Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘And he’s nutmegged him beautifully and Ross is going to go all the way! Can he put one past Gordon Carmichael? And he has! Beau-tiful goal by Ross, and Queen of the South take the lead!’

Lorimer banged a fist into his open palm. Carmichael! he agonised. The man they called ‘the safest hands in soccer’, just like his fictional counterpart in Roy of the Rovers , Gordon Stewart. He shook his head. Who would have believed it? But the commentator’s voice continued and the policeman crouched over his radio, listening intently.

‘Jim, can Kelvin come back from that? What d’you think?’ the commentator asked as the teams regrouped.

‘Well, they’ll have to, won’t they? Being knocked out of the cup at this stage isn’t the best way to begin a season. Still, it’s the league matches that really matter to them if they want to get back into the SPL. Now the game has restarted and Sweeney plays a clever cross to McKinnery. McKinnery’s off down the wing! Can anyone catch him? Oh! McKinnery’s been brought down in a fearsome tackle by Logan but the referee says play on. Just listen to the crowd! McKinnery’s still lying on the ground and now the physio has come on. That’s a real let-off for Queen of the South’s Logan. He’s lucky not to have been sent off for that. You can’t blame the fans for their outcry. That was a terrible decision. Well, they’re bringing on a stretcher and McKinnery’s being carried off. I saw Woods was limbering up a minute ago and, yes, it’s Austin Woods coming on to replace young John McKinnery.’

Ron Clark sat down again, his fists clenched. What was the referee playing at? There would be some harsh questions asked at the close of this game. His face turned towards the action on the pitch, seeing his players’ efforts to keep possession of the ball, trying to turn it in time to move ever forward in the direction of their opponent’s goalmouth. For a time it seemed that every kick of the ball was deemed to find the blue shirt of a Queen’s player and a see-saw of passing ensued. Then a lovely pass by Hugh McGrory was scooped up by Baz Thomson. Clark grinned as the number seven weaved in and out of the blue-shirted defenders, an impudent smile on his thin narrow face. He watched the player ducking this way and that, Thomson’s dyed-red spiky hair making him an easy player to identify. A quick pass to Sweeney, then Thomson was screaming for the ball again. Seconds later he’d shimmied to one side and launched the ball into the net.

The crowd was on its feet, arms raised in elation, but it was short-lived. For a second time, Ron Clark sank into his seat, his expression thunderous. Thomson had never been offside! He watched as his players remonstrated with the referee, Baz among them, shouting something nobody could hear above the din from the crowd. And suddenly, there it was: a red card being held aloft and Baz Thomson was running towards the tunnel, hands held against his head as if to block out what was happening. Clark looked at the police and stewards as the air was filled with screams and obscenities. The noise took a while to die down; murmurs of anger were punctuated by yells of hatred for the referee. Clark checked his watch. Only a few minutes to go. Could his team possibly pull something out of the bag? Last-minute goals were not unknown. But as the minutes ticked by, the game deteriorated into a series of fouls that were rewarded by a rash of yellow cards and as the final whistle blew, the manager’s mouth was a thin line of suppressed fury as he glared at the referee.

*

Nobody looking out at the team trooping back disconsolately to the dressing room could possibly have guessed that this would be their most memorable start to any season, and for all the wrong reasons.

Norman Cartwright pulled into the driveway, hearing the crunch of gravel beneath his tyres. For a few moments he sat behind the wheel, too exhausted to move, glad of the silence now that the engine was switched off. It had been a hard game. The jeers and howls still rang in his ears. McKinnery’s fall had been an accident. Scrambling boots had made contact with the ball, of that Norman was certain. It had been the hard ground that had concussed the Kelvin striker, not his opponent.

The referee sighed heavily, eyes closed, trying to relive the moments before he had blown his whistle, disallowing that Kelvin goal before all hell had broken loose. He’d made eye contact with the official running down the line. He’d known Thomson was offside, hadn’t he? Well, they’d know soon enough when the match highlights were shown on tonight’s television. And even if he had made a mistake, well, the referee’s word was law and what was done was done, he thought, comforting himself in well-worn clichés.

There had been no post-mortem afterwards, the other officials wanting out of Kelvin’s grounds and away as fast as they could. Norman had waited until most of the ground had been cleared before making his solitary way to the car park. If Rangers or Celtic had been Kelvin’s opponents today it would have been quite another matter, and the referee would have had an escort from the grounds to his car, parked at a distance for his own safety. Norman sighed again. He would have welcomed that measure of security this afternoon. Had he made a mistake, though? Had he?

Perhaps if Norman Cartwright had not rolled the window down to feel the breeze from the passenger side of his Volkswagen he might have seen it coming. And, if he had not continued to sit so quietly and conveniently for the gunman who had him in his sights, perhaps he would have found the answer to his question.

But the projectile came whistling through the air, a malicious wrecking force crashing through the side of his skull. Norman slumped sideways from the sudden impact, any speculations he might have about the validity of Baz Thomson’s goal cut off for ever.

‘Not another one?’ Rosie Fergusson protested. ‘Can Glasgow folk not enjoy themselves on a Saturday without having to murder each other?’ Her voice held a tone of jocularity that was at odds with the forensic pathologist’s dedication to her work. A little levity helped in Glasgow City Mortuary, but never at the expense of a dead person’s dignity. Once the body bag was opened and the corpse laid across her stainless-steel examination table, an atmosphere of intense concentration descended and any lighthearted comments disappeared like burst bubbles from a child’s plastic wand.

Now she wouldn’t even have time to shower and change before heading off to the scene of this most recent atrocity. A shooting: that was all the voice on the telephone had told her. Somewhere up in Lorimer’s neck of the woods. Rosie had the satisfaction of knowing that someone else’s Saturday evening was about to be ruined. At least if the DCI was there she could hope to salvage something of her plans with her fiancé, Dr Solomon Brightman. Solly had been a part of Lorimer’s cases before, in his capacity as a behavioural psychologist. In fact, it had been a particularly grisly murder that had brought Solly and Rosie together. A little smile played around the pathologist’s mouth as she conjured up Solly’s image in her head. The dark eyes behind those horn-rimmed glasses could be solemn and pensive while he considered something in his work, but the moment he caught her glance they softened, making Rosie feel ridiculously girlish. She gave a delicious shiver then chuckled to herself. Behave yourself, woman, she scolded, concentrate on what’s going on across the city.

Lorimer didn’t muck about. He’d be thorough but he’d leave the messy bits to a whole team of dedicated officers who were at the crime scene already. And let me get on with my job, Rosie thought grimly as she gunned the BMW out of the mortuary car park. She had a good working relationship with the Detective Chief Inspector and even met up socially whenever the opportunity allowed. Maggie would be on holiday from school, lucky devil, Rosie thought. Maybe they could make a foursome some evening. Have a barbecue in the Lorimers’ garden if this weather continued.