Final Whistle

by J Jackson Bentley

  5) Punishment for not fixing the match? Yes.

  6) Conclusion - His beating was arranged by match fixers too.

  - Question, why not kill him?

  7) Alex is threatened twice- letter and beating!

  8) Tweedledee and Tweedledum carried out the beating.

  9) Conclusion: Attack is arranged by match fixers.

  10) Chris Smith employs two Tweedles.

  11) Conclusion- Chris Smith is the match fixer.

  I suppose that I’m a little slow on the uptake but a sudden thought hit me like a thunderbolt.

  “Sara. I need to make a phone call. Pass me the handset.” I picked up the phone and dialled a number I hadn’t rung for some time. My call was answered quickly by the man who brought me to United as a boy. We spoke for a few minutes about his retirement but it was clear that Bob, the old United scout, was still bright and alert.

  “Bob. Do you remember Mick Smith? He played a few games for United in the mid seventies.”

  “Yeees.” Bob answered warily.

  “Is there any chance that he could be related to Chris Smith who kept goal for the Rovers in the eighties and nineties?”

  “Alex. Is this a wind up?”

  “No. I really need to know.”

  “You are talking about Mick Smith, the teenager I brought over from Ulster?”

  “Yes. I am.” I was beginning to get exasperated.

  “Alex. Mick Smith and Chris Smith aren’t related... they are one and the same person!”

  CHAPTER 16

  I was stunned.

  “What is it?” Sara asked, concerned. I twisted the handset so that she could hear the other side of the conversation. Sara moved close and her delicate perfume distracted me. I found my voice again and, with a great mental effort, framed another simple question for my old mentor.

  “Bob. How can Mick Smith be Chris Smith? It makes no sense.”

  “Of course it does, Alex,” he responded. “You see, Chris Smith was always his real name.”

  “I don’t understand,” I repeated.

  “Look, Alex. We already had Chris Nuttall at full back and so to avoid confusion we gave Chris Smith the nickname Mick.”

  “But why Mick?” I asked, still puzzled.

  “Come on, Alex. Before political correctness was forced on us, young lads from Northern Ireland were often nicknamed ‘Mick’, just as the southern Irish were sometimes called ‘Paddy’. Of course you’d never get away with it today,” he said ruefully.

  ************

  “So, he is still at it after all these years.” I gave voice to my thought for Sara’s benefit. For me the phone call had confirmed my suspicions.

  “It certainly looks like it,” Sara replied. “But how you will prove it, I haven’t quite worked out yet.” I was surprised at her negative approach.

  “We’ve got them cold, Sara.” I countered.

  “Not yet, we haven’t,” she persisted. We were about to have our first disagreement.

  A heated debate ensued and Sara won hands down.

  “I used to be captain of the debating team at Saint Hilda’s,” she explained with a grin.

  I considered what she had said and concluded that she was right. I was being naive again. Chris Smith had never been convicted of anything. The police team heading up ‘Operation Ballgame’ hadn’t even mentioned him as a potential suspect and I couldn’t prove that he so much as knew Roy Bennett. Sara wasn’t far off the mark when she said Chris Smith was unassailable for the time being. As for the two heavies who had worked me over, Sara hadn’t seen their faces during the attack. She hadn’t even been able to read the mud smeared number plate. All that she could say for certain was that my attackers drove a blue Vauxhall Frontera similar to that driven by the men we now know as Mr Betts and Mr Holden. And how many blue Fronteras are there? Thousands, probably. As she pointed out, all I had was a broken cufflink and my word against theirs.

  We needed more evidence and I thought I knew a way that I could get it, but I knew that I couldn’t involve Sara. It was too dangerous.

  ************

  I consulted the local A-Z one last time. From the brightly coloured map it appeared to me that Chris Smith’s house was now less than a quarter of a mile away. Too new to be on the map, it nestled in the heart of a new estate built on the main Chester road. I turned onto the A57 and drove for a quarter of a mile. The automatic Mercedes lacked the performance of my own sports model but it made no demands on my stiff left leg.

  The development was visible for a good while. At the entrance to the site multi-coloured flags emblazoned with the name “Raby Homes”, flapped in unison atop freshly painted white flagpoles. The landscaping was new, and the hot sun, along with a lack of rain had conspired to ensure that the joints in the recently laid turf were plain to see. Following the sign for the showhomes I passed Argyll Croft, the street where my quarry lived. I slowed the Mercedes to a crawl and looked down the small close, populated with identical large detached houses. Some of the houses had been sold and were now occupied, others showed no signs of life behind dusty uncurtained windows.

  I left the blacktopped roadway behind and bounced the car along a loose stone track towards the sales office. The sales office was situated in what would eventually become someone’s double garage and was identified by yet another flagpole. Making a mental note to invest in shares of a flagpole maker, I pulled onto a small car parking area and stopped. I was barely out of the car when Aili, I knew it was Aili by the prominent badge on her equally prominent bust, grinned a welcoming greeting. Rows of perfect white teeth were framed by full red lips as she pouted a sultry “Hello”.

  “I’m interested in buying a house,” I said.

  “Oh. That‘s a coincidence,” she countered, mocking me. “I’m interested in selling one.”

  I laughed, she laughed, and we walked towards the office. She clutched a clipboard close to her chest with both arms. Perhaps she had seen me looking. Noticing my ungainly stride she asked,

  “Have you got a bad leg?”

  “I did it playing football,” I replied.

  “Really?” she said, as she sorted through her papers. “My husband plays football on Sunday mornings.”

  She looked at me and I got the message. The lines were drawn. She was off limits to girl hungry house buyers.

  “Do you have any houses left in Argyll Croft?” I asked. She turned over a sheet of paper and revealed a list of house plot numbers, all with red lines through them except for one.

  “You’re in luck,” she answered. “Doubly lucky, in fact.” She shuffled more papers and then looked me directly in the eye. “ Number fourteen fell through just last weekend and we are offering a discount for a quick exchange of contracts.”

  “That could be just what I’m looking for. Perhaps I could take a look at it?” I tried to sound like an enthusiastic purchaser. I must have been convincing because three minutes later I was walking towards the unsold house with a bunch of keys in my hand.

  ************

  From the outside number fourteen appeared identical to Chris Smith’s house just across the road. The front door was directly under a small timber canopy and in full view of the street. I walked round to the side of the house where the kitchen door was largely concealed behind the abutting garage. The back door was UPVC with an attractive stained glass panel at the top. Below the stained glass the half glazed door had a further six panels of semi opaque glass, each around six inches wide by nine inches high. The lock was of the Yale cylinder type and about eighteen inches below it was a lever handle. I turned the key in the Yale and stepped into the spacious kitchen. There were two doors in the kitchen, other than the external door, one to my left and the other straight ahead. I opened the door to my left and found myself in the hallway, looking towards the front door. Under the stairs was an open area with a coat rack, but more importantly it contained a cheap looking burglar alarm panel. On the opposite wall was a clear perspex covered pan
el that protected the electrical mains switch and a variety of fuses. I examined both panels closely. In many ways the alarm panel was similar to my own. I hoped that this familiarity would prove to be advantageous.

  The sun was sinking fast and the raking light was warm and red as I made my way back to a hopeful Aili. I said I would like to bring my girlfriend to see the house and we made an unspecific pledge to speak again soon. I left the sales office with the memory of the young saleswoman’s beaming smile accompanying me on my way home.

  ************

  Chris Smith’s team were over a hundred and fifty miles away playing a midweek match against Newcastle United at St James’s Park and I was sitting in a dark Mercedes listening to the opening minutes of play. In the four days since my visit to the showhouse I had stripped and reassembled my own alarm panel a hundred times. I could now do it in total darkness by touch alone. My best time was twenty eight seconds, some twelve seconds less than the time lag allowed to the householder for switching it off after entry. I suddenly realised that I had been very presumptuous and hoped that tonight’s alarm had a forty second grace period too, largely because my injured leg still didn’t like to run. Chris was on sitting with the substitutes, according to the commentator. He was probably in his last season coaching Premiership goalkeepers, he would be in his fifties now. As soon as I had his presence at the match confirmed I climbed out of the car and strode off towards Argyll Croft, being careful to leave my car inconspicuously parked on the main road away from the estate.

  I had taken the trouble to dress in a dark suit and tie and I was carrying my briefcase. Just another man returning home late from the office. The streetlamps were an ineffective orange sodium, shedding barely enough light to define my shape, or so I hoped. I needn’t have worried as families nestled behind closed curtains in lighted rooms with the flicker of television sets occasionally providing added illumination.

  The Smith home, number eight, was dark and appeared to be deserted. I walked purposefully along the drive and down by the side of the house. When I arrived at the back door, concealed from interested neighbours, I remembered to breathe again and found myself panting nervously as my heart raced. After a few seconds of breathing deeply I calmed down and set about my task. Unlocking the briefcase, I removed a sheet of sticky back plastic, in best Blue Peter tradition, and a hammer and a torch, in best Crimewatch tradition. I peeled the paper backing from the plastic to reveal the contact adhesive. I placed the adhesive face of the plastic firmly over one of the small glass panes, smoothing it over the whole pane and the surrounding wood mullions. Remembering to wear cotton gloves, this part of the operation was both easy and straightforward. The challenge would be in removing the glass pane quickly and quietly.

  The hammer hit the centre of the plastic covered pane hard. There was a thud as the pane gave way to the tempered steel, but none of the attendant sounds one usually associates with breaking glass. I spent the next couple of minutes tapping around the edges of the pane to clear away as much glass as possible. I didn’t need a lacerated artery. The thick plastic film peeled away easily and with it came the broken glass which was still firmly embedded in the adhesive. So far so good, but now I had to disarm the alarm before it had a chance to sound. I put my left hand through the empty space where the pane of glass had been and felt around. I found the Yale latch. I turned it and locked it into the unlatched position. Only the lever handle was holding the door closed. Holding on to the door handle I put the torch between my teeth and held a small terminal screwdriver. I pushed the door open and raced towards the alarm panel. A movement detector picked me up as I entered the kitchen and the alarm started to emit a beeping sound. Forty seconds and counting.

  With the torch in my mouth to illuminate my nefarious deeds, I unscrewed the front panel of the alarm. It fell off in my hand. Twenty seconds gone already. I let it go and grabbed the standby battery, pulling off the spade clips that connected it. Twenty six seconds. The alarm knew it had been tampered with and started to beep urgently, ready to sound. I had only a second to throw the mains power switch. I did it. Immediately the alarm looked to its standby battery for life, but it was disconnected and lying uselessly on the floor by my feet. The alarm fell silent.

  ************

  The next few minutes were spent isolating the alarm panel from the mains supply. Eventually I was left with a number of bare wires sticking out of the box. I crudely pushed them back into place and refitted the front panel. Now that the alarm was disconnected from the mains I was able to turn on the mains electricity. The freezer gurgled loudly behind me as it greedily sucked in the restored electricity and revived itself. I realised that I was sweating and used my thin cotton gloves to wipe my beaded brow.

  Relying only on the dim glow from the street lighting I walked around the house, room to room, closing curtains as I went. When they were all shut tight I crossed the hall and went into the lounge. With my eyes now accustomed to the darkness I was about to put on a light to carry out my search when out of the corner of my eye I saw a blue flashing light. Myriads of thoughts flashed through my mind as I turned around quickly. I was anticipating arrest and immediate incarceration. I relaxed when I saw the DVD clock emitting a pulsing blue lighted message;

  0:00

  I wandered from room to room looking for something which might incriminate Smith and tie him into the match rigging syndicate. Surprisingly, most of the rooms were empty with just a few packing cases scattered around. Where there was furniture it was sparse and unmatched. I surmised that his ex wife had done well out of their recent divorce settlement. I carried on searching. Nothing but old bills, mailshots and other innocuous correspondence came to light. I tried the door to a small room that led off from the main front hallway. It had been designated as the study on the detail sheet. The door opened to reveal a desk, filing cabinet and a computer.

  None of the drawers were locked and so I searched them thoroughly but nothing of interest caught my eye. There were bank statements, household bills and sundry insurance documents. I scanned the bank statements. They looked just like my own, a big payment in at the beginning of the month and many smaller payments out during the month. Several thousands of pounds passed through the account each month, but there was nothing that would arouse suspicion. After all, Chris Smith was an executive at a very successful company. After the fruitless search I began to doubt myself. Perhaps I was wrong. He might not be involved in the bribery ring after all.

  I slumped in the desk chair and gathered my thoughts. My eyes alighted on the computer and I remembered the USB drive that Roy had left me. Perhaps this was its original home. I switched the computer on, hoping that it was not password protected. The computer whirred and lights flashed as the boot up process scanned the disk drives. Green words appeared and disappeared so rapidly they were unreadable. Similar in looks to my own computer, it was clearly much faster and more powerful. The screen went blank and then a pattern filled the screen. Within seconds I was facing a familiar ‘Windows XP’ opening menu.

  Using the mouse I highlighted and opened the word processing software and waited for the opening screen. I clicked on ‘File’ and then on ‘Open’. One by one I examined the files. What I had hoped to find was not there. I had searched the other software files and had found nothing incriminating when I spotted a database icon. I clicked and the database software opened up for me. The last five files to have been opened appeared at the bottom of the file menu. When I saw the first item I knew that Smith was involved. The title of the file had been hand-written on Roy’s USB Drive. I clicked on the line to open;

  HITLIST.DBS

  I was disappointed with the result when the computer chastened me with the message:

  ‘Unable to open file- no disk in drive F.’

  The information had been stored on a USB Drive and deleted from the computer’s built in hard drive, the C drive. A second familiar database file was similarly listed,

  F: SYNDICATE.DBS

>   It too had been deleted from the hard drive. I couldn’t have been more frustrated. The proof of Smith’s involvement was stored on a data key beyond my reach. I tried searching the other database files but without success. The disk had been wiped clean of incriminating information. I closed the database and returned to the menu. There were no disks to be found in any of the desk drawers. Defeat seemed inevitable.

  As I leaned across to switch the computer off I caught sight of a picture of a trash can with an open lid. It was the recycle bin icon. I had an idea and hoped that it would work. Whenever I create a new file I save it on the hard drive first and then delete it when I have made a USB back up. If Chris Smith did the same I might be able to recover the deleted file. On a computer hard drive when one deletes an item all that happens is its label is removed so that the computer believes that it has gone. In practice the information stays on the disk until it is overwritten with new information. This ‘deleted’ information can often be recovered by renaming it and giving it a new label that the computer can find. I have often had to recover files this way in the past after Tanya has surfed the net and allowed some virus or another onto the hard drive. I followed the procedure shown to me by the technician at Comet, a United fan, who was fed up of my returning to the store for help. I prayed that Chris Smith had not corrupted the old files by overwriting them.