White Lines

by Mel Stein

  ‘Just call me Mystic Meg. Come on, Mark. The days of the Lone Ranger are far behind. Everybody needs their Tonto.’

  ‘I think I’ll settle for Pocohontas,’ he said, stumbling over the last word with considerable difficulty, and then his head came forward and he was violently sick.

  CHAPTER 51

  Juanito Ferrera relaxed in the luxury of the first class compartment of the British Airways flight to Bogota. It was a long trip. They’d left London at 10.25 and weren’t due to land until 16.40 local time. He was happy to be returning home. England was not a country in which he felt he could either live or play football. The pace of life was too slow and the pace of the football was too fast.

  He had stayed the night at one of the airport hotels, had called both Branco and Salazar to tell them he was coming home and they had promised to arrange for Luis to meet him. He had thought of ordering a girl for his room, but he could wait until he was back in Colombia. He thought the girls back home were more attractive and they were certainly cheaper.

  He had enjoyed the flight. His fellow passengers had recognised him and asked for his autograph. He always liked that, just as he liked the champagne and the more than passable meal. He’d watched a couple of movies, finding them implausible because the bad guys never won. Not that he regarded himself as a bad guy. He had come from the slums of Bogota, his mother had brought home men to make ends meet and his father had disappeared when he was only two. His mother had made him out to be a hero who had sacrificed himself in the cause of an uprising against the brutally oppressive government. It was only when he was ten that his older sister told him that he had run off with a younger woman from Zipaquira because his wife was refusing to sleep with him after having seven children.

  He had had a talent for football almost as soon as he learned to walk. He also had an imagination that allowed him to steal with impunity from his schoolmates and the other street children, whilst always having a credible alibi or excuse. It was inevitable that he would be exposed to the drug culture and, although he enjoyed the occasional snort of cocaine (like that stupid night before the England match), he soon appreciated that there was more money to be made from supplying than using. That was how Riccardo Branco had come into his life. He had been sixteen, playing already for the national youth team, when Branco had invited him to join the club he was about to buy and had promised him more money than he could have imagined in his wildest dreams. But as with everything in Branco’s existence there was a hook. The sports market was a fertile field for drugs and Ferrera was required to report back to Branco as to where there was a need for distribution, although he was never asked to sell himself. He was too valuable for that. He gradually came to recognise his own value and to place a price upon it that was higher than considered by Branco.

  It was then that Branco had thought it might be a good thing for him to go to England to oversee the operation there which was growing by leaps and bounds. He’d taken him into his confidence and that was fine, but there was the constant feeling in Ferrera’s mind that he would always be the boy when he should be regarded as the man. Branco had told him how he had provided the funding for Jet to acquire the rights for the new European Super League, how he could use Jet to legitimise his illegal profits, a very sophisticated way of money-laundering. Well, he wouldn’t be playing in the ESL now and quite frankly he found it hard to envisage how a little club like Hertsmere could hope to be England’s first entrant into the competition. He was a big player and he deserved a big club. Maybe he’d play a little longer in Colombia and then move on to Italy. Branco had connections there as well. And he would like to develop his own contacts. Branco might think he was just a footballer with an above average brain for his profession but he had greater ambitions. He had made money, a considerable amount, but his wealth did not compare with the enormous fortune of Riccardo Branco. But he wanted it to.

  The stewardesses made sure everything was in place for landing and removed the last glass of dry French wine from his side. It was good that Luis was coming to meet him. Luis had been a hero in his day, but it would make him realise that his day was past and now this was a young man’s game and a young man’s world. The plane lowered its undercarriage, the pilot made a near perfect landing and he felt the engines roar into reverse thrust.

  He liked the idea of the other passengers being held back to allow the first class travellers off first, just as he liked the concept of his baggage coming first off the carousel with its first class labels attached. He saw no reason why everything in his life should not be first class from now on. He was a star and rising in the firmament.

  He was whisked through immigration, his bags came obediently off the carousel and he had no trouble with customs. It was a perfect journey which ended with the sight of Luis waiting for him just as he exited through the swing doors of the air-side part of the building. He pushed his trolley over to him, they embraced out of ritual rather than affection and began to move towards the car park.

  It was then that Colonel Enrico Rodriguez, accompanied by four armed policemen, approached them and arrested them both on charges of drug dealing and murder. This was Colombia, and he was going to make these charges stick – whether he had sufficient evidence or not. Luis took his mobile phone from his pocket and called Salazar’s number. The telephone rang and rang in an empty office, as once again, the lawyer sat with his client Riccardo Branco on the terrace overlooking the Jaguna de Guativita, taking instruction as to how the empire was to be rebuilt.

  CHAPTER 52

  The name of Enrico Rodriguez had been the only one that Mark could remember to give to Rob Davies to contact in Colombia. He thought he might just be an honest man and he was right. After the introduction, Davies, as ever, had done his work well.

  ‘He told me through an interpreter that they didn’t think they’d get to Branco this time around but that Ferrera and your friend Luis would be a start. He reckoned that Branco would be prepared to sacrifice them both to keep the police and the government off his back over the airplane incident. Oh, and by the way, he also told me that they were dropping the cases against both Barry and Patti. They know your lawyer friend Salazar for what he really is.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Branco be worried that either Ferrera or Luis might try to implicate him?’ Mark asked.

  ‘I’ll assume you’re still under the influence if you have to ask that sort of question. Would you try to give evidence against someone like Branco? I reckon you’d have your throat cut before you got to confirm your name and address.’

  ‘Thank goodness for English justice,’ Mark said, sitting up in his hospital bed and taking notice.

  ‘Yes, it’s almost as good as Celtic justice. Which reminds me about the book I ought to be throwing at you. I can’t believe you, Mark. You never seem to learn.’

  ‘He doesn’t, does he?’ Patti interrupted as she picked up the bunch of grapes she’d bought him because, as she’d made quite clear, that was what you were supposed to do for sick people and anyway she rather liked grapes.

  ‘Let’s call it even all round, shall we?’ Mark said. ‘I brought your real villains to justice, Patti’s and Barry’s names are clear and I’ve got a headache. Now how long do I have to stay in here?’

  Patti put another couple of grapes in her mouth and spat out the pips with a distasteful expression.

  ‘The shop claimed they were seedless. Just goes to show that you can’t trust anybody. The doctor says you’ve got mild concussion, one cracked rib, you need some dental treatment and you’re also suffering from what he called, for want of a better medical term, the mother and father of all hangovers. Apart from that and an urgent need to revisit AA he says you can leave tomorrow morning. There’s only one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’ Mark asked suspiciously.

  ‘That you come back to the Burrow, that I look after you and that you don’t go anywhere without telling me first.’

  ‘Seems fair to me,’ Mark replied.

&n
bsp; ‘I like you in this condition,’ Patti said, ‘you seem agreeable to everything. You’re the witness, Rob.’

  Mark groaned as the painkillers began to ease off and a wave of nausea passed through his bruised and aching body.

  ‘I’m not sure that policemen always make honest witnesses.’

  ‘You be careful, boyo, or I’ll dig out that charge sheet from the wastepaper basket.’

  ‘How’s Nabil?’ Mark asked, suddenly changing the subject.

  ‘Much better,’ Patti replied and a look passed between her and Rob, which Mark caught despite his condition.

  ‘Are you telling me the truth?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh she is,’ Rob said. He hesitated and then plunged on. ‘Fuck it. Knowing you you’ll find out anyway. Mo wanted to come to see you. For some reason he seems to blame himself for everything that’s happened. Also we’ve tried to quiz Nabil about his assault, but he says he’ll only talk to you.’

  Mark brought his hand to his face and tapped at the loose tooth as if it might give him some inspiration.

  ‘I don’t understand that. I don’t think he had a civil word to say to me when we were working together.’

  Patti smiled and patted him gently on the head as an indulgent schoolteacher might treat a particularly slow child.

  ‘It seems that we’re flavour of the month with the Halid children. I’ve had Dominique on the phone asking if she can come and have tea with me.’

  Mark tried to remember what Cunningham had told him about Dominique, but his head hurt too much to think. He winced and then it came to him, and he grimaced again.

  ‘Before you came to the house yesterday, Cunningham said something to me that didn’t quite sink in at the time. He said that Barry Reed was a no-good because he’d got Dominique into trouble. I didn’t understand what he was talking about at the time and, quite frankly, I was trying to work out how long you’d take to get there after I called you. By the way, why didn’t you get the local boys to come to the rescue?’

  Rob sighed unsympathetically, ‘We reckoned that you’d need a bit of time to get Cunningham to talk to you. You can’t say that we were wrong, can you?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Mark replied ruefully. ‘So what do you want me to do about Nabil?’

  Rob Davies did a mock doubletake.

  ‘Is this Mark Rossetti, superhero, asking the police for advice? I do believe it is. All I want you to do is tell us what you’re doing. Don’t go off to save the world on your own again. You may not be so lucky next time around.’

  Mark lay back on the pillows and watched the retreating back of the policeman, thinking he was indeed fortunate to have him as a friend.

  His parting words had a familiar ring about them, although for the life of him he couldn’t recall at that moment who’d said them to him last. But then he couldn’t remember very much at all and, by the time Patti gently kissed him goodbye on the forehead, he was fast asleep.

  He had to be awoken in the morning, and once he hit consciousness he regretted it. Every part of him hurt, even the bits that he had no reason to believe had been injured and the cheerfulness of the nurse who brought him his tea did nothing to improve the way he felt. Yet he was determined not to complain too much. He wanted out of the hospital and he wanted out as soon as possible.

  ‘When can I leave?’ he asked.

  ‘After the doctor’s examined you,’ the nurse replied in a broad Irish accent. He was waiting for a piece of Irish humour or philosophy, but fortunately it wasn’t forthcoming. It was bad enough being in love with a woman called Delaney.

  As it was the doctor came round before ten o’clock, suggested he have another day or so in bed, but pronounced him fit enough to travel to the bed in question. He called Patti as soon as he heard the news.

  ‘My parole’s been confirmed. When can you get here?’

  ‘I just have to get rid of the last bloke, prepare his bill, change the bedlinen, etcetera.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ Mark said, a smile on his face even though he knew it was going to be hell to laugh with the broken rib.

  ‘What about? The competition?’ she asked.

  ‘No, that you’re going to bother to change the bed.’

  She promised to be with him within the hour and she was as good as her word, even bringing with her a welcoming change of clothing. He got out of the bed and wished he hadn’t and didn’t argue when she began to help him get dressed. The socks, trainers and jeans weren’t too bad, but the T-shirt and sweatshirt were agony.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll drive back to the Burrow at twenty miles an hour. You won’t feel a thing.’

  ‘We’re not going to the Burrow,’ he replied.

  ‘You have to be joking. Where on earth do you want me to take you?’

  And when he said that he couldn’t rest until he had spoken to Nabil Halid somehow she wasn’t at all surprised.

  CHAPTER 53

  By the time they reached Mo Halid’s house, Mark had every reason to regret his decision. The painkillers the nurse had given him with his early-morning tea had worn off and he had never before noticed the state of Britain’s road surfaces. He couldn’t believe that Patti sought out every bump or crevice but it certainly felt that way. She kept shooting him sidelong looks, but he gave no indication of the pain he was in, other than a semi-permanent chewing of his lower lip.

  They’d phoned ahead and discovered that Nabil had also been released from hospital that very morning. Mo, having satisfied himself that he was in no further danger, had gone to see his lawyers with a view to overturning the decision to award the ESL rights to Jet. That encouraged both Mark and Patti in their beliefs that the younger generation of the Halids were more likely to open up to them in their father’s absence.

  ‘Why the rush to talk to Nabil?’ Patti asked as they pulled up outside the house.

  ‘It was just the fact that Rob said he wanted to talk to me. Just because the police have got Cunningham, Carr and the beautiful Alissa in custody doesn’t mean this is all over. I get the feeling that there are more than a few loose ends that need tidying up.’

  ‘And you think Nabil can hand you the cleaning equipment? What about your promise to Rob not to go charging off on your own?’

  ‘What promise? I don’t remember any promise. I was under the influence. Nothing I said counted. Anyway, I can’t see that there’s any harm in my meeting up with somebody who’ll only talk to me. Whatever I find out I’ll share with Rob. What’s the police phrase? It’ll be his bust. The pain may be mine but the glory will be his.’

  ‘That’s very literate for somebody whose idea of an intellectual read is Roy of the Rovers.’

  ‘You can be very cruel sometimes, Patti,’ Mark replied, then shut himself up as he realised that he couldn’t get out of the car without assistance.

  ‘Compared to Alissa?’ Patti asked, standing back for a moment and watching him struggle with sadistic amusement.

  ‘OK, OK, you’re an angel of mercy. Just put your lamp down for a second, Florence, and give me a hand.’

  It took longer than he could imagine to extricate himself and walk up the path, leaning heavily on Patti’s arm. It was Dominique who opened the door and both Mark and Patti looked automatically to her midriff to see if there was any evidence to support her alleged pregnancy. Somehow, given the circumstances, Mark did not think that Kenny Cunningham had been lying to him.

  ‘It’s nice of you to come. Nabil’s in a bit of a state.’ Not only her voice, but her whole demeanour seemed more gentle, more ladylike than on their previous visit. The Halids might not yet qualify for their own set in Happy Families, but there was a definite improvement in the atmosphere in the house.

  Dominique led Mark upstairs to her brother’s room, offered him a coffee which he gratefully accepted, then needed no encouragement to leave them alone so that she could talk to Patti. Nabil lay in the bed, propped up by pillows, his face pale despite its natural olive complexion. His head was still band
aged, his left arm in a sling, his right eye virtually hidden by the swelling that surrounded it, the bruising just beginning to turn from black to yellow. He waved his good hand at Mark and signalled him to sit in the chair on his left.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t see too much on the other side. Thanks for coming. I hear you’ve also been in the wars.’

  It was hard to recognise the sulky youth who’d been assigned to Mark from his first days at Ball Park. There was no air of arrogance about him now. He was like a teenager brought back to his own bedroom after a skateboard accident, relieved to be amongst familiar things. Mark looked around the room which told him more about Nabil than he had ever learned from his weeks of working with him. There was an unlikely mixture of posters on the walls. Spice Girls next to Jimi Hendrix, Che Guevara alongside a team picture of Chelsea. If he had any taste at all it was obviously catholic in its breadth and scope.

  ‘I never knew you supported Chelsea,’ Mark said.

  ‘You never asked me,’ Nabil replied.

  ‘You never gave me any encouragement to ask you.’

  ‘Let’s call it quits shall we?’ Nabil said, his eyes half-closing at what was still clearly the considerable effort of talking.

  ‘Mark, I don’t know where to start, but I owe you an apology. I guess I owe everyone an apology, from my father down.’

  ‘Have you told him that?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Have you ever tried telling my father anything?’ Nabil said with a tired smile.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Mark responded sympathetically, ‘he’s not the best or the most patient of listeners.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were either,’ Nabil added.

  ‘I’m listening now. Why do you owe me an apology, apart from being a real pain to work with? And why did you tell the police you wanted to speak to me and me alone? And while you’re supplying answers why wouldn’t you tell them who beat you up when you obviously knew?’

  ‘I didn’t realise there were so many questions.’