Foul Play

by Tom Palmer

  Sir Richard was quiet for a minute. Then another minute.

  ‘Andy,’ he said finally. ‘Go outside.’

  Andy shook his head. ‘I don’t want to risk it.’

  ‘Do it.’

  ‘He’s not just a kid. He’s clever.’

  ‘Well, give me your gun, then.’

  Andy went to hand it to Sir Richard. But Sir Richard gestured towards the desk, where Andy placed it carefully.

  Fingerprints, Danny thought. Sir Richard doesn’t want his fingerprints on the gun. Or his DNA.

  The next thought that came into Danny’s head was like an electric shock: they’re going to kill me.

  What else would they do? The gun? Sir Richard? It was obvious.

  Danny watched Sir Richard intently. He heard the door close softly behind him. He felt faint and had to grip and ungrip his hands, tighten his calves, to get the feeling back in his limbs.

  ‘Right, Danny. Here’s where it’s at. You like straight talking, don’t you?’

  Danny didn’t say anything. He felt as if he couldn’t move. If he stopped holding his body so taut, he’d start to shake. Or collapse. Or worse.

  ‘The only way I can think of getting out of this is … to kill you,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Because …’ His voice broke into a rage. ‘Because you are a stupid, meddling, nosy, over-intelligent little…’

  Danny didn’t move. Sir Richard’s voice seemed remote. A long way away. And Danny could hear a ringing in his ears.

  ‘I think I have to do that because I kidnapped Sam Roberts and because you know. And, if I don’t kill you, then the secret is out.’

  Neither said anything. Danny noticed several droplets of sweat on Sir Richard’s forehead, then patches of wet at his armpits.

  ‘What else do you expect me to do?’ Sir Richard shouted. ‘I have absolutely no options here. Tell me. What else can I do?’

  Danny heard himself say, ‘You have to murder a fourteen-year-old boy, Sir Richard.’

  Sir Richard’s face twitched. Danny felt stupid saying what he’d said, but he thought it might spook Sir Richard to spell it out.

  After another pause, Sir Richard said, ‘You’re a fan, aren’t you? A City fan.’

  ‘Yes,’ Danny managed. He looked at the floor. He wasn’t listening properly. He was trying to work out if he could overpower Sir Richard. If he was quick, he could get to the gun first. But he still couldn’t move. His body was paralysed.

  ‘If you’d just stayed out of it, Roberts would have been on the plane to the finals in a fortnight,’ Sir Richard went on. ‘A more valuable player than ever after all the kidnapping publicity. I … the club would have made millions out of merchandise and promotional opportunities … I am doing this for the club.’

  Danny felt numb. Sir Richard sounded like a child explaining why he’d done something wrong.

  ‘If you had just kept out of it, it would have been fine. The club would have been better off. Champions League next season. A couple of new players. If only you knew who we’re trying to sign. You wouldn’t believe it. Half the players in Spain and Italy want to play alongside Roberts.’

  Danny said nothing. He just stared at Sir Richard, his brow low over his eyes, trying to hide the fact that he was paralysed with fear.

  ‘I thought you should know why. I don’t believe anyone knows where you are. Otherwise they’d be here.’ Sir Richard cleared his throat. ‘Andy? ANDY?’

  The door opened.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Take him to the basement. The generator room. I need to think what to do with him.’

  ‘Roberts has seen him, boss.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So …’

  ‘So what?’

  Andy went over to Sir Richard and whispered something in his ear.

  Sir Richard looked at Danny, furious. ‘If I let you go, you’ll ruin everything. If I kill you, Roberts will ask questions. What am I going to do with you?’

  Sir Richard actually sounded as if he was really was asking Danny’s opinion.

  ‘Take him down to the generator room, Andy. I have to think.’

  Andy stared back at Sir Richard.

  ‘Yes, he’s a kid, Andy! I am fully aware of that fact. Do you think I want to do this? But we need to. Do you want twelve years for kidnap and attempted murder? Because, Andy, it’s us or him.’

  Danny felt his shoulder being grabbed. He was spun round. He was surprised Andy had been able to move him he felt so rooted to the spot. Then he saw Andy pick up the gun and felt a firm push on his back.

  A Place of Execution

  ‘Lift,’ Andy said, pushing Danny ahead of him. ‘Press the button.’

  Danny pressed the button. It occurred to him that he was not as afraid as he should be. Instead he felt numb. Like he wasn’t there at all. That his arms and legs did not belong to him. That someone else was making him do the things he did.

  The lift door opened. Danny stepped in. Andy paused just outside the lift door, the gun in his hand. Danny willed the door to close. Then he could be on his own.

  But Andy stepped into the lift.

  ‘Look, kid. I don’t want to do this. But … Oh, forget it. Just press the button.’

  Danny still felt far away. Utterly pliant. But something was breaking through.

  A voice in his head telling him to do something.

  But not his voice. And it was quiet at first.

  A part of Danny felt it would be easier to go along with what was going to happen. Down to the basement. Along the corridor with the man with the gun. Do what he was told. That felt the easiest, almost the most comfortable thing to do. Then he thought of his mum, his dad, his sister.

  And then he realized whose voice was breaking through.

  His sister’s.

  What would she say to him now?

  ‘Danny. Get your finger out. Do something. Don’t be such a wimp all your life.’

  The voice was louder now.

  Something flickered in Danny. If Emily was here, she’d kick ass. That’s what she’d do. He’d spent his whole life trying not to be like her. Maybe for once he should try to be like her.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Andy said. ‘I told you to press the button.’

  Danny pressed the second-floor button.

  ‘Not that one.’

  Danny pressed the second-floor button again.

  Andy pushed Danny aside – slamming him against the side of the lift, hollow metal thundering – and pressed the basement button.

  ‘Bottom floor,’ Andy said, still pressing the basement button. His other hand was on Danny, pinning him to the side of the lift.

  Danny felt the motion of the lift going down. Smooth. Barely noticeable.

  The doors began to open. Second floor.

  Andy pushed the doors-close button. But the doors continued to open. He punched the button again. Violent now. Under pressure. A different man to the one who’d been arguing with Sir Richard.

  This was Danny’s only chance.

  It happened before he could think it through. He shoved Andy hard with his shoulder, putting the weight of his whole body into it and the power of his rage at Sir Richard. A man he’d trusted – worshipped, even – a fraud.

  Andy went flying, sprawling outside the lift, his gun skittering across the floor, bouncing off the wall. Danny saw the carpet beneath him. City badges. Club colours. Andy looked back at him, paralysed for a second.

  Danny pressed the doors-close button.

  The doors closed. The lift started to move. Danny was alone. He had seconds – two or three – to think. His mind was alert now. What next? He could get off at the first floor or in the basement. He had no idea where the stairs were. Except that the basement stairs were next to the lift doors.

  Then it came to him. Crystal clear. In the book The Maltese Falcon, Sam Spade loses a tail by sending the lift to the basement, but getting off the floor before.

  The lift had just passed the first floor. Danny
punched the ground-floor button. He felt the lift stop. The doors opened. It was a miracle. He’d hide on the ground floor.

  Before he ran, he punched the basement button and the doors-close button then sprinted out on to the floor where he’d been to the press conference and straight through the doors into the room. He let the door close softly, then waited. Listening.

  Now what?

  Danny stood with his back against the wall, looking at the darkened room. He could hear himself breathing. And – although he was in the greatest danger he’d ever been in in his life – he felt euphoric. But Danny knew this was just adrenalin. So he breathed deeply. In and out. In and out. Preparing for what would come next.

  A few seconds later, Andy arrived at the lift, hammering on the doors. Through a crack in the door, Danny saw him watching the number change to basement on the small screen, then rush off, back to the staircase.

  It had worked. Danny had won himself time. But now – with options – he felt more tense than ever.

  He leaned with his back to the door, trying to control his breathing, trying to work out the best thing to do. He had seconds.

  How to get out?

  The only way he knew was the fire exit in the basement.

  He tried to remember if he’d seen a fire-escape staircase from the ground floor. There was bound to be at least one.

  He pulled the door open. Softly. No one there.

  He imagined that Andy would be in the basement now. Checking rooms, if Danny was lucky. On his way back, if Danny was unlucky.

  Danny started to run hard.

  Along the club carpet.

  Past the trophy cabinets.

  Past photos of the great players. One of Sam Roberts.

  Where was Roberts now? Had they moved him from the cellar room too? he wondered.

  Then he put Roberts out of his mind. If Sir Richard said he was safe, Danny believed him. He had nothing to gain from harming Roberts. And, anyway, Danny had to be single-minded now. One focus. Escape.

  He reached the end of the floor.

  No fire exit.

  A dead end.

  He froze and looked behind him, expecting to see Andy.

  But he was still alone.

  He looked around him. He felt his panic rising, but knew he mustn’t give into it.

  Think.

  Be clear.

  Take control.

  He looked for an exit, but was really disorientated.

  This was no good. He felt like he was losing it.

  He needed a way out. He looked again.

  And there it was: a fire-exit sign, hidden down a small staircase.

  He took the steps four at a time, reaching the bottom in two strides.

  Two blue doors. A metal bar across them.

  A sign said this door is alarmed.

  Danny smiled. Not half as alarmed as he was.

  Would it go off?

  Danny had no choice. He wasn’t going to try and hide. He wanted to be outside. Free. And safe.

  He pushed the doors, then ran, not even sure if he heard an alarm. He thundered down a metal staircase, across the tarmac in the dark towards the main gates into the car park. He was surprised to see the gates were open. He thought they’d still be shut, like they were two or three hours ago. But obviously they’d been opened so Sir Richard’s car could get in. Of course.

  And there was his car now. The red Mercedes. Danny had seen it many times outside Sir Richard’s house by the park on his way to school.

  Then he noticed that the headlights were on.

  And it was moving. Coming towards him. Slowly at first, then faster, then very fast, with the roar of a F1 car. And Sir Richard was at the wheel.

  Danny stopped. He had nowhere to go. The car was seconds away from him. He could see Sir Richard’s face clearly. Not smiling with satisfaction, not laughing like a madman – just like a commuter, expressionless, on his way to work.

  Danny was paralysed.

  Fifteen metres. Ten metres. Five metres. And everything went quiet. Danny closed his eyes and jumped. Like a keeper facing a penalty. He felt his body thrown into the air. He was aware of pain down his side. But it didn’t hurt like he thought it would.

  Danny opened his eyes slowly after he heard the crash. The car had gone through one of the metal gates, one of the exits from the stadium. Then it had hit a wall. A gush of steam was spraying upwards from the punctured bonnet.

  Danny was lying next to it, his feet an inch from the black tyre tracks scored on to the tarmac. He didn’t know what had happened. How he’d survived. If Sir Richard was dead or alive. All he did know was that he was not dead, that he could walk out of the stadium and on to the main road.

  And that’s exactly what he did.

  Sunday

  Home

  ‘I wasn’t happy last night, Danny.’

  Mum was cross.

  ‘I’m sorry. It was a last-minute thing,’ Danny said.

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Paul asked me to stay over. So I did.’

  ‘Just you and him.’

  Danny knew what his mum was thinking.

  Girls.

  One of her friends had a son who was wild. Tom, who was forever not coming home, forever lying. Danny wanted to say he wasn’t like Tom, but realized that last night he had been. And if his parents believed that he had been doing what Tom did, rather than what had really happened, it would be better. For everyone.

  ‘So was it just you and Paul?’

  ‘It was a party,’ Danny said.

  ‘Girls?’ Mum said.

  Danny’s sister sniggered. She’d been standing at the door the whole time. Enjoying the show, Danny thought. She was the one normally getting done.

  ‘Charlotte?’ Emily said.

  Danny saw a faint smile on his dad’s face.

  ‘Yes. Girls,’ Danny said.

  ‘I feel let down by you, Danny. You lied.’

  Danny felt hot with shame as Mum walked out of the room. This was terrible. They were cross with him because he’d lied. But they didn’t know there was another, far worse lie undiscovered. He felt bad. That he’d got into this. That he’d disappointed his mum and dad. That he’d lied.

  Dad left the room, adding nothing.

  ‘I gave her your mobile number,’ Emily said, still standing in the doorway.

  Danny couldn’t imagine what his sister was talking about. He looked at her, expecting some sort of attack or snide remark.

  ‘You gave who my number?’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Charlotte. She asked me for it.’

  ‘Why?’ Danny said.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why does she want it?’

  ‘She likes you, dumb ass.’

  ‘And why did you give her it?’

  ‘Because I like you too. Sometimes.’

  Danny was confused. Everything was on its head.

  ‘You could have told them I smoke,’ Emily said. ‘But you didn’t.’

  Danny closed his eyes. He felt faint with tiredness. When he opened them, his sister had gone and his father was sitting next to him. He pushed a cup of tea towards Danny.

  ‘Brew?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Danny and his dad sat in silence. It felt good. To be next to Dad like this. Danny wished he could tell him everything. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

  Danny was asleep on the sofa, his father gone, when his mobile rang. He grabbed it automatically, said hello, then regretted he hadn’t cleared his throat first, hoping to hear Charlotte’s voice.

  ‘Hello, Danny.’

  It was a man’s voice.

  ‘Hello?’ Danny said.

  ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

  ‘No. Sorry. Who is it?’

  ‘Have you been a good boy?’

  Danny said nothing. He felt cold and vulnerable. Someone had found out his number. Andy? He was in it deep now.

  ‘Have you been to the police, Danny boy?’ the voice said.
>
  ‘No.’ Danny said it without thinking. It definitely wasn’t Sir Richard. So it had to be Andy.

  ‘Good.’

  Danny wondered whether he should change his story, maybe suggest he had been to the police.

  ‘Make sure you don’t. And I’ll see you very soon. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ was all Danny could think to say as the call was cut off.

  He put the phone down.

  What had he got himself into? And how did they know his number?

  He had hoped it was Charlotte on the phone. If it had been, he might be getting ready for his first date with her right now. Danny almost laughed. Instead of worrying about Charlotte, he was worrying that a smoking gunman called Andy was going to come round to his house and finish him off.

  His life was a mess. He was getting himself deeper and deeper into trouble. Every move he made seemed to make things worse. So should he do something about it? Or should he let it play itself out?

  It was easy in the end. If he sat here and did nothing, he would only get more and more worried and he wouldn’t have any better idea of what was going on. So long as he stuck to his word – made sure he was home by 10 p.m., as he’d promised his dad – he had to do something.

  Danny went to the computer. There was someone he could contact.

  Goodfellas

  Outside the football stadium it was the same as it had been all week. Ranks of television vans. Journalists waiting outside the gates to the main stand. Queues of fans at the club shop buying their Sam Roberts shirts. And the shrine to the missing footballer, stacked with flowers and footballs.

  Danny stood at a distance and watched it all, two streams of traffic roaring between him and the stadium. He had thought about trying to change his appearance again. But he had no hair left to cut.

  So now he was standing two hundred metres away from the bus stop where he said he’d meet the journalist he’d spoken to only two days ago at the first press conference. Anton Holt.

  Danny had got his number off the Internet and phoned him. He said that, yes, he did have something more he wanted to tell Holt. And they’d arranged to meet at the bus stop outside the stadium ten minutes before the club’s daily 11 a.m. press conference.