Alex Gray - Pitch Black

Lorimer strolled in the direction of the football coach, hearing him bark out instructions to his players. Despite the aching heat, every one of them sported a plastic bib over his black T-shirt: this coach didn’t pander to his boys. The game was a serious affair and pre-match training meant taking sides and going through tactical motions as if they were really playing an opposing team. It would be interesting to see just how careful the players were of each other, Lorimer thought. A bad tackle in training could put somebody out of the game for weeks. And footballers were notoriously selfish, chasing these few eager years while they lasted. Members of the Kelvin first team might be paid a small fortune but their glory days wouldn’t last much more than a decade unless they were particularly lucky, or played in goal. The sensible ones invested their big money though a few, like Jason White, squandered it with as much alacrity as the prodigal son.

He wondered about Nicko Faulkner. The English player had had some good years and would probably have lent a bit of glamour to Kelvin’s team, but would he have delivered the sort of skilful football that had marked him out ten years ago? And had he put away enough for a long retirement? Lorimer recalled the press photos of Janis Faulkner and her husband and wondered if they had enjoyed the champagne lifestyle. It might be interesting to see just what the footballer’s wife had stood to inherit. Though, somehow, he could not bring himself to believe that she was cold-hearted enough to have killed him for his money.

He was inside the training park now, leaning against a wooden fence, watching as the coach organised the players into two teams. The sound of a lark made him look up and he strained to see the exact point in the blue blue sky where the soaring bird poured out its liquid notes. There it was, a moving speck of darkness fluttering almost out of sight.

Lorimer wrenched his gaze away from the heavens and looked back at the game beginning on the field. Ally Stevenson was yelling something at one of his defenders who turned to acknowledge the coach. For a while the play moved up and down the field, the ball criss-crossing in arcs between the players until Lorimer realised the nature of this particular game: Stevenson was making them play aerial balls as much as possible, yelling instructions about weight and balance as the players sought to follow his demands. Eventually he called a halt and the players went through a series of stretching exercises before jogging gently round the perimeter of the pitch.

‘Keepie-uppie for big boys, eh?’ Lorimer smiled as Stevenson came to join him.

‘Aye, well, they think they know it all when they come up to senior level, but there’s always a lot to learn about fitness, stamina …’ The coach broke off, following the players as they ran past. ‘Some of them are naturals, some like to think they are. It’s my job to sort them all out and make them do the job properly. See him?’ Stevenson pointed to the final runner who had jogged past, elbows pumping rhythmically at his sides. Lorimer looked at the footballer, a tall lanky lad. ‘We had to hire a specialist to teach him how to run. He spent all day for weeks doing slaloms in and out of traffic cones. Cost a bloody fortune.’

‘And was it worth it?’ Lorimer couldn’t help asking.

Stevenson shrugged. ‘Don’t know yet. He’s certainly changed his gait and he hasn’t lost too many balls in tackles so far, but we’ll wait and see.’ He paused. ‘My money would be on him to come back big-time this season. Reminds me of Peter Crouch: same gangly frame but effective, know what I mean?’

Lorimer nodded. The English internationalist had shot to fame for outstanding performances in the last world cup, his familiar beanpole figure making headlines all over the world. He could see the physical resemblance, but he wondered if the Kelvin lad had the same star quality.

‘Donnie Douglas,’ Lorimer began, moving on to the reason he was standing on the edge of the field.

‘Have you found him?’ Stevenson’s eyebrows shot up and the detective saw the hope in the man’s eyes. As he shook his head he felt guilty, seeing the coach’s head turn away in disappointment.

‘Sorry. We’re no further forward. Hoped some of your players might have an idea where he could have gone,’ he explained.

Stevenson’s answer was a deep sigh. He faced the training ground, watching the line of footballers come around to complete their first circuit, then waved a hand to bring them to a halt.

There was an immediate scramble towards a pile of cooler bags for bottles of water.

‘Right, lads, Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer wants to know if you have any idea about where Donnie’s gone to,’ Stevenson barked out in his best sergeant major’s voice.

‘Is he no away hame tae Aberdeen, then?’ Baz Thomson’s cheeky grin stood out against the more serious expressions on the faces of the other players. ‘Hus he no got a burd up there, then?’

‘Naw. His burd’s down here in Glesca,’ someone else offered.

‘An address for her would be helpful,’ Lorimer suggested, his tone bordering on sarcasm, intending to show he wasn’t there to be messed about.

‘Ye’ll find it down at the club. He signed her in last match day.’

‘Aye, so he did. Shockaroonie!’ Thomson laughed. ‘Donnie falling for groupie number two!’

Lorimer’s brow creased in puzzlement.

‘There’s a wee crowd of lassies follow us around, Chief Inspector,’ Baz explained. ‘We’ve given them numbers, put them in order of …’ he broke off, circling his hands over a pair of huge, imaginary bosoms on his own chest as snorts of laughter erupted behind him.

‘Her name and address should be in the vistors’ book, Chief Inspector. Don’t know why we forgot about her.’ Stevenson’s voice was contrite.

Lorimer nodded. ‘Thanks. But if any of you have the slightest idea where Donnie might have gone, you really must tell me.’ His steely blue gaze took in each one of them in turn, impressing them with the gravity of the situation. Even Baz Thomson, the class clown, fell silent under the weight of that scrutiny.

‘D’you think something’s happened to him?’ Andy Sweeney asked, blurting out the question that was in all their minds.

Lorimer didn’t answer for a moment, letting a sense of unease gather over the players. ‘We don’t know,’ he admitted at last. But in those few seconds of silence he hoped he had sown seeds of real fear within them. If one of them did know Douglas’s whereabouts his conscience might prick him into telling what he knew.

Alison Renton was the name scrawled in an untidy childish hand with an address that wasn’t a million miles from Kelvin Park. Marie McPhail read out the details to the officer on the other end of the line, wondering why she felt a sudden shiver. The lassie had been a quiet wee thing, she remembered. She’d had a drink with Donnie after the match and they’d gone off together afterwards. Marie tried to recall her face as she’d stood aside for Donnie to sign her in. The girl had worn black, supporters’ colours maybe, and there had been a proliferation of silver jewellery: bangles jingling around her wrists and several chains sweeping over large breasts. But Alison Renton’s face had not imposed itself upon the receptionist’s memory.

*

‘Alison Renton?’

The woman who hovered at the half-opened door looked him up and down. ‘Who’s asking?’ she slurred her words slowly, eyes narrowing as if Niall’s manner told her all she needed to know: he was police and she didn’t like that. Her eyes flicked to the man by his side.

‘DC Cameron, DC Weir, Strathclyde Police. Are you Miss Renton?’ Niall asked.