White Lines

by Mel Stein

  There were still some things he did not understand. Why had Nabil Halid been beaten up? Why had Jenny Cooper telephoned him just before she was killed? He looked at his watch. It was early afternoon, but it felt as if he had been up the whole of the day. If he continued on this roll then maybe all the answers lay within the house. He pondered long and hard and then decided to make one more call. There was no point in alienating the whole world.

  As he glanced again in the rear mirror, he suddenly saw the car in the drive start up. The owner must have come out of the front door whilst he had been distracted with the phone. He raced out of his own car, leaving the door swinging wide open and got to the gate just as it opened to allow out the vehicle and the driver. The man in the car looked up and immediately recognised Mark. He had a choice. Either he could accelerate and leave Mark dead or dying, or he could stop and see what he wanted. For a moment Mark thought he was a goner, that the choice would be the former. But the car stopped just in time and Mark guessed correctly that Juanito Ferrera had been too intent on getting himself out of the country to bother about calling ahead to Kenny Cunningham, the England manager, to warn him that there was the likelihood that he was about to be paid a visit by Mark Rossetti.

  CHAPTER 49

  If Cunningham had any idea of just how much Mark knew about him, he gave no indication.

  ‘Hey, Mark, what’s the hurry? If you wanted to see me, all you needed to do was ring.’

  The usual Cunningham smile, the jack-the-lad grin that so entranced his television audiences. The expression that said, I’m one of you, I’m public property, so love me for that.

  ‘Can we talk?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Sure. Why don’t you call my secretary down at the FA? Tell her I told you to ring and give you the first open slot in my diary.’ He had turned off the engine, but now he started it up again to signal the conversation was at an end as far as he was concerned.

  ‘No, Kenny, we need to talk now.’ Mark was in front of the car again. He had to take a gamble, to make certain that Cunningham was sufficiently intrigued to turn back to the house and invite him in, yet not so spooked as to try to make a run for it.

  ‘What’s it about that’s so urgent?’

  ‘Barry Reed.’

  ‘Look, Mark, I’ve had enough of that loser and you shouldn’t be bothering with him either. He’s bad news.’

  ‘I’ve got some new evidence that shows he’s innocent. Surely you, as the England manager, would want to know about that? You thought he was good enough to play for his country and you must want him to play again.’

  For a fleeting moment the mask dropped, the eyes that were normally crinkled with humour were lost within shadowy hoods. The face became calculating, assessing the risk of leaving against the advantage of staying and discovering just exactly how much Mark actually knew. Then he was smiling again, reversing his car and giving Mark a welcoming gesture to follow him into the house.

  ‘Not got a lot of food in,’ he said, ‘the wife’s away in Spain with the kids at our villa.’

  ‘How long’s she been away for?’ Mark asked.

  ‘About a month. She’s got this thing about November. Gets her depressed to think that the winter’s with us.’

  He threw open the door to the kitchen and allowed Mark to enter ahead of him.

  ‘I can run to coffee. Don’t worry, I’m not about to offer you a drink.’ Again the lop-sided grin to show that there was no malice in the comment.

  ‘Coffee will be fine,’ Mark said, sitting himself at the table without waiting for an invitation.

  ‘That’s right, make yourself at home. I’ll put the kettle on and be back in a minute. I’ve just got to make a couple of calls to say I’ll be late.’

  He went out of the room and Mark took in the surroundings. He could recognise an expensive kitchen when he saw one. He’d been with Patti when she pored over Smallbone brochures, before a considerable chunk of their resources had been tied up in the bail fund. Cunningham’s kitchen appeared to have the same distinctive design. Given that it was about the size of the whole Burrow he could well imagine just how much had been spent upon it. All the utensils on display, the Aga, the fridge, the sinks, had evidently not come cheap either. His eye took in a phone on the wall and he wondered why his reluctant host had felt the need to call from the other room. He retraced his footsteps, just in case he needed to make a speedy exit, momentarily regretting his decision not to utilise Patti as some kind of back-up.

  However, when Cunningham returned, the look of joviality was still on his face and he gave Mark no cause to panic, and he felt that this situation was well within his capabilities.

  ‘Right. Here’s the coffee. Sorry it’s instant. I can’t find the percolator. Maria’s got a degree in hiding things.’

  Maybe she wasn’t the only one in the family, Mark thought.

  ‘Well, cosy as this is, I haven’t got all day. So what’s this revelation about young Barry?’

  Mark risked a glance at his watch. It had been some twenty minutes since he’d left his car. He’d wanted to drag this out as long as he could, but obviously Kenny wasn’t in the mood for any idle chit-chat.

  ‘Barry. You seemed very convinced of his guilt at the hearing.’

  ‘Hardly surprising, is it? He tests positive under FIFA guidelines. What am I supposed to do? Stand by him and have every do-gooder in the country accusing me of condoning drug-taking in sport? Quite frankly, Mark, I reckon he got off lightly. He could have had a life-ban. He’s young enough to have another bite at the cherry.’

  Mark tried very hard to control his temper, but couldn’t keep the confrontational tone out of his voice.

  ‘So that’s all right then.’

  Cunningham leaned across to touch Mark on the arm.

  ‘Mark, I think you’re taking all this too personally. I know, everybody in football knows, that you got a raw deal. But Barry had a fair hearing. You did your best for him. You’ve nothing to recriminate yourself about.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I have. But I think others have.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’ Cunningham leaned back in his chair in an effort to show he was relaxed, but he was not convincing.

  ‘I think you know what I’m getting at. Ever heard of Doctor Guerra?’

  Cunningham furrowed his brow.

  ‘Can’t say that I have. Some kind of specialist is he?’

  ‘You could say that. He specialises in switching urine samples.’

  ‘Really? Can’t make a career out of that.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ Mark said. If he was going in for the kill then he had to bluff.

  ‘Surprise me then,’ Cunningham said, any pretence at friendliness and charm now abandoned.

  ‘Well, Guerra says he knows you for starters. He says you’re his benefactor. Although, given the amount in question, I’m not at all sure that you came up with his specialist’s fee without a third party donation.’

  Cunningham suddenly leapt to his feet and grabbed Mark by the throat, throwing him across the floor in one movement. Mark was taken by surprise both by his speed and strength. He tried to get up but Cunningham’s right foot, clad in a heavy shoe, caught him in the ribs and another kick sent him reeling back, spitting blood. Cunningham leaned over and expertly searched him.

  ‘I’m not armed,’ Mark forced out each word painfully as he realised that at best his ribs were bruised, at worst they were broken.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck if you’re armed or not. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t wired.’

  ‘You could have asked,’ Mark said, struggling up into a sitting position.

  ‘I just did. Now stay where you are and I think I can promise you no more pain. Or at least not a lot. I don’t know why you wanted to get yourself involved. I never had anything against you. Reed’s another young yobbo without a brain in his head. Take away his football and all you’ve got is a waster. He’d already knocked one bird up.’

  Mark co
uldn’t hide the puzzlement on his face.

  ‘Oh you didn’t know that, did you? And not just any bird either. Your boss’s daughter, or should I say one of your bosses.’ Again Cunningham saw that Mark was unprepared. ‘You didn’t know that either. That Nathan Carr at Jet knew all about Mo Halid’s idea to get you into his camp. He thought it might be helpful so he gave you enough licence. Eventually he was going to feed you information that he knew would confuse Halid. I can’t believe those two and their feud. Susie’s not a bad looker, but she’s not worth the grief that the pair of them cause each other.’

  ‘How do you know about me and Jet?’ Mark asked. The glass on his watch had been smashed as he tried to protect himself from one of the savage kicks, but he could see it was nearly a quarter to three.

  ‘For somebody who used to be an investigator you don’t know a lot do you? It was Branco’s idea to swop the samples. We had to move quickly once it was clear they were going to test Ferrera. The stupid cunt had got himself high the night before the match, sampling the product. He calls Branco on his mobile, Branco gets a message to me and I’m down into that room like a shot. I get hold of Guerra or whatever his name is. Offer him a king’s ransom. He says no. So I don’t mess around. I tell him he either takes the money and does what we want or we do something to his hands and that puts an end to his medical career. And suddenly he’s very helpful. After that it was easy. Guerra spoke the language, the FIFA doctor didn’t. The guy didn’t realise what was going on. Reed tests positive, Ferrera doesn’t. It was always the idea to get Juanito into England. He was a real pain in the ass, Branco told Carr. He wanted him somewhere he wouldn’t be too much trouble. All I had to do was recommend him to Sinclair at Hertsmere and away we went. I have to admit I didn’t think he’d get you involved in the transfer, but even that wouldn’t have made any difference if you hadn’t started poking your nose in where it didn’t belong. Branco’s got a bit of a sense of humour. He thought it was very funny that you were dealing with him as the owner of Ferrera’s club and didn’t even realise it.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see that would be the sort of thing that would amuse him,’ Mark said, his tongue feeling that one of his teeth was loose, the taste of blood filling his mouth.

  ‘So there you have it. Now all we have to do is decide what to do with you.’

  ‘You could let me go. I walk away from here and it seems to me I can’t prove a thing. It’d be your word against mine.’

  Cunningham seemed to consider the suggestion for a moment, then shook his head, now smiling again.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m afraid this is the end of the road for you, old son.’

  ‘I thought you promised no more pain.’

  ‘I did and I’m a man of my word. Everybody in football knows that. The end won’t be painful. Our little chat has given me some time to think about it. I’m going to be humanitarian. Put you down painlessly. First a few drinks, and everybody knows about your drinking habits, and then, when you’re nice and numb, a convenient car crash. Drunk at the wheel. Mark Rossetti fell off the wagon. RIP Mark Rossetti.’

  He fumbled under the sink and produced a length of rope, then reached up to a cabinet and brought down two full bottles of Scotch.

  ‘There you are, Mark, isn’t that a beautiful sight? You’d have died for some prime malt whisky a few years ago and now you’re actually going to. Life’s funny, ain’t it?’

  Mark had only a few seconds to decide what to do. He could either made a dash for it or else launch himself at Cunningham with all the force he could muster. The door was only a few feet away, but in his weakened condition it seemed like miles as he took Cunningham completely by surprise by turning and running out of the room. Cunningham came after him in an almost leisurely manner and then leaned against a wall whilst Mark turned the handle of the front door which had been firmly locked from the inside.

  CHAPTER 50

  He couldn’t believe that he’d ever actually liked alcohol. The first taste nearly choked him, but the way he was tied and trussed, with a funnel forced between his teeth, anything would have choked him. Cunningham had pulled him away from the door with remarkable ease and within minutes two willing helpmates had arrived. Mark could not believe how naive he had been to think that Cunningham was merely delaying his meetings on the telephone. Instead he had summoned Nathan Carr and with him had come Alissa Bland. There was no question now of them being misunderstood. Now he could see exactly why Mo had regarded them with such deadly hatred, and why he had warned him about Alissa.

  As part of his continuing education Patti had taken him to see King Lear at the National Theatre. He had found the language difficult for a while, but then the power of the story had carried him along, just as it had captured generations before him. Regan and Goneril, the names had seemed odd to him at the time, but now he could hardly fail to remember them as Alissa seemed to combine their joint malevolence in one body.

  ‘Can’t you pour that liquor down him any faster?’ she said. ‘We still don’t know if he told anybody he was coming here.’

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ Cunningham said, ‘he keeps trying to spit it out, and I can’t risk him choking to death. I’m not at all sure that will convince anybody. The bruises and any broken bones could be explained away by the crash and I’ve been careful to tie the ropes over his clothes and not leave any marks on the skin.’

  Alissa took a lipstick from her bag and applied some liberally whilst looking at herself appreciatively in a small hand mirror. She made a mouth, licked her lips and then glanced down at Mark.

  ‘You really were a very silly man. You’re going to die and it’s all for Halid and Reed and neither of them are worth it. If it makes it any worse for you I have to tell you that if you’d asked me to go to bed with you that night in Zurich I would have. I really quite fancied you.’

  Mark was trying to cling on to his sobriety, but it wasn’t easy. She was already out of focus as were the two men, but he could still see, indeed see in duplicate, the annoyance on Nathan Carr’s face as she spoke. There had obviously once been something between them and it could well be that Mark’s assessment, that it had been Carr who had ended it, was wrong.

  He tried to speak, to have the last word and tell her that he’d simply not fancied her, but all he succeeded in doing was allowing more of the whisky to go down his throat. She laughed, and kissed Carr on the cheek.

  ‘Don’t be jealous, Nathan, it would have been a one night stand. You’ve always liked me to be experimental.’

  Cunningham held up one of the bottles which was now three-quarters empty.

  ‘I’m not sure how much of this has gone down him, but I reckon it’s enough. Can you help me carry him out? I thought one of you could drive his car and I’ll stick him in the boot of mine. If he’s sick, he’s sick, but at least we won’t have a postmortem wondering how he managed to vomit into the boot of his own car.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Alissa said, ‘as long as I don’t have to start heaving him around. I had my nails done yesterday. But can we please get on with it? It was an awful drive out here, particularly with Nathan fuddy-duddying around and telling me to keep within the speed limits. Honestly you’d think he was some kind of honest law-abiding citizen.’

  It was all coming to Mark from a distance, sounds travelling down the thin end of the tube, voices merging into one. He wanted to sleep, he wanted to be sick, he wanted it to be over and that was the worst because it meant he was giving up. He felt himself lifted, Carr taking his legs, Cunningham his head, Alissa merely opening doors. The fresh air hit him like a slap in the face, and he realised that the few steps between the front door and the boot of Alissa’s Mercedes could be the last few moments of daylight he would ever see. He kicked out as hard as he could and, more in surprise than pain, Carr released his hold and allowed his feet and the lower end of his body to hit the ground. Cunningham swore and let his head fall as well, but Mark was so numbed by the whisky that he felt no pain at
all.

  The two men stood up and straightened their backs, ready to continue their task. Alissa was unlocking the boot and carefully removing anything that she wanted to avoid being stained. It was then that the first shot was fired, above their heads, but the voice over the loudspeaker left them in no doubt that the next shot would be far lower and far more accurate.

  Even as his head lay on the gravel path, Mark recognised the Welsh tones as those of Inspector Rob Davies. It had all seemed so long ago that he had made that last call to him and he thanked his instinct that had suggested to him that he had come far enough on his own. There were no heroics from Carr or Cunningham. The police marksmen standing just outside in the private road suggested they would be foolish. But Alissa wasn’t done yet. She turned on Carr and slapped his face, raising red, angry weals.

  ‘You bastard.’ She turned towards Davies. ‘Thank goodness you’ve arrived. You can’t believe what I’ve been through. This animal dragged me out here, threatened my life, tried to involve me in the murder of this poor man …’

  Carr was having none of it.

  ‘Don’t believe a word the bitch says. The only reason Jet got involved with Branco was because you allowed him to pick you up in that hotel in Cannes. After he’d fucked you he obviously thought our business had more to offer than anything you had between your legs.’

  She made to hit him again, but someone caught her hand in mid-air.

  ‘I just hate to see a man being hit by a woman,’ Patti said, and pushed Alissa towards the arms of a waiting policeman. The three of them were bundled into the back of a police van as Patti knelt by Mark’s side.

  ‘I thought it was about time I reciprocated in this life-saving business. I had a deal with Rob. We agreed that whichever of us you called first would tell the other and join forces in the rescue.’

  ‘How did you know there’d be a rescue?’ Mark asked, his head muzzy and hurtling, his voice slurred.