Only a Game (13 page)

‘Like assault with knives upon a young female and a young male officer, together with a CID chief inspector, sir?'

‘Well, perhaps.'

‘I see, sir. And no doubt you would wish me to undertake the delicate task of explaining to the officers concerned that this case was not going to be taken to court.'

Thomas Bulstrode Tucker ran his finger round the inside of his collar, which seemed to have suddenly tightened upon his timorous neck. ‘That would be the best thing, if you would do it.'

Percy sighed the long sigh of the martyr resigned to his fate. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I handled it, sir. It would preserve the integrity of your overview, among other things.'

‘I shan't forget this, Peach.'

Percy noted the resumption of his surname with some relief and allowed himself his first smile for many minutes. ‘I shan't allow you to forget it, sir. You owe me one, sir.'

Thomas Bulstrode Tucker smiled back, acknowledging the argot of the service from which he had divorced himself for so long. He couldn't quite understand how he had managed to engineer it, but he had got his way in this. His bête noir Percy Peach had agreed to drop a cast-iron case, at his behest. He leaned forward earnestly and put both hands on the leather of the desk. ‘I'm glad that you have allowed me to paint the wider picture for you, Peach. I'm sure when you look back in a few years you will see that there was wisdom in this.'

‘Yes, sir. And if there isn't, you will no longer be sitting behind that desk to sort out the consequences but in happy retirement. I'll explain things as best I can to the lads and lasses downstairs. And no doubt you will explain the rationale behind the climb-down to young Malim's father at the next meeting of the Lodge.'

Tucker reddened with a pleasing swiftness. ‘Freemasonry has nothing to do with this, Peach!'

‘No, sir. Just a pleasing coincidence for you.'

‘I'm sorry you can't accept defeat gracefully. It's one of the flaws in your make-up to which you should give attention, Peach. That will be all, thank you.'

Left alone, Thomas Bulstrode Tucker tried hard to rejoice in his unexpected victory over his chief inspector, but found it curiously hard to feel the exultation he thought appropriate. Back in his own office, Peach was thinking that perhaps against all the odds he owed that young idiot Peter Forsyth an unexpected drink.

At the same time on that Friday afternoon, Darren Pearson was planning his meeting with the chairman and owner of Brunton Rovers.

The football manager, Robbie Black, had cancelled his earlier meeting because he wanted to supervise the fitness tests being undertaken by two of the players who were doubtful starters for tomorrow's match. Darren was pleased about that, because it gave him time to plan his tactics for his meeting with Jim Capstick.

In the event, no tactics were possible. It was Jim Capstick who controlled the direction as well as the tone of the exchanges. He took Pearson through a very full account of his meeting with the bank's representative earlier in the month, exacting the full details of Miss Alcock's demands on behalf of Barclays for strict control of the club's debts.

Capstick nodded, then allowed himself the smile of relish which the troubles of a bigger business inevitably bring to a mogul. ‘Barclays have their own problems at the moment, of course.'

‘Yes. That won't necessarily help us, though. They're worried about bad debts, and football clubs are likely to make any bank nervous in the present recession.'

‘I can see that. We don't command much public sympathy, when the people read about the transfer fees and wages being paid.'

‘No. And most of our assets are players, and thus in an accountant's view intangible and unreliable. The bank would be pleased if we cashed in on one or two of our major assets.'

‘Like Ashley Greenhalgh.'

It was Darren's turn to smile. ‘His name was mentioned, as a matter of fact. Ms Alcock happens to be a Manchester City fan. She'd like to see them prise him away from here. So would her bank.'

‘Every player has his price.'

The old football cliché marked the end of the preliminaries for Jim Capstick. He said, ‘I'm glad the books are in order and up to date. You may have to show them to financial experts in the near future.'

‘Due diligence?'

‘That is the phrase, I believe.'

‘Those are the words used to acknowledge that a detailed account of the club's present financial position, including any previously concealed assets and liabilities, must be given to anyone pursuing a substantial interest. In layman's terms, that means someone interested in taking over the business.'

‘Correct.'

‘You're thinking of selling Brunton Rovers?'

‘I'm exploring the commercial possibilities, as one would do with any other asset. It may be the right time to capitalize on this particular venture, from my point of view. Of course, I would want to be assured that whoever purchased Brunton Rovers had the interests of the club at heart and the funds to generate future success on the field.'

He was already rehearsing the phrases for the press handout which would come in due course, thought Pearson. ‘Is one allowed to ask who this buyer might be?'

Jim Capstick smiled. ‘You are allowed to ask, but you must not expect an answer. Not at this delicate preliminary stage. If it all comes to nothing, it will be better for all of us that you know as little as possible.'

Darren agreed with that. It was easier to fend off the press and broadcasting media if you knew nothing. ‘You realize that it will be almost impossible to keep this secret?'

This time Capstick's smile was not a pleasant one. ‘At the moment you and I are the only people who know about this. It should remain that way.'

‘I shall do my very best to ensure—'

‘The firm involved will be one which specializes in these things. You must give them access to everything they ask for. The two men who will come here on Monday will be professional accountants who specialize in examining material of this sort. They have no axe to grind for themselves. They will be receiving a handsome fee to provide a report for the third party who is employing them.'

‘I understand that. I understand also that you do not wish me to know who that third party is at the moment. I don't want to know: I agree with you that the less I know the better, when the inevitable pack of journalists descends on me.'

‘Then you understand what is good for you and good for the club,' said Capstick grimly.

‘But I shall have to give orders to other people to release this information. The club's official auditors, for instance, hold much of the information at present: we're at the end of the financial year. Even if they didn't, it is inevitable that any firm conducting the kind of detailed analysis you indicate will wish to speak to the club's auditors.'

‘I know that. I've already instructed you to give these people access to all the information they ask to see.'

‘All I'm pointing out is that many more people than me are going to be involved. It is inevitable that one or more of them will let something out – possibly quite unintentionally, possibly for financial gain.'

‘You're trying to pass the buck. Trying to say that if this gets out it won't be your fault.'

‘It won't. But I'm trying to—'

‘How's your gambling, Mr Pearson? Still running out of control?'

Darren felt as if he had received a violent blow in the middle of his chest. It was a good thing he was sitting down, because for a second or two the room and its sparse furnishings of filing cabinets and computer swam before him. Until this moment, he had had not the slightest inkling that his chairman knew anything about his personal problems.

Eventually he managed to say weakly, ‘I'm dealing with it. It doesn't affect my work here.'

‘If it did, you wouldn't be behind that desk. Make sure you deal with it, or you won't stay there.'

On that, Capstick stood up. It was best to leave the man with the knowledge that you had a certain hold over him; for all the empty promises Pearson had been making, it was threats which most ensured loyalty. Jim knew he shouldn't have enjoyed the moment as much as he had: it was better to be entirely dispassionate about these things. ‘I appreciate what you say about others. I just want to ensure that you muzzle them as much as is humanly possible, Darren.'

He was gone then, leaving Darren Pearson thinking of all the things he might have said. He could have maintained at least a little dignity if he had told the man loftily that it didn't need threats to ensure his discretion.

But what did dignity matter, in the face of this new threat to his world and that of those around him?

NINE

B
runton Rovers won again on the next day. As the year moved into April, the prospect of relegation from the Premiership was receding fast.

Victory cheered up everyone connected with the club. Away victories were rare and vital, so the old town celebrated on Saturday night and the feeling of well-being spread like a pleasant infection along the grimy terraced streets and out into the quiet beauty of the Ribble valley beyond them. Percy Peach felt it; the petty criminals who were his foes felt it; even Agnes Blake in her cottage in Longridge, remembering her father's tales of his great day at the Cup Final of 1928, felt it.

The happiness seemed to Darren Pearson to stretch beyond the weekend and into that most detested area of the working week, Monday morning. Even the cleaning ladies at the club, who had been at work since six and were preparing to leave when he arrived at half past eight, bade him a cheerful good morning and seemed happy with their work. People congratulated him on the victory as if he had engineered it himself.

As manager, Robbie Black had done just that. He took the children to school himself on Monday morning, trying ineffectively to keep a low profile as James and Eleanor skipped along and accepted the congratulations of their peers on Saturday's victory. He found a surprising number of men among the other parents, a reflection of changing times as well as the present recession. They all commented enthusiastically on Saturday's result; perhaps they thought that by talking to him they could assert their manhood and make themselves a part of what had been achieved. Two of them even wanted to shake his hand.

He told Debbie about it when he got home. Although he had been a Scottish international and had enjoyed hero-worship in his playing days, she was more used to handling the public aspects of celebrity than he was. British tennis success had been a rare phenomenon in her day, so that reaching a Wimbledon semi-final had brought much publicity. Debbie's glamorous looks and lifestyle had increased the public adulation, so that she had become almost a show-business personality. ‘Enjoy it while you can!' was her advice to Robbie; he thought he detected a rare tinge of regret for the celebrity trappings that were gone for her.

‘It's quiet for you here, isn't it?' he said, watching her stack the breakfast dishes on the drainer.

‘Quiet enough,' she said, looking out of the window and smiling at the sight of next door's Labrador puppy returning bouncily from his morning walk. She came over and put her hands round Robbie's arm. ‘But not too quiet. I still got up this morning and congratulated myself on the fact that I won't see a single journalist today!'

‘You're right about enjoying it whilst you can,' he reflected ruefully. ‘Football crowds grow more fickle and less patient every year. ‘They'll be calling for my head if we lose three matches in a row.'

‘Not in Brunton,' said Debbie sturdily. ‘They're not so daft as not to realize when they've got a good 'un.'

He laughed at her adoption of the Lancashire phrase. ‘You like it round here, don't you?'

‘I love it! I love the Ribble Valley. I love having the Yorkshire Dales and the Lake District not much more than an hour's drive away. I love not having to worry about drugs at the school gates.'

‘Don't you ever get bored?'

‘Everyone gets bored occasionally – even Robbie Black! Don't forget I've seen you in the middle of July, when there's been no football for two months and you can't wait for pre-season training to begin!'

He grinned. ‘Bred into me in Glasgow, that was. We kicked a ball about even in summer up there. Cricket was a game for English toffs. But don't you sometimes find the days dragging in winter, with the kids at school and long days to fill?'

‘I might do, if I didn't have my classes and my self-improvement,' she teased. Her Open University studies had been something of a family joke, until she had produced glowing assessments and high grades. In another year, she would have her degree. ‘When we get our au pair, I'll be able to take a part-time job. Something interesting and useful which fits in with the children's school hours, I think.'

He went across and kissed her, first lightly on her forehead, then more firmly upon the lips. ‘You're serious about putting down roots here, aren't you?'

She gave the question a moment's thought, then nodded her agreement. ‘I'm serious about life, I suppose. I want to do all the things I could have done when I was young, if I hadn't been too interested in the fripperies.'

He grinned down at her, still holding her affectionately in his arms. ‘You mean if you hadn't been such a looker and hadn't been a brilliant tennis player.'

‘Perhaps. Anyway, having children makes you realize that life has moved on. But at forty-three, I can still do the things I want to do. And I want to do them here.'

‘Well, you're still a guy guid looker, Debbie Black!'

He kissed her again and she responded. She liked it when he dropped into the Scottish dialect for his little intimacies and compliments to her. ‘Tha's a right belter thiself, when tha says things like that!' she said, in the broadest Lancashire accent she could muster. It wasn't a very good effort, but the very amateurishness of it made both of them laugh all the more. ‘Nah, be off with thee and earn us some brass!'