went directly into the referee’s room. Without thinking. Straight in.

  He was banking on Andy going for another cigarette. An hour and fifty-seven minutes later – every minute of which he had counted alternatively forward or backwards, to keep himself alert – Danny was proved right.

  Andy came out of the electrical room and walked up the corridor, leaving Danny with six to twelve minutes to check out the one room he’d missed in his first search.

  As Andy reached the end of the corridor, Danny crept across the passageway and made his way into the electrical room. The trapdoor was up.

  Now Danny felt sick. Like when you’re really sick: weak at the knees, dizzy, dry in the throat. He had to control his breathing; it had become so erratic. What could he focus on? Meeting Sam Roberts – who he was convinced was down the ladder? Or being caught by the man with the cigarettes, Andy, who was probably also the man with the gun.

  But there was no time to mess about. No time to give in to feeling sick or being nervous. He had to act. He could think later. If he got the chance.

  Danny went straight to the ladder. He could feel the cold of the metal on his hands as he eased himself down. As he descended he was aware he didn’t have a clue what was beneath him. A guard dog? A pack of guard dogs? Another gunman? Nothing.

  He’d expected a cellar. Maybe a single lightbulb. A few shelves. Something like a handyman’s room. He did not expect a large space, at least thirty metres by twenty. The place looked like a fancy loft apartment, not an underground vault. It was a large room, kitted out with expensive furniture and lighting. It was carpeted, air-conditioned. There was a kitchen bar. A gym. A circle of sofas. All open plan.

  There was no one there. Just a giant flat-screen television in the corner, showing a chat show Danny didn’t recognize, the sound down.

  At the far end there were three doors. Bedrooms, Danny guessed. A bathroom maybe? If Danny was right, this was clearly some kind of flat. A living area. There had to be bedrooms and a bathroom.

  There was a noise from above.

  Danny froze, then moved tentatively to the metal steps
and looked up. Nothing.

  Anyway, it didn’t matter. If he got caught, he got caught. He couldn’t get out any other way.

  That’s why he had to be quick. So he wouldn’t get caught.

  Danny opened one of the doors at the end of the main space. A bathroom. As he’d thought. White fittings. Blue tiles on the walls and floor. A bath. A pile of unused towels. Two used, slung on the floor.

  Danny opened the next door. A bedroom. Unlit. He tried to see if there was anyone in the bed. It didn’t look like it. He flicked the light on. He had to be sure before he moved on to the next room.

  ‘Hey!’ A squinting man raised himself out of the bed.

  Danny almost shouted in fear.

  He knew the voice immediately.

  It was Sam Roberts.

  He didn’t look the same as he did on the pitch, wearing the City kit. He looked normal. Except he was in a white T-shirt, his face scrunched up in the light. And he had a heavy stubble. And looked much older than he did on the pitch. Or more tired. But it was Sam Roberts all right.

  Roberts’ face unscrewed. He looked shocked. He wasn’t wearing a bandage.

  Face to face with his hero, a part of Danny wanted to go shy and quiet, but his fear of being caught overrode his feelings.

  ‘Who are you?’ Roberts said.

  ‘I dunno,’ Danny said. ‘I mean. I’m a fan. I’ve come to get you out.’

  ‘But you’re a kid.’

  Danny was terrified. Roberts was right. He was a kid. A schoolboy. He couldn’t do this.

  ‘Listen,’ Danny said, ‘I’m sorry to be like this, but if you want to get out of here, we need to go now. He’ll be on to his second cigarette by now.’

  ‘You know he’s armed?’ Sam Roberts said. ‘Did you come yesterday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did they shoot you? I mean, they told me they’d killed someone. That if I didn’t toe the line … You know.’

  ‘They missed,’ Danny said. ‘We have to go.’

  Sam Roberts got out of bed. ‘OK. But where are we? Are we still in the UK?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  Danny realized Roberts didn’t have a clue he was in the stadium where he’d made his name. He must be thinking he was in some kind of mysterious bunker.

  ‘We’re right here,’ Danny said.

  ‘Where?’ As he asked the question Sam Roberts’ face went pale. He looked crestfallen. He was backing away from Danny, holding his hand up.

  ‘What?’ Danny said. ‘Don’t worry. We’re leaving.’

  ‘Yeah?’ came a voice from behind Danny.

  Danny turned round quickly. Andy was standing behind him, gun raised.

  Danny didn’t know what to do. He felt all the energy drain from him. He just stared at the man with the gun.

  ‘You. On your knees,’ Andy shouted. ‘Roberts. Sit on the bed.’

  Danny fell to his knees. He felt utterly powerless, only able to wait and see what would happen. He looked at the gun.

  ‘Just sit there,’ Andy said, in a quieter voice. ‘Don’t move.’

  So Danny sat. Like a good boy. Like the man with the gun was a teacher and he’d been caught playing truant. Nothing in all the books he’d read had prepared him for this. The fear. The panic. The wave of nausea.

  Andy walked backwards to the telephone. Danny watched him closely through the doorway.

  The man dialled. Danny counted seven digits. No dialling code. A local number.

  And Danny guessed immediately who Andy was calling.

  ‘Boss … Yes … Yes, I know it’s late … I mean early …’ Andy listened, screwing up his face. ‘No … No, Roberts can’t hear me … I’ve … Listen … Roberts is here. He’s OK. But there’s a kid here too.’ The smoker looked at Danny. ‘I dunno … thirteen …’

  ‘Fourteen,’ Danny said. But his voice didn’t sound like it normally did.

  ‘Yes … I’ll just keep him here. You’re coming? When? Now? Great.’

  Appointment with Death

  Thirty minutes later Danny heard the door being unlocked.

  He’d been put in the home dressing rooms. A prisoner. It felt cold in the unheated underground rooms.

  The first thing he’d done was check the room for possible escape routes, not bothered if he was being watched. He could see no cameras but there were no windows either. And only one heavy door, which had been locked from the outside by Andy. There was no chance of kicking it down, as it opened inwards, so he’d have to put out the whole doorframe to escape.

  He really was a prisoner.

  Danny sat on the benches where generations of City players had sat. It occurred to him that most fans would give anything to do what he was doing now. He smiled.

  He was still sitting there when the door opened.

  ‘Do I have to force you to come or will you just walk with me?’ Andy said.

  ‘I’ll come,’ Danny said.

  ‘I won’t use my gun, then.’ Andy looked hard at Danny. ‘OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Danny said, walking out of the dressing rooms.

  Andy walked behind Danny, at his right shoulder.

  ‘Press the lift button.’

  Danny pressed it. He watched the lift floor number change on the red illuminated screen. 3 … 2 … 1 … G … B. He hadn’t known there were five floors in the stadium. He wondered what they were all for. The basement was the floor they were on now. The ground floor was reception and where the press conference had been. He didn’t know about the first, second and third. He assumed they were hospitality suites and offices. He was trying to put together a picture of where he was – and where he could escape to, given the chance.

  The lift door opened. Danny stepped in. He half imagined seeing a trapdoor in the top of the lift, so he’d be able to jump up through it and disappear like Bruce Willis in one of the Die Hard films. But there was nothing.

  ‘Press three,’ Andy said.

  Hospitality suites, Danny thought again. What sort of hospitality was he going to get?

  Danny closed his eyes. He had to be calm. Hold it together. If he stayed in control, he might find a way out of this. He would pretend to cooperate. Do what they said.

  Until the moment came to strike.

  The only problem was, how was he going to know when the moment to strike came?

  The lift doors opened at the third floor. Andy pushed Danny lightly on the shoulder. Danny started walking. There was a corridor with several heavy wooden doors. A thick blue carpet. And the smell of furniture polish and cigars.

  The door at the end of the corridor was open.

  Danny knew who was going to be in the room through that door. A day ago he would never have dreamed it. But, after all he had learned and seen, it was obvious.

  He showed no surprise as he entered the room. He kept his face calm, although underneath he was terrified. He didn’t dare guess what would happen in the next ten minutes. All he would think about was the next moment. Like the football managers say: one game at a time.

  Sir Richard Gawthorpe was smaller up close than Danny had imagined. He was bent over his desk and Danny could see his thinning grey hair, a surprisingly pink scalp. He was unshaven. His clothes dishevelled. He looked tired and irritable. But then it was the middle of the night. And Danny had just got him up.

  Sir Richard’s desk was huge, empty of anything but a mobile phone, which was still glowing. Danny assumed he’d just finished a call.

  Who to? Danny thought. Someone who needed to know that Danny had been found in the stadium.

  Not the police – Danny knew that. He wished it was the police. He’d be happy to have a record for breaking and entering. He knew he was in deeper trouble than that now.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Sir Richard’s voice was husky. And Danny noticed it quaver. Like his own voice would quaver when he was nervous. His hair was damp around his neck, wetting his collar, turning it a darker shade of blue.

  ‘Wha
t’s your name?’

  Sir Richard asked without even looking at him.

  ‘Danny.’

  Danny had decided to be straightforward. There was no point in lying, trying to hide things. He would tell the truth as much as he could – and only lie when it was strictly necessary.

  ‘I’ve seen you before.’ There was no kindness in Sir Richard’s voice. It was nothing like the voice he’d spoken with at assembly.

  ‘At the press conference. Yesterday. Well, the day before. And in assembly in our school.’

  Danny hoped mentioning the assembly would make Sir Richard feel sorry for him.

  ‘Are you the one who got in here before?’

  It hadn’t worked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you told anyone?’

  Danny hesitated. This was where he had to lie.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t want to say.’

  Sir Richard swivelled his leather chair round and faced what Danny realized was the pitch. With the reflections of the lights on the window from the inside, he’d not seen it, but Sir Richard was gazing across at the far side of the stadium. The stadium seemed soulless without players, fans, lights, noise.

  ‘Because?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You won’t tell me who knows because …?’

  ‘Because I don’t know what you’re going to do to me. And, if you don’t know who knows, it gives me an advantage over you.’ Danny couldn’t believe what he was saying. Although he was nervous, he was excited to be able to talk like this to Sir Richard.

  Sir Richard put his hand through his hair again. Danny watched him – and suddenly saw that the great man was confused.

  Sir Richard didn’t know what to do.

  Danny’s nerves weren’t calmed by this. His heart was still going too fast and his skin felt hot. The confusion might not be a good thing. It could make Sir Richard act unpredictably.