Dead Ball

by Tom Palmer

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Tom Palmer is a football fan and a writer. He never did well at school. But once he got into reading about football – in newspapers, magazines and books – he decided he wanted to be a football writer more than anything. As well as the Football Detective series, he is the author of the Football Academy series, also for Puffin Books.

  Tom lives in a Yorkshire town called Todmorden with his wife and daughter. The best stadium he’s visited is Real Madrid’s Santiago Bernabéu.

  Find out more about Tom on his website tompalmer.co.uk

  Books by Tom Palmer

  FOOTBALL DETECTIVE: FOUL PLAY

  For younger readers

  FOOTBALL ACADEMY series:

  BOYS UNITED

  STRIKING OUT

  THE REAL THING

  READING THE GAME

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  First published 2009

  Text copyright © Tom Palmer, 2009

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-14-193113-5

  For Rebecca and Iris

  Reviews from some of Tom’s fans for

  Football Detective: Foul Play

  ‘It was a truly brilliant book. When I grow

  up I want to be a football author’ – Charlie

  ‘I am an eleven year old and I have read

  your book. I love it and hope Dead Ball

  will be released soon’ – Ravi

  ‘I have read Foul Play. I think it is really good.

  It has a lot of adventure in it’ – Susan

  ‘Really, really, really good. Clever,

  well written. Very good for people

  like me who like football’ – Daniel

  ‘I like it – it’s my best book’ – Samuel

  ‘I think this book is so good I read it three times’ – Yusupha

  ‘Perfect. Best story I have ever read’ – Mohammed

  ‘I like the way the story is full, instead

  of stopping to put in boring effects’ – Ryan

  CONTENTS

  Wednesday

  World Cup Qualifier

  Match Fixers

  Thursday

  Work Experience

  Lunch Break

  Appointment with Alex Finn

  The Crash

  Friday

  Chance of a Lifetime

  The Gamble

  Spies Everywhere

  Saturday

  House Party

  Sunday

  Fear of Flying

  Double Agent

  Weird City

  Moscow

  Secret Agents

  Monday

  Homesick

  The Invitation

  A Different Kind of Party

  Going Solo

  The Chase

  Good Friend

  Tuesday

  Following McGee

  The Attack

  Nowhere to Run

  Journey to the Centre of the Earth

  The Kremlin

  Wednesday

  The Longest Night

  To the Luzhniki

  The Stadium

  Pre-Match Tension

  First Half

  Second Half

  The Abduction

  We Meet Again

  Thursday

  Presents

  Friday

  Exclusive

  WEDNESDAY

  WORLD CUP QUALIFIER

  ‘Come on, England!’ Danny shouted at the television.

  On the screen England’s star striker, Sam Roberts, collected the ball up in the centre circle. He played it wide to the national team’s short but speedy winger. The winger moved slowly at first, then accelerated past two Russian defenders and played an early ball into the box. Roberts was already bearing down on the penalty area, having run half the length of the pitch in seconds.

  He leapt for the ball.

  ‘Go on!’ Danny was on the edge of his seat now. Literally. Ready to leap in the air if Roberts scored.

  Roberts met the ball with his head. Full on.

  But Danny’s sister, Emily, was on her feet now. ‘Ha ha,’ she shouted. ‘What a donkey.’

  Roberts’ header had gone wide. Well wide.

  Emily turned to face the rest of the room: her brother, his friend Paul, her mum and dad.

  ‘Come on, Russia!’ she shouted.

  ‘He missed,’ Danny said, turning to his dad. Danny did this automatically whenever they were at the football or just watching it on TV. His dad was blind. And Danny was his commentator.

  ‘I gathered,’ Dad said. Then in a very different voice: ‘Sit down, Emily.’

  Dad knew that Emily was really getting to Danny now. Throughout the game she’d been trying to wind her brother up, saying she wanted Russia to win, not England. Cheering when Russia did well; mocking Danny when England messed up.

  ‘Yes, Emily,’ Mum said. ‘Either sit down or go and do something else. You hate football. You’re only doing this to annoy your brother.’

  Danny said nothing. He couldn’t even look at his sister. He was absolutely furious. It was worse than sitting with a real fan of another team. At least then you knew they felt as much about their team as you did about yours.

  ‘Why should I?’ Emily said. ‘I support Russia.’

  Danny knew it was best to leave his sister to it. If he reacted angrily to her she’d have won. And today she was being particularly unpleasant. Having been dumped by her boyfriend. Two hours ago. By text.

  Danny smiled.

  But not for long.

  Because Russia were attacking now. Their keeper had flung the ball half the length of the pitch and suddenly their giant blond forward was bearing down on goal. The England defenders couldn’t get near him. The forward went past a first and a second, then played a one-two with his striking partner. And bang: a shot on goal from fifteen yards. Only Alex Finn, the England keeper, to beat. The ball flew straight and hard. Impossible to reach.

  Emily was on her feet again. ‘YeaaaaAAAAHHH.’

  Danny looked away from her in disgust. He kept his attention on the screen, to see Alex Finn dive low, stretching his arm out as far as he could. And – impossibly – tipping the ball round the post.

  ‘What a save!’ Danny said, standing up himself now. ‘What a fantastic save! You should have seen it, Dad. He should ne
ver have got to it.’

  Then he stared at his sister, who’d sat down scowling.

  The commentator agreed with Danny: ‘The City and England keeper is playing as if his life depended on it!’

  Moments later the ref’s whistle blew. Half-time. England 0 Russia 0.

  But a draw wasn’t good enough: England needed to win this game. It was a World Cup qualifier. Everybody agreed that you had to win your home games to have a chance of qualifying for the finals.

  ‘We’re still going to win,’ Emily declared. ‘Then your precious England – and your even more precious Sam Roberts – won’t go to the World Cup.’

  ‘We?’ Mum said to Emily. ‘Since when were you Russian?’

  Paul, who had said nothing up to this point, looked at Danny’s sister and said, ‘Vlady vorksvet?’

  Emily stared at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It’s Russian,’ Paul said.

  Danny grinned at his friend. ‘Don’t you understand? Being a Russia fan?’ he said.

  Emily narrowed her eyes and stared at her brother. But she had nothing more to say.

  The second half of the game was more open. End to end stuff. England and Russia equally matched.

  There were two key points in the half that decided the result.

  The first was a Russian attack, catching England on the break. Four attackers against two defenders.

  The Russians moved so quickly there was nothing the defenders could do. Suddenly it was two strikers against Alex Finn. Again. The first striker lobbed Finn, but somehow Finn leapt and tipped the ball on to the bar. But, instead of going out for a corner, the ball bounced back into play, to the other Russian striker. The second striker took his time. He controlled the ball, then side-footed it past Finn.

  ‘GooooaaaAAALLL,’ shouted Emily, on her feet again.

  Except the ball hadn’t gone past Finn. And it wasn’t a goal. As he was recovering from the lob, the England keeper managed to stick his foot out and deflect the ball wide for a corner.

  A miraculous save.

  Danny turned to smile at Emily.

  His sister had the same look on her face as the Russian forwards. Disbelief.

  ‘Sit down, Emily,’ Danny’s dad said quietly.

  Then, with just one minute to go, England attacked for what had to be the last time.

  The ball was played wide to the speedy winger again. He had no time for fancy tricks. He had to get the ball into the penalty area. As soon as possible. So, without hesitating, he sent over a long and deep cross.

  At first it looked like nobody could possibly reach it. But Sam Roberts was running. From the centre circle. Like an express train. So fast it seemed that everybody else had stopped to watch. Suddenly he was in the penalty area, with the ball flying towards the far post.

  Roberts lunged at the ball. His leg stretched out as far as a leg can stretch.

  His boot hit the ball.

  The ball hit the back of the net.

  And Danny and Paul stood, arms aloft, right in front of Emily, but saying nothing.

  Emily folded her arms, crossed her legs and stared fiercely at the screen.

  And, because of the wild celebrations in the stadium and in front rooms and pubs across England, few noticed Sam Roberts lying in agony, his leg bent in a way legs aren’t meant to bend, blood seeping through his white England sock.

  MATCH FIXERS

  The mobile rang seconds after the final whistle.

  A man in his sixties stiffened. He was English. Sitting on the deck of his luxury yacht in St Katharine’s Dock, London.

  The man used to be known by another name. A name well known in sporting circles. But, to the people who worked for him now, he was Kenneth Francis, a millionaire who had made his money in banking.

  Francis had no option but to pick up. He knew who it was at the end of the line.

  ‘What shall we be doing with Alex Finn?’ a voice said. A Russian voice. There was no time for pleasantries. No hello, how are you, how’s the family.

  ‘Good evening, Dmitri,’ the Englishman said.

  ‘It is not a good evening. It is a bad evening.’

  ‘Yes,’ Francis said. ‘A bad evening indeed.’

  He wasn’t quite sure how best to deal with this phone call. Because the man on the other end of the phone – Dmitri Tupolev – was one of the richest men in the world. He had more money than the Queen. Billions. More sports cars than you’d see at an F1 Grand Prix. And more planes than you could fit on a runway. He had made his money in Russia. Out of oil, gas, corruption. And murder.

  Kenneth Francis gazed out of his yacht. The lights from nearby buildings reflected off the water. It was here – at this dock – that he had first met Dmitri Tupolev, when the Russian’s enormous yacht had eased in alongside his. The Englishman’s yacht had been the biggest in the dock. Until then.

  ‘I repeat. What shall we be doing with the England goalkeeper?’ Tupolev said. ‘He has disappointed me.’

  ‘Me too, Dmitri. Me too,’ Francis replied. ‘But we must be careful.’

  ‘My friend,’ Tupolev said. ‘Your Alex Finn may have cost my country a position in the World Cup Finals. I expect you to have spoken to him. Told him that it will be clever of him to let Russia score the goals.’

  ‘I did, Dmitri. I did. And Finn let us down. But I think we need to be careful. Not to do something rash that would upset the rest of our plans.’

  Francis chose his words carefully. He needed to stay on good terms with Dmitri Tupolev. Because the Russian billionaire was the key to his future. Because together they were planning to make a bid to buy one of the world’s most famous football clubs. But first – out of goodwill – Francis had agreed to help Tupolev to fix two matches. World Cup qualifiers between England and Russia. And to fix them both in favour of the Russians.

  Francis hoped that, in return, Tupolev would be happy to part with somewhere in the region of £400 million to help him buy City FC. A club that had just come on the market. Francis wanted control of City more than anything. And if it meant England failing to qualify for another tournament, then so what?

  Although he was rich, the Englishman was not rich enough to lay his hands on a spare £400 million. He had about half that amount stashed away. In Swiss accounts. Under several names. He used to have more. Including properties and cars and a football club of his own. But he’d lost it all.

  Kenneth Francis realized that he was not coming across well in the telephone conversation. He needed to appear more decisive. Utterly decisive, in fact. England v Russia was the first game between the two teams. But they had to play each other again. In Russia. Next Wednesday. If Russia won that, then they would be back at the top of Group F. And Tupolev would probably be happy.

  Francis knew that he had to keep Tupolev happy anyway. Tupolev was a man who was alleged to be responsible for at least thirty murders. Of journalists, sportspeople, politicians and business rivals. Even former girlfriends. He was not a man to be messed with.

  ‘Dmitri?’

  ‘Yes, my friend?’

  There was something menacing about the way Tupolev said my friend. It was almost as if he meant quite the opposite.

  ‘Dmitri. I will deal with it. Tomorrow Alex Finn will have an accident. Then I will contact his England understudy, Matt McGee. He will be quite clear why Finn had his accident. Russia will win the return match. Have no fear. Tell me what score you would like it to be.’

  THURSDAY

  WORK EXPERIENCE

  Danny got off the bus in the centre of town and walked the length of Wellington Street to the newspaper offices.

  The city centre was not how he knew it. When he came into town at the weekend – with his dad or to meet his friends – it was full of younger people and children. As well as adults. But today it was adults only. All dressed in black. All walking quickly. All looking miserable.

  It was the fourth day of Danny’s work experience. The year-tens were out of school f
or a fortnight. Danny’s friend Paul was working in a computer software office – mending joysticks. Charlotte was sorting files at police HQ. Other friends were sweeping hair off the floor, putting books out on shelves, distributing staples at a TV station. And one was painting a perimeter fence at an undertaker’s. Black.

  But Danny was working at the regional newspaper, the Evening Post. Assisting the Chief Sportswriter.

  Once he’d got through reception, Danny sprinted up three flights of stairs. He was eager to know what the Chief Sportswriter thought of the match the night before. He’d have written his report on the way back from Wembley Stadium first thing this morning. On the train from King’s Cross.