Stranglehold

by J M Gregson

  Beside the Secretary’s door, there was a neat box with three lights, designed to light up when the button beside them was pressed and the man inside responded. They said ‘Engaged’, ‘Wait’ and ‘Enter’, and lit up when the Secretary pressed the appropriate button on his desk.

  Kemp opened the door abruptly without knocking. ‘’Afternoon, Jack,’ he said. ‘Has Vic Knowles confirmed his visit?’

  If John Castle was disturbed by the manner of the Chairman’s arrival in his office, he gave no sign of it. ‘He rang about half an hour ago, from his car phone. He should be here in a few minutes, now.’ Unlike other people around the place, he never called the Chairman ‘sir’. It was one of his tiny assertions of independence.

  Kemp noticed the fact, but for the moment it suited him to ignore it. ‘Good. I think it would be a good idea if you had a word with the groundsman, Jack. He’s cutting the grass on the pitch pretty short, and there’s no sign of rain. If we have to water it during this hosepipe ban, we’ll have the usual busy bodies writing to the Echo.’

  It was a direction that Castle should be absent when Vic Knowles met the Chairman, and both of them knew it. The Secretary didn’t like what was going on, but he knew he could do nothing about it. He nodded, made a face-saving remark about the newly seeded goalmouths, and went downstairs and out into the sunshine. That at any rate felt something of a relief.

  Kemp looked after him for a moment with a grin, then made a small redisposition of the furniture in the hospitality suite in preparation for his visitor. In ten minutes, he and Vic Knowles sat opposite each other in big leather armchairs, the atmosphere consciously informal, the Chairman a little more at ease in these familiar surroundings than his visitor.

  Knowles sat too far forward to be comfortable in the low armchair. He had a heavily lined face, which made him look older than his forty-four years, and rather prominent front teeth. He had never been handsome, but in his better moments he carried the air of a cheerful Jack-the-lad adventurer. This was not one of those moments.

  ‘So you think you might be interested?’ Kemp looked at Knowles across the top of his glass with a conspiratorial smile: this was still a secret between them. ‘Do help yourself to water, by the way. I take it neat.’

  Knowles reached forward awkwardly to the jug on the low table between them, taking the few seconds to try to size his man up. He had met a considerable number of football club chairmen in his day, and they were not a breed he trusted. But in his profession they were a necessary evil, one you had to live with.

  ‘I’m interested, yes. It would be a bit of a comedown for me, of course, going outside the league, Mr Kemp, but –’

  ‘Charlie, please. We don’t need the formalities, at least in private. We find these silly distinctions get in the way of efficiency at Oldford.’ He waved a vague and benign hand to indicate the rest of the extensive premises which made up Oldford FC. There would be time enough to make his withdrawals when he had netted his man. ‘And don’t forget we shall soon be in the league. You’ll be impressed with our set-up.’

  Vic Knowles had heard that one before, but he had more sense than to say so. He couldn’t afford to admit it here, but he needed the money; it was an effort to seem as relaxed as he hoped he appeared. He needed to clear his gambling debts; last week he had even pawned the gold watch he had been presented with after a Cup triumph in his heyday of management. He said, ‘Well, I’m open to offers, Charlie. I’m considering one or two proposals at the moment, but ...’

  ‘Open to offers, yes.’ Kemp weighed the phrase. He took a sip of the whisky he had hardly touched, and smiled into his cut-glass tumbler, letting Knowles know that he knew the score. ‘I think you’ll find ours interesting.’

  Ten years ago, Vic Knowles had been one of the biggest names in football management, a gifted but not exceptional player who had made it through the ranks of more gifted footballers to become manager of a big first division team. He had been interviewed often on television then, fingering the lapels of the colourful suits which he had bought as the accoutrements of success, squandering the increasingly generous appearance and interview fees on booze and gambling.

  They had been heady days, tarnished eventually by a too-public affair with a player’s wife and a fight in a motorway cafe in front of hundreds of delighted fans. He had moved around the divisions since then, steadily downwards and with varying degrees of success. He did not often last more than a year; initially, he brought discipline to clubs, but he was too careless a martinet for his control to endure in an era of player power.

  He had been unemployed since a third division club terminated his contract in April, and Kemp knew all about it. He had taken care to have Knowles’s financial background investigated before he approached him through an intermediary. The man must be desperate now. But he was still news, still a big name to land, for a club like Oldford.

  And he would be Charlie Kemp’s man, if he came. Another coup for Charlie: he could see the Echo headlines in his mind’s eye already. ‘You’d need to move into the area,’ he told Knowles. He noticed that the man had already finished his drink, but he did not pour him another one.

  ‘That’s no problem. If the deal’s right,’ said Knowles. He tried to appear laid back – that was the phrase the media still used about him, and he tried to live up to the image – but he found himself swigging automatically at a glass that was already empty.

  ‘We could probably rent you a club house, if it would help.’ That would put the new manager more firmly in his power; especially as the said house was owned not by the club but by one Charles Kemp.

  Knowles tried not to show his relief. ‘It would be a help, I think. In the early stages. Until I sorted things out.’

  ‘That’s if we can agree a deal.’ Kemp sipped reflectively from the inch of whisky which still occupied the bottom of his tumbler. ‘You would be responsible for the team, of course, and for all disciplinary matters.’

  Knowles went into the spiel he had used before on such occasions and found effective. ‘I think my track record speaks for itself as far as that goes, Charlie. I’ve managed the best, and got the best out of them.’

  Kemp smiled as he might have done at the naïvety of a child. ‘Past glories, Vic, past glories. In football, you’re as good as your last match. You’ve been around long enough to know that.’

  He produced the clichés with a grave air, as though he were offering a new wisdom upon a troubled scene, and Knowles found himself nodding agreement before he realized that he was making a concession. ‘I can handle the team, have no fears about that. Now –’

  ‘I believe you can, or I wouldn’t be talking to you, Vic. We’ll pay you fifteen thousand.’

  ‘Oh, but I couldn’t possibly –’

  ‘And we’ll settle your extensive gambling debts.’

  The sentence hit Knowles like a blow in the solar plexus. He settled back in his chair, trying to take the deep breaths which were necessary if he was to speak evenly. Kemp decided that he should have a drink, now that he had been softened up. He reached across with the bottle and poured a generous measure, then moved the jug of water two inches nearer to Knowles. ‘You will give us an IOU for the amount of those debts, which will be torn up provided that you stay with us for at least a year.’

  Vic said weakly, ‘I don’t think I can live on fifteen thousand a year. I’ve got responsibilities, you see. Since my divorce –’

  ‘You’ll live on it all right, if you cut out your gambling. To assist you in that, our local bookmakers have agreed to inform the club of any ... investments you attempt to make with them.’ He knew the man could still bet with the big firms, but the threat was all he wanted at this moment.

  Knowles scratched desperately for an argument. ‘But surely some of the players will be on more than me.’

  ‘None of the players will earn more than the manager. We have some promising lads, but they’re all part-timers here. Will be until they get into the league. However,
they’re on a big bonus if we get into the Vauxhall Conference at the end of next season, and so will you be, Vic. We believe in payment by results here.’

  A few minutes later it was settled. Kemp conceded what it was not within his powers to deny, that Knowles could keep the fees from any radio and television interviews he was asked to do during the season. They wouldn’t bring in much, but the man still had delusions of grandeur. Kemp didn’t mind that; they could still be useful equipment in a business which lived on the dreams of supporters. He had the big-name manager he needed to put Oldford FC still more firmly upon the map.

  It was not until the deal was agreed that Knowles raised his single, faint, moral scruple. ‘What about Trevor Jameson?’

  Jameson was the existing manager, the one who would have to step aside to make way for Knowles, an honest, anxious man with a flair for football coaching and none for words. ‘Leave him to me, Vic. He’s on the Costa del Sol at the moment, I believe. Shame to spoil his holiday; I’ll see him when he gets back. He’s almost at the end of his contract, anyway.’

  Kemp saw Knowles to the door, then watched from the window of the landing outside as the new manager of Oldford FC drove away his Sierra from the almost deserted ground. Then he went back into the hospitality suite and locked away the bottle. He sat for a moment in the big armchair he had occupied for the interview, turning his glass of whisky through his fingers with satisfaction. He had got his man, and cheaper than he had expected. Research, they called it on the telly. Well, he had researched his man; and it had paid off again.

  He began to think of the wording of the press release. He thought he would break the news to them before local radio. It was always good to have the newshawks under an obligation. At this hour of the day and in the close season, this place was blessedly quiet, and he enjoyed that.

  He was not quite sure how long he had been sitting there when John Castle came into the room, carrying with him an air of subdued satisfaction. ‘I’m glad you’re still here, Mr Kemp. The police want to see you.’ The Secretary enjoyed that involuntary slight stiffening which the word induced in his Chairman.

  ‘If it’s about the arrangements for policing our matches next season, I’ve already told you: you deal with all that, within the budget we’ve allocated.’

  ‘No, it’s not about that. It’s top brass, I think. A Superintendent Lambert. He wants to see you about a murder near the ground last night. A strangling, I believe it was.’

  Castle permitted himself the small insolence of a long look at the Chairman’s powerful hands.

  CHAPTER 6

  Vic Knowles did not drive far before he stopped the Sierra. He had set off with no idea where the car was heading, anxious just to get away from the ground. As soon as the floodlights of the Oldford Football Club stadium were out of sight, he stopped the car and put his head in his hands.

  His mind raced with a variety of emotions, not all of which he understood. He was glad to be employed again in football. It was the only thing he knew well, and with all his faults he loved his sport. It was still for him the ‘beautiful game’; it was still the sport which stirred him, when he witnessed the ‘total football’ of the Dutch, or the Brazilians’ instinctive brilliance and improvisation.

  And he still felt himself capable of managing well; he had brought out the best in hardened professionals, he had spotted and developed young talent in the years which were now behind him, and he could do it again. His pulses quickened at the thought, as they had done each time he took on a new job over the years. He had the gambler’s optimism that each new venture would bring a great success, as well as the gambler’s lack of self-knowledge and refusal to confront unpleasant reality.

  Normally, he would have savoured his new post, wanted to stay near the ground which was to be the physical setting for the triumphs which might lie ahead. Yet this time he had driven himself quickly away from any sight of the ground. He had been overwhelmed by the wish to put distance between himself and Kemp, to remove himself while there was still time from the man he was already aware was going to control him.

  He felt the meshes of Kemp’s net closing already about him. How much did the man know? He had been shaken by that sudden shaft about his gambling debts. Knowles had the feeling that his new Chairman knew everything. Kemp would have been delighted: that was the very impression he had wished to create. Knowles felt as if he was even now under observation, though his reason told him that the notion was absurd.

  Perhaps he should not take the job, after all. There was nothing signed. But he had agreed it now with Charlie Kemp, who was not a man to cross. Besides, he needed the money, desperately. He didn’t think Kemp had even half-believed that stuff about other offers he was considering. The man seemed to know his every secret. Perhaps he knew he had been in Oldford last night. Perhaps Kemp even knew what he had done last night.

  Paranoia crept into the warm car and settled around Victor Knowles.

  ‘Feeling a little under the weather, are we, sir?’

  He started violently at the words, snatching his hands from his face. He was so dazzled by the sudden sun that his head swam a little, and he could not immediately focus either his eyes or his mind. It took him a moment to register the dark uniform and the black and white hat; the policeman was in shirt-sleeve order because of the heat, but his tie as he stooped dangled through the open driver’s window and almost touched Knowles.

  ‘I’m – I’m all right.’ Knowles looked nervously around him; in his distress, he had not worried where he parked. He could see no yellow lines, and he was not near a junction.

  The policeman nodded briefly to his left, and his colleague came over from the patrol car to join him. There was a smell of whisky from the driver: perhaps he had been sleeping it off. ‘Is this your car, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I’m Vic Knowles.’ Once that name had carried weight; now the policeman looked impassive, and Knowles added, more nervously than he had intended, ‘The football manager.’ It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he had just taken on the managership of Oldford, but he remembered just in time that it was all still secret and unofficial, that he had agreed with Kemp to say nothing until his predecessor had been safely dismissed.

  ‘Could you give me the number of your vehicle, please, sir?’

  Knowles frowned, smiled weakly, felt very stupid. ‘I never do know the number of my own car. I know there’s a five in it, and it’s a G registration.’ He remembered that, because it grated: once he had had a car with the current registration letter provided free for him every year. He was dimly aware of the second policeman walking slowly round the car, looking at the tyres, examining with interest the small dent in the rear wing and the wisps of dried grass trapped at the extremity of his front bumper. ‘I haven’t had this car very long, you see.’

  ‘Yes, I do see, sir. Do you happen to have the registration documents for it?’

  ‘Not here, no. I thought –’

  ‘Driving licence? Insurance?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, you can produce them at your nearest police station within five days, if that should be necessary.’ The policeman looked at him for a few seconds, assessing his condition, then nodded again to his companion. ‘We’ll have to ask you to take a breath test, I’m afraid, sir.’

  ‘But look, I haven’t drunk much at all. I –’

  ‘Then you won’t have any trouble with this, sir. Just an even breath. I expect you’ve seen these things before.’

  The policeman’s deliberately unemotional tones unnerved him more than outright aggression would have done. He stood beside the car and blew into the bag, filled with a sudden, irrational fear. Were these officers in Kemp’s pocket? Had the man dosed him with drink and sent them after him on some sadistic whim? Knowles was sure he hadn’t drunk much in the hospitality suite, but you never knew how much you were taking when spirits were poured from a bottle. And he’d had quite a bit last night, both before and after. Didn’t
they say it could linger in your bloodstream until the next day?

  He was dimly aware of the other policeman using his radio behind the car; the metallic, distorted sounds which came back through it scarcely sounded like words. When he had last done this, there had been crystals in the plastic container. Now, there were lights on the outside of the cylinder: it seemed more final, more damning. But the red light did not come on. He stared at it for a moment, as if he feared it would come on when he relaxed. Then he tried to breathe more easily, even attempted a truculent little smile, trying to see the outcome as a triumph of the individual over police persecution.

  The officer was as carefully impassive as he had been throughout. If he was disappointed at this result, he showed no sign of it. ‘That’s all right then, sir, as far as that goes. But you aren’t very much below the limit. We usually point out to people in these circumstances that it really is better not to drink at all if you’re going to drive.’

  Knowles brought out his most dignified vocabulary and bearing, what he thought of as his collar and tie mode. ‘I appreciate your concern, Officer. And of course you have a job to do. But now that we’re agreed that I have broken no law, I think it’s time –’

  ‘I’ve been instructed to ask you to accompany us to the station, Mr Knowles.’ This was from the other policeman, coming suddenly into his vision from behind the car.

  Knowles, who had been concentrating his pompous efforts upon the officer with the breathalyser, was thrown off key by this development. ‘But you’ve just said I’m within the limit. What the hell –’

  ‘It’s not in connection with any motoring offence, sir.’

  For a moment Knowles toyed with the wild impulse of driving off at speed, leaving the two policemen to gaze after him and make what they could of it. Then words from his childhood which he thought he had long since forgotten came back to him. And with the words, a picture; a picture of a father, dead now for ten years and more. ‘Never fight the police, Victor,’ he had said to a round-eyed boy in short trousers. ‘The police and the Army are too big to fight, even if you think you’re in the right.’