Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘I wanted to talk to you about the team,’ Lorimer began.

Clark looked at him, his features composed and alert, but said nothing.

‘Why did you want to buy Nicko Faulkner and Jason White?’

The manager sat back further into the shadows, a frown gathering across his face.

‘What a strange question, Chief Inspector. Why does a manager usually buy new players?’ he countered.

‘To improve the team,’ Lorimer answered sharply. ‘But did you really think they would do that?’

‘Of course.’ Clark’s eyebrows rose and the ghost of a patronising smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘But you evidently don’t agree with our choices,’ he said.

‘No,’ Lorimer replied, ‘I don’t. Why spend a lot of money on a player who’s seen better days and one who’s more trouble than he’s worth? I mean, White cost you an arm and a leg, didn’t he?’

‘We considered him a good investment,’ Clark replied, then laughed bitterly. ‘I suppose it’s easy to be critical with hindsight, Chief Inspector.’

‘But it was such a big investment,’ Lorimer persisted. ‘Faulkner’s transfer fee was pretty spectacular too, and you’ve got a really good young squad as it is.’

‘Yes, we have, but that’s not going to get us back into the Premier League next season, is it? We needed some quality players with experience: a couple of mid-fielders who weren’t afraid to go in and make something of the game.’

‘Not like Donnie Douglas,’ Lorimer replied quietly.

Clark looked at him and for a moment their eyes met. The Kelvin manager looked away first, shaking his head. ‘Donnie was a fine mid-fielder, Chief Inspector. But we needed a bit more creativity, if you know what I mean.’

Lorimer thought he knew what Clark meant: for creativity read not being afraid to go in hard, to risk red card situations, suspensions, whatever it took to win a game. White had had that sort of creativity on and off the park. And Nicko Faulkner had never been far from controversy on the pitch.

‘You say Douglas was a fine mid-fielder, Mr Clark. Have you any reason to think he’s unlikely to return to your club?’

Ron Clark looked out into the green void before them, considering. ‘Why should he want to disappear like that, Chief Inspector? Unless he’s got something to hide?’

Answer a question with a question, Lorimer thought. The Kelvin manager would make a good politician. Still, it didn’t make him feel any better about Clark’s slip of the tongue.

‘How did Patrick Kennedy feel about your choice of new players?’ Lorimer asked, turning the conversation back again.

‘Oh,’ Clark smiled properly for the first time, his eyes brightening. ‘That’s an easy one to answer; you see it was Pat’s idea in the first place to go after Jason White and Nicko Faulkner.’

‘And you? What did you think?’

Ron Clark laughed mirthlessly. ‘Me? Oh, Chief Inspector, I’m not paid to think. I’m paid to do what I’m told. Haven’t you picked that up yet?’

Lorimer did not reply for a moment, considering the politics that were involved within a football club. Usually things happened behind closed doors with juicy titbits leaked here and there to the press. He’d not taken Ron Clark for Kennedy’s poodle. Far from it, the manager had a good reputation in the game. Still, a murder case could suddenly strip bare a lot of the facade; it wasn’t uncommon for a man to reveal his innermost fears and desires when confronted by issues of life and death.

‘So,’ Lorimer countered at last, ‘what was your own opinion of Faulkner and White?’

Ron Clark’s smile had already faded as he took in the policeman’s words. ‘If I said I didn’t want them in the first place does that give me a motive for their murders, Chief Inspector?’ The question was spoken lightly but Clark’s expression was deadly serious.

Lorimer shrugged, letting Clark’s own words hang in the air.

‘Okay, I wasn’t happy with Pat’s idea to buy Jason White. I knew he’d be a load of trouble, but I was overruled. For the record, Chief Inspector, I wasn’t totally against the purchase of Faulkner. The man had plenty of style. He was a charismatic player and still had plenty to offer a team like ours. Pat felt he could’ve inspired a lot of the younger boys.’

‘So you don’t think anybody at the club would have wanted Faulkner out of the way?’

Ron Clark turned to look Lorimer straight in the eye once again. ‘No. And if you want my opinion you’ve already got the only person who could have killed Nicko.’

This time it was Lorimer’s turn to avert his gaze. Simply wishing Janis Faulkner innocent wasn’t going to make it true. Like he’d told the lawyer, he needed more evidence to link the three killings. And now it looked as if Ron Clark would be the last person to offer him that.

‘Mr Kennedy will see you shortly, Chief Inspector. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?’ Marie McPhail regarded Lorimer gravely, making him recall the woman’s expression on that first visit to the football club. She hadn’t been too happy to see Strathclyde’s finest on that occasion.

‘Thanks. Coffee would be lovely. Just black, no sugar,’ he added, sliding open the glass door to the receptionist’s office and stepping inside.

The woman had begun to turn away but looked up, confused as she saw the policeman standing right by her desk, a silent ‘Oh’ of alarm forming on her lips.

He folded his arms and smiled at her. ‘Must be terrible for you having us coming back and forward,’ he began, chattily. ‘Eating you out of house and home,’ he joked, indicating the packet of biscuits that Marie McPhail had pulled from a cupboard behind her desk. He was rewarded by seeing her shoulders relax.

‘Och, it’s no bother to me. Besides, we’re used to the police coming in to do pre-match inspections, and the ones who are on duty on match days are no trouble. Very polite.’

‘Bit of an upset for the club having CID on your doorstep, all the same,’ he persisted.

‘Your lot aren’t nearly as bad as all those newspaper folk hanging around every day,’ the receptionist declared. ‘It’s been terrible here. S’not the same place any more.’ She looked up at Lorimer, an appeal in her eyes. ‘All we really want is to get back to normal, Chief Inspector. We’ll be glad once you get the man who’s done these terrible things.’

‘Think it’s a man, do you?’ Lorimer teased her.

‘Oh, yes,’ she assured him. ‘No woman could have done a thing like that, shooting those poor chaps.’ She handed him a mug of coffee emblazoned with the club crest.

‘Including Nicko Faulkner?’ Lorimer asked lightly.

For a moment she looked uncertain, then she made a face. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t say it but see, if he was knocking his wife around the way they say in the papers, well, he deserved everything he got!’ Then, as if suddenly realising to whom she was speaking, Marie McPhail covered her mouth with her hand.

‘It’s all right,’ Lorimer assured her with a shrug. ‘Everyone’s entitled to their opinion.’ He took a sip of the coffee, regarding her over the rim of the mug. ‘By the way, did you ever meet Janis Faulkner?’

‘Aye. A nice lassie. Quiet. Well mannered. But then they say it’s the quiet ones you have tae watch, eh?’

‘Chief Inspector,’ Patrick Kennedy’s booming voice echoed along the corridor. Lorimer and the woman looked up to see the chairman standing just outside his door. ‘Marie’s been looking after you? Just bring your coffee through here,’ he added, disappearing into his office.

‘Better go. Thanks for the coffee,’ Lorimer grinned conspiratorially at the receptionist. ‘Mustn’t keep your great man waiting.’