“Which brings us to you, Alex.” I noted the sudden switch to my given name. “We want you to join Operation Ballgame”.
************
I failed to see what I could achieve that experienced police officers couldn’t and I expressed these doubts to Mark Lister- Ward. He pondered for a moment and then reminded me that I was already on the inside, I was a footballer. Other footballers would speak to me, even confide in me. People would tell me things that they would never tell the police. I said that I doubted that and in reply he said two words that cut me to the quick, Aaron Morgensen.
I told the assistant chief constable that I needed to think about his offer and that I would let him have my answer very soon. The truth is I didn’t have the nerve to tell him no, face to face. Better to do it on the telephone or in an email.
I picked my car up from outside the hospital and set off in the direction of Aaron’s house.
The traffic was light and I covered the distance in a few short minutes. I clambered out of the car and walked stiffly to the door. The doorbell rang four times before I heard the locks being released. The door swung open and my cousin Judy welcomed me in, her bottom lip trembling. Dark glasses concealed her puffy red eyes and I could see that she was close to tears. I closed the door and hugged the girl who was now Aaron’s partner. She held onto me with the grip of a grizzly bear and sobbed into my shoulder.
A few minutes later she was lying on the sofa and I was preparing some hot sweet tea. I poured the tea into a mug and took it into the lounge. Sitting on the edge of the sofa with Judy holding my hand I once again saw the young girl who followed us around, as boys, all those years ago. Her tears reminded me of how cruel we had been to her as children and how remorseful we were when we made her cry. I felt a lump in my own throat as her body shook with anguish.
I left her with her tea and went into the kitchen to find something to eat. I was starving. As I sat at the table eating my eggs, bacon and beans Judy came and joined me. I folded the paper I had been reading and reached for her hand. She was calmer now.
“Have you seen him, Alex?” she asked, and I suddenly realised that we hadn’t said a word to each other since I’d arrived. Words somehow hadn’t seemed necessary. I nodded my reply as my mouth was full of food. I finished chewing and swallowed.
“Judy, he’ll be all right. I know he will. He’s the strongest and most determined man I know.” I hesitated before I continued, worrying about whether I should say it. I decided I had to. “And he has you Judy. He loves you. He never stops talking about you. He won’t give up, Judy. Because giving up would mean losing you, and that isn’t even on the agenda.” Judy squeezed my hand and smiled weakly. A short silence followed before Judy gathered her thoughts.
“Alex. I’m so sorry. You must be shattered,” she said with a concern that I found humbling, given her circumstances.
“Fit to drop.” I agreed. “I could do with a few hours just to recharge the batteries.”
“I’ll get a bed ready for you,” she said kindly.
“Actually, I was going to go home...” Half way through the sentence I could see the desperate loneliness in her eyes and changed my mind. “But I think it would be best if I stayed here.” Judy brightened immediately and set about making up the bed.
I retrieved my bags from the car and went upstairs. Judy promised to wake me in time for visiting hours and I slipped under the heavy duvet. In a matter of moments I was asleep. I didn’t dream, I guess I was too tired.
************
I was awoken by Judy gently shaking my shoulder. It seemed as though I had only been asleep for a minute, but the bedside clock confirmed that six hours had passed. Judy placed a steaming mug of black coffee on the table and laid a clean towel on the bed.
“Visiting time in an hour,” she said and I noticed that she had changed and reapplied her make up. She looked a lot more composed.
I showered and dressed through a fog of tiredness and jet lag, hoping that the lethargy would pass and I would be able to drive. After another cup of coffee I felt half human and we set off in my Mercedes to my aunt’s house. Aunt Ethel would never let anyone leave the house without something to eat and drink and so as soon as we arrived she began laying the table. The lace tablecloth covered the old walnut table and the best glasses and plates appeared from the sideboard.
“I expect you’ll want a bite of something before we go to the hospital,” the old lady said. I began to explain that I wasn’t hungry when Judy put her hand over my mouth.
“Don’t argue,” she said, “or we’ll be here all night.”
Judy and I sat down to a glass of milk each, fruit scones and homemade chocolate cake, just as we had done when we were children. Aunt Ethel poured herself a cup of tea and smiled benignly as she made sure we cleared our plates.
Judy and I pored over old photographs as her mother prepared herself for the hospital. Aunt Ethel walked more slowly than I did and I helped her into the back seat of the car. She was wearing her best coat and smelled of lavender.
Strictly speaking there was no set visiting time, but there was no point in Judy sitting fretting all day by Aaron’s bedside when he was oblivious to her presence. So, at seven in the evening we opened the door to Aaron’s observation suite.
The bed was empty and the covers were in disarray. Panic swelled in my chest and Judy turned white. I helped her into a brown plastic bucket seat before she fainted. I left unflappable Aunt Ethel in charge of her distraught daughter and went in search of a nurse.
“Mr Carter?” A voice piped up from along the corridor. I turned to see a nurse hurrying towards me. “We’ve been ringing the patient’s home for an hour but there was no reply.”
“No, we were out,” I responded. “Where is Aaron?”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.” Suddenly the fatigue was back.
************
We sat in Aaron’s room as the nurse explained that there had been a problem with Aaron’s lungs, fluid or something, and that there had been some internal haemorrhaging. In short he was in emergency surgery and the prognosis was poor. Aaron was not expected to survive.
I tried to persuade Ethel and Judy to go home and told them that I would let them know as soon as he was out of the operating theatre. They were having none of it and we all sat wordlessly waiting. The tension was like nothing I had ever known. For the second time in my life I felt useless as the life of someone close ebbed away.
I made an excuse about needing the men’s room and wandered into the deserted day room. Tears of sorrow mixed with tears of anger as I cursed the animals that had done this to my friend. And for what? For money. The greedy conscienceless bastards. I banged the table with my fist in frustration.
“Mr Carter?” I turned around to see a doctor robed in green. “We’ve done what we can. But I’m afraid it may not be enough. It’s up to him now, let’s pray that he has the will to pull through.” I nodded in response and the doctor turned away.
“Oh, by the way, Mr Carter.” The doctor turned to look at me. “I hope the police find these ‘conscienceless bastards’ too.” I realised that I must have been thinking out loud and was embarrassed at being overheard. I found my voice and thanked the doctor for his sentiments.
I pulled out my handkerchief and dried my eyes before rejoining Judy. She needed me to be strong. As I replaced it in my pocket I found a small card nestling there. I lifted it out and looked at it. I had a decision to make. It was easy. I found a telephone and dialled the number on the card. The phone rang three times before it was picked up.
“Mark Lister-Ward, please. Tell him it’s Alex Carter calling.”
CHAPTER 13
My mobile phone disturbed the quiet ambience of the tram. I picked up the phone and mouthed apologies to my fellow travellers. Judy spoke in measured tones, she was at the end of her tether. the news was neither good nor bad. It was thirty six hours since Aaron’s emergency surgery and he was holding his own.
<
br /> “At least he is breathing on his own,” she said chirpily. We engaged in small talk for a minute or two and I asked her to keep in touch before disconnecting. The new tram made its way efficiently to its destination and ground to a halt in front of a shopping arcade.
I stepped from the tram and marvelled at the improvements made in the city centre over the last decade. With a major exhibition centre and a new multipurpose arena the city was bustling again. It was also set to take off as a venue for one of the major athletics events in the 2012 Olympics. My left leg was still a little weak and so I had made sure that I could disembark from the tram right outside the old Victorian building which housed the Lancashire Evening Post. The foyer had green glazed wall tiles with a matching frieze at waist level. Above that was plasterwork and a delicate fretwork ceiling coving. The height of the room and the hard surfaces made the room echo horrendously. Everyone spoke in whispers.
I asked for Len Bailey, the veteran soccer reporter, and was led to a side room with a large table and ten chairs around it. I hadn’t been alone for more than a minute or two when the big heavy door opened and an old man walked in. He was out of breath.
“Hello, Alex,” he said, wheezing. “I can’t remember the last time you ventured into the lion's den.”
I noticed that he had a pad and a pen with him. There was no sign of a micro recorder or digital dictation machine.
“You know me, Len. I’ll rush in where angels wouldn’t.”
“There aren’t many angels in here, true enough. Now, what can I help you with? It sounded quite urgent on the blower.”
I knew that I couldn’t tell him everything and so I had prepared as sound a cover story as I could. Len was a wily old bird and he would know that there was more to it, but as long as he got the story in the end, he would co-operate. He lowered his short bulky frame into one of the conference room chairs. His substantial paunch hung over his trousers, fully concealing his belt. I sat down opposite him. ‘The fans’ favourite writer’ had been his by-line for over two decades and now he was due to retire. The rumour was that he would go at the end of the season. City, United and County had all been asked to participate in his retirement events. I wondered if he knew. I looked into the grey, lined face and saw something deep in his watery eyes, but I couldn’t identify it. Perhaps it was the old lust, the lust for a good story.
“I’m doing a special piece on soccer corruption for the ‘The Football Business’, you know, that Friday night show on satellite TV.”
“Aye? I’d forgotten you were a journalist now.” He was baiting me. “But it’s old news since the trial of those three footballers at Winchester Crown Court.”
“I want to do it from a historical perspective. You know. Go back to the early days, look at the pay scandal in the sixties, the match fixing allegations from the seventies. The so called ‘bungs’ allegedly given to managers for signing foreign players in the eighties.” I paused for a reaction.
“Go on. You’re giving me a few ideas for my column.” He smiled, revealing a crooked line of yellowing teeth.
“Len,” I said, hoping not to sound patronising. “You’ve been around for a long time. You must have seen it all by now. I thought you could point me in the right direction.” I waited for his response.
“Do you want a coffee?” he asked.
************
The interview was a tortuous affair. He wanted to know why I wanted the answer before he would reply to any question. But I could understand that. This was, after all, his profession. These snippets of information put the food on his table. In his eyes I was an enthusiastic amateur. He was right of course.
I found out everything I could have wished to know about the 1930’s to the 1960’s and I listened to his monologue about the game’s fall in the 1980’s and 1990’s. Conspicuously, nowhere in the discussions did he mention the match rigging accusations of the seventies, yet I knew he had been relentless in seeking it out. He published and was often damned, but he came out with the respect of his peers and all honest footballers.
Eventually he opened up a little and I made notes as he spoke.
“In the seventies it all went wrong for the big clubs. Player power, no loyalty. Good players who just wouldn’t put in the effort. The top clubs were paying big fees and big wages for so called stars, but when it came down to it they just couldn’t get their hands on the silverware. Little clubs came up into the first division and put the frighteners on the bigger teams. Clubs like Swansea, Middlesbrough and Huddersfield suddenly started to outshine the big money teams. Attendances dropped and second division clubs came through to win the FA Cup against top teams. This notable lack of success led to disillusionment amongst the supporters and, as the real fans fell away, the yobs saw their chance and moved in.
The top teams had to restore order. To put things back the way they were. But no matter what they paid for players, success eluded them. A couple of the top clubs were even relegated!
Then someone came up with the idea of spending the money on fixing the results instead of fixing their football team. I dare say there was some gambling involved. Hell’s teeth, there was everything else; drugs, drink, prostitutes, the lot. But in the main I think managers just wanted success, and if they couldn’t win it, they’d buy it.”
“Who were the people that were supposed to be involved?” I enquired.
“That’s something I won’t tell you, because some of those suspected at the time are still in the game today. But I think you know about the one closest to home?”
“Jim Duncan, you mean?” I recalled the fall from grace of the old United boss.
“Yes, poor old Jim.” Len stared out of the window. There was a faraway look in his eye. As I recalled it was Len’s column that had led to Jim Duncan’s dismissal and an FA Inquiry.
“To this day he still says he was fitted up,” Len sighed.
“And was he?” I asked. The question was pointed, and Len turned to look at me before answering.
“No, Alex he wasn’t. There was just too much evidence.” Len stood up and our discussion was over. He wished me well with my research and asked that I give him an acknowledgement when the programme was aired. I promised that I would.
“Where is Jim Duncan now?” I asked conversationally.
“I think he has a smallholding just outside Buxton, in the peak district. It’s very pretty up there, so they tell me. Perhaps I’ll have time to take a look when they pay me off.”
************
I missed Edge Lane twice before a local directed me straight to it. In reality it wasn’t so much a lane as a rutted farm track leading to three farms. The entrance was concealed by overhanging trees and the first fifty yards of the road was so densely wooded that it was like driving at night. As I drove up a slight incline I came into the bright sunshine and ahead of me were magnificent views of the peaks.
The road twisted and turned for almost a mile before I reached Lane End farm. I turned off the lane and drove through a gateway into a concrete covered yard. I parked my car beside an old Land Rover and climbed out. There was no-one about and so I walked around to the front door. I knocked and waited. It was some time before the door opened. A very old looking Jim Duncan stood before me. There was no sign of recognition on his face, and so I introduced myself.
“Hello, Mr Duncan? I’m Alex Carter. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
“We did?” He looked puzzled and I was a little bemused myself.
“Yes. You asked me to come over and speak to you.”
“Did I? I can’t remember a thing about it.” He placed the palm of his hand against his forehead as if it would aid his memory. I was wondering what to do next when I heard a voice from further inside the old farmhouse.
“Dad. Who is it?”
The voice sounded ever closer until I could see its owner. The owner of the voice was quite stunning. She was around five feet five and slightly built. Wearing a baggy jumper that only barely concealed a woma
nly bust over tight jeans, she was drying her hands. The sunlight caught her face and I saw the most beautiful steel blue eyes I had ever seen. Her perfect features were framed by an urchin style haircut sculptured from rich brown hair. She caught sight of me and automatically wiped her hands before smoothing out her clothes and pushing her hair into place self consciously. The young woman spoke to her father but looked at me.
“Dad. You didn’t tell me we were expecting visitors.” Her voice was light and lilting. She had no identifiable regional accent. “Come on then. Invite the man inside.” Jim Duncan beckoned me in and I followed him and his daughter into the living room.
The living room was comfortable and airy. It reminded me of my gran’s house from my childhood. There was no TV or Hi-Fi and the only sound came from a magnificent Grandfather clock in one corner. The only concession to modernity was a gas log fire in the old decoratively tiled surround. The young woman beckoned me to the large overstuffed sofa as her father sat in his wingback chair.
“Hello. I’m Sara,” she said. “I’m afraid Dad is hopeless with visitors these days. I should know you, shouldn’t I?”
“Perhaps,” I responded noticing, Sara’s full lips and firm chin. “I am Alex. Alex Carter.”
“Oh no.” She yelped and I wondered what I had done. “If I had known. I mean, I would have tried to look a little more presentable. I mean you, here, the England captain and me in my scruffy clothes.” She babbled on and looked shamefaced.
“Not at all,” I said, “you look beautiful as you are.” Who said that? I asked myself silently. What corny, cliche ridden corner of my mind spat that one out? She blushed again and so did I. Sara was looking straight into my eyes and I felt no urge to break the eye contact.
Final Whistle Page 15
