Striker Boy Kicks Out (15 page)

“Sounds reasonable,” nodded Rudy.

“Might I ask what line of business you're in?” enquired Daskov.

“Of course,” said Carlos. “We're in website construction and maintenance.”

“Really?” replied Daskov. “Our company website has had all sorts of problems recently and we're not satisfied with the team maintaining it. Would you be willing to take a look at it?”

Carlos and Rudy exchanged a glance.

“Er . . . that won't be possible at the minute, because of our packed schedule,” replied Rudy, “but give us a few weeks and we'll see what we can do.”

“Do you have a business card?”

“Sorry, I gave the last one out yesterday,” answered Carlos. “But as soon as we have new ones, we'll get one to you.”

Daskov stared at them for a few seconds and then walked over to the windows. They joined him and looked out at the long green field that ran behind the complex.

“If you fancy a bit of sunbathing, you have access to the roof, which is surrounded by a safety fence and is open to all tenants,” said Daskov. “Although I assume you'll be too busy with your website designs.”

Was there a trace of suspicion in his voice?

“Thanks for that,” smiled Carlos.

Daskov then opened the door on the right hand side of the unit and showed his prospective tenants a small toilet-washroom, which possessed brand new, gleaming fittings and an air vent.

“So, what do you think, gentlemen?” said Daskov, wrapping up his pitch. “You won't find many spaces like this at such a reasonable rate in the whole of Andalusia. You're welcome to go away and think about it, but if I were you, and you like it, I'd grab it pretty quick!”

Before he'd even finished speaking, Rudy was reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a large bundle of notes. Daskov's eyes lit up when the money appeared. It was rare
for tenants to make such instant decisions but obviously his patter had done the trick.

“This is the deposit and this is for the first month's rent,” said Rudy, counting out some notes and handing them over. Carlos had made more money in prison than he'd ever made outside it. He'd delivered parcels to various inmates, who had arranged for him to be paid handsomely in return for keeping his mouth shut. “After that, we'll set up a direct debit and pay monthly, if that's OK?”

“Perfect!” beamed Daskov who had rarely closed a sale so speedily. “Delighted to have you on board!” He took the notes, checked they constituted the correct amount and folded them into his inside jacket pocket. “I'll need to see a couple of references from past landlords,” he said. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Rudy was presenting him with two immaculate references on official paper.

“May I keep these?” asked Daskov, quickly scanning them approvingly.

“Absolutely,” replied Rudy.

“There are some documents I need you to sign.”

Daskov reached into his briefcase and extracted a small sheaf of papers. As there were no work surfaces to lean on, he pressed his briefcase against the wall, placed a document against it and handed Carlos a pen. Carlos flicked through the document, then signed and dated it in the right places – with every detail he entered being completely false. Daskov took the completed document then handed Carlos a second one. He filled this in just like the first.

“Excellent,” said Daskov, retrieving his briefcase and slipping both documents inside. “When would you like to move in?”

“Now,” replied Carlos.

Daskov looked a little surprised. Normally clients gave themselves at least a few days to get everything up and ready. “Do you have much to bring in?” he asked. “We have a good deal with a removals company.”

“We're fine,” responded Rudy, “but thanks for the offer.”

“OK,” said Daskov. “Good to do business with you.”

“Likewise,” said Carlos.

Daskov reached into his pocket and handed them two pass cards for the front entrance and two sets of keys for the unit.

“Any problems, just give me a call,” he said, opening the front door and standing on the threshold of the unit.

“Thank you,” said Carlos, before he and Rudy shook hands with Daskov a final time.

“I wish you all the best,” smiled Daskov, before he hurried downstairs and out of the complex. He crossed the road and got into his low, blue, sporty car. As he drove away, his joy at getting these new tenants was tempered with a twinge of unease. There was something slightly odd about these two guys. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it was definitely there.

But then he remembered the notes in his jacket pocket and decided that they were probably fine – they both looked respectable, their references were excellent, they'd paid
in cash, and it had sounded like they were going to take the unit on for a decent period of time. Having reassured himself, he turned on the radio and put his foot down.

“Why on earth did you do it?” shouted a red-faced Ian Fox, who was waiting in the hotel lobby for the returning radio station troupe.

“What do you mean?” asked a perturbed Helen Aldershot. “You heard it?”

“Of course I heard it!” thundered Fox. “The bloody thing's gone viral! I've already had some English journalists on the phone wanting a quote from me about my response to it!”

Aldershot's face looked as though it was going to crumple inwards like a paper bag. “It's all my fault,” she said, going very red. “When I spoke to them, it sounded really genuine and. . .”

“I'm not interested in what it sounded like
before
the interview,” snapped Fox. “I'm more concerned about how two of my players were verbally abused by the captain of the team that's hosting this tournament.”

“It wasn't Helen's fault,” said Nat firmly. “There was no way she could have known we were being set up. When
we got there everything seemed in order. They just sprang it on us.”

Aldershot smiled gratefully at Nat.

“Nat's right!” nodded Emi. “No one's at fault here. Anyway, it's no big deal.”

“Of course it's a big deal!” cried Fox. “I will NOT have my players attacked or ridiculed on air – even if it is on some local radio station. Do you get me?”

Nat suddenly felt as if the three of them were naughty school kids who'd just been caught skiving.

“Alright,” huffed Fox, “but no more interviews, Helen, unless they're authorised by me.”

“Of course,” agreed Aldershot.

“Good,” replied Fox. “I'll see you all later on the bus to the stadium. We're leaving at four thirty.”

* * *

Ray Swinton was sitting by his hotel pool in a dark mood. There had been no word from the police about the stolen notebooks – nothing. Part of him was hoping they'd be found dropped in a local street, and for this reason there was one vital phone call he hadn't yet made.

He took an angry slug from a bottle of water and clenched his fists in frustration. Those notebooks contained thousands of phone numbers, notes and lines of enquiry that would be impossible to replace in full. He'd told himself over and over again that the most important
information was backed up on his laptop, and this he never let out of his sight. But there were plenty of other things that had been recorded solely in the notebooks.

He was taking a bite of a cracker when his mobile went. Maybe it was the police saying they'd found his things.

“Ray Swinton,” he answered.

“Ray Swinton from the
Sunday Crest?”
enquired a voice with an Eastern European accent.

“Yes, that's me.”

“I have something that is important to you.”

Swinton felt a judder in his chest. “What do you mean?”

“There was a robbery at your hotel a couple of days ago, yes?”

“How do you know about that?”

“I have your notebooks.”

“You broke into my hotel room!” hissed Swinton furiously.

“Not me,” responded the voice. “My . . . colleagues.”

“Well you and your colleagues can go to hell!” snarled Swinton menacingly. “I want those notebooks back NOW!”

He looked up and saw that several people round the pool were staring at him.

“Give them back to me!” he hissed, lowering his voice.

“If only it were that simple,” replied the voice. “I have to confess that finding your notebooks was a lucky
bi-product of our little break-in. But now we have them I can see that they contain some very interesting material. If you want them back, you will have to pay for them.”

“You've got to be joking!”

“I don't joke Mr Swinton – I am a businessman.”

“No you're not!” snarled Swinton. “You're a blackmailer. And anyway, they're not worth anything!”

“Then why are you getting so worked up about them?”

Swinton's mind whirred with frenzied activity. There was definitely some very juicy information in the notebooks. Much of it was scribbled in his own spidery hand, which very few people could decipher. On the other hand, if anyone did manage to make sense of it and handed it to a rival newspaper, that would be disastrous.

“How much do you want?” he asked.

“£30,000.”

Swinton let out a horrified laugh. “£30,000!” he hissed in disbelief. “Are you out of your mind? You can forget about any deal if that's the sort of sum we're talking about!”

“Fine,” replied the caller smoothly. “£20,000.”

“No way!” snarled Swinton.

“OK,” said the caller, a slight note of tension entering his voice. “£15,000, but that's my final offer.”

“Again no!”

“If that's the way you want it, I will start passing the information from the notebooks to other newspapers.”

Swinton felt a surge of white-hot fury. The man had read his mind. He couldn't let that happen!

“You are running out of time, Mr Swinton,” said the caller. “I have said that £15,000 is my final offer. If you cannot meet that, then I'm afraid the notebooks will be sold on.”

Swinton wiped the palm of his hand over his mouth and cheeks. Hundreds of thoughts and possibilities flashed through his brain as he tried to calculate the best position to take.

“Mr Swinton?” demanded the voice.

Swinton cleared his throat. “I'll pay you £10,000 and that's it. You hand me the notebooks, I pay you the cash. And you show the material to no one else, got it?”

There was a pause on the line. “You have a deal,” said the caller.

Swinton breathed a small sigh of relief, though where he was going to get ten grand from was beyond him at that moment.

“Now we have agreed the price, you will listen to these instructions very carefully,” said the caller.

Swinton grabbed a pen and a piece of paper.

“You will go to the central bus station in Talorca on Friday night. Near the centre of the station is the stop for the number twenty-eight bus to Málaga. You will arrive at the stop at 7.30 p.m. sharp.

“I will approach you. You will not approach me. You will have the cash in one medium-sized envelope.”

Swinton gulped at the thought of going into a bank and asking for a sum like that, but he carried on writing.

“You will hand the envelope to me, and I will pass you the notebooks.”

“Do you want me to bring flowers?” asked Swinton sourly.

“This is no time for bad jokes,” said the caller, with irritation. “Don't contact the police about this phone call and don't bring any police officers with you. Even if they are in civilian clothes I will spot them immediately and the deal will be off. And you will tell no one else about this deal.”

“I get the message,” snapped Swinton.

“Remember, Mr Swinton. 7.30 p.m. at the number twenty-eight bus stop. If you are late, the deal is off.”

“OK!” seethed Swinton. “And there's one thing I want to say to you. If you fail to hand over the notebooks as soon as I give you the cash, you won't leave the bus station with any bones intact. Do you understand
that
?”

But the caller had signed off, like a sharp slap in the face.