Only a Game (10 page)

The people who ran Brunton Rovers were as pleased as everyone else with the success of the night. Ex-chairman Edward Lanchester was full of the warm glow which an emphatic Rovers victory always brought to him, basking in romantic memories of great cup ties from the club's long history. Robbie Black glowed with the relief which any manager feels when the prospect of humiliation by a lower-division club has been triumphantly banished.

Immediately after the match, he gave an up-beat interview by the pitch to the television cameras, praising the skill and work-rate of his players and their spirit after they had gone behind, insisting that this was the moment to enjoy success rather than look too far ahead to the next round and Aston Villa. The cameras had been delighted to show shots of his glamorous wife in the directors' box, with a becoming fake-fur hat and the blue and white Brunton Rovers scarf wound prominently over her celebrated bosom. With her two children beside her, Debbie Black waved enthusiastically to the crowd around her and continued to bond with the folk of Brunton.

Darren Pearson congratulated himself on the daring device of reducing ticket prices, which had swelled the crowd and brought in as much revenue as a much smaller ‘gate' at normal prices. It had also attracted much welcome and highly favourable publicity to one of the smaller teams in the Premiership, and thus to the town where he had lived for all of his life. With the commercial eye which a football club secretary must always keep on finances, he saw that Ashley Greenhalgh's goals and the national publicity accorded to them would probably put another million on an already substantial transfer fee. As a supporter, he didn't really want to see the young man sold; as a secretary, he thought it might be inevitable and wanted the best possible price.

The biggest crowd of the season at Grafton Park dispersed happily and without causing any trouble to the huge number of police officers which the safety regulations had demanded. Not like the days of his boyhood, said Edward Lanchester, when four or five policemen patrolling the edge of the pitch towards full time had been all that was necessary. By ten thirty that night, the labyrinth of offices beneath the main stand of the football club was quiet once again. Darren Pearson toured the familiar corridors, switched off the odd light which had been carelessly left on, then gave his familiar good night to the night security man, who had earlier attended the match with his grandson.

Very few among the twenty-nine thousand people who had been at the match that night realized that the only notable absentees had been the chairman and his wife, Jim and Helen Capstick.

The betting shop was in Darwen, a small town some six miles from Brunton which was being even more badly affected by the present recession in the British economy. It was only four miles from Brunton Rovers football ground and no more than a short drive for the secretary of that club, Darren Pearson.

He preferred to come here, where he was fairly confident that his presence would not be remarked. Secretaries of football clubs, although very important to their efficient operation, are not high-profile figures, and not many people in his native Brunton would have noticed his presence in such a place. Nevertheless, having lived there since he was a boy, he knew that sooner or later his frequenting of betting shops would have been remarked and his addiction become more public.

Caution had become habitual to him now. That was as much a reflection of his own shame in his gambling addiction as of the need to keep these transactions private. There was a parking space near the betting shop, but Pearson parked the blue Vectra in the next side street and walked the hundred yards through slanting rain to the shop's entrance. He glanced furtively through the dusk to left and right before he went through the door. Such movements were more likely to attract than to divert attention, but this was conduct which was by no means abnormal among the patrons of betting establishments.

He nodded to the woman behind the grill he chose, but gave her no greeting: this was not the sort of place where social niceties were important. Nor was the need for any sort of conversational opening. He said bluntly, ‘I want to put a bet on Supreme Nelly in the three thirty at Haydock Park tomorrow.'

It was a ridiculous, comical name, but neither of them even noticed that. She knew the absolute necessity of being accurate in everything she recorded. He was concerned only with the thought of what he might win, of alleviating his mountain of debt with one startling coup. The classic gambler's delusion; the classic unrealistic ambition which had enticed millions of others before Darren Pearson into deeper and more dangerous financial waters.

She made a note on the pad in front of her, glanced at the card of tomorrow's races beside her, and said unemotionally, ‘Three to one, sir.'

‘It was fives on Tuesday. Fours at lunchtime today. Seven to two when I rang half an hour ago.'

‘It's three to one now, sir. Do you wish to place a bet?'

‘I suppose so.' He looked at her desperately, seeking reassurance where none was to be had, voicing the naïve question which was as obvious as it was futile. ‘The fact that the odds have come steadily down means it must be well fancied, doesn't it?'

She sighed inwardly, but kept her face studiously blank. The first rule of this job was not to get yourself involved with the punters and their problems. You might upset yourself if you did that; might even end up asking them if they could afford this, advising them against over-committing themselves. You could lose your job that way, and jobs were highly important, when your man had just been laid off. ‘Do you wish to bet, sir?'

‘Yes. Yes, I'll take three to one.'

‘How much do wish to stake, sir?'

‘Five hundred. No, a thousand, if it's only three to one.' He gave her a small, strangely apologetic laugh, then looked automatically round the almost deserted shop to check if anyone had picked up the size of his bet.

‘It's Mr Pearson, isn't it?' The first indication that she had any notion of his identity, though she had known who he was from the moment he presented himself before her. Her enquiry was apologetic, in this place where many people chose to be anonymous.

‘That's right. I have an account with you. A thousand on Supreme Nelly, please.'

‘Just a moment, sir.' She turned and disappeared through a door two yards behind her.

Darren Pearson tapped his fingers on the counter in front of him, shifted his weight from foot to foot, tried not to look conspicuous. There were only three other people in the place, two elderly men and a much younger woman. They had problems of their own and no interest whatsoever in the restless figure at the desk, however much he felt this delay was exciting their interest.

The woman came back through the door with a look of determined regret on her face. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Pearson. We cannot accept this stake.'

The ultimate humiliation for a punter: his bet was being refused. He had known in his heart what was going to happen from the moment she asked him to wait at the grill, but some instinct had made him brazen it out as best he could. He felt that he was delivering someone else's lines, that he was not Darren Pearson but a character in a play he was watching. ‘There must be some mistake. I'm a regular customer here. I have an account with you, as I said.'

‘Yes, sir. The manager's instructions are that until you clear the arrears on that account, you are not to be awarded further credit.'

‘But I've been a client here for years. You've made good profits out of me.'

‘I'm sorry, sir. This is not my decision.'

As if she had triggered some electronic device, a man now opened the door behind her and came forward. It seemed to Darren Pearson an additional insult, in the illogical way of these things, that he was a much younger man. This presumptuous fellow could not be more than twenty-five or twenty-six, his fevered brain told him. The man said, ‘It's all right Mrs Harris, I'll deal with this. Is there a problem, Mr Pearson?'

He spoke loudly, and Darren was sure now that this exchange was the centre of attention in the shop. He was entirely sober, but he felt like a drunk lurching out of control. ‘A misunderstanding rather than a problem, I hope, for your sake. I am one of your best customers, yet you are refusing a sizeable stake from me.'

The man's small, insultingly young, mouth twisted into a mirthless smile. ‘Our best customers pay their bills, Mr Pearson. I'm afraid you have exhausted your credit and you owe us an unacceptably large sum.'

The man had used these phrases many times before. Because he knew it was best to be firm and impersonal, he was keeping all emotion out of his voice, speaking as evenly, even dully, as possible.

Darren saw only an over-promoted youngster who seemed to be enjoying this. ‘Look here, young man, you're representing a national chain with a national reputation to preserve.'

‘Indeed I am, Mr Pearson.'

‘A company which made handsome profits last year.'

The young man hardened his stance a little, sounding more than ever like a machine. ‘It is company policy that we should not allow people to run up more than a certain amount of debt. That is felt to be in the interest of the client as well as the company.'

Darren knew now that he had lost, that no one could win against the faceless battalions of a betting leviathan like Ladbrokes. But pride, the few traces of self-respect he had hardly known he still possessed, made him persist. ‘I am not the sort of back-street gambler who does pound doubles. I am a customer of long standing, with a good income.'

‘That is why you have been allowed the degree of credit you have been afforded, Mr Pearson.' He glanced quickly to right and left: the British reserve about voicing financial details ran deep, even in a place like this. ‘You have owed the company over fifteen thousand pounds for almost a year now, despite written requests to clear or at least substantially reduce your debt. If we accepted this transaction, your liability to the company would be almost twenty thousand. I'm afraid we cannot allow that.'

Darren descended to personal insult, the drunk's last throw in a contest he has lost. ‘You seem to forget that you're speaking for Ladbroke's, not some old-fashioned small bookie. I'm not going to accept the decision of a jumped-up skivvy. I shall take this matter further.'

The man behind the grill was young, but certainly not inexperienced. He recognized this threat to pursue the argument with his superiors as the last futile move in an unpleasant but necessary exchange. ‘That of course is your prerogative, Mr Pearson. I'm sure you'll find that my decision is confirmed.'

The rain outside was falling more heavily. The March wind of the early evening was bitter now, slanting the wetness hard into his face. Darren Pearson struggled defeated to his car, the dark beast of his dejection filling his mind with wild and desperate thoughts.

SEVEN

T
he British newspapers hadn't arrived in Dubai yet. Jim Capstick had the result of the match, but still couldn't read about the victory of Brunton Rovers in the cup tie replay.

He hadn't brought his laptop with him and he wasn't going to pursue computer information in the room downstairs; the result was all he needed at this delicate stage in the negotiations. He didn't want to move out of his room more than was strictly necessary. The sheikh was a powerful man, with a huge staff and a taste for intrigue. Jim was sure that any actions he took, any sign that he was anxious about events at home, would be reported back to his host.

If the truth were told, Capstick had himself a taste for secrecy, having found it an aid to most of his activities. And only at this moment did he acknowledge to himself that he was not intensely interested in the progress of Brunton Rovers, now that there was a real prospect that he would be selling his investment on. Negotiations to dispose of the club were proceeding nicely; progress was more rapid since he and his mysterious buyer had got beyond the stage of dealing through a third party.

But the Rovers' victory suited him, as far as it had any importance at all. Success in the short term could only boost the value of his asset, particularly with a buyer who had the millions needed to develop it. His potential buyer seemed to have little knowledge of football and none at all of the history of the game and of the proud place of Brunton Rovers within it. In his experience, Arabs weren't much interested in history. There seemed no reason why he should enlighten him; football history could only get in the way of negotiations.

He paused for a moment and looked through the big window at the terrace outside. The area was deserted save for the sheikh and the three men who had come here with him. None of them were speaking, even though he had left them on their own. Jim Capstick assumed the men were bodyguards. He had supposed one of them might be some sort of financial adviser, but there was no evidence of conferral. He wondered if the powerful man at the centre of the group had demanded that the terrace be specially cleared for their meeting. It seemed odd that with the hotel more than half full, there should be no guests sitting or strolling here, as the sun dropped and the day moved towards its very brief twilight.

The thought of dealing with such absolute power made him uneasy. But perhaps he was imagining things. In any case, the fact that a man had such control could only make him a better prospect as a buyer, surely? Jim was used to making deals on his own ground, with support at his elbow and a detailed knowledge of the financial background of anyone who came to his negotiating table. He understood the need for secrecy – indeed, he had insisted upon it himself, from the beginning of this. But he felt at a disadvantage meeting this man, who had infinitely more wealth and power than he had, in this alien place and without any of his own supporters to balance the numbers.

Capstick took a deep breath and moved out to join the party at its table. He gave the sheikh a smile he hoped was confident but respectful. ‘That's all arranged. You probably know that the process of examining confidential financial details is referred to as “due diligence” in Britain. That material will be made available to you very quickly. I shall give the orders as soon as I am back in England.' He wondered if the man would question why he had not already set the process in motion. The sheikh was accustomed to exercising absolute power and might deride people without it. He could scarcely explain that he would need to make some explanation of what he was about before he ordered the release of sensitive information, that he wanted to keep this secret until the last possible moment. But the man in the long robes merely nodded his acceptance of these arrangements.