by Dan Kavanagh
That’s probably what they would be thinking, Duffy silently agreed. But Danny was a willing lad—apart from anything else he seemed glad of company—and eventually they struck a compromise. Duffy would pick him up one evening; they’d park outside The Knight Spot and just watch the customers going in. Danny thought he could handle that; and the Boss had asked him to co-operate as best he could.
‘You follow the game much, Mr Duffy?’
‘A bit. QPR’s my team, though.’
‘Ah well, now, QPR. Don’t let the Boss catch me saying it, but QPR’s a classy outfit. Classy.’
Duffy nodded. They lapsed into silence.
‘It’s a funny old game, Mr Duffy, isn’t it?’ Duffy agreed. ‘I mean, I haven’t been in it long, not really in it, not at first-team level, but already it’s taught me a thing or two.’ Duffy nodded. ‘It can be a very kind game, Mr Duffy, it can give you lots of things.’ Duffy nodded again. ‘And it can be a very cruel game. It can build you up; and then it can knock you down. It’s a bit like life, really, isn’t it?’
Duffy concurred.
‘Have a feel in that pocket over there.’ Danny was pointing to his blazer, which hung on the back of the door. Duffy reached in and pulled out a square of slightly shiny paper. On a nod from Danny he unfolded it and laid the two pages side by side. Spread across most of them was a large photograph of a sitting room. Crouched in the middle of a huge area of brightly patterned carpet was a smiling, dark-haired man holding a small child. The child was half-balanced, rather precariously, on a football.
‘That’s Trevor Brooking’s room,’ said Danny. ‘I got it out of one of the posh Sundays.’
Duffy examined the photograph. He saw a couple of large wooden cabinets, mostly full of silverware; a large yellow leather armchair, matching a large yellow leather sofa; a carved fireplace; a low glass-topped coffee-table.
‘Very nice,’ he said.
‘That’s Warren. With Trevor. He’s nearly four. Well, he was nearly four when the photo was taken. I suppose he’s a bit bigger now. And there’s Colette, she was seven. And there’s Hilke, she’s Finnish. That’s Trevor’s wife. Hilke keeps the place really tidy, it says.’
‘Very nice.’ Duffy liked the sound of Hilke.
‘Look at the picture Trevor’s got over the fireplace.’ Duffy could just make out a gold frame; inside it, a family, standing somewhere.
‘That’s Trevor getting his MBE at Buckingham Palace. With Hilke, and Warren, and Colette. They have this photographer standing outside, and he takes the picture, and then you have it framed.’
‘Nice.’
‘Do you see the decanters? And look at that fireplace. It’s not a real fireplace, actually, there isn’t a chimney, but Trevor likes fireplaces so he had it put in. It’s electric.’
‘Nnn.’
‘And look at the way the stereo’s built in. That must have cost a bomb. And the chess set. And the candlesticks on the coffee-table. I bet they’re real silver.’
‘It’s a very nice room, Danny.’
‘His wife’s Finnish. She’s called Hilke.’
‘Very nice.’
‘He’s one of the all-time greats, Trevor Brooking, don’t you think?’
‘No question.’ Duffy refolded the pages carefully. ‘Better be on my rounds, Danny. Might call back some time if that’s all right?’
‘Sure. Any time. One thing I can’t work out—do you think the room’s really as big as that, or do you think they took the photo with one of those wide-angle lenses?’
Duffy unfolded the pages again.
‘It’s hard to tell.’
He turned to go. It was only about four feet from the middle of the room to the door. If ever they came to do Danny Matson’s room, they’d certainly need a wide-angle lens.
Three phone calls. The first to Jimmy Lister, asking what the club’s policy was on the Layton Road residents.
‘Delay, Duffy. Delay the case as long as possible. I mean, it’s coming up in court this Friday, so they can try and close the gates for Saturday. But even if it goes against us, we can try appealing, or whatever.’
‘Has anyone been down to talk to the residents?’
‘No. We thought about it. But we decided the best way of making sure everything happens as slowly as possible was to do it through solicitors. Then if it all works out in the end we’ll bung them a few free tickets, something like that.’
‘What about the press?’
‘Complete news blackout, that’s our policy on the press, Duffy.’
‘No one been sniffing around?’
‘No one.’
The second call. To Ken Marriott at the Chronicle.
‘Ken, if I asked you whether or not you’d heard a particular story and you hadn’t, that wouldn’t necessarily be the same as me telling you the story, would it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, you could hold off for a day or two, and pretend I’d told you later, couldn’t you?’
‘I suppose so. It’d depend a bit on copy day, and what the story was. This week—this week I could give you forty-eight hours easily. Unless there’s a lot of work to do on the story.’
‘Did you know about Athletic being sued by local residents?’
‘No. Interesting. Which residents? Where? What for?’
‘Forty-eight hours?’
‘As long as you come back to me and no one else.’
‘Right.’
Third call. To the Anti-Nazi League.
‘Oh, it’s Ken Marriott of the West London Chronicle. West London Chronicle. Wondered if you can help us. We’re doing a story about neo-Nazis recruiting at football matches. We think it might be starting up at the Athletic ground—some outfit called the Red White and Blue Movement. Just wondered if you had any information on them?’
They had, it seemed, more than enough information on the Red White and Blue Movement. Especially about its affiliation to other, similar groups, most of whom Duffy had never heard of, and about its exact political position, which sounded pretty nasty, and about its organizing members, their backgrounds and criminal records. It was an impressive dossier, and Duffy pretended to be taking it all down. What he mainly wanted to ask, though, was how long the Movement had been in existence, and where it operated from. Six months, and an address in Ealing were the answers. Duffy offered fraternal thanks, and rang off.
Layton Road consisted of two low terraces of red-brick Victorian villas. They were neatly kept; some of them had been freshly painted. It looked a houseproud little street. Duffy approved. He took out a notebook and started at number 37.
‘Oh, good morning, sir—‘
‘No.’
‘But I’m —’
‘No samples, no religions,’ the man said. He was small and fierce, with crinkly grey hair and a jutting chin; he looked like a retired PT instructor.
‘I’m from the Chronicle. The West London Chronicle.’ At least that stopped the door being shut in his face; just.
‘Oh yes.’
‘Yes, Mr—Mr —’ Duffy pretended to search his notebook for the name.
‘What do you want?’
‘Sorry to hear about the trouble you’ve been having.’
‘How did you hear about it?’
‘That’s what we’re paid to do.’
‘Snoopers,’ said the man. Duffy didn’t feel he was getting anywhere. Suddenly the door was opened wide, the PT instructor came out, took him by the arm and marched him the four yards to the gate. Oh well, all in a reporter’s day, he reflected. When they got there, however, the fellow kept hold of Duffy’s arm and pushed him gently against the gate.
‘Bullivant,’ he said, answering a much earlier question. ‘Look at it,’ he went on, pointing at the street. ‘Nice, isn’t it? Nice little houses. Very clean, very quiet. See all these cars? Nice cars. Every home game we have to move them quarter of a mile away. Freer access for the crowds, that’s what the police say. Stop them getting vandalized
by the yobboes, that’s the truth of it. Look at these front gardens. Notice anything odd about them? Nothing in them. Just hedges, nothing else. No flowers, no plants. No point having flowers, the yobboes just pull them up. No point having window boxes, the yobboes knock them off. No point chaining your window-boxes to your window sills, that just excites them some more. Animals.’
‘Can you tell me why you haven’t complained before?’
‘Have complained before. Makes no bloody difference. All they do is send you a couple of free tickets for the next match. Who wants free tickets to watch a bloody awful side like Athletic? Send me free tickets to go and watch Tottenham and you’re talking. Anyway, the only time I feel happy about those yobboes is when they’re all locked up inside the ground making their animal noises. What on earth makes the club think I want to go inside as well and listen to their obscene chantings from a bit nearer?
‘Ever had a chicken take-away through your door? Course you haven’t. Disgusting food. Even the dog wouldn’t eat it. Ever had a yobbo doing his ablutions through your letterbox? Course you haven’t. Ever had a yobbo doing his business in your front garden? Course you haven’t. You don’t know what’s going on, my lad, you with your sharp pencil and big fat notebook and not writing anything down in it I see. You just don’t know what’s going on. You know another thing they like doing. They like ringing on the door and asking if they can use the toilet. Course you can’t, you say, use the one at the ground, and you close the door on them and there’s a bloody great explosion. Know what they’ve done? They’ve stuck a lightbulb in the door just as you’re closing it. Done that twice to me. Great sense of fun, the yobboes. Then they do their ablutions in your front garden because you wouldn’t let them use the toilet. Haven’t got any free tickets for Tottenham on you by any chance, have you, my lad? No, I thought not. Good morning to you.’
And Mr Bullivant marched back up his path and slammed the door.
Duffy crossed the road to number 48. The door was opened a couple of inches, as far as the chain would permit.
‘Arthur’s not in.’
‘Good morning, madam, I’m from the Chronicle. I was talking to Mr Bullivant—‘
‘Arthur’s not in.’
‘Could I talk to you instead?’
‘He’ll be back later.’
‘When would be a good time to call?’
‘Not now.’
‘Thank you for your help.’
At number 57 a red-faced lady in a tight perm and a pinafore answered the door.
‘Oh, the Chronicle. Very nice. Always read it. If I’d known you was coming I’d have taken off me pinny. Will you be wanting a photograph?’
‘Er, not today perhaps.’
‘Oh, be sending him round later, will you? That’ll give me time to get tidied up. But you’ll be the one with the cheque?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You mean I haven’t won the Lucky Numbers? No, I can see I haven’t. Oh well, another fortune slips through my fingers.’ She looked quite cheerful about it.
‘No, it’s about the trouble with the fans, Mrs—‘
‘Davis. That’s D-A-V-I-S. Right.’ She leaned over Duffy’s arm while he recorded the first piece of information to enter his notebook. ‘Yes, that’s right, without an E. No, I don’t really mind them myself. They’re not bad lads. Not really wicked, just a bit high-spirited. I mean, we were all young once, weren’t we?’
Duffy thought he still was young. But perhaps it was a sign of middle age that you felt no inclination to stuff half-eaten take-aways through people’s letter-boxes. Yes, that must be it.
‘I was just wondering why you all decided to go to law, especially as there are only a few home matches left in the season.’
Mrs Davis looked momentarily flustered, then gathered herself.
‘I’m afraid my husband deals with all the bills. He earns the money, he gives me the housekeeping I need—he’s a very fair man, my husband, don’t you go thinking the contrary—and when the bills come in, he deals with them. Always keep a bit back for a rainy day, that’s what he says, and he’s quite right too.’ Politely, she closed the door.
Duffy was puzzled. In one way, of course, it was all quite straightforward and understandable. The yobboes were getting worse and worse—Jimmy Lister had said they were fighting more on the terraces as well—and the residents had decided enough was enough. But these residents? If the yobboes were getting out of hand, they might go to the police. They might complain to the local paper. They might write to their local councillor, if they could remember who that was, or even to their MP. But going to a solicitor and having a writ served? They might go to a solicitor to get divorced, or to make a will. But if someone like Mr Bullivant wanted to stop the yobboes doing their ablutions through his letter-box, then he wouldn’t go running to a solicitor. Someone like Mr Bullivant would be far more likely to get out his toolkit, file down the metal edge of his letter-flap until it was really sharp, wait by his door until some heavily-lagered boot-boy stuck his whatsit through the flap, and then smack. Very nasty too. Much nastier, and much more satisfying, than running to a pinstripe.
‘I’m afraid Mr Prosser isn’t too pleased,’ said Jimmy Lister. Duffy had called in on his way to see the chairman. ‘Not pleased at all. Thinks I’m way out of order hiring you, Duffy. Says he won’t be putting this through the firm’s books.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that if I want you, I pay for you, Duffy.’
‘So am I still in work?’
‘Just. But I’ve done the calculations, and what I’d be paying you, Duffy, would be pretty much my entire salary; once the Taxman’s been to call, that is. On top of which I’m currently into an alimony situation. Would you take thirty-five?’
‘Oh all right.’ Duffy thought he really must master this haggling business, one day.
‘And you’ll keep the expenses down?’
‘No Concorde trips, I promise.’
‘Just so we understand each other. Now I’ll take you to meet Melvyn.’
Melvyn Prosser’s boardroom was where they kept the club’s silverware. One yellowing double-handled pot and a couple of shields. The pine-panelled walls of the large oblong room were covered with photographs: of the various Athletic teams down the years, and of the various Athletic Boards of Directors. The directors seemed to change as often as the teams and, in terms of wallspace, to be equally important.
Melvyn Prosser was standing by his desk in his camel-coloured overcoat giving a very decent impression of a busy man. Either he’d just arrived from somewhere, or he was just going somewhere; or perhaps he’d slipped on his overcoat especially for them, so that they’d realize how precious his time was. Having established the heavy suggestion of other priorities, Melvyn Prosser was prepared to be affable. He had a broad, fleshy face, with a vertical crease in the middle of his forehead which might possibly have been old scar tissue. It had been a quick climb, from blue collar to white collar to boardroom, and it couldn’t have been achieved if Melvyn hadn’t known how to smile while stamping on your fingers.
‘James, welcome back. And Mr Duffy. Welcome. Sherry, beer? A pint of hooch, Mr Duffy, perhaps?’ Duffy shook his head. It was quarter to eleven in the morning. ‘Quite right. I’ll abstain as well. Now James has told me about his curious decision to hire you, and as I expect you’ve heard, I very nearly said you may do the hiring, Jimmy, but I do the firing. Still, as the financial aspects have been sorted out I don’t see any objection to you hanging around if you want to.’
‘Thanks very—’
‘Though I wouldn’t mind being allowed to give you my view of the matters which Jimmy has doubtless already laid before you with a different emphasis.’ Prosser gave a chairman’s pause, the sort of pause which expects some sycophant to mumble, ‘Go ahead, please, Mr Chairman.’ When none of this was instantly forthcoming, Prosser continued. ‘I’ve heard what Jimmy’s had to say and I’ll tell you what I told him. I
don’t go in for conspiracy theories. I think we’re chasing our own tails. I think we—that’s a polite way of referring to my manager—are looking for excuses. I think we are in danger of losing our concentration on the matters in hand.’
‘You don’t think—’
‘I would be as reluctant to criticize James as the next man, but I’m bound to say that he is in danger of looking for excuses. The club is not in the happiest of positions currently in the matter of League table position—in fact, if you’ll pardon the phrase, it’s all a bit dicky. But the way out of the maze is not to be found among the boot-boys on the terraces or among the residents of Layton Road. At least, that’s my own ill-informed opinion. The way out of the maze is to be found on the park. Nowhere else. What I worry about is that our friend James’s concentration on the matters in hand is in danger of going down the karzy, if you see what I mean.’
‘You don’t think anyone’s trying to …’ Duffy wasn’t quite sure how to put it.
‘Trying to waggle the digit in the wrong orifice? Tell me who. Tell me why. Who cares if the club gets relegated? I do, Jimmy does, the Board does, the players and their wives do, and a few hundred of the older-style fans do. But why should anyone else care one way or another? I think we’re in danger of looking for excuses, as I say. We’re taking our minds off what really matters: how the players are playing. Jimmy’s job, as I see it, is and always will be to do Jimmy’s job.’
‘Can I ask if you have any particular enemies, Mr Prosser?’
Prosser laughed, and then smiled a little patronizingly at Duffy.
‘Did you see the car on the way in? Corniche, right? Gold Rolls-Royce Corniche, right? Now you don’t get one of those in this society of ours without treading on a few toes, I’ll give you that for nothing.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
