Putting the Boot In

by Dan Kavanagh

  ‘I’m quite a good goalkeeper, actually,’ said Duffy. ‘Why aren’t you angry?’

  ‘Angry? I don’t get angry. Not in business. Not even outside business. It doesn’t … work, I find.’

  ‘But I’ve just accused you of committing grievous bodily harm and conspiring to pervert the course of justice.’

  ‘Yes, I was thinking about that. If only I’d had the partition down and Hobbs had been listening, I could have sued you for slander.’

  ‘I’ve put everything in my wife’s name,’ said Duffy. ‘Like Charlie Magrudo.’

  ‘Really? How interesting. For some reason I’d always thought you were queer. I do apologize.’ Melvyn Prosser touched a button on his armrest console and the glass partition descended.

  ‘Hobbs, will you stop in about two hundred and fifty yards’ time.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  The partition slid up again, and the Corniche came smoothly to a halt.

  ‘If I let you out here, Mr Duffy, I think you’ll find you’re exactly half-way between two tube stations. I’m afraid I can’t take you any further.’

  ‘Thanks for the lift. See you at the game.’

  Duffy got out on to a damp pavement somewhere between Tufnell Park and Archway. Why did he almost like Melvyn Prosser? He should try and stop almost liking Melvyn Prosser. It was a funny feeling: you put the chisel into the wall and twist, and nothing happens. The chisel’s intact; the wall hasn’t shifted an inch; everything’s the same.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ said a passing figure.

  Duffy realized that he was still holding a cut-glass tumbler containing half a Slimline tonic.

  Duffy woke up, and went through his ritual lymph-node check. Groin, armpits, neck. All the usual little bumps and knobs, as far as he could see, but nothing actually in raging motion. Night sweats? Erections? No, the score was still the same. Erections 2, Night Sweats 2, after extra time and several replays. No doubt Binyon could have explained it all to Duffy. ‘You get the night sweats, Duffy, because you’ve got AIDS, and you’ve got AIDS because you’re queer. The erections are merely a hysterical reaction designed to convince yourself that you might after all be straight, or at least—what’s that quaint expression of yours?—bisexual; that’s it. Your sweats are telling you the truth, your dick is lying.’ Something like that.

  The trouble was, if Binyon were sitting on the next bar-stool at the Alligator, Duffy would have been inclined to believe him. But at the moment he only had himself to do the explaining. So, with the full bravery acquired by one who has successfully got through a whole night on his tod, Duffy decided that he had got the night sweats—only two, after all—because he was really worried about something. What he was really worried about was getting night sweats. Nothing unusual in this; it was rather like having a hysterical pregnancy. Not that Duffy had had one of those … And as for the erections, well, he thought, let’s take the simplest course. You had an erection in bed with Carol because you fancied her: there’s nothing complicated about that, is there? So why hadn’t he had one the last two nights she’d stayed? Well, the second night we were a bit distant with one another because I’d bullied her into looking those names up on the computer for me; and the first night … The first night? I don’t know, maybe I had a headache or something. Oh yes? Go tell that one to Binyon.

  The evening before, Athletic had lost two-nil to Wigan. Duffy had watched the game from the Layton Road end, where the yobboes still congregated after kicking their way through all the other fans, and there was little to take heart from. It wasn’t a case of the mid-table club being more relaxed because they didn’t have any promotion or relegation worries, and fretful Athletic being over-anxious. It was just a case of one team being better than the other: quicker, cleverer, more willing to contest the ball in midfield, and sharper in finishing. ‘No excuses,’ Jimmy Lister told the Chronicle, ‘they were the better side on the night.’

  ‘Is it back to the drawing-board, Jimmy?’ asked Ken Marriott (the real Ken Marriott).

  ‘No, it’s not back to the drawing-board. No one’s going to give us a new set of pencils at this stage of the season. We’re not going to panic. It’s just a question of battling away. The lads know what they have to do, and they know that the chairman and the management are right behind them.’

  The lads knew what they had to do: they had to win every game. They also had to hope that the other teams immediately above them would continue to drop points. And short of sending hit squads round the country to maim half a dozen fiery little midfield schemers and frame half a dozen skilful black strikers, there was no certain method of making that happen.

  Ken Marriott had also had a brief interview with the chairman of Athletic. Yes, he was right behind the lads who were battling away but just not getting the breaks. No, he hadn’t given up hope of Third Division football at the Athletic ground next season. Well, he didn’t want to talk about the other possibility because he didn’t want to put the lads under any more pressure than they were; but everyone knew that the club was making a considerable loss, and that while the chairman was happy to sustain that loss until the end of the season, he’d obviously have to reconsider his own position, and indeed the club’s whole future, if Athletic were relegated.

  Well, that was clear enough, thought Duffy. It was also a bit clever: while claiming he didn’t want to put the lads under any more pressure, Prosser was doing just that: saying that he’d pull the plug on them if they went down. And he would, too: this was the first time he’d gone into print on the subject, and Duffy was sure he meant more than every word. Melvyn Prosser would slit the club’s throat.

  And what could Duffy do about it? Nothing, unless he could get the team playing again. After all, if Athletic somehow managed to stay in the Third Division, that would be a considerable embarrassment to Prosser. He might sack Jimmy Lister—though that probably wouldn’t get him anywhere if he’d chosen Jimmy in the first place because he thought he wasn’t any good; replace Lister and the club might find itself with a real manager who’d push them to a safe place in mid-table. But how could Duffy get the team playing? He couldn’t exactly mend Danny Matson’s leg with superglue, or dynamite Brendan Domingo out of his cell.

  He could try and stir things up a little, though.

  ‘Maggot?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Ready for the game on Sunday? Honing the vision?’

  ‘Sometimes I think you’re taking the piss, Duffy. Actually, I’m more worried about Saturday’s fixture. If they lose again, anything could happen.’

  ‘Yeah. Tell me, Maggot, me being only a cub reporter and all that, tell me, would it be a story,’ Duffy tried to sound as if he really wasn’t sure, ‘if there were plans to knock down the Athletic ground and build a shopping centre all over the top of it?’

  ‘I think it’d be a sensation. Are you taking the piss again?’

  ‘Promise not. I’ve done a little work on it myself’—he heard Maggot groan—‘No, not like last time. I mean, I was me, and I wasn’t from the Chronicle.’

  Duffy explained about the outline planning permission. Well, if Prosser and Magrudo had both been assuring him it was just a little joke so that Charlie could think about Mel’s face when he opened the papers, why not give them both the thrill? Duffy acted the cub reporter a bit with Ken Marriott, but wasn’t short of advice. He mustn’t fail to point out that Prosser and Magrudo were old friends and business associates, and that staff at Hess House Holdings had confirmed to a reporter that the two men had been having a lot of meetings lately. Duffy wondered if Maggot would hint that Melvyn Prosser had been an old friend of Mrs Charlie Magrudo. He didn’t think the Chronicle would stretch that far, but he threw it in anyway. He warned Marriott that both the chairman of Athletic and the managing director of Magrudo Construction would claim that it was all a joke. Duffy even had the temerity to suggest that Maggot could take some line about whether the Athletic players and the Athletic fans would see the humour of the s
ituation, given the club’s current plight.

  The story appeared on the Friday, ATHLETIC GROUND FOR REDEVELOPMENT? ran the headline on the inside-page splash. ITALIAN PIAZZA STYLE LOOK it said underneath, which Duffy liked, as it would bring out the patriotism of the fans; and underneath that, in smaller capitals but still prominent: CHAIRMAN DENIES CLUB TO FOLD. Ken Marriott had done the job well: Prosser and Magrudo’s suggestion that the whole thing was ‘a joke’ was slipped in just at the right moment, making them seem to be either outright liars or at best people with a very sinister sense of humour.

  On the Saturday, Athletic were at home to Bristol Rovers, and as Melvyn Prosser took his seat the main stand booed him. Duffy, from the Piggeries terrace, had a quiet smile. On the other hand, it wasn’t that funny: it meant that the only well-behaved part of the home crowd was now joining in the fun of turning on the club in some way. The yobs would have booed Brendan if he’d been there; but he wasn’t, so instead the season-ticket holders booed the chairman. To any outsider it would seem that the whole place was falling apart, and it didn’t seem to do the home team’s confidence much good. Bristol Rovers unstitched them comprehensively in midfield, fooled them with a free-kick ploy just before half-time, and never looked like losing. One-nil, Athletic second from bottom, and though he’d been booed, Melvyn Prosser might well have found it a rewarding day in the stands. Duffy didn’t know whether he’d come out ahead on his ploy with the Chronicle, or further behind.

  On Sunday morning there was a ring at his door. Duffy felt nervous. No one had tried to beat him up yet. No one had tried to frame him for rape. Prosser would have known that Duffy had been behind the Chronicle story. Perhaps he’d sent round some heavies. The doorbell rang again.

  ‘Who is it?’

  There was a loud bellow from outside in an American accent.

  ‘Open the door, schmuck, or I’ll break it down with this pick-axe.’

  Phew. That was a relief, thought Duffy, and opened the door immediately.

  ‘You had me worried, just ringing the bell like that. Come in.’

  Geoff Bell wandered in and started looking around Duffy’s flat as if he expected it to be bugged.

  ‘Like the way you keep this place, Duffy. Not too much stuff around. Bit of a challenge to plant something on you.’

  ‘Well, you know, Geoff, I like to think of all eventualities.’

  ‘Mind you, that door of yours is chronic. No one in his right mind has a door like that. I mean, you might as well just leave it wide open when you go out.’

  ‘I’ll look into it. I promise. Social call?’

  Geoff Bell never made social calls, as Duffy well knew. Quite what Geoff Bell did for a social life—apart, that is, from turn out in home matches for the Reliables every other Sunday—was a mystery to Duffy. One day he’d ask Geoff, though Geoff might well not understand the question.

  ‘Thought you might like to see these.’

  There were about two dozen large black-and-white photographs, and Duffy almost didn’t glance at them, since he knew he’d have to sit through a lengthy explanation of lighting conditions, lenses, depth of field and film-speed first. But the top picture immediately caught his attention. It showed Maggie Coleman, or was it Denise given that she had dark hair again, leaning back against a wall with her shoulders and pushing her hips out towards a man in a mackintosh whose cheek she was stroking. It appeared to be raining, but Maggie’s own raincoat was unbuttoned at the front, and her skirt was very short.

  While Geoff droned on about the difficulties of choosing film-speed when using a 200mm lens in poor light, Duffy shuffled slowly through the photographs. You didn’t need to be a copper who’d once done three years in Soho to know that Maggie Coleman was more than just an average friendly girl with a striking sense of fashion. There were photos of Maggie getting in and out of cars (Geoff had usefully included the number-plates in one or two of the shots), Maggie accosting, Maggie raising the middle finger and shouting at some punter who’d probably said she wasn’t worth that much. Back at work so soon after a broken nose? Maggie Coleman must have a lot of grey-haired old mothers to support, or a very grabby pimp. On the other hand, it wasn’t so surprising. Maggie wouldn’t need her nose to ply her trade. Whores don’t kiss.

  ‘Where were these taken, Geoff?’

  ‘On the back.’

  Times, dates, places, all written neatly.

  ‘You see I wasn’t really happy with that first set I did for you. I could tell you weren’t happy either, Duffy. Wanted to know whether they were good likenesses or something, I seem to remember you saying. Well, these are good likenesses.’

  Duffy wasn’t sure whether Bell was teasing or not. Knowing him, quite possibly not.

  ‘Would it be possible to run me off another set, Geoff? I know we’re playing at twelve.’

  ‘You’re playing at twelve.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Duffy should have remembered that Geoff still believed he ought to be included for away matches as well. Not for his skill in surveillance, but for his skill on the pitch.

  ‘Well, I thought you might ask,’ said Geoff, producing another large brown envelope.

  ‘You’re brilliant, Geoff, do you know that? You could probably tell me what I’m thinking.’

  ‘You’re thinking, I wonder if he really does care about being left out of away games. And the answer is yes I bloody do. I’m just as good defensively as Maggot, and I don’t have half so many potty ideas as he does.’

  ‘Quite wrong, Geoff. I was wondering how much Maggie Coleman charged.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘You’re brilliant, Geoff.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  As Duffy drove to the game, he thought about the photographs. Of course they weren’t conclusive. Nothing in this whole business had ever been conclusive. But they were something extra. They certainly threw a little doubt on Melvyn Prosser’s theory that Maggie Coleman was just a nice girl who liked footballers—unless, that is, all the gentlemen in Geoff Bell’s photos were footballers. Sure, thought Duffy, the whole of the First Division out on a coach trip.

  Of course, just because Maggie and Denise Coleman were two girls of distinctly flexible morals didn’t mean that the coppers would throw out the charges against Brendan. Judges and coppers no longer assumed that all women secretly wanted to be raped, that girl hitchhikers deserved everything they got, and that whores were outside the protection of the law. Whores got raped, just as housewives got raped: even the coppers were beginning to acknowledge that. On the other hand, this didn’t make the coppers feel that whores were deeply misunderstood girls with nice honest natures; it didn’t make the coppers step in when a girl was arguing prices with a punter and say, ‘No, she’s worth more than that—more than she’s asking, in fact. Go on, Maggie, put your prices up, you’re something special.’ No, the coppers wouldn’t be doing that for a while yet.

  What they might do, if they saw these photographs, was have a much closer look at Maggie Coleman’s evidence. And what they might do, if they also were in possession of a statement from Danny Matson that Maggie was also Denise, was have a much closer look at her motives, her background, and her business associates. They might put the Matson case and the Domingo case together and start digging—and do it with a few more resources than Duffy had at his disposal. And if Jimmy Lister’s solicitor was smart, and if he made the right noises about possible conspiracy but didn’t make them too loudly, and if they weighed in with Brendan’s blameless past, and if the police solicitors could be persuaded to drop their objection to bail, then the magistrates might just be persuaded to open the slammer next Wednesday and let Brendan out into the sunlight. Bail for rape was a tricky decision, but if the magistrates could shift their responsibility on to the police solicitors, it could just be swung. Whether that would make any difference, Duffy didn’t know. Would Jimmy Lister dare play the lad? And in any case, what would Brendan’s fitness be like after ten days walking up and down a little cell?


  The Reliables played well that Sunday, and were unlucky to lose by the only goal of the game: Maggot’s vision induced him to square-pass across his own penalty area, and then, when the pass was intercepted, to bring down the opponent with a rugby tackle. The penalty was whacked past Duffy, who didn’t feel too bad about it: keepers are never blamed for penalties. They may be made to look silly, but they aren’t blamed.

  On Sunday evening Carol came round and they had pizzas again.

  ‘I like the way you’ve done the peppers,’ she said. ‘You’ve arranged them just exactly the way you did last time. Did you realize that, Duffy?’

  Duffy grunted.

  ‘Only if I could make a very tiny criticism this time, they’re not as crisp as they ought to be. They’re a bit soggy.’

  Duffy grunted again. It was just that he didn’t like sleeping with half a pizza in his bed. Couldn’t anyone understand that? For Christ sake, what did other people do? Move the fridge into the bedroom and throw a few packets of frozen peas in between the sheets, just for company?

  ‘Mine’s all right,’ said Duffy.

  ‘Delicious,’ muttered Carol. Why had he done the crust like that? Another thing added to the list of what she couldn’t ask him about.

  She’d had a quiet Sunday at West Central; quiet enough to check out the names Duffy had asked her about. Not much help, she was afraid. Melvyn Prosser and Charlie Magrudo were clean. Maggie Coleman had one charge of soliciting, about a year ago, in Shepherd’s Market. Come down in the world since, thought Duffy. Oh well, every little helps; the coppers wouldn’t object to being reminded of that.

  On the Monday Duffy went down to the Athletic ground, keeping a sharp eye out for gold Corniches which looked as if they might want to run over his foot, and showed Jimmy Lister the dossier on Maggie Coleman. Then he bullied him. He had to bully him quite a lot. Jimmy Lister was wary of the coppers, and wary of solicitors, and Duffy had to remind him quite hard that as the club was paying the solicitor’s bill, the club had a say in what the solicitor did.