by Alex Gray
‘Anybody seen ma boots?’ Baz Thomson stood in the middle of the Kelvin dressing room, a furious expression on his face.
‘Has the wee man no brought them up fae the boot room, then?’ John McKinnery replied. ‘It’s no like him tae forget onything.’
‘Mibbe he’s seen the ghost,’ Davie Clark suggested.
‘Wooooo!’ Simon Gaffney had lifted up his white shirt and was waving it in the air, making the sleeves dance.
‘Cut it out!’ Andy Sweeney, the Kelvin captain, hadn’t raised his voice much and he had a smile on his face, but the mirth died down as the players noticed a new figure enter the dressing room.
Donnie Douglas looked from one player to another, sensing that he had stepped into the middle of something. He could feel their eyes following his progress as he made his way across to the wall of lockers. Nobody had said anything to him about his absence other than to enquire if he was okay. It was as if they’d been told to leave him alone. In one way it was a relief, but now Donnie felt as if he were an outsider, not one of the team. As he unpacked his kit, the other players resumed their normal banter. It would be fine once they were out on the pitch, Donnie told himself. Clark had warned him that his position might be in jeopardy. Suddenly he thought of Alison and a strange sense of pride made him stand up straight. He had everything to play for now and today he’d show them all just how good he really was.
‘Where are you going, son?’
Baz looked at the stranger who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. ‘What’s it tae you?’ he asked, his chin jutting out aggressively.
A quick flick of a warrant card changed the expression on the footballer’s face. ‘Aw, awright, pal. Ah’m jist goin tae get ma boots, see?’ Baz looked back at the man then pushed open the door of the boot room. Inside, the airless room was stuffy and redolent of years of sweat and leather. The senior players’ boots should have been taken to the dressing room by the apprentice in charge of them this morning, so why this had been forgotten was a mystery. Baz began pulling pairs of football boots out of their dookits to see if any of them had been put back in the wrong place. But there was no sign of his boots. He swore aloud and banged his fist on the wooden cabinet. Just at that moment he spotted something lying in a corner of the room. It was a rolled up Kelvin FC towel, easy enough to miss in that dark shadow. Frowning, he picked it up.
‘What the?’ he exclaimed as his familiar white boots tumbled out of the towel and fell to the ground with a clatter. Baz scooped them up and turned the boots this way and that. They looked all right to him. And at least they’d been properly cleaned. Stupid laddie had probably been using the towel to wipe off excess polish. Baz threw it back into the corner then froze as the door swung closed and the overhead light began to flicker. For a moment he could feel the hairs rise on the back of his neck and a swish of something cold brushed his bare arms. Baz was out of the boot room like a shot, boots dangling from his hand.
‘Everything okay?’ the plain clothes policeman’s words fell away as Baz Thomson sprinted past him and headed back towards the dressing rooms.
Heart thumping, Baz slowed down. It wasn’t true, these things were just daft stories, weren’t they? But try as he might, the Kelvin striker could not help but remember the often-repeated legend about Ronnie Rankin and how his ghost would appear to anyone who threatened his beloved club.
The duty officer turned around as Alistair Wilson entered the tiny room. Perched high above the North stand, this was where the CCTV cameras were housed and where, during every home game, an officer from Strathclyde Police would sit and observe the crowded stadium.
‘Everything okay, then?’ the officer asked.
‘Aye. Nobody’s been turned back at any of the gates. And so far the dogs haven’t smelled anything suspicious.’
‘Wonder they can smell anything for the guff that comes off that lot,’ the officer remarked, jutting his thumb towards the hot food vans parked near the entrance. ‘Pies ’n’ Bovril are one thing, but they just reek of recycled grease.’
‘Aye, well.’ Wilson moved towards the window that looked out across Kelvin’s football pitch. Already the Kelvin panda bear mascot was capering alongside the front rows in time to music blaring from the sound system, much to the delight of the small boys leaning over the barrier. Everywhere he looked there was a mass of black-and-white. Both teams sported these colours, though today Dunfermline would be in their white shorts and striped jerseys with the home team in its familiar black. Wilson wondered what the referee’s colours would be. The officials usually kitted out in black had an obligation to stand out from the team players, especially on a day like today when the TV cameras were rolling. They had been in two minds whether to allow them in along with the usual press photographers and sports reporters but Lorimer had decided that everything should appear as normal as possible.
Gazing over the stadium, Wilson couldn’t help but feel that nothing out of the ordinary was going to happen. What kind of man would take the risk of bringing a firearm into such a closely policed area, never mind trying to use it? Dr Brightman had talked about someone who felt above such risks, but was he right? Or would the only result they’d have today be the one given as the whistle blew at the end of ninety minutes?
CHAPTER 42
A quick look at his watch, an arm raised and then the referee blew his whistle to signal the kick-off between Dunfermline and Kelvin. A great roar went up as Donnie Douglas scooped up Andy Sweeney’s ball and passed it to Baz Thomson. The striker jinked aside two of the Dunfermline players and looked set to take it all the way down the park, but a brief glance up showed him that Austin Woods was onside and in perfect scoring position. Thomson changed his pace and flicked the ball in towards the space that Woods would make in a few paces. The crowd gasped as Woods headed the ball then a collective shout went up as the ball found the back of the net, leaving a bewildered Pars keeper gazing wistfully behind him.
‘And it’s one–nil to Kelvin in the opening minutes of this match. What a cracker that was! Now let’s see if Dunfermline can come back from that early set-back. Kelvin’s men look to be in fine form despite all the events of the past weeks. Just goes to show how good management and discipline can lift a team,’ the commentator enthused. ‘Ron Clark was never going to have it easy, losing two of their key players, but he seems to have fielded a good side today. And just listen to the crowd!’
For a few moments the television cameras panned across the ranks of cheering fans, holding aloft their black-and-white scarves, pausing to zoom in on the figure of Patrick Kennedy. Anyone watching the game later might note his corpulent figure clad all in black, a bulky baseball cap thrust down over his brow. But the television screen was immediately filled by the pitch once again and anything untoward about the Kelvin chairman’s manner of dress was forgotten in the desire to see the game.
Lorimer touched the earpiece, trying to make out the message coming across but it was useless with this din all around him. He tried to catch the eye of the nearest plain clothes officer standing in the aisle. The man had donned a steward’s fluorescent jacket, the collar turned up to hide his wire. A brief nod told Lorimer that all was well and the DCI looked back at the pitch.
A Dunfermline player went into a hard tackle on Donnie Douglas and the Kelvin player rolled away, clutching his ankle as if in agony. Beside him Lorimer heard a sniff of contempt and he turned to see one of the corporate guests shake his head wearily. It was de rigueur these days for a player to fake an injury and have his opposite number penalised if he could, and Lorimer sympathised with the man’s cynicism. But, for once, this seemed to be a genuine injury as the team doctor ran on to the pitch and immediately signalled for a stretcher. The stadium lights were on now, the sky having darkened to a deep slate-grey, and thunder rumbled in the distance as the crowd waited for the game to resume.
In minutes Donnie Douglas had been stretchered off and John McKinnery was running on to the pitch, shouting out the instructions that had come fro
m Ron Clark, but with Douglas down, the nature of the game seemed to change. Lorimer had seen it all before. The enthusiasm after being a goal up could vanish like a morning mist. Now the Kelvin players seemed incapable of keeping the ball at their feet; their very movements seemed sluggish, as though the oppressive atmosphere was weighing them down.
‘And the opposition is coming right back into this game. That’s a terrible pass by Rientjes, picked up by Dunfermline’s Linley and now the Pars are on the move, deep into Kelvin’s half. Ah! Davie Clark’s swept right in and the whistle blows for a free kick to Dunfermline. But here’s Thomson coming in to argue with the ref and – I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing – Thomson has given the referee a shove that’s sent him flying! Oh, no mistake now. That’s a red card and Baz Thomson is running off the park amidst howls of anger from the fans. What a stupid thing to do! Just when Kelvin is ahead! Well, I’ll bet Ron Clark will have some strong words to say to the striker when he comes off. But Thomson is just running down the tunnel, not looking at anyone.’
Lorimer clenched his fists. Stupid, stupid idiot! What had Thomson been playing at? Suddenly he recalled the closing game of last season. It had been the Kelvin striker’s temper that had caused his team’s relegation, some said. What if ...? Lorimer considered the possibility for a moment. No, surely Thomson wouldn’t deliberately throw a game. Or had he been in someone’s pocket for that very reason? Like Norman Cartwright, could there be an unusually large sum of money squirrelled away in the Kelvin striker’s bank account and, if so, who was behind it?
The thunder sounded again, closer this time as the clouds hung like a suffocating blanket over the football stadium. And, despite the clamminess, Lorimer felt himself shiver.
*
Detective Constable Niall Cameron banged his fist on to the table in frustration. Lorimer had told them to keep in radio contact and yet he wasn’t responding to this call. What the heck was going on at the football stadium? He looked back at the piece of paper in his hand, a fever of excitement sweeping over him. This had to be a real breakthrough. The man had seen action in Bosnia, Northern Ireland and the first Gulf War. Who better to have experience of firearms than this? Cameron bit his lip. Lorimer had given him strict instructions to stay at HQ as their base contact, so he had to keep trying to make communication with the SIO. It was all he could do to sit still and redial Lorimer’s number, when what he really wanted was to be there himself.
It was as though he were invisible. Nobody could see him because he was part of the place, expected to be there. It gave him a feeling of pride; to be such an indispensable piece of this football club and to have this power, this control. If nobody could see him what great feats might he be able to achieve today? They were all looking towards the pitch where the boys were pitting their skills against each other. He watched for a moment, stopping on the stairs next to a steward – the man’s attention so totally taken up with the action that he didn’t even nod in his direction. Gaffney was battling for the ball against a Pars defender. The mid-fielder suddenly took the ball away and ran with it for a couple of seconds before passing it across the pitch.
As every pair of eyes followed its progress, he slipped away, still unnoticed, and headed towards the North stand, sports bag slung over his shoulder. Inside it the take-down rifle was hard and solid like the stone steps beneath his boots.
Alistair Wilson passed the man on the steep staircase and nodded. It was fine. Everything was normal, everyone was where they ought to be.
The crackle from his earpiece made him stop suddenly.
‘DS Wilson. What’s up?’
‘Make your way to the main entrance, please. We’ve apprehended a suspect,’ a disembodied voice told him. Quickening his pace, Wilson hastened down the remaining steps and headed towards the tunnel.
‘Better be our man,’ he muttered to himself as he entered the corridors of the club.
The place was swarming with uniformed officers when Wilson arrived and he was just in time to see a tall, burly individual being marched into a side room.
‘Who is it?’ he asked the nearest steward.
‘Big Jock. He’s Kelvin’s resident daft laddie,’ the man added with a grin.
‘Okay, keep everyone out, will you?’ Wilson ordered. His mouth twisted in a grimace of displeasure as he opened the door where moments before the man had been bundled. Big Jock had eluded them so far, though the staff here at Kelvin had assured them he’d be at the game. Was he on Lorimer’s mental list of most likely suspects? They’d certainly been advised to nab him on sight, though there was not yet a shred of evidence against the well-known fan. Wilson closed the door behind him and sighed. Maybe this interview would bring the whole thing to an end. Looking at the man who sat staring at him wild-eyed and mouth open in wordless protest, the Detective Sergeant fervently hoped so.
‘They’ve got somebody downstairs,’ the voice told Lorimer.
‘Right. Keep everyone on alert till half-time. I’ll see you there,’ he replied, one hand cupping his face so that his words were not overheard.
But Pat Kennedy had turned his way and Lorimer could see the sweat beading the big man’s forehead.
Lorimer leaned across to whisper in his ear. ‘It’s okay. They’ve got hold of Big Jock. Nothing to worry about.’ He met Kennedy’s eyes then looked away, pretending an interest in the game that he did not feel. Keeping the chairman safe and secure was what this was all about right now and if they found anything on ‘Big’ Jock MacInally they could all relax and enjoy the second half.
Climbing to the very top made him feel light-headed and giddy with anticipation. Down below, the figures running about the park looked smaller. Like wee insects. I could squash them with my thumb. He smiled at the thought. Three down, one to go, he told himself. Then that would be his mission completed, wouldn’t it?
There was only the usual duty-officer inside, staring at the CCTV cameras. The man turned to see who had entered the tiny room, his mouth open in astonishment. But before he could utter a word the rifle butt was smashed across his jaw. He hardly felt the headset being ripped from his ears as he was sent spinning on to the floor. Two more blows and the world fell away into a yawning chasm of black.
The man with the rifle closed the door behind him and slid the bolt. Stepping over the policeman’s body with complete indifference, he stood at the window and gazed down on that mass of humanity below him. His eyes drifted to the directors’ box and, taking his binoculars out of his jacket pocket, he trained them on the rows of people until he found his quarry. Kennedy was sitting next to that detective, Lorimer. For a moment he felt a surge of excitement verging on sheer joy. Perhaps he could take him out too? Letting the glasses fall, he swiftly screwed the three pieces of rifle together with a dexterity that showed his expertise. Then he pushed the window open and held the rifle steady, peering through the sights. One shot and Kennedy would be dead. He could make his way out, leave the gun in its usual place and nobody would ever find him. Two shots and he might lose the advantage of a quick exit. But even as he sought the man wearing the black cap, the temptation to kill DCI Lorimer was growing like a cancer inside him.
‘We’ve lost contact with the CCTV duty officer!’ The words in Lorimer’s ear made him look up immediately to the glass box perched high above the ranks of seats on the North stand. The open window and the figure standing there seemed to make time stop for a second.
‘Get down!’ he shouted at Kennedy, pushing him hard on his back then clambering over the several pairs of feet blocking his exit.
‘Lorimer to armed unit. All officers to the North stand. Suspect armed,’ he roared, careless now of who could hear his words. Looking up again, he saw the open window, but now there was no dark figure, no sniper’s rifle pointing his way.
At that moment his radio crackled into life.
‘Lorimer,’ he answered shortly, his gaze remaining on that square of glass high above the rows of seating. Cameron’s lilting voice
came over the line, breathless with excitement. Had he been able to see the expression on his SIO’s face as he told Lorimer what he had discovered, it would have given Niall Cameron a feeling of immense satisfaction.
‘Where is he?’ one of the men called out, rifle at the ready. But all the armed response unit could see when they burst into the room was the crumpled shape of the duty officer lying in a pool of his own blood.
Lorimer stood in the open door behind them. He was out of breath after racing up those flights of steps and could barely speak. ‘Cover every exit. Don’t let him get away,’ he ordered, then stood aside as the officers, clad in bulletproof vests and hard helmets, clattered past him. ‘Lorimer. Get a medic up here now,’ he barked into his radio, staring at the man lying inside. He stepped in, and knelt by his side, feeling for a pulse. It was there, thank God.
The room was suddenly quiet, though he could still hear the crowd’s noise like a susurrating wave in the distance as the Kelvin players surged forward. He looked out of the window, not towards the action on the football pitch but to where, only minutes before, he had been sitting beside Patrick Kennedy. It was a perfect angle, he thought. And only an expert marksman who knew this place inside out would have chosen it.
Lorimer nodded to himself. It had to be him. There was nobody else capable of this. Though what had motivated the killer still remained a mystery.
In front of him the bank of cameras still showed differing angles of the park. In a moment he was in the duty officer’s chair, scanning each screen for any sight of the man he needed to catch. Impatiently his eyes flicked from one to the next, looking for the familiar figure among the crowded stands. Would he try to slip in with the Keelies? Probably not if he was still armed, Lorimer told himself. Though what havoc he might wreak if he was in the crowd, Lorimer shuddered to think.
Then he saw him, walking slowly along the path towards the clubhouse as though nothing had happened. Lorimer panned in on the grey figure and made the image freeze. Yes! The way he carried the sports bag made it appear weighed down by something substantial. The DCI swore under his breath. He was still armed, then. Barking orders into his radio, Lorimer didn’t even give the officer on the floor a glance as he tore out of the room and sped down the stone staircase. Help was on its way, but if he didn’t act soon God alone knew how many more would be dead or injured.
