White Lines

by Mel Stein

  Mark stared steadily at the England manager during the whole period of his evidence, but the man carefully avoided any form of eye contact, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the members of the tribunal. As Ramsden rose to his feet, Cunningham was forced to turn in his direction and Mark tried hard to read the expression on his face. Was it malice, self-satisfaction, deceit or fear? Or was he simply telling the truth as he’d seen it whilst at the same time protecting his own position?

  ‘Mr Cunningham, are you an expert on depression?’

  ‘No, but I’m an expert on footballers.’

  ‘Are you, are you indeed? Well, doubtless that qualifies you to select the England international side, but gives me little confidence as to your medical or psychiatric conclusions.’

  Hawksmoor sighed.

  ‘Mr Ramsden. Whilst I’m reluctant to use legal jargon, could you refrain from making speeches and limit yourself to asking relevant questions?’

  ‘Certainly sir. Now Mr Cunningham, you say that Barry Reed was “high” after the match. If you were as young as Barry, getting your first England cap and you’d turned in the sort of performance he’d done, then wouldn’t you also be on a high?’

  ‘Yes, I would, but not with the assistance of drugs.’

  ‘Doubtless. Tell us a little bit more about this so-called depression of my client.’

  ‘He didn’t mix well. He kept to his room a lot. I’d put him in with Geoff Hamilton. I thought he’d like the company of another Geordie and, of course, Geoff’s been around a long time. Geoff told me all he did was watch TV and sit on the phone.’

  ‘And that’s unusual for a footballer, that’s evidence that he’s a habitual drug user?’

  ‘No, it’s not unusual for a footballer. It’s just unusual for a kid on his first trip. I’d have expected him to mix as much as possible, not to want to miss any part of the experience. And I don’t know if he’s a habitual user or not. All I have to go on is that he tested positive after this game. For all I know it might have been the first time he took drugs, or the last. What I do know is that he brought his national team into disrepute, and he brought me, as its manager, into disrepute as well. He let us all down.’

  ‘It’s unfortunate that most of what you’ve said is up to the tribunal to decide. Obviously if you were judge and jury, as you seem to have ambitions to be, my client would even now be walking the corridor to Death Row. Thank you, Mr Cunningham, I have no further questions.’

  The witnesses for the defence were very much a make-weight bunch. Helen Davies, representing Hertsmere, told how Barry had been the perfect employee, the great Billy Whelan spoke of his talent and potential, and a doctor Ramsden had used before described the potential inaccuracies of urine tests unsupported by further analysis. It wasn’t a lot, and Mark could see that neither the members of the tribunal nor Barry himself were impressed.

  Ramsden’s summing up was its useful tour-de-force, using every scrap of artillery he’d been offered, appealing to the emotions where he had no hard facts.

  ‘Gentlemen, you are asked to make a finding based upon what might at first glance appear to be a cast-iron case against my client. But what do we really have? Only the results of a test taken in some far-off land, written evidence supported by an English doctor who prescribes drugs with side effects not even knowing the entire medical background of his patient. You have an England manager who believes it to be a criminal offence for a young player not to mingle at the bar drinking with his teammates, who thinks it reprehensible for a youth to stay in his room, talking to his family back home, preparing himself for a match with a series of early nights. Gentlemen, if you find Barry Reed guilty of these offences of which he is accused, based upon such dubious evidence, then you will have cut off a potentially glorious career in its crime. I have seated beside me a man, Mark Rossetti, who was the victim of such injustice, whose own footballing career was cut down in its youth. I urge you not to make the same mistake again.’

  Hawksmoor leaned forward and, just for an instant, Mark thought he was about to burst into applause. Instead he merely said, ‘Thank you Mr Ramsden. We’ll now adjourn for a while to consider all that we have heard.’

  Mark looked at his watch. It was nearly five in the afternoon. They’d been there for some three hours and it had seemed like ten minutes.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked Ramsden.

  The barrister poured himself a glass of water as if any question he were asked, whether it be in chambers or here, merited careful consideration.

  ‘I think your young friend should have pleaded guilty, but then I’ve already told you that.’

  He saw Barry’s eyes begin to fill with tears and immediately regretted his response.

  ‘We’ve done the best we could to make bricks without straw. But I have to say that having seen the way the case was presented against us we have an outside chance. Shall we go and get ourselves a coffee? The longer they take over their decision the more chance we have.’

  They moved into a side room where tea and coffee had been thoughtfully provided.

  ‘How do you feel, Barry?’ Mark asked.

  ‘How did you feel?’ Barry responded and, as Mark Rossetti trawled back over the years, he realised that he had put his past so far behind him that he really could not remember.

  CHAPTER 34

  It had not been difficult to persuade Nathan Carr to allow him to head off for South America.

  ‘Sure, take a few days, take a week. Treat it as paid holiday. The more football contacts you make the better it is for Jet. Today Europe, tomorrow the world.’

  Mark felt uncomfortable with the offer of payment, and even more disconcerted by the fact that he was growing to like the man Mo Halid had painted as the Antichrist. There was no doubting his charm and charisma, and as for his dishonesty, he only had Mo’s word for it. Mo himself had been less gracious.

  ‘Mark, my friend, I need you in there. Every day is vital if I am to prove that Jet only obtained the ESL rights by corruption,’ he’d said when Mark had phoned to tell him that he was going back to Colombia as a favour to Hertsmere.

  ‘I understand, but you have to understand that David Sinclair was the man responsible for getting me back into football and it’s going to take a long time before I finally pay off that particular debt.’

  ‘I admire your loyalty and I would not expect anything else from you, but please do your best to get back as soon as possible.’

  As it happened the last thing Mark wanted to do was to stay away too long. The outcome of the disciplinary hearing against Barry Reed had been only a little short of disastrous. A five year world-wide ban, compulsory rehabilitation treatment and a crippling twenty-five thousand pound fine. George Ramsden had been philosophical.

  ‘I did say that I felt a guilty plea was appropriate even if you were sincere in your belief that you had done nothing wrong.’

  ‘And what difference would that have made?’ Barry asked bitterly.

  ‘Very little I suspect save for the length of the ban and the amount of the fine. But we’ll never know. I have the feeling that these learned gentlemen have adopted the attitude of the courts in so far as they have piled on the agony because they feel that you have wasted their time. I’m very sorry,’ and with that, Ramsden had taken himself back to his chambers for a conference with a merchant banker accused of a fifty million pound fraud.

  Stanley Golding had been more sympathetic.

  ‘Perhaps you can come up with some more evidence to launch an appeal …’ His voice had trailed off into the void of false hope.

  ‘Where am I going to get more evidence from?’ Barry asked hopelessly.

  And a small voice in Mark’s head had answered Colombia. If he were going to try and sign Juanito Ferrera for Hertsmere then what would be the harm in trying to rake over the traces for Barry as well? Then there was the small outstanding problem of the charges against Patti, not to mention the problem of Patti herself. When he had told her what he
had been asked to do for Sinclair she had not been impressed.

  ‘You can’t say no, Mark, can you? We had enough money to live on with the income from Leo’s property, but you have to get a job with Ball Park and, as if that’s not bad enough, you have to get a job with Jet as well and now Sinclair’s trying to take advantage of your good nature.’

  ‘Please don’t put a guilt trip on my head. I know what you’re trying to say. If I hadn’t been commentating then I wouldn’t have gone to Bogota and you wouldn’t have come and life would have been different. If my mother were a man she’d be my father as my Italian grandmother used to say. And anyway you’ve still not told me what the hidden agenda was for your sudden arrival.’

  That had silenced her for a while, but he still wanted to know why she had really come to visit him. He knew her well enough to be certain that most things in her life were planned and if her trip had just been to see the man she loved and to show him she was sorry then that would not have rattled any cages. He knew in his heart of hearts that the true reason he had agreed to go back as an emissary for Hertsmere was not totally out of loyalty to David. Somehow or other he felt that if he were going to be able not merely to salvage his relationship with Patti, but to rebuild it so that it survived permanently, then the reconstruction had to begin in Bogota.

  He decided not to stay in the same hotel and instead chose the Bogota Royal in the World Trade Centre. As he checked in he was surprised to find there was already a message for him. He’d dutifully phoned Rob Davies to tell him he was leaving the country in case he wanted to talk to him about Jenny Cooper and indeed it was Rob who’d been looking for him. He didn’t wait to unpack before he made the call, simply turned on the taps in the bath and worked on the assumption that he could be through with the conversation before it overflowed. It was early evening in Bogota, but only the afternoon in London and he had no difficulty getting through to Davies at the station.

  ‘How are things in South America?’ the policeman asked, his Welsh accent sounding much stronger over the phone.

  ‘Hot and steamy,’ Mark replied, longing to soak in the foam-topped water. ‘Can we get to the point, Rob? I know from experience how much these calls cost after the hotel has multiplied the base charge by a million.’

  ‘OK, I’ll make it brief. Did you have any reason to believe Jenny Cooper was doing drugs?’

  Mark thought about the question. He’d known her for a while and had always found her pleasant enough if a little moody. He’d assumed that the seduction scene was down to drink, but there was no real reason why she should not have been high on something else. She’d certainly been odd in Bogota but he’d put that down to jealousy.

  ‘I’m not sure. Now I look back I suppose she could have been. I’m not the greatest expert on drug addicts. Alkies are more in my line.’

  Quickly he told Rob the reasons for his conclusion and could imagine the policeman back home scribbling furiously.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m asking?’ Rob said.

  ‘I didn’t want to give you the pleasure of refusing to tell me. I came to the conclusion that if you wanted to let me in on the secret then you would. Will you?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask. But since you have, the fact of the matter is that I’ve just had the autopsy results. It appears that the late Miss Cooper was a habitual user of cocaine. If she drank as well, we have a fairly explosive cocktail in more senses than one.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Murders of press officers are rare even by those they’ve offended. Murders of drug addicts are far more common. Other users, suppliers, you name it.’

  ‘Broadens the field a bit,’ Mark said.

  ‘Narrows it as far as we’re concerned. There was no sign of forced entry at Jenny’s place. Given the time of death we’ve estimated she was unlikely to let a total stranger in at that time of night. That means she must have known whoever it was that killed her rather than being the victim of a casual crime. A break-in or the like.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me I’m back in the frame?’ Mark asked nervously, hoping that the bath had an overflow.

  ‘You were never in the frame as far as I was concerned. I had to go through the motions for my superiors. Look, Mark, it’s a long-shot, but where you are is the centre of the drug trade. Jenny Cooper was there with you last time you visited. I may be guilty of putting two and two together and coming up with five, but just do me a favour and keep your eyes and ears open while you’re there. You never know.’

  ‘I think your arithmetic is more suited to journalists than the police, but obviously I’ll see what I can do. Can I go and get into my bath now before I flood the whole hotel?’

  ‘Sure. Cleanliness is next to whatever as they taught me at Sunday School. Take care.’

  He nearly fell asleep in the bath, and eventually he could not tell whether or not the thoughts going round his head were part of a dream. There had to be a pattern. Or did there? Were all the events of the last few weeks mere examples of the chaos theory or were they in some way inter-linked? Patti and Barry accused of drug-related offences. Jenny Cooper, who’d known them both, brutally murdered and now proved to be a user. Drugs were the common denominator. So what else did he know? Patti had tried to interview a drug baron. Luis had told him all about the narcotic industry in the country. As he’d said to Rob Davies, drink he could understand, drugs were beyond him.

  The insistent ringing of the phone jolted him awake. He’d been in the bath for so long that the water had become tepid, but he’d been too tired to care. There was an extension on the wall of the bathroom and he leaned across to answer it.

  ‘Welcome back to Bogota,’ the voice said. ‘I hope this trip will be happier than your last.’

  ‘Luis, good of you to call. You got my message, then?’

  ‘Indeed, I did. I’m sorry not to have called you before, but I’ve been out of the country for a few days.’

  ‘Anywhere exotic?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Nowhere is exotic compared to Colombia. Just football business. Argentina, Brazil, Mexico.’

  ‘Quite the little globe-trotter, aren’t we? Have you had a chance to speak to Ferrera?’

  ‘Indeed I have. We are fortunate. He has no agent, he is his own man. Believe me this is unusual in this country. Normally each player has about six bandits claiming they represent him.’

  ‘Not that much different in England. When can we meet?’

  ‘If you’re not too tired we can arrange it tonight.’

  ‘Suddenly I don’t feel tired any more. The sooner I can sort this out, the sooner I can get home.’

  ‘Of course. I have assumed that you would wish to speak with Salazar as well. That is for first thing in the morning.’

  ‘What’s first thing?’

  ‘Ten. Mornings tend to start a little later here.’

  ‘Fine. Where are we meeting Ferrera?’

  ‘I’ve booked us a table at Los Ultimas Virreyes, I think you will like it. I’ll pick you up in an hour. If you can strike a deal with Ferrera and his club, maybe you can be on a plane heading home by tomorrow night.’

  Mark dried himself, shaved, and put on a blue short-sleeved shirt under a light-weight cotton jacket. He turned to look at himself in the mirror, trying to see himself as others might see him. He’d put on a little weight since he’d been working for Ball Park, but he still didn’t feel he’d be out of place on the football field. The ache in his knee told him differently. It had stiffened up with all the long hours on the plane and the bath had only eased it a little. He grimaced with the realisation that all he could do nowadays was commentate on football and negotiate with players.

  Back on the plane tomorrow, Mark thought to himself. Hardly enough time to work on the various tasks he had been set or had set himself. He looked at his watch. Just after seven. If he only had twenty-four hours then he would have to make every second count.

  CHAPTER 35

 
From his terrace, Branco looked down on the Laguna de Guatavita, the sacred lake. He turned to the man by his side and poured him another glass of the expensively imported French wine.

  ‘No more, please, I have a long drive back into town.’

  ‘And you think the police will stop you for drunken driving? This is Colombia, my friend, not Washington.’

  ‘When do you visit DC next?’ the other man asked.

  ‘When we have finally disposed of our local problems.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘Very shortly, I hope. I miss civilisation. For me a meal at Sam & Harry’s, a visit to an art exhibition, a meeting at Capitol Hill, perhaps even a quick flight into New York to take in the theatre, a girl for a thousand dollars for the night rather than the fifty-cent whores who surround us here, they are all signs of civilisation. Have I signed everything?’

  ‘You have.’ The other man mopped his brow even though the evening had brought a relative coolness with the sunset. He knew he could not leave until Branco gave permission, but he dreaded the drive alone back to Bogota. It would take at least an hour and the first part of the journey would be along dark, twisting dirt roads – the regular habitat of bandits. They would not realise he was an emissary of Branco until it was too late, yet he was too timid to ask his host for an escort. If he thought he needed one then doubtless he would offer.

  ‘You know,’ Branco continued, snapping his fingers for a servant to bring him another bottle of wine and a cigar, ‘the Muisca Indians believed this lake to be sacred. When it was their land they would have the zipa, their cacique, paint himself with gold dust. He’d climb on to his ceremonial raft painted with more gold, take enough precious objects to establish a modern museum and then toss them into the lake as a sacrifice and follow them into the water to renew his divine powers. And one day a Spanish gringo chanced to see what was going on and was lucky enough to get away alive and when he got back to his so-called civilisation he began the legend of El Dorado. And so they came with their weapons and diseases. Have you heard of Sepulveda, my friend?’