Alex Gray - Pitch Black

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.