Alex Gray: Pitch Black

The man sitting hunched beside him on the empty terracing did not speak. His eyes wandered over Kelvin’s grounds, visualising his team out there in the new season’s strips: white shirts with a diagonal black band. It was an irony now. They’d have to issue black armbands for the opening match. He gritted his teeth. Faulkner would have raised their profile for a bit, put the wind up some of the clubs in their league, he thought. Even if the mid-fielder was a bit long in the tooth, they had bought him knowing he had still some mileage left, and some charisma too, he nodded silently to himself, remembering the man’s roguish eyes and the engaging way he’d spoken with all of the backroom staff the day he’d signed for Kelvin. Letters and cards of sympathy had been received from his ex-club mates in Sunderland, all saying the same thing: how he’d been such a well-liked lad…

‘Pat?’ Clark’s voice penetrated the chairman’s thoughts, banishing that vision of his new team. ‘Look, I know Nicko’s murder’s been a helluva shock, but we need to say something. Even if it’s just to tell them how devastated we all are.’

Patrick Kennedy sighed resolutely. ‘Okay. But you talk to them, will you? Say we are being supportive of the family. Keep it vague. Don’t mention anything about the wife if you can help it. And …’ he paused for a moment, ‘see if you can turn the spotlight on to Jason White.’ Kennedy nodded to himself. That might be a good tactic. Concentrating on their other new signing so soon after Nicko’s death might deflect attention from the bloodiness of it all, and White, with his nightclubbing lifestyle, was a potential headline grabber for quite different reasons.

‘Ach, well, it’s that time of year. Everyone’s busy with new faces. Maybe this will all blow over once the season begins.’

‘It had better,’ Kennedy replied shortly. There was too much riding on this new team of his. What he really didn’t need was a backlash from the fans or a slip in the team’s morale. Support was required from every angle and it was Kennedy’s job to see that it was forthcoming. Ron could handle the press. He’d been hired after the sacking of their previous manager when they’d suffered the ignominy of relegation. Ron Clark had come to Kelvin with an excellent track record and the respect of many in the world of sport. Kennedy trusted this man to put his message across.

The chairman of Kelvin FC stood up heavily, still gazing at the rows of empty seating. Alone at one end of the pitch was Kelvin’s trusty groundsman, Albert Little. Kennedy watched him in the process of fixing new netting to one of the goalposts. Wee Bert, as everybody knew him, was ferociously dedicated to the club; not a pin would be out of place, not a striped line wavering when the turf was cut. Even today, under the hot July sun, the man was concentrating on his task with the kind of dedication that had won him the trophy for best groundsman in the Scottish Premier League in three consecutive seasons, a feat of which he was rightly proud. The chairman’s eyes passed from one end of the park to the other, then, with his mouth closed in a determined line as if he had reached some unspoken decision, Patrick Kennedy made his way back down from the directors’ box to the darkened passages that led into the club.

The cement steps echoed under his shoes and he glanced down at his feet, noticing the gleam of polish on black leather. Attention to detail, he’d told his players season after season, then repeated it to the string of managers who had come and gone from the club. As he walked out of the sunlight into the shadows, Kennedy passed a hand over his hair. It was thinning now but that didn’t prevent him from having it groomed by the best stylist in Glasgow. Attention to detail, that’s what made all the difference. If Janis Faulkner had killed Nicko then maybe the media would focus less on the club and more on the footballer, his wife and his background.

The last thing Kennedy wanted was a lot of journalists sitting on his doorstep, digging for dirt.

Maggie gave a deep sigh. Usually her husband’s first week back at work after their summer holiday made her feel oddly bereft, what with his enormous backlog of emails and catching up in general, but today would be different. She peeked at the cat carrier on the passenger seat beside her, borrowed from a neighbour. The ginger cat was sitting sphinx-like, his paws tucked underneath his body. He’d slept outside somewhere but at the first sound of the back door opening he’d trotted into the kitchen, tail erect, greeting Maggie with a little meow of recognition. Now he stared ahead, quiet and alert. He must be used to cars, Maggie told herself; he must belong to somebody. She tightened her lips in resignation at the inevitable. They’d be bound to find the owner and give him back, wouldn’t they?

The vet’s surgery was situated in a small, pretty bungalow on a street full of similar residential homes. Maggie turned into the drive where a car park had long since replaced the original large front garden.

‘Right, out you come,’ she said and the cat gave a quizzical cry as it was lifted off the seat.

Inside, the reception area smelt of disinfectant and a draught of cold air came from a passage beyond the front desk, making Maggie shiver.

‘Mrs Lorimer,’ she told the girl behind the counter.

‘Oh, yes, the stray cat. Just take a seat in the waiting room, Mrs Lorimer. The vet will see you shortly. Can you fill in this form while you’re waiting, please?’ The girl handed Maggie a black clipboard with a pen and paper attached.

The waiting room was empty of other pets and their owners, thanks to the appointment system and, Maggie told herself, the holiday season. But there was a large aviary in one corner of the room housing a pair of brightly coloured budgies; their squawking soon had the cat on its feet, head craning forward, a low growl issuing from its throat.

‘Behave,’ Maggie told him. ‘You’ve to be good, now.’ Then she sighed at such a proprietorial remark. What did it matter if he growled or not? She’d not have any say in his behaviour for much longer.

The radio was playing an old Abba number and Maggie found herself singing along as she drove home. The vet had promised to put up notices about the cat (who was not chipped and had not been a previous patient) and had given the animal a thorough examination. The sore back was the result of a dog bite, the vet had reckoned, showing Maggie a tiny hole puncturing the flesh. He’d given her antibiotics for the cat, who had purred and wrapped his front paws lovingly around the vet’s neck as he’d lifted him on to the scales.

‘Lovely puss,’ he’d laughed. ‘Glad you’ve found a good home,’ he’d added approvingly as Maggie had placed the animal carefully back into the plastic carrier.

‘D’you think we could keep him if the owners don’t turn up?’ she’d asked.

‘No reason why not,’ he’d replied. ‘But bring him back in for his injections if nobody claims him. He’s been somebody’s pet at one time. Been spayed, coat’s not in a bad condition. Maybe you’ll be lucky and find his owners. Or,’ he’d grinned at Maggie’s expression, ‘maybe you’ll be luckier and not find them at all.’

*

It was late when her husband finally reached home. No surprise, Maggie thought. A murder investigation took up so much time, and she should know. Lorimer had had his fair share of cases as Senior Investigating Officer over the years. Sometimes it irked Maggie that he had been overlooked for further promotion, though making the rank of Detective Chief Inspector in his thirties had been something to cheer about.

‘Hi, we’re through here,’ she called.

Lorimer’s head appeared round the doorway and he grinned as he saw them together; a woman and ginger cat curled up companionably on the sofa.