by Dan Kavanagh
‘Mr Bullivant, good morning.’
‘You again, laddie, I thought they’d fired you.’
‘Yes, well, you see, I’m still learning.’ Duffy took out his notebook, uncapped his biro, and tried to look as if he were about to take down the Sermon on the Mount.
‘Well, you can’t come and practise on me every day.’
‘How’s the osteopathy going?’ Duffy thought it a good idea to establish some rapport before asking his real questions.
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘How do you feel about getting the injunction?’
Bullivant didn’t answer. Instead, he continued to stare at Duffy’s notepad.
‘You haven’t written anything down yet, smiler. Aren’t you going to write down that the osteopathy is going very well?’
‘Oh, yes, sorry.’ Duffy started writing, then looked up. Mr Bullivant was grinning at him.
‘You’re a real berk, aren’t you?’
‘Mr Bullivant, how do you feel about getting the injunction.’
‘I would just like to say on this one, that British justice is the finest in the world, and you can quote me.’
‘You think this will be the end of the trouble?’
‘The British police are the finest in the world and I have every confidence that they will carry out the duties entrusted to them to the best of their ability. Write it down.’
Duffy wrote it down.
‘Do you think you are in any way damaging the prospects of the club at this vital stage of the season by your actions?’
‘Soccer hooliganism is a reflection of a wider violence which affects all parts of our society. You cannot merely consider soccer hooliganism by itself. You must look at the breakdown of respect for law and order generally, and the lack of self-discipline in a society that has gone soft. Going too fast for you?’
Duffy dutifully copied all this down, then read it through.
‘What’s that got to do with my question?’
‘Just checking to see if you’d write down any old rubbish.’
‘Mr Bullivant, will Mr Magrudo continue to support your action even if the club appeals and goes to a higher court?’
‘How’s that again?’
‘Will Mr Magrudo continue to foot the bills if the club appeals?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Mr Magrudo.’
‘Who does he play for? Italian World Cup squad?’
‘Mr Bullivant, I happen to know that Mr Magrudo is paying your solicitor’s bills.’
‘Why would some Italian footballer pay my bills? Athletic aren’t in the European Cup are they, or haven’t I been reading my papers lately?’
‘Mr Bullivant …’
‘You’re a real berk, you know that? A real berk. Write it down. B.E.R.K., that’s right. I think I like the yobboes more than I do you.’
‘Well, at least you’ll be able to plant flowers in your front garden, Mr Bullivant, now that the yobboes have gone.’
‘Bye-bye, tulip,’ said Mr Bullivant unexpectedly.
Well, that was another idea gone. Perhaps he should go over to Ealing to the house with the flagpole and ask Mr Joyce if he was being paid by Mr Magrudo. He’d be sure to tell him, too. Yes, Mr Magrudo the well-known near-bankrupt who just has enough money to buy himself flattering mentions in the local paper, yes as a matter of fact he is supporting the Red White and Blue Movement, and when he’s built his nice new leisure centre with all the money he hasn’t got he’s going to let us have a recruiting booth outside and also a reviewing stand so that we can have march-pasts and he’ll be giving us a lifetime’s supply of toast and marmalade, you really are a berk, Mr—what was it you said your name was this time?
At least with Danny Matson he could be himself. Danny still had his foot up on the stool. Terrible about big Bren, wasn’t it? Terrible. No, he hadn’t seen or heard him come in. Must have been real quiet; unless it was late, of course. In the morning they—Danny and Mrs Ferris—had found him sitting downstairs at the breakfast table in his club blazer, club tie and best trousers. Just staring ahead of himself, frowning a bit, with these big scratches on his face. Said he’d been in a fight. Wouldn’t say any more. Just sitting there, waiting. Ate his breakfast like normal; didn’t want to talk about the game at all; just waiting. And then the coppers came. Yes, sure, he said. Will I need any clothes or anything, he said as they took him off. Poor Bren. Anything else? No, nothing else. Just wouldn’t talk about it. He’s a class player, you know that? Class. Very nimble for a big fellow. Got it up here, too. Danny tapped the side of his head, indicating brains.
The Magrudo Construction Company turned out not to be quite as grand as its name. It was a small builder’s yard off Copton Avenue, and yes, the receptionist was sure Mr Magrudo would be free some time before lunch if he didn’t mind wailing. Mr Magrudo was always happy to see people from the Chronicle. Take a seat.
Charlie Magrudo arrived at about twelve in a four-year-old Granada which looked as if it stalled if it heard the word car-wash. Ten minutes, quarter of an hour, sure, no problem. He was a round, friendly man, dark hair, and rather tight in his suit; comfortable-looking, like some middle-rank snooker player who’d never quite made the top fifty, but was more than happy doing the rounds of the little clubs.
‘We haven’t met before, Mr Marriott?’
4No.’
‘No. I’ve seen quite a bit of Ron down the years, Ron Grayson. And Gerry Douglas, of course. Old friends.’ Old recipients of small bribes, thought Duffy. ‘You new?’
‘Newish. I’m sort of doing a bit of everything. Sports pages mainly, but they’ve also given me a few stories to do about planning, roadworks, things like that.’
Duffy tried to make it sound low-key. He also hoped that Charlie Magrudo wasn’t a keen reader of bylines, in which case he might have known that Ken Marriott had been on the sports desk for four years, and never once gone near the other pages.
‘So how can I be of assistance? Always ready to help the gentlemen of the press.’
‘It’s about this application for a development on the site of the Athletic ground.’
‘Yes, sure. What do you want to know?’
‘How realistic would you say it was?’
Mr Magrudo thought it was very realistic. He gave Duffy a run-down on the plans as if he’d been going through them only that morning with the architect, and was shortly off for a working lunch with an American bank to clean up the last details of the financing. He gestured a lot, and as he talked his hands seemed to create the shopping centre, the eight-storey block of flats, the piazza, the fountains, the trees in tubs, the lively bustle of a successful commercial project. Duffy thought it all sounded wonderful; but he also thought it time he added to Ken Marriott’s academic qualifications.
‘Mr Magrudo, I hope you don’t think this impertinent of me …’
‘Fire away. Ask me the hard questions. Be my guest.’
‘Well, before I did my three-year planning course, I read economics at university. Now I expect I’m a bit rusty, but I’d say we’re looking at a project high in seven figures, maybe even eight. It sounds a splendid idea, even if it does mean Athletic losing their ground and having to look for a new one. But the hard question I have to ask is this. You don’t even own the site yet, and I simply don’t see how you can raise the money.’
Charlie Magrudo was about to answer, but Duffy went swiftly on. He didn’t want to get Charlie blustering and then forced to defend an indefensible position. There would be more chance of the truth if Duffy played it a bit tough. In the nicest possible way, of course.
‘You see I’ve had a little look at Magrudo Construction and its associates. It’s a very solid little family firm, if you don’t mind my saying so. You’ll be able to change that Granada for a new model this year or next, I should say. But we’re talking seven figures just for the site, Mr Magrudo, and I couldn’t help noticing at City Road that you haven’t declared for the last couple of
years. Now that’s not on. In fact it’s so much not on that, if you don’t mind my saying so, I think it must all be about something else.’
Charlie Magrudo spread his hands and smiled.
‘They would send you, wouldn’t they? I mean, just my luck to get the brainiest fellow on the Chronicle. If they’d sent Ron or Gerry, I reckon I could have done enough pulling of the wool. Look if I don’t say another word, have you got a story?’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘Not even a paragraph? A paragraph? We could have lunch about it?’
‘Sorry. I’m afraid it’s either a big story or it’s nothing. It seems to me it isn’t a big story any more; it’s just a question of whether you want to tell me what it’s all about, though there’s absolutely no reason at all why you should.’
‘Fair cop,’ said Charlie, ‘fair cop. I just hoped it might work. It’s a joke, actually.’
‘A joke?’ Duffy really put on the amazement. Anything to let Magrudo know that his plan was at least causing some reaction.
Then Charlie told him about Melvyn Prosser, and old rivalries of a kind which were sometimes friendly and sometimes a little less friendly. The name of Mrs Magrudo, Duffy noticed, did not come up. The version of events concerning the council contract was also a little different from Melvyn Prosser’s. But the story was essentially the same.
‘How did you think Mr Prosser would react?’
‘Well, I hoped that for one minute, just for one minute or even less, he’d be scared shitless,’ said Charlie Magrudo. ‘I just had this picture of him opening his paper and thinking his lovely new football club which he was so proud of was going to be bulldozed down and concreted over. I just wanted him to be scared shitless. Perhaps even for longer than a minute.’
‘Do you think he would have believed it?’
‘He might have. He might have. I mean, we haven’t seen each other for quite a few years now. He might have thought I’d done some good business, made a little pile, and was just about to come bursting in all over him.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to have spoiled your joke, Mr Magrudo.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. It was a bit of a long-shot. What did you say your name was?’
‘Marriott. Ken Marriott.’
‘Nice meeting you, Ken. We must have that lunch some time.’
‘I’d like that, Mr Magrudo.’
‘Charlie from now on, son. Tell you what, I think you’ll go far in your chosen profession.’ And Mr Magrudo gave him a big wink.
Well, that was another door closed in Duffy’s face. Sometimes it seemed to him that there were more doors closing than had ever been open in the first place. Still, at least Mr Magrudo thought he was a good journalist. Duffy quite wanted to get Charlie Magrudo and Mr Bullivant together and listen to the pair of them discussing the merits of Ken Marriott, Chronicle journalist. He’d like to have Maggot listening in on the conversation as well.
All he could do now was push on the only door left that was slightly ajar. The next day Jimmy Lister, with some reluctance, released to Duffy the name of Maggie Coleman, and the address off Twyford Avenue. Duffy realized he had to play this one very carefully indeed. If there was one thing the coppers didn’t like it was outsiders coming in and hassling rape victims. They got very cross about that sort of thing. There were a few sections of the criminal law especially designed to deter people from leaning on prosecution witnesses; and the coppers certainly wouldn’t mind using them. Much as he liked Brendan, Duffy wasn’t ready to join him in the next cell just yet. So he started low-key. He started by ringing Geoff Bell.
‘Atom sub 24 degrees South 22 degrees East request permission instant destroy query PM waiting urgentest.’
‘Hallo, Duffy,’ said Geoff. ‘That was a bit over the top even for you. Is it about the match on Sunday?’
‘Wondered if you’d be interested in a little photographic assignment?’
‘Very nice.’
‘It’s pretty difficult, actually, Geoff. I mean, there are certain aspects to it which could turn tricky.’ You always had to do this with Bell. He couldn’t get interested in easy assignments, somehow; you always had to dress them up. Duffy found it a bit tiresome.
‘Try me.’
Duffy tried him, emphasizing the possibility that there might be an incredible number of plain-clothes men around, that Maggie Coleman might be living locked in her flat with the curtains drawn, and so on.
‘Leave it with me,’ said Geoff. ‘Oh, and Duffy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Those co-ordinates are all to cock. Who’d put an atomic sub in the middle of the Kalahari Desert?’
‘I’ll do better next time, Geoff.’
There was another thing he could do when the doors were closing in his face. He didn’t like doing it, but he somehow always fell back on it. He asked Carol to check out three names for him on the police computer: Maggie Coleman, Charlie Magrudo and Melvyn Prosser. Carol always said No, and Duffy bullied her a bit, and then she finally said Yes, and they both got a bit silent. Duffy always felt bad, but there it was. He tried being as nice as he could to Carol afterwards, but she remained silent and a bit distant; she stayed the night, but there weren’t any cuddles. No cuddles, no swollen cocks, and no night sweats.
On the Saturday Athletic were away to Oxford, and Duffy turned on the radio to catch the result. Oxford 2 Athletic 1. Oxford now assured of promotion, Athletic drop back into the bottom three. Pitch invasion by Oxford fans, some scuffles when travelling Athletic fans come on to the pitch as well. Eighteen arrests, one policeman slightly injured.
‘It was a sickener,’ said Jimmy Lister at the ground next morning. ‘The lads really did their stuff. I mean there we were, biggest crowd of the season, ten thousand or so I’d say, a real promotion-relegation number, and this Brendan business hanging over their heads. They really battled, those lads. Came in one-nil down at half-time, none of them needed lifting, we had a little talk and thought if we could match them a bit more in midfield and then get just a good bounce of the ball, there wasn’t any reason why we shouldn’t share the points. I was really impressed by the lads’ attitude. It was as if they were doing it for Bren. It was funny, no one mentioned his name, not once, but I’d lay money that every one of us on the coach had been thinking about big Bren all locked up in his little cell. In a funny sort of a way, it seemed to bring out the best in the lads.
‘Second half, they really did the club proud. Got hold of the midfield, lots of pressure, and we nicked one back after twenty minutes. Not the cleverest goal we’ve ever scored, but a goal we deserved all the way. I really did think the lads would do it then. I really thought if they got one, there’s no reason why they can’t get another. Or at least come away with a result. What happens? Ten minutes to go, the lads pushing up in search of a winner, breakaway goal. Not even trying to play the offside trap, just caught a tiny bit square and their number eight was straight through. Speedy little bastard. What a sickener.’
‘Still, it sounds as if they’ve got the right attitude, at least.’
‘Bags of character, Duffy. Maybe I’ve been wrong all season. You know how I like to get teams to play. Maybe that was wrong. They’ll never be very fancy on the ball, this lot, but they’ve got guts hanging out of their ears. I just should have recognized it earlier.’
‘Don’t blame yourself, Jimmy. What do you think the chances of staying up now are?’
‘Worse than they were before. I mean, it’s not just up to us any more, is it? We’ve got to rely on one or two of the others slipping up as well. Just got to keep battling, haven’t we? Just got to keep battling.’ Jimmy Lister wondered gloomily what they did to you in Abu Dhabi if they caught you with the physio’s wife. Chopped if off, most likely.
On Sunday the players who had been hurt the previous afternoon came in to see the physio for treatment. Duffy wandered down to the physio’s room to the echo of Jimmy’s words. Keep battling. Good attitude. Guts hanging out of their ears. It was odd t
o hear the elegant England B international of ten years ago coming out with all the old football manager’s clichés. But there was truth in them, even so. They expressed what Athletic had to do for the next five games. No point doing anything else. It was also what Duffy would have to do, because Duffy’s position was no more promising than Athletic’s. He just had to keep on battling and hope for a bloody great brainwave. Or a bloody great stroke of luck. Or both at the same time, thank you very much.
Throughout this business Duffy had felt a bit like the goalkeeper he was. He felt useful, but only in a defensive way. All goalkeepers have spells of envying the outfield players—they want to rush out of the area, surge upfield and have a kick at the opposing net. But they’re stuck, penned into their neat little box, their square-cornered territory: you’re doing a nice job, let’s leave it that way, don’t get ideas above your station. Keepers only get a crack at the other side’s net when they’re allowed to take penalties: Duffy, for all his occasional hints, had yet to be entrusted with a spot-kick by the Reliables.
There was, however, a freak way in which a goalkeeper could score: Duffy had seen it happen once on television. The keeper advances to the edge of his box and gives the ball a bloody great hoof; a following wind catches it and whisks it further than anyone had anticipated; it fools the defenders, bounces, catches the opposing keeper too far off his line, and lobs over his head into the net. Incredibly lucky, of course: it depended on a strong boot, a helpful breeze, a lethargic defence and a rash goal-minder. But it could happen. It was the sort of break Duffy needed in the present business; very much indeed.