Foul Play: Dead Ball Page 3

  And, most recently, a black Range Rover, tinted windows, that arrived and parked up, at the far side of the car park where only Danny could see it.

  Like he always did, Danny noted its number plate. Not personalized, he was pleased to see. He hated personalized number plates: what a waste of money! He also noted that no one got into it – or out of it.

  Eventually Finn said he needed to go. Everyone stood.

  ‘Any chance of a couple more questions?’ Forshaw begged.

  Finn looked at his watch. ‘Come with me. In the Merc. I’ll give you a lift into town. How’s that?’

  Giles Forshaw – a man in his fifties – grinned like a toddler.

  And off they went. Forshaw and Finn. Into the Mercedes.

  Unaware that unfriendly eyes were watching them.

  THE CRASH

  ‘He’s all right, isn’t he?’ Danny said to Holt.

  ‘Finn? He is. A gent. Not one of those players who are up their own…’ Holt paused. ‘You know… It’s hard to get an interview with a player these days. They’d rather walk past you, head down, than stop for a chat.’

  They were driving behind Alex Finn’s Mercedes along a country road, back towards town.

  Danny grinned. ‘So what’s Matt McGee like?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’ Holt said.

  ‘It was what your boss said about him. And I saw something online this morning too. About his dodgy past.’

  Holt frowned. ‘McGee’s an interesting character. He didn’t come into football like most do these days. Through the academies, I mean. McGee was in a pub team from sixteen to twenty, then he got picked up by Leeds United, then he moved to City.’

  ‘What’s so dodgy about that?’

  ‘Well… some of his mates,’ Holt said, slowing down as a black Range Rover overtook them. ‘They were involved in… criminal activity. Allegedly. And then there’s the counterfeit stuff.’

  Danny’s ears pricked up. ‘What sort of criminal activity?’

  ‘Theft. Cars. Stuff like that.’

  ‘Was it McGee?’

  ‘There’s no evidence…’

  ‘But people like to speculate?’ Danny suggested.

  ‘That’s right,’ Holt said. ‘And there’s his gambling. He has gambling debts. Some say massive: like hundreds of thousands. But he’s all right. All the times I’ve had anything to do with him, he’s been OK. And Finn seemed to vouch for him…’

  But Danny had stopped listening to Holt. He was watching the car in front of them. The black Range Rover that had just overtaken them. It was the one from the car park. Same number plate. Danny was sure.

  ‘That Range Rover…’ Danny said.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It was at the pub.’

  ‘Another flash… person,’ Holt said.

  The Range Rover was tailgating Finn’s Mercedes now. Too close, Danny thought. Something was wrong.

  All three cars were approaching a tight bend. Where the fields fell away quickly to a sheer drop thirty metres down to a river.

  And Danny’s mind went into overdrive.

  How many times had he read a book to his dad where a car was followed, driven alongside, then pushed down a ravine? Dozens. It was one of the most exciting ways of killing people off in crime books. Lots of screeching. Anxious faces. Then the silence before the car smashed on the rocks below.

  Since he’d started reading crime books to his dad, Danny had an instinct for danger. Danger that never usually happened.

  But this time…

  Danny looked at Holt. ‘That car was definitely in the car park at the pub,’ he said. ‘No one got out. When we left, it left too. No one got in. Now it’s overtaken us. Badly. And it’s tailgating Finn. And we’re about to go round that tight bend over the river.’

  ‘You watch too many films, Danny,’ Holt said. But he sounded uneasy. Something in his voice.

  ‘I just have this feeling,’ Danny said. ‘Can you overtake it? Get in between the Range Rover and Finn’s car?’

  ‘Danny. Get real!’

  ‘If you could, would you?’

  The Range Rover went right up behind Finn again. Dangerously. Then it dropped back. Leaving a gap.

  And – without saying anything more – Holt gunned his engine and accelerated. The Range Rover was still dropping back, so Holt moved past it with ease.

  ‘Happy now?’ Holt said, slightly flushed.

  Danny nodded. They’d reached the bend. The drop to the river.

  ‘Now what?’ Holt asked, looking in his mirror.

  Danny looked back. The Range Rover wasn’t there.

  ‘Where is it?’ Danny shouted.

  ‘There!’ Holt said, glancing through his window, his face tight with anxiety.

  Danny looked out of the window too. The Range Rover had somehow got alongside them. He caught a face through the black car’s tinted window. A fat bald head. A pair of eyes looking daggers at him, as the Range Rover tried to pass.

  Then Holt was flashing his lights. On and off a dozen times. Warning Finn.

  ‘What am I doing?’ he asked himself.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Danny shouted. ‘But do it!’

  The Range Rover had passed them now. Once in front of Holt’s car, it slammed its brakes on, forcing Holt to do the same. Then the Range Rover took off, using all of its 400-horsepower to reach Finn’s Mercedes ahead. It tried to move alongside Finn. But Finn was going faster, as if he knew something was about to happen, alerted by Holt.

  Danny watched the next few seconds in horror.

  First the Range Rover moved alongside Finn’s car, then it lunged at the Mercedes, forcing Finn to swerve slightly off the road. But they were past the ravine now. Alongside some fields with drystone walls.

  Finn tried to get his car back on the road, but his left tyres were caught in the soft grassy verges. Then the Range Rover lunged again, hitting Finn’s Mercedes, pitching it flying into a wall, which crumbled, sending huge boulders across the fields, crashing loudly and halting the Mercedes in its tracks.

  Holt stopped his car and stared. Danny was already on the phone.

  ‘Ambulance please,’ he said. ‘And police.’

  Holt opened his door and Danny watched him run to the battered Mercedes, his legs disappearing in the long grass.

  Danny saw that the black Range Rover had disappeared. He stayed in the car. The road outside was noisy. He knew it was his job to get the ambulance. Holt could see to Finn and Forshaw.

  And, anyway, half a dozen cars had stopped now. Men were running across the fields to join Holt.

  FRIDAY

  CHANCE OF A LIFETIME

  Danny marched into the newspaper offices the next morning. He had to talk to Holt.

  After the car crash, Danny was interviewed by the police, then went home. Neither Finn nor Forshaw had been badly hurt. But both were taken to hospital with cuts and bruises. Finn wouldn’t play in Moscow: there was no doubt about that.

  And that was what had got Danny thinking.

  He had spent the evening drawing diagrams, making notes. And going over the questions the police had asked him. Did he see any people get in or out of the Range Rover? Could he tell them exactly where the car had overtaken? Was he sure of the number plate – as there was no such number plate on record?

  Danny had read a lot about car accidents on the Internet. Especially the death of Diana, Princess of Wales. There were thousands of pages about what could have gone on in the Paris tunnel. Diagrams showing theories of what happened to the car. If it was speeding. If it was involved in a crash with another car. If the driver was drunk. But nobody knew. It was all conjecture.

  Whereas witnesses had seen the car accident involving Alex Finn. And the first thing about which Danny was certain: it was not an accident.

  So then he had asked himself why: why would someone try to injure or kill Alex Finn?

  He tried to think of who the suspects could be.

  This was one of the t
echniques he’d learned from reading crime books. Think of who could benefit from the results of a crime. Think of every possibility. Every suspect. Don’t rule anything or anyone out. Unless you can be certain.

  Danny made a mental list.

  A fan of another club who resented him because he’d saved an important shot?

  A Russian who hated him for stopping his country winning the night before?

  Someone from outside football. An old friend. An ex-girlfriend. A former business partner.

  Or someone very much inside of football. A player. Someone he was in competition with. Robert Skatie? Matt McGee? Why not him? He had a dodgy reputation.

  A driver he’d cut up? Maybe it was road rage. A stranger.

  Or was it nothing to do with Finn? Maybe someone was after Giles Forshaw, the newspaper editor. The passenger in the Mercedes. Not the driver.

  Danny wanted to talk to Holt. To find out what he thought. To start ruling things out. So he could get to the truth.

  ‘Morning, Danny,’ Holt said, as Danny knocked and entered his office.

  ‘How’s your boss?’ Danny asked.

  ‘OK. Back home. He actually shattered his kneecap, so he’s in a bit of pain.’

  ‘And Finn?’

  ‘Fine. He’s out of hospital too. But his legs are badly bruised. They think he’s got ligament damage. He’s spending the morning talking to the police.’

  ‘What do they say?’ Danny asked in an excited voice.

  Anton Holt smiled. ‘I know what you’re up to, Danny. But I think it’s best you leave this one to the police.’

  ‘I’m just interested,’ Danny said. ‘Do they have any theories?’

  ‘None they’ve told me.’

  Danny frowned. Holt was being cagey. So he asked him. Straight out. ‘Are you putting it in the paper?’

  ‘The crash? Of course.’

  ‘Not the crash. The black Range Rover.’

  Holt paused, then looked down at his desk. ‘No,’ he said, after a few moments.

  ‘Why not?’ Danny said. Too loudly.

  Holt softened his voice. ‘Right. This is the truth.I’ll tell you once, then we don’t talk about it again. OK?’

  Danny nodded.

  ‘Giles said not to. He said Alex Finn asked him. As a favour. To keep it quiet. He said it was like Finn was scared of something.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I dunno,’ Holt said. ‘Now we have to leave it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s a secret.’

  ‘But I told the police,’ Danny said, ‘about the Range Rover.’

  ‘They’ve been asked not to go to the media either,’ Holt replied.

  Danny frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Danny. I don’t know. Stop asking “Why?”’

  ‘But you can’t just sit on it,’ Danny protested.

  ‘I’m sorry, Danny. I have to. Those are my orders.’ ‘Not mine,’ Danny said.

  Holt put his head in his hands, then looked up.

  ‘Leave it, Danny. Please. Just for now. I promise you: I’ll clear this up soon. But not now. It compromises things.’

  ‘Like what?’ Danny said. ‘So you do know stuff. What is it?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Danny, leave it. Trust me. There’s a good reason we can’t do this now. Please.’ Holt turned to his laptop.

  ‘Is it something you’re writing?’ Danny asked.

  Holt sighed. He swung his chair round and gave Danny a stern look. ‘If I tell you, then no more questions, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Danny said.

  ‘Yes. I am writing something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just can’t, Danny. Don’t push me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m doing a story. That’s all I’m telling you. No more. That’s it. Final.’

  Danny paused, then nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. But he was struggling. His thoughts had gathered too much momentum: he wanted to pursue this. But he trusted Holt. And he didn’t want to undermine whatever he had going on.

  ‘Anyway,’ Holt grinned. ‘The police are more interested in this boy who always seems to be around when footballers are kidnapped or crash their cars. They haven’t got his name, but…’

  Danny laughed.

  ‘Listen,’ Holt said, once Danny had stopped. ‘I’ve got an offer for you. It might make up for me… for all this.’

  Danny frowned. What was this? Was Holt trying to distract him?

  Holt leaned over his desk to Danny. ‘Giles can’t come to Moscow now. His kneecap. So…’

  Danny’s eyes widened.

  ‘… I wondered if…’

  Danny was nodding.

  ‘… if you’d like to come in his place.’

  ‘Yes,’ Danny said. It was the only word he could get out: he was so excited.

  ‘I mean, we’ll have to ask your mum and dad. You’d be away three or four nights.’

  ‘Yes,’ Danny said again. ‘Yes please.’

  Suddenly Danny had been made an offer that was beyond his wildest dreams. His work experience was about to become less and less like work – and more and more like an experience.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Danny? Are you OK? Your voice sounds funny.’

  ‘I’m at the Evening Post.’

  ‘Is the editor guy OK?’ Dad said. ‘And Alex Finn?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re fine. But I need to ask you something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, Anton’s made me this offer.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He’s asked if I’d like to go to the Russia game. In Moscow.’

  ‘Right,’ his dad said again. But that was all. There was a silence. Danny knew his dad was thinking, that he shouldn’t interrupt. However much he wanted to shout ‘Pleeeeaaaasssseeee’ down the phone.

  Eventually his dad spoke. ‘Is Anton there?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can I talk to him?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Danny handed Holt the phone.

  Holt paused, then said, ‘Hello, Mr Harte.… Yes. Moscow.… In the press box. Yes. Then a hotel. The President. Very posh. And secure. It’s the one the team are staying in. It’s owned by the government, so it’s the safest in Russia.’

  Danny’s mouth gaped open. The team hotel. And the team flight.

  ‘Sunday,’ Holt said. ‘First thing… Thursday morning. Back in England about midday.’

  Danny was trying to put the conversation together, imagining what his dad was saying. What Anton’s answers meant.

  ‘Yes,’ Holt said. ‘Very much part of his work experience… OK.’ He handed Danny the handset.

  Danny grabbed it and spoke breathlessly. ‘Dad?’

  ‘I need to talk to your mum,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll call her at work, then call you back. OK?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks, Dad.’

  Danny leafed through the day’s papers. All about the day before. The life-threatening crash suffered by the footballer. But no theories why it could have happened.

  An accident. That was it. The police were investigating, but were not looking for anyone else in connection with the crash.

  Danny’s mind was all over the place. He was thinking about the crash, but also the trip to Russia. Would or wouldn’t he be allowed to go? It was so important.

  He glanced at Holt answering emails on his laptop, looking like today was a day like any other.

  Waiting for Dad to call back was doing Danny’s head in.

  ‘Anton?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What are you writing about?’

  ‘What?’ Holt said, preoccupied.

  ‘Are you writing about the crash?’

  ‘The crash?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Danny knew he’d promised not to ask any more about it. But he couldn’t just sit quiet with an unanswered question in his head.

  ‘Some nutter wantin
g to cut up a flash car, I reckon,’Holt said in a deadpan voice, like he didn’t mean what he said.

  Danny frowned. ‘There was more to it than that. They waited for us to leave the car park.’

  ‘I reckon that was a coincidence, Danny,’ Holt said. ‘Listen. We’ve talked about this.’

  And for the first time since he’d known Holt, Danny felt that the reporter wasn’t treating him like an equal. Maybe even treating him like a kid.

  Danny looked him in the eye. Holt looked away first.

  Then the phone rang.

  Holt picked it up. Then nodded.

  ‘Danny, it’s something… you know… do you mind just sitting outside for a minute?’

  Danny nodded. Holt had done this before. They’d agreed that Danny would leave the room if Holt was having a conversation that was off the record or sensitive. Danny wasn’t bothered about that. But he was bothered that the call wasn’t from his dad. He really wanted his dad to call. To say, yes, he could go to Moscow.

  Outside Holt’s office, Danny read some more newspapers. Holt had insisted he read not just other sports pages, but the news too. He said Danny needed to know about more than football. He needed to know what was happening in the countries where football was going on.

  Were there wars? Was there poverty? Was there a lot of corruption?

  To understand football, Holt had said, you needed to understand the world.

  Danny sat down to read The Times.

  Railway workers on strike.

  More trouble in the Middle East.

  Boys not reading as much as girls.

  Then a story about Russia.

  RUSSIAN FOOTBALL FANATIC TUPOLEV IN GAS COUP

  The Russian billionaire and football impresario Dmitri Tupolev has been in talks with governments in Hungary, Bulgaria and Serbia, to finalize the route for his gas pipeline, running from Russia to Western Europe. Reports suggest he will seal a contract with all three countries to deliver gas to the West for the next fifty years.

  Tupolev, who owns 51% of Gasprospekt, also owns 100% of the top football clubs in Ukraine and Russia. It is very much anticipated that he will move soon for a club in Spain, Italy or England.