Pitch Black (book 5) Page 7

  She shrugged and turned back to the pile of correspondence on her desk. Wee Bert could moan all he liked, she was a Kelvin Keelie through and through and there was nothing that could sway her loyalty to this club, or to the man who sat feet away from her, divided from her by that partition wall.

  For a long moment the woman looked at the blank space, imagining the chairman’s massive body bent over his desk, his head drooping with fatigue and worry. What must be going through his mind? One player had been brutally murdered, another had landed in jail and now this poor referee shot on his own doorstep. Surely Jason White could have been a bit more sensitive towards Pat? Marie ran a hand over her spiky red hair and glanced at her reflection in the glass window that separated her from the club’s main corridor. A thin-faced woman in a low-cut cream blouse looked back defiantly, gold hoops twinkling at her earlobes. She might be pushing fifty but she didn’t look it. Plus she’d kept her figure, unlike Barbara bloody Kennedy, she thought, a curve of triumph softening her mouth. She’d give it ten minutes then take him in a good pot of coffee and some Tunnock’s Teacakes, Pat’s favourites. The thought cheered Marie up as she began to sift through the day’s mail, putting aside the letters that were marked for the chairman’s attention, with extra care.

  Ron Clark put down the telephone, hand trembling. That hack Greer’s predictions were right: the police were going to pay them a visit. But in the wake of Cartwright’s shooting, that was hardly a surprise. Some inspector called Lorimer, or was it Chief Inspector? Ron felt the sweat break out on his forehead. He’d better get that right, hadn’t he? It would never do to be on the wrong side of Strathclyde Police during something as serious as a murder investigation. This man, Lorimer, wanted to speak to all the players who’d been at Saturday’s game. Ron shivered inside his tracksuit, despite the heat. Surely they couldn’t imagine any of their boys had had a hand in that shooting? It was absurd. The police must think it was some mad bastard of a Keelie who had gone for the referee, surely? Or would they suppose it was nothing to do with the game at all? But, even as the Kelvin manager tried to reassure himself, a feeling of inevitable doom swept over him.

  They were tainted with these deaths now and the club would never be the same again.

  *

  Lorimer looked up at the floodlights above the grounds, noticing a patch of cloud that was drifting across the vast expanse of blue. This summer was the hottest on record and already there were government directives about the use of hosepipes. How were Kelvin’s groundsmen coping with it?

  It was funny standing by the main door to the clubhouse when he’d looked towards it wistfully so many times as a boy, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of his sporting heroes.

  That’s where I saw Murray Crawford, he wanted to tell DC Cameron. But they were not standing here for him to blether on with ancient reminiscences. Today’s purpose was infinitely more serious than that.

  He’d pressed an intercom button just outside the massive doorway, a smoked glass affair etched with the crest of Kelvin FC and the motto dum vivo spero.

  ‘While there’s life there’s hope,’ Cameron translated, then blushed. ‘We did Latin at the Nicholson,’ he explained, almost apologetically.

  Lorimer nodded, then a crackly voice came over the intercom.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer, Detective Constable Cameron, Strathclyde Police,’ he said firmly. The door opened with a click and, for the first time in his life, Lorimer entered the inner sanctum that was Kelvin FC.

  ‘So, this is it?’ Niall Cameron raised an eyebrow at the wood-panelled hall and the dark corridors that led off in several directions. Above them the ceiling sloped steeply, hairline cracks visible on the plaster.

  Lorimer felt a sense of disappointment; it was altogether smaller and less imposing than the football club of his boyhood imaginings. Here was a tired and frankly run-down building. The door behind them had given a false first impression, what faced them was only a narrow lobby, its marble floor chipped and stained from decades of trampling feet, the plaster walls above the wood panelling a murky shade of nicotine yellow. The sole thing of interest was a row of photographic portraits hanging from a crumbling picture rail. Lorimer began to peer at the inscription on the one nearest to him and saw that it was of the present chairman, Patrick Kennedy.

  Footsteps on the stairs above made him stand back even as he was thinking how different Kennedy had appeared in his younger days.

  ‘Chief Inspector?’ Lorimer recognised Ron Clark, Kelvin FC’s current manager, his dark hair receding in a distinctive widow’s peak from a weather-beaten forehead.

  As Lorimer shook the man’s outstretched hand he could see the expression of anxiety in his hazel eyes. The DCI had a fleeting thought that he was always destined to meet folk in situations that were fraught in one way or another; in his career as a policeman his outlook on humankind was inevitably distorted. Maybe this man was a good kind husband, a decent human being, certainly he had a good reputation among the football pundits.

  ‘We’re really sorry about what happened to poor Norman Cartwright. Coming after Nicko Faulkner’s death … well, it’s all a bit hard to take in,’ Clark began, leading them up a flight of stairs from the darkened corridor. Lorimer glanced to one side, surprised to see another staircase running parallel with this one: that explained the architecture of the hall below at any rate.

  ‘We have to ask questions of anyone who was here at the match or afterwards,’ Lorimer explained, looking back at the Kelvin manager.

  They stopped at the top of the stairs, a few feet short of a glass-fronted office where a red-haired woman sat typing. Her profile showed a sharp, determined face with lines around her mouth that suggested some displeasure with the world. She did not look up at the sound of their voices, Lorimer noticed, as they followed Ron Clark into a large room filled with glass display-cases and dark wooden furniture. A soft drinks machine sat somewhat incongruously in one corner and the walls were covered in large pictures of Kelvin teams throughout the club’s long history, the more recent ones in colour dominating the room. At any other time Lorimer would have feasted his eyes on this exhibit but now he had to turn his attention to the matter in hand.

  ‘Did you see Mr Cartwright leave the building after the game on Saturday, Mr Clark?’

  ‘Yes, and I can tell you exactly when he did. It was at 5.38. I can be absolutely certain of that because we have a book for signing out at reception.’

  Lorimer nodded, they had that sort of facts-and-figures information already, but now he was looking for first-hand impressions, something to gauge the antipathy that must have surrounded the referee before his final departure. ‘Did you speak to him?’

  Ron Clark averted his eyes and nodded. ‘We didn’t part on good terms, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Not unreasonable, given the nature of the game,’ Lorimer told him.

  ‘You were there?’ The manager’s face registered surprise, as if a policeman could actually have a life outside the day job of catching criminals.

  ‘Heard it on the radio,’ Lorimer replied.

  ‘You’re a fan, then?’ Clark’s face creased into a smile, and for the first time since meeting the man Lorimer saw the enthusiasm that had been overshadowed by the deaths of two sportsmen associated with the club. But before Lorimer could reply he saw Clark’s gaze shift to a spot behind the two policemen. Turning, Lorimer came face to face with a large lumbering figure who, for one idiotic moment, reminded him of Kelvin’s panda bear mascot.

  ‘Chief Inspector, Patrick Kennedy.’ The bear proffered a massive paw and engulfed Lorimer’s hand in its powerful grasp.

  Kennedy’s grey eyes bored into Lorimer’s own, and for an instant the policeman had the sensation of being challenged. Clear up this mess, they seemed to be saying. That’s what you’re here for. As he let go of Lorimer’s hand, Kennedy attempted a sort of smile that was meant to show he was suffering the presence of Strathclyde’s police officers with good grace, but t
he smile failed to reach his eyes, which remained cold and hard.

  Lorimer felt as though he should apologise for even being there, then a sudden remembrance of Norman Cartwright’s body, slumped inside his car, stiffened his resolve.

  ‘We would like to question each of the players who were at Saturday’s match, Mr Kennedy, plus anybody who had any contact with Mr Cartwright.’

  ‘Oh? And why’s that? D’you not think you’d be better off out there finding whatever madman was running about with a gun?’

  Lorimer sensed DC Cameron flinch under the man’s sarcasm, but the Chief Inspector was not to be put off by this sort of overbearing attitude. Lorimer had come across too many of his sort to be bothered by such tactics.

  ‘The killing took place very shortly after the match on Saturday, a match that must have upset quite a lot of your players, given the nature of Mr Cartwright’s refereeing decisions,’ he said, smoothly. ‘We need to investigate the time before his death in order to make sense of what happened.’ Lorimer’s tone was reasonable, no hint of apology to placate the man who continued to stare at them as though they were intruding on the chairman’s time. He’s a bully, Lorimer thought to himself, he’s the sort who likes to dominate other people. He’d seen men like this before: husbands who kept their women subservient, bosses who controlled their workers through fear. Striving to restrain his instinctive dislike of the man, Lorimer continued. ‘If I could speak to the team, to begin with, that would be a big help.’

  A dry sound that could only be laughter issued from Kennedy’s lips. ‘The team? Well, that’s Mr Clark’s responsibility, gentlemen. I’ll leave you in his good hands for the time being.’ And with a nod to his manager, Patrick Kennedy turned on his heel and strode out of the boardroom.

  Niall Cameron caught Lorimer with a questioning glance. The SIO was here as a courtesy to the club and its personnel. Were they supposed to let this man walk all over them? Lorimer’s silent shrug seemed to say that they were, for now at any rate.

  ‘The lads are downstairs, Chief Inspector. Usually they’re at a training session, but when I knew you were coming …’ Ron Clark tailed off, his unspoken words proof that at least one of Kelvin FC’s staff realised the gravity of the investigation and had prepared accordingly.

  ‘He’s in a bit of a hurry,’ Cameron commented, unable to keep the criticism from his tone.

  Ron Clark shrugged. ‘Mr Kennedy’s upset. Such a lot’s been happening.’ The manager shook his head sadly, as if he could barely bring himself to speak of the two men whose bodies were lying in Glasgow City Mortuary. He stood up and moved towards his office door, the DCI and his DC falling in behind him. ‘It’s this way,’ he said, leading the two policemen along a corridor, past the reception area. This time the red-haired woman looked up as they passed and Lorimer saw the thin, hard face turned their way and a fleeting expression that was not unfamiliar to the Chief Inspector, before she looked back at the papers on her desk. Whoever this woman was, Lorimer thought, his interest suddenly caught, she was scared. And that was intriguing, because in his experience people were only scared of the police when they had something to hide.

  *

  The players were sitting on benches around the wall of their changing room when Ron Clark ushered in the two policemen. Whatever conversations had been going on before that moment stopped abruptly and Lorimer saw several pairs of eyes look their way. Yet his first impression was how young they all were, some still like schoolboys, and he laughed inwardly at himself; they say you know you’re getting older when policemen look like laddies, he remembered his mother telling him. Well, he was becoming older now himself if this lot seemed like mere lads. Yet the longer he let his eyes roam over the group, the more he could see a few expressions that belonged to grown men: some calculating, others challenging.

  ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer and Detective Constable Cameron,’ the manager began. ‘They want to talk to you about Mr Cartwright’s death on Saturday.’

  Lorimer glanced at the man appraisingly; his tone of voice was that of a dad beginning to lecture his wee boys. Was there some sort of warning hidden in these words? And if so, to whom was it being directed? Another sweep of the changing room revealed nothing more than an attitude of respectfulness. They were all looking Ron Clark’s way now, and Lorimer sensed that the manager controlled more than simply the players’ tactics on the pitch.

  Lorimer cleared his throat before speaking. ‘The investigation into Norman Cartwright’s death is still in its early stages and we are hoping that some of you might be able to throw a bit of light on to events that took place prior to him leaving the stadium. What we want to do is ask you all some questions. DC Cameron here will take notes of everything you can remember.’ He nodded to the tall Lewisman who regarded the footballers with his usual grave expression, his PDA already to hand.

  There was a shifting of feet and an exchange of glances that Lorimer took for acquiescence.

  ‘We have already established the time Norman Cartwright left Kelvin Park. What we need to know is who spoke to him after the match.’ Lorimer waited, noting the heads that had suddenly bowed as if to hide from the reality of all that was happening. Once again he had that impression of recalcitrant schoolboys being dressed down by a headmaster. It wisnae me, he could almost hear them say. That was odd, surely. Why this atmosphere of collective guilt?

  ‘Speaking harsh words to a referee you think cost you the match isn’t exactly a hanging offence,’ Lorimer joked, his smile wide and inviting. It worked. Some heads immediately came up and a few of the boys even managed a half-hearted smile.

  ‘It isnae nice tae speak bad things when he’d deid, like,’ one voice proclaimed.

  ‘It’s Simon Gaffney, right?’ Lorimer asked, turning to a dark-haired lad who was sitting in the corner. ‘You used to play for the Pars, didn’t you?’

  ‘Aye,’ Gaffney said shortly, but his reddening cheeks showed more than a hint of pleasure that this Strathclyde cop had actually recognised him.

  ‘You spoke to the ref, then?’

  ‘Aye. An no jist me. We were blazin mad at him,’ Gaffney continued, looking around at his teammates. ‘Well, we were, weren’t we? The man’s right. He did ruin the game for us. Ah’ve seen wrang decisions but that was mental. Mean, we’re really sorry he’s deid an that, it’s terrible, but it doesnae change whit happened on the park, ken.’

  Mutterings of agreement drifted around the room and Lorimer saw that several more of the players were sitting up that bit straighter now, as if ready to say their piece.

  ‘I called him a wanker,’ one player offered and sniggers broke out among them, more in relief that the tension was broken than at the man’s words.

  ‘And you are …?’ Lorimer asked, though he recognised the striker’s familiar narrow face and spiky dark hair tipped with red.

  ‘Barry Thomson,’ came back the reply.

  ‘What else did you say to him?’

  ‘Och, ah cannae mind. Ah wis that mad at being sent off.’

  ‘Did you threaten him, perhaps?’ Lorimer’s words were spoken in a tone that belied their seriousness.

  ‘Aye, mibbe. Cannae remember exactly.’ Thomson turned a sly face towards the other players. ‘Any o’youse mind whit ah said tae him?’

  There was a general shaking of heads and Thomson turned back to shrug at Lorimer, a grin on his face.

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Yes,’ a voice spoke up from the shadows. Lorimer moved forwards to see better.

  ‘Mr...?’

  ‘Douglas. Donnie Douglas,’ came the reply and the policeman took in the shy expression and that unmistakable Highland accent.

  ‘Could you tell me what you said to Mr Cartwright?’

  The young man glanced around him as if regretting this sudden moment in the spotlight. ‘I asked him why he’d done it,’ Douglas said quietly. ‘It didn’t seem to make sense. I mean, one mistake you can brush off even if it seems unfair, but it
was as if he was really out to get us …’ The player’s words fell away amid murmurs of assent from the others.

  ‘And did you all feel that way?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘No, of course they didn’t, Chief Inspector. That was simply the knee-jerk reaction of disappointed players. And I can assure you that we’re all completely horrified by the man’s death.’ Ron Clark spoke up firmly and once again the voices were silenced and Lorimer felt a short rush of anger. He’d just begun to gain their trust and now Clark had as good as told them to clam up again. Then the anger turned to curiosity. Was Clark really hiding something? And if so, was it more than a few well-chosen insults hurled at a man who was subsequently shot dead?

  ‘Well, thanks for your cooperation. If you have any further information that might be relevant please don’t hesitate to call us.’ Lorimer’s words were icily polite as he handed out cards with the HQ contact information.

  ‘Well?’ Niall Cameron ventured.

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘Didn’t pick up much, did we? Except that Ron Clark’s doing a good job as a nursemaid to that lot. We’ll have to see what we can find from the club’s external CCTV footage. At least that might show us exactly when everyone left the club and where they were headed.’

  ‘There’s the signing-out book,’ Cameron reminded him.

  ‘Aye, so there is, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t someone waiting out in the car park for Norman Cartwright. Someone who might have followed him home,’ he added darkly. ‘We know that the weapon used was a sawn-off shotgun. That’s easy enough for anyone to hide under a jacket. Sometimes they tie a bit of rope to the butt stock, loop it over their shoulder, then, bingo! No need to bring out the gun at all, just let it pivot around your hand, aim, fire, then simply let it fall and it disappears back under the jacket. If he’s cool enough, he just strolls on by as if nothing has happened.’