Alex Gray - Pitch Black

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 the 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.