Alex Gray: Pitch Black

Ron Clark straightened his tie and headed back into the clubhouse, rehearsing what he would say to the team once they had assembled in their dressing room.

‘Everything’s in place,’ Lorimer told them. ‘We’ve got cameras covering every entrance and turnstile and the dogs are being brought in to sniff out anyone who has even the faintest trace of firearms or ammunition about them.’

‘What about inside the grounds?’ someone asked.

‘For every one of the usual officers on duty there’s a plain clothes policeman. We’ve got an unmarked van ready to roll into the car park behind the main building. There will be an armed response unit located inside the van and every officer will be in radio communication with that unit at all times. Plus mounted police horses and you lot, of course. If you’ve bought your tickets, that is.’ Lorimer’s face creased in a sudden grin. At the sight of their worried faces, the DCI produced a bunch of tickets from behind his back. ‘Just joking,’ he said. ‘But a black-and-white scarf or two would help to camouflage you in the crowd.’

All weekend leave had been cancelled due to this massive operation and there had been quite a bit of raised spirits at the prospect of a breakthrough in the case.

‘What about Mr Kennedy?’ DI Grant asked.

‘Don’t worry, we’ve taken care of him,’ Lorimer told her. ‘But it’s up to you all to watch any movement within the ground that seems suspicious. We’re on the lookout for anyone who is armed and that may not be as easy to spot as it seems. A pistol and even a sawn-off shotgun can be concealed quite easily.’

‘But that would suggest an attack at close range,’ DC Cameron said.

‘Aye, so anything that looks to you like a sniper’s rifle, you don’t mess about. You call the unit right away. I’ll be in radio contact at all times.’

Pat Kennedy looked down at his stomach in dismay. The Kevlar jacket had cut into folds of flesh and pushed the big man’s layers of fat further south, making them jut out above his waistband.

‘You’ll just have to pull your shirt over it a bit,’ the officer told him.

Pat Kennedy glared at the man. Not only did he hate to look slovenly, but this dark blue shirt didn’t suit him at all. Still, it would conceal the black bullet-proof vest underneath, but already the chairman could feel trickles of perspiration beneath the heavy material.

‘What if he aims for my face?’ Kennedy had asked Lorimer the previous day. A specially adapted Kelvin cap had been hastily constructed but Pat Kennedy swore to himself that he would only wear the thing as a last resort. They had a good turn-out from their corporate people and Barbara herself would be there by his side. For a wicked moment Patrick Kennedy imagined a sniper’s bullet aiming for his chest, missing and hitting his wife instead. His mouth twitched then he shook himself free of such a fantasy, wondering how on earth he was capable of thoughts like that. But he’d had them before, a little voice insisted: ideas of what life might be like if Barbara were suddenly to keel over. Marie McPhail figured in these fantasies, her willing body next to his against some exotic background, far far away.

‘All right, sir?’ The officer was regarding Kennedy strangely and the chairman realised he had drifted off into a world of his own. Hopefully the policeman would take this for a moment of reflection on life, the universe and some nutter playing silly buggers in an internet cafe.

‘Yes,’ Kennedy answered. ‘Everything’s just marvellous.’

Ignoring the sarcasm, the officer patted the vest beneath Patrick Kennedy’s shirt, nodding his approval. ‘We’ll be in constant radio contact, sir. One of our senior officers will be sitting nearby, so no need to worry.’

Kennedy grunted in reply. The last thing he wanted was to appear flustered, especially in front of one of Strathclyde’s senior officers.

For years it had been his dream to see inside Kelvin FC’s inner sanctum but now that he was actually here, DCI Lorimer felt strangely uncomfortable. A tour of the trophy room had been preceded by drinks in the boardroom and was to be followed by a five-course lunch. Lorimer hung back as the steward described the many trophies on show. Each had its own particular history, some even dating from the late nineteenth century. These were large ornate cups engraved with faded, spidery writing. When he’d been a wee lad just what wouldn’t he have given for an experience like this? Now, as the SIO in a serious murder case, Lorimer looked at the people around him much more than at the objects within their glass cases. Most of them carried drinks in one hand and some were chatting amiably to one another as though this was something they did on a regular basis. He recognised Colin Sharpe and Frank Devine, directors of the club. They’d made their money in a lucrative legal partnership that specialised in commercial property. They were with another of the club’s directors, Jeffrey Mellis. Lorimer was not surprised to see them laughing and joking together.

Mellis was a property consultant whose name had figured in the DCI’s recent bedtime reading. If Patrick Kennedy and Mellis had their way then Kelvin FC as he knew it would very soon cease to exist. Big plans were afoot to sell the current grounds to a supermarket chain and to relocate the club to a brownfield site in Maryhill. Lorimer had seen the plans, read the figures and thought long and hard about why this had not yet found its way into the public domain. Jimmy Greer and every sports writer in the land would have had copy going to press the minute this was out in the open. But Jimmy was dead and all of the documentation that Lorimer had ferreted out was marked confidential in large red letters. Had the Gazette ’s reporter stumbled across something that was meant to be kept secret? Something that was worth killing for? It didn’t make sense. If Kennedy and his cohorts wanted to keep quiet about the development of a new club, could it be for perfectly legitimate reasons? The information disquieted him; could it be one of the missing pieces in this jigsaw, which he was playing round and round in his head?

They had moved away from Kelvin’s silverware now and were heading down a long narrow corridor towards the dining room. Lorimer listened to the noise of laughter and people talking to one another as they found their tables. He glanced at his watch. The crowds would be coming into the stadium soon but these corporate guests would not make their way out into the directors’ area until just before kick-off. Would anyone be in custody by then? Lorimer hoped so, and knew he wasn’t the only one. Looking over to where Patrick Kennedy stood he could see the red flush spreading across the man’s face and guessed at his discomfort.

‘Anybody seen ma boots?’ Baz Thomson stood in the middle of the Kelvin dressing room, a furious expression on his face.

‘Has the wee man no brought them up fae the boot room, then?’ John McKinnery replied. ‘It’s no like him tae forget onything.’

‘Mibbe he’s seen the ghost,’ Davie Clark suggested.

‘Wooooo!’ Simon Gaffney had lifted up his white shirt and was waving it in the air, making the sleeves dance.

‘Cut it out!’ Andy Sweeney, the Kelvin captain, hadn’t raised his voice much and he had a smile on his face, but the mirth died down as the players noticed a new figure enter the dressing room.

Donnie Douglas looked from one player to another, sensing that he had stepped into the middle of something. He could feel their eyes following his progress as he made his way across to the wall of lockers. Nobody had said anything to him about his absence other than to enquire if he was okay. It was as if they’d been told to leave him alone. In one way it was a relief, but now Donnie felt as if he were an outsider, not one of the team. As he unpacked his kit, the other players resumed their normal banter. It would be fine once they were out on the pitch, Donnie told himself. Clark had warned him that his position might be in jeopardy. Suddenly he thought of Alison and a strange sense of pride made him stand up straight. He had everything to play for now and today he’d show them all just how good he really was.