Final Whistle

by J Jackson Bentley

  Aaron was looking lean and fit. He was aching to get back into full training but the coaches were holding him back. It looked to me as though he could be back between the sticks for United by November, a view he shared, no doubt.

  Lance touched base with me on Saturday morning. His contacts had told him that Liam Watt had been seen in Bolton during the week. Lance was there now, hot on his trail. For the first time I wondered what Lance would do when he found Watt. Then I remembered the gun and had no doubts.

  All too soon it was Monday and I was back on the train and heading towards Euston.

  ************

  I had known Luke Reaman almost as long as I had been playing football. In the months I had known that he was to give evidence I had struggled to think how he could believe that the tackle was anything less than outrageous. Many views were expressed but I knew him and chose not to believe that he was motivated by anything other than an honest wish to see justice done.

  We saw a completely different side of Mr Webb, opposing counsel today. He was charming, considerate and amusing as he teased the evidence out of the former international soccer star. Luke spoke with conviction about tackles good and bad and on the tackle that ended his career. The same old video clip was shown again. Luke visibly winced when the tackle came in and yet his opinion was unchanged.

  “Mr Reaman. Was that tackle either reckless or dangerous in your opinion?” Mr Webb asked.

  “No sir, it was not,” came the practised reply.

  “How would you describe the tackle, then, Mr Reaman?”

  “I would say that it was poorly timed and that Dean Butler lacks the pace necessary to keep up with a player of Alex Carter’s ability.”

  “So, here we have a player in his twilight years who is simply not as quick as he was.” Counsel reframed Luke’s answer.

  “That is correct.”

  “In your opinion, would Mr Carter’s clever footwork deceive the likes of the defendant to such an extent that they would be drawn into making such an ill conceived tackle?”

  “It is certainly possible,” Luke said.

  “You didn’t pursue the player who ended your career, did you, Mr Reaman? Why was that?”

  “Because it was just one of those things. You take a chance every time you walk out on the field. These things are usually nobody’s fault, they just happen.” Luke looked sadder than I had ever seen him. The judge was writing furiously. Dean Butler’s barrister sat down. He had finished with his first witness and was grinning widely. As he did so Luke began to reel and sway. Our Junior counsel was closest and he rushed to the witness’s aid. The judge expressed concern about the state of the witness and asked if he was all right to carry on. Luke explained to the judge that nerves had prevented him from keeping his breakfast down and he would welcome a break. The court was adjourned for two hours to allow Luke Reaman to get something to eat and to recover his composure.

  ************

  “That didn’t go too well, did it?” I said as I bit into a tuna sandwich.

  “Nonsense,” Christopher Byron replied, “the man is on the ropes already and we haven’t started the cross examination yet.” He obviously saw things differently. I ate and drank as the lawyers huddled and discussed the afternoon’s strategy. I hoped that they wouldn’t destroy the man in the box because he already looked fragile.

  “Alex.” Junior counsel came over and spoke to me.

  “Mmmm.” I replied, my mouth full of sandwich.

  “In conference you mentioned that as England Schoolboys Team Coach, Mr Reaman made a coaching video that condemned the over the ball tackle. Is that right?”

  “Yes. I remember seeing it but it was made for an American company and I was unable to find a copy.”

  “That might not matter given Mr Reaman’s clear nervousness. Do you remember the gist of what was said.?” I repeated, as best I could, Reaman’s words of warning to the young players and Junior counsel wrote them down verbatim. “That’s fine, Alex. Thanks.”

  I hadn’t seen Christopher Byron cross examining before and I was pleasantly surprised. He was calm and polite but unmistakably firm.

  “Mr Reaman. I, like my learned friend, have been a football supporter for some time. I remember well your playing career. Like Mr Carter you were a skilful attacking player. Now let us get this silliness out of the way once and for all. You didn’t invite the tackle that ended your career, did you? Your tricky footwork didn’t inveigle some poor innocent defender into smashing your knee, did it? The question was so harsh it left Luke breathless.

  “No.” He replied.

  “As an attacker you tried to wrongfoot defenders rather than encourage them to make rash tackles, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. No attacker wants to be injured.” Luke said.

  “Good, I’m glad that we have cleared that up.” Byron stole a look at his learned friend. “Now Mr Reaman, you abhor the over the ball tackle, don’t you?”

  “But this wasn’t an over the ball tackle in my view.” Luke was rattled.

  “Mr Reaman, we will get on much better if you answer my questions rather than making up your own questions and answering those. Now please answer my question. Do you abhor over the ball tackles, yes or no?”

  “It depends what you mean, sometimes…..”

  “Thank you. Mr Reaman, you will have an opportunity to expand in due course. Let’s see if we can extract a nice simple yes or no, shall we? Do you patronise the young players you are coaching?”

  “No, certainly not.”

  “Good. So, you mean what you say to them, you only tell them what you truly believe.” Byron was leading Luke on.

  “Yes, of course I do.” Byron turned around to take a video tape that Simon Moreton was holding up for him. Luke’s eyes followed the tape. I wondered what it contained. The QC flourished the tape and asked,

  “Have you made a coaching video for an American audience?” Luke’s eyes were glued to the tape in Byron’s hand and he began to perspire.

  “Yes I have.” Byron looked at the label on the video.

  “That video was called ‘Playing the professional way. Wasn’t it?” Luke swallowed and reached for a glass of water.

  “I think so, yes.”

  “On that video you said to the young players that you…” My counsel picked up his pad and read from it. “Abhorred the two footed, over the ball tackle, that it was properly outlawed and that it was the greatest cause of injury in the modern game. Were you lying to those youngsters, Mr Reaman, or do you really believe that the over the ball tackle is abhorrent?”

  “No. I wasn’t lying.” Luke sounded defeated.

  “So the two footed, over the ball tackle is abhorrent and dangerous, in your opinion?”

  “Yes,” he agreed, but rallied with, “but this wasn’t that sort of tackle.”

  “I’m glad you raised that Mr Reaman.” Byron laid the video on his table. “Let us look at the tackle again.” Junior counsel froze the frame where Butler’s studs contacted my leg. “Mr Reaman I will ask you two simple questions and I would appreciate a simple answer to each. Firstly, are Mr Butler’s two feet connecting with Mr Carter’s left leg?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Thank you, Mr Reaman.” Byron said loudly. “Secondly, are his two feet over the top of the ball?”

  “Yes, but again…”

  “Thank you, Mr Reaman. Now, just to recap,” Counsel picked up the video again, “you described the dangerous tackle, that you abhor, as two footed and over the ball. The Butler tackle had both of these characteristics, didn’t it, Mr Reaman?”

  “It did, yes but…” Luke didn’t get the chance to finish.

  “No more questions, M’Lord.”

  Counsel for Dean Butler tried some damage limitation but it was largely ineffectual and he knew it. He dismissed his nervewracked witness and called for the match referee to be sworn in. By the time the referee was sworn in and had given his personal details it was four o’ clock and
the hearing was adjourned for another night.

  I collared my QC on his way to the robing rooms. Ensuring that nobody was around I asked,

  “How did you get hold of that training video? I searched high and low and couldn’t find it.”

  “I don’t have the training video,” he replied.

  “Well what was that you were brandishing in the court room?” I was puzzled.

  “I have no idea, Alex,” he smirked.

  “But you implied…”

  “Alex. I implied nothing. If Mr Reaman chose to believe that I had the video then that is his problem.” He turned and, in a flourish of black gown, strode off into the robing room laughing.

  ************

  I was in high spirits as I walked along the Strand that evening. The case appeared to be turning in our direction, though the lawyers were still very cautious. As I walked towards the hotel, I passed a newspaper seller bellowing out some indecipherable words at the top of his voice. I looked at the papers in his hand and guessed that he was selling the Evening Standard. I listened again but even knowing what he was saying, I still couldn’t make out the words. Normally I would have ignored him but when I saw the headline on the board, I stopped dead in my tracks.

  ‘Dawn Raid on Footballers’

  I purchased a newspaper and hurried back to the hotel to read it. That morning at dawn - why always at dawn - anyway, that morning at dawn, Operation Ballgame was executed and Police from five forces arrested a total of thirteen people involved in the professional game. The details in the newspaper were sketchy and names were being withheld, but there was no doubt that things were moving on apace now. I looked at my watch. It was just after five thirty. Lister-Ward would still be at work. I dialled his number. I was told that he was away in London for the day and after speaking to a detective I managed to get a contact number. I rang the number.

  “Ballgame, DS Larch speaking.” I introduced myself to DS Larch and asked to speak to Mark Lister- Ward. It took a few minutes but he eventually came on the line.

  “Alex. You’ve been reading the papers.”

  “Not that I learned very much,” I replied. “What is going on?” I listened intently as my police contact listed the names of those arrested. Chris Smith was among them. We are still looking for his violent friends Mr Betts and Mr Holden. They are looking at serious time for the attack on you and your friend Aaron, GBH at least and probably attempted murder.”

  “I thought that Aaron couldn’t identify them?” I said, wondering how the prosecutors would prove their case beyond reasonable doubt.

  “But they don’t know that, do they, Alex?” The world was full of people bluffing. First my QC and now the police. “These are professional thugs, Alex. They realise that they’ll end up doing time and so they’ll try to do a deal.”

  Chris Smith was already out on bail, as were most of the players and ex players arrested at dawn. Faced with the evidence against them a good number had broken down and admitted their involvement. There was still a lot of work to do but Lister- Ward was confident that Chris Smith and a couple of the ringleaders would end up in court. Most of the players would be cautioned and thereby avoid the ignominy of a court appearance, but only if they agreed to give evidence for the prosecution. Those players were lucky to be let off so lightly, though what the FA would do to them didn’t bear thinking about.

  I spoke to Tanya and Sara on the phone but Aaron wasn’t at home and so I left a message on the answerphone. When I put the phone down I realised how hungry I was and decided to seek out a thick juicy steak.

  Just along from the hotel I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to see Leonard Bray, the private detective.

  “Well, if it isn’t my shadow.” I hesitated, feigning a puzzled look. “ Leonard, isn’t it?”

  “You know then?” He was shocked.

  “Yes, I know that you have been tailing me.” He squirmed as I spoke.

  “But I didn’t do anything else. I had no part in anything else. It was just a job. You can tell them that can’t you?”

  “Tell who exactly?” I asked.

  “The Police. They went to my home this morning to arrest me. But I haven’t done anything illegal.” He was beginning to panic. “If you help me, I’ll help you.” I was intrigued.

  “And how can you help me?”

  “In the boot of my car I have a baseball bat.” I thought I knew what was coming. “I took it from a heavy called Norman. It was in the back of his fourtrack. It was insurance in case I was set up. It has blood on it.”

  “Aaron’s blood?” I asked incredulously.

  “Yes, and even better, it’s bound to have Norman’s prints all over it.” He looked around nervously. Although he was almost my height he was thin to the point of frailty, not my idea of a detective at all.

  “Where is it?”

  “I’ll show you,” he said, “but you have to promise to get me off the hook with the Ballgame people.” I promised and we walked to his car. He looked around cautiously as we stood under a brightly lit yellow NCP sign. He was a worried man. The old Cavalier was on the first floor in amongst a host of other vehicles. As we approached the car he pressed a key fob and the indicator lights flashed as the alarm disarmed. The so called private detective opened the hatchback and inside was a travel rug. He carefully opened up the rug and to my surprise there was nothing at all in it.

  “Stupid, Stupid, Alex.” I thought to myself just before the sickening blow to the back of my head. Blackness engulfed me again.

  CHAPTER 21

  I came to with a thumping headache. There was a throbbing lump on the back of my head but I couldn’t touch it because my hands and feet were tied. I was bouncing around in the back of the fourtrack and Tweedledee and Tweedledum were talking. I couldn’t make out what was being said but my imagination was running riot.

  We bumped along what was possibly a cobbled road and came to a standstill. The rear door opened and the two Scouse thugs looked in at me with twisted smiles.

  “You can’t say you weren’t warned, Alex,” Norman said. I objected to his use of my first name but felt that now was not the time to mention it.

  “Where’s your mate Lennie then?” I asked, hoping to build some kind of rapport that would at least keep me alive, if not in particularly good health. The two men looked at one another.

  “Our Leonard is on his way back North, crapping himself no doubt.” They both laughed. They didn’t think too highly of him, obviously. The crooked smiles waned.

  “You’ve loused it up for us, well and proper,” Norman said, accompanying his words with a crippling blow to my solar plexus. I fell to the ground, gasping for air. “Now you are going to pay, and pay heavily. But I don’t want you worrying about the court case now,” he snickered. “Because you won’t be around to enjoy the damages.” He laughed at his little joke. I didn’t. By now I had my breathing back in control.

  “Look. This is stupid. If you kill me it’s murder. You’ll go away forever. You know that they’re already onto you.” The small man answered. He obviously had it all planned out.

  “No, it won’t be put down to us. You see, you were out walking in London when you were mugged. They nicked your wallet and left you with a fatal stab wound. It’s just another mugging in the capital. By the time they find you we’ll be on a ferry to Calais and by the weekend we’ll be sunning ourselves in Spain. We’ve got some good mates in Spain.”

  “I hope you both die of skin cancer,” I said nastily. They didn’t appreciate that and a heavy boot smashed into my face. I could feel blood inside my mouth and spat it out. They lifted me to my feet and the short one flicked open a knife. I had ten seconds to live.

  ************

  “What the hell do youse two think you’re doing?” The voice came out of nowhere. The accent was deep Ulster and harsh. “Great,” I thought, “the terrible twins and now a mad Irish bomber.”

  “Liam?” asked Norman. “Is that you?” The man moved out o
f the shadows. He was wearing a ski mask.

  “No. It’s not Liam and I asked you what you were doing. I’m getting tired of waiting for your answer, so I am.” I didn’t know who our uninvited Irish guest was but I welcomed the interruption. Norman surreptitiously reached into the back of the car and emerged with the ubiquitous baseball bat. The two thugs moved towards the masked figure but he stood his ground. “I’m waiting for an answer.” The thick Irish brogue was now deep and menacing.

  In a single movement Norman moved forward and aimed for the masked man’s head with a forceful swing of the bat. It seemed inevitable that it would connect causing serious, perhaps fatal injury. The masked man moved so quickly even I couldn’t see exactly what happened. In less than a second he had somehow ducked under the swing and dealt a crunching kick to Norman’s ribs. As the masked man rose to his feet the knife flashed in Tweedledum’s hand. It was aimed straight at the Irishman’s heart. With the consummate ease of one well practised the masked man turned to the side and watched the knife lunge past him before grabbing the arm that held it. The Irishman gripped the smaller man’s elbow and wrist, lifting him into the air by his arm. The little thug’s whole body weight rested on his elbow and he screamed out in agony just as we heard his arm break with a loud retort. The knife fell to the floor and the Irishman kicked it away. Wheezing and gasping for breath, Norman threw himself at his friend’s attacker but he was far too slow. The masked man picked up the baseball bat and threw all of his weight behind a swing at the oncoming heavy. There was a look of sheer terror in Norman’s eyes just before the bat connected. I looked on in horror as his knee joint disintegrated under the shattering blow from the heavy wooden bat. Norman fell moaning to the ground with his leg sticking out at an impossible angle. Foolishly, the smaller man reached for the knife with his left hand, his right arm hanging uselessly from the shoulder. The masked man walked over and crushed his outstretched hand underfoot before a well placed kick to the jaw silenced the little thug’s squealing.