The whole episode had lasted just over a minute. I had never seen violence perpetrated so clinically and now the Irishman had me at his mercy. Norman and his mate had been able to defend themselves and they both needed intensive care, if in fact they lived! I on the other hand was a sitting duck, trussed up and defenceless. The Irishman lifted up Norman’s head. The man was barely conscious.
“When the police arrive, just remember it was self defence. Right?” The lilt of the Irish accent was softer now as he whispered the menacing words into Norman’s ear. Norman’s head fell back to the floor with a thud as the masked man let it go.
“And you,” the Irishman said, looking in my direction, “you are coming with me.” He cut my bonds and guided me into the shadows. I didn’t bother resisting. There was no point.
I was helped into the passenger seat of a saloon car. I didn’t even know what make.
“Better put your seat belt on, your face is already enough of a mess.” There was no hint of an Irish accent at all, but I recognised the voice.
“Lance!” I cried in amazement and relief.
************
My saviour removed his mask as he moved around to the driver’s seat. His hand swept under the car seat automatically and mechanically before he took his place beside me.
“How did you find me?” I was grateful, but curious.
“Simple, really. I’ve been following Mr Bray for days. I thought he might lead me to Liam.”
“I didn’t spot you,” I said uselessly.
“That’s the whole point,” he replied. “Those two were useless. I was right behind them all the way, you know, and they never suspected a thing. Amateurs!” He fell silent for a while and I realised that we weren’t far from the hotel. “When I saw Leonard Bray meet up with his bully boy chums I knew that you were their likely target and so I watched and followed.”
“Lance, I’m so glad you were there but you cut it close. I could have been knifed.”
“No you couldn’t. I had a gun pointed at Shorty’s head from the moment they opened the tailgate.”
We drew up in a side street close to the hotel and Lance shook my hand.
“Take care, Alex. I’ll call you at the weekend. And when you call the police don’t forget that you were dropped off by a mysterious masked Irishman. That’ll fit in nicely with their story….When they’re fit enough to tell it.”
“Well, at least we found something out tonight,” I said, teasing.
“What was that, then?” he asked smiling.
“That they know Liam and they expected him to be in the country,” I answered.
“I wondered whether you’d noticed that,” he called out as he drove away.
************
When I awoke the next morning my face hurt, my head ached and my ribs were bruised, but I was alive. I looked in the mirror. Not too bad; a swollen nose, a black eye and a small cut on the cheek. I washed and dressed before taking breakfast in my room. I didn’t want to scare the tourists. The police had been very understanding and, although they were sceptical about the mysterious Irishman, they were prepared to give me the benefit of the doubt. After all, I was the victim. They wanted me to sign a typed statement during the lunchbreak in the High Court. I agreed.
As soon as Christopher Byron had heard the story of my little adventure the night before, he whisked me into a side room.
“We’ve just had an offer,” he explained. “Patrick Webb, their QC, has told me that whilst they accept no liability, they are prepared to offer two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to settle the case. The offer includes costs and interest, is entirely without prejudice and is only open until we go into court today. What do you think?” I considered the strength of our case and the principle involved.
“Unless you advise me differently, I say no.”
“Good,” he said cheerfully. “Then let’s carry on.”
The referee was already sitting in the witness box when we went into the courtroom. The preliminaries were dealt with and Mr Patrick Webb QC continued for the defence. We sat through almost three hours of examination in chief as the referee explained the FIFA rules to the judge and gave his view that although it was hard, the tackle was fair.
“And so Mr Happold,” the QC summarised, “the reason you didn’t caution the defendant is quite simply that it was not a violent or reckless tackle?”
“That is correct,” the referee confirmed.
“Those are all of my questions for the time being, M’Lord.”
“Then we’ll break for lunch. We’ll recommence at….” the judge looked at the clock, “…two fifteen.”
************
I sat in a side room with the policeman and read over my statement. I covered everything except for the identity of the masked Irishman. I listened as the Detective Sergeant listed the injuries of my two kidnappers. Norman had broken ribs, a pierced lung and a shattered knee joint. After emergency surgery he was confirmed as stable but he was still not out of danger. His friend, Mr Holden, had fared little better. He was described as comfortable, though I failed to see how anyone could be comfortable with compound fractures of the arm, crushed fingers and a wired jaw.
“Your friend was extremely efficient. Ruthless, even,” The DS said conversationally.
“Whoa, hold on a minute. He was no friend of mine. I was scared out of my wits until he dropped me off at the hotel.” I defended myself against the accusation.
“Yes, of course you were.” He didn’t mean it. “Sorry, it was an unfortunate choice of phrase. I’d better be going. You have a court case to fight.”
************
When I wandered back into the corridor I saw a familiar face. Young Ben from Sky Sports had turned up in case he was asked to give evidence on the veracity of the rebuttal video evidence and we chatted as press reporters asked for the court where Alex Carter was appearing. Whilst I am not by nature vindictive, I felt that the referee had let me and the game down. If he was to get a savaging in court I wanted the Press there. My QC caught my eye and beckoned me across with his finger.
“This time it’s quarter of a million, plus costs and interest, Alex. It’s an attractive offer,” Christopher Byron said, his eyebrows raised in query.
“No. I want to go on.” I was resolute in my view. The QC accepted my decision without question.
When we restarted Byron led the referee very carefully down the road to self destruction.
“What sort of view did you get of the incident, Mr Happold?”
“Quite good. I was probably twenty yards away, just behind play,” came the bold reply.
“So, you saw the tackle clearly?”
“Yes sir, I did.”
“And you thought it was a foul but not violent play, is that correct?”
“That is exactly correct.” The referee was playing straight into counsel’s hands. Byron tempted him again.
“You still believe that your initial response was the correct one, even after seeing the video evidence?”
“Yes sir, I do.” The referee would not be moved.
“Then please watch the video one more time and confirm that opinion for us.” The same video was played for what must have been the fiftieth time in the hearing. Despite a sharp intake of breath from the gathered media in the gallery, who were seeing the tackle for the first time, the referee stuck by his decision.
“Are you aware of the relevance of the white numbers ticking away in the top right hand corner of the screen, Mr Happold?” Byron asked innocently.
“They represent some kind of unofficial timing, I imagine.” The referee was hesitant in answering for the first time since he took the stand.
“In fact, Mr Happold, the figures represent the minutes, seconds and twenty fifths of seconds, that have passed since you blew the whistle. This time signature allows Sky Sports, the broadcaster, to match any camera angle to any other camera angle to within a single frame of video, or a twenty fifth of a second.” Opposing couns
el was getting nervous and he looked as though he might rise to ask the relevance of this line of questioning but he remained seated. “Clever, isn’t it, Mr Happold?”
“Very clever,” the referee responded. He hadn’t been expecting to talk about time signatures. He was in uncharted waters and it showed. Christopher Byron addressed the judge.
“My Lord, with your agreement I would like to introduce further video footage of the incident as recorded by different cameras.” Mr Webb was on his feet immediately.
“My Lord, this really isn’t good enough. This should have been disclosed some time ago. We haven’t had the opportunity to see this video tape.” His voice carried the merest hint of impatience.
“My Lord, I believe that I am quite at liberty to introduce rebuttal evidence, without disclosure.”
“But not video evidence.” Webb argued. Byron wouldn’t let go.
“I can’t see my learned friend’s problem, My Lord. This is material that has been broadcast to the nation and beyond. It has been in the public domain for months. All it shows is the same few minutes of action from differing angles. Is your Lordship to be the only person in the country not to be allowed to see it?” The judge stepped in.
“Mr Byron, I can see why Mr Webb is angry. He has been ambushed. I myself, am not happy with this turn of events. Nevertheless, let us see if we can find a sensible way forward.” He turned to address opposing counsel. “Mr Webb, whilst accepting that this is unusual and that your learned friend stands rebuked by this court, do you have any specific legal challenge to the presentation of this additional video tape?”
“No, My Lord.” Patrick Webb was perfectly well aware that his learned friend would not have taken such a risk without a caseload of precedent to back him up.
“In that case,” the judge continued, “I will allow the video to be shown as long as it covers only that period of the game covered by the original video coverage, which was disclosed to the defence before trial.”
“Thank you, your Lordship, for your forbearance,” Byron said humbly, “and I apologise to my learned friend.” He bowed slightly in Patrick Webb’s direction.
The disk was inserted and made ready.
“Mr Happold, I am now going to show you two further camera angles and a magnified view. This is the first clip.” Fifteen seconds of video ran showing the reverse angle view and then froze.
“Can you see yourself, Mr Happold?” the referee looked at the still frame.
“Yes. I am here on the bottom left of the picture.” The referee pointed to the screen.
“Actually, I can magnify that for you.” The video machine played on, at the QC’s request. “That is you in the magnified oval. I’m sorry that the quality is poor but each pixel has been significantly enlarged.” The QC pointed to the screen. “This is your face, your nose and eyes. Is that correct.”
“Yes that is correct,” Happold conceded willingly.
“Good. Then let us move on. This is from the camera behind the goal.” The machine whirred into action again.
“There you are, running towards the goal, whistle in hand. This is a better picture of you, if I may say so.” There was a little flurry of laughter. “Your features are much more discernible, are they not?”
“Undoubtedly,” the referee agreed.
“Now, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, we can match all four video sequences with the aid of the time register, and show them on the same screen. Please watch carefully, Mr Happold.” As the sequence played the relevance of the other camera angles dawned on everyone except the witness.
“Mr Happold. You said earlier, that you had seen the tackle clearly. But that is not true, is it?”
“Yes it is, I was well placed to see the foul,” he argued. Byron started to close in for the kill. Opposing counsel shifted uncomfortably on his seat.
“You were well placed, but you weren’t looking.” Byron replayed the tape. It was now clear to everyone in the courtroom that, at the time tackle was made, the referee was looking away. “The truth is, Mr Happold, that you have misled this court. You could not, and did not, see that tackle because you were looking the other way. Not only have you misled this court, but when you appeared at the FA enquiry you lied to that tribunal as well. It’s time to come clean, Mr Happold. You have lied consistently to cover your own mistake.” The referee was taken aback by the severity of the question. He looked to his own counsel for support but none was forthcoming. He was on his own.
“But I thought I saw it. I was sure that I saw it. I don’t know, I’m confused.” I began to feel a little sympathy for the man, but not much. The QC pushed harder.
“Mr Happold. Admit it. You didn’t see the tackle and that is the one and only reason you didn’t send Dean Butler off. Mr Happold, I’m asking you a question.”
“I couldn’t very well send the man off if I didn’t see the tackle, but I thought I had seen it and I thought it was OK.”
“But you didn’t see it and so your evidence is worthless isn’t it?”
“I suppose so. I don’t know.” Panic was etched on the referee’s face. The defence team had their heads in their hands. Christopher Byron finished the witness off.
“You didn’t see the tackle. You didn’t send Butler off. To hide your error and protect your career you lied over and over again. You must have been aghast when you saw the video replay of this horrific tackle that put a decent man out of football. Yet you continued with your deceit and forced him to turn to the law for justice. And when he did, you perjured yourself to deny him his deserved remedy.” Patrick Webb would take no more. He rose and said loudly,
“My Lord, this is too much.” This seemed to be the legal equivalent of the cornerman throwing the towel in the ring to save his boxer from serious injury. Before the judge could sustain opposing counsel’s objection, Byron chipped in.
“I apologise, My Lord. No more questions.” Patrick Webb consulted with his insurance company clients and then stood up to speak.
“My Lord, I have no further questions for this witness. I wonder if we might take a short recess?”
“I think that would be wise.” The judge’s reply was loaded with meaning. His Lordship rose, left the room and the normally silent courtroom erupted into chaos. Patrick Webb took Christopher Byron by the arm and they disappeared through a side door. I asked Simon Moreton what was going on.
“You’ve won, Alex. They won’t come back from this. It’s all over.”
Mr Happold left the witness stand and walked over to the defence table but no-one would speak to him. He had let them down, he had let himself down and he had done the game a great disservice. He would never referee another match.
************
The celebrations carried on long into the evening. Patrick Webb had conceded everything and the Judge agreed to a consent order that paid me almost one and a half million pounds, along with all of my costs. The Press had their story and they scurried off to write their copy for the morning papers.
I flopped onto my bed at one in the morning and fell asleep with my clothes on.
CHAPTER 22
I arrived back at the house to find that in my absence it had been inundated with phone calls and faxes from well-wishers. People from all over the country, and beyond, were letting me know that they were overjoyed at the outcome of the court case. I honestly hadn’t realised that so many people were rooting for me. It felt good, knowing that they cared.
Reporters had been pestering me all day for interviews and so I had given one in the hotel before I left and I squeezed two into the return train journey, as I travelled back North. The questions they asked not only lacked originality, they were always identical. How did I feel? Was I glad that it was all over? Was it likely that I would ever play again, and if not would I consider management? I answered the easy questions and avoided answering the more difficult ones. I told them that I was feeling better and that I was confident that I would eventually return to my Premier league hu
nting grounds. Whilst a lot of what I said was bluster, most of what I said was true. I was beginning to feel quite optimistic. My leg was getting better and, for the first time since the injury, I really began to believe that I could wear the United captain’s armband again.
I spent the whole afternoon returning phone calls and answering fax messages before I settled down in front of the TV. Tanya arrived home as I was watching Sky Sports’ Jeff Stelling rattling through the Saturday afternoon football results. She smiled and sat down beside me. I reached out my arm and she nestled in the crook of my arm as she spoke.
“You said that you wanted us to have a chat when you got back from London. How about now before we go out?” I switched off the TV with the remote control.
“OK then. It’s about Sara,” I opened cautiously. “I was wondering, how would you react if she and I were to get serious?”
“What do you mean by serious?” she wanted to know.
“Engaged perhaps, maybe even marry eventually. I don’t know. These things take time, Tanya.”
“Dad. Sara’s great and we’d be lucky to have her as a part of the family. But don’t wait too long, I can’t imagine her hanging around forever without some sort of positive sign from you.” This was turning out to be easier than I’d imagined. I continued.
“Sara could never replace your mother, Tanya, not for you and not for me. But she could perhaps carry on what your mum started.” Tanya shuffled about until her head was resting on my shoulder.
Final Whistle Page 26
