Alex Gray - Pitch Black

‘Still here then, is he?’

‘Yeah. The vet says there’s no reason why we can’t keep him. If nobody claims him, that is,’ she added hastily.

‘Better give him a name, then. We can’t just keep calling him cat. How about Ginger?’

Maggie made a face and shook her head.

‘What, then?’

‘How about Second Chance?’ Maggie suggested.

Lorimer snorted. ‘Sounds like a racehorse.’ Then he paused, ‘Why not call him Chancer? That’s what he is after all, a right wee chancer.’

Maggie looked up. Was there something of disapproval in her husband’s tone? Or had it simply been a particularly hard day? Whatever, he needed something pleasant to ease the worry lines etched across his brow, she thought in a rush of affection.

‘Okay, Chancer, off you go.’ Maggie stood up and let the cat slip off her knees. ‘Fancy some dinner or are you too tired?’ She came up close to Lorimer, arms entwining his waist, and felt his breath warm on her face.

‘Not that tired,’ he murmured, pulling her tightly against his body.

‘Sex-mad fool!’ she murmured into his shoulder teasingly, but shivered as her husband’s strong fingers traced the shape of her hips. Maggie closed her eyes as she felt his hardness against her, all thoughts of dinner vanishing as another sort of hunger commanded her senses.

Jimmy Greer licked the salt from his lips. Crushing the crisp bag, he aimed it at an already overflowing waste bin but the bag unfolded itself mid-flight and landed well short of its target. No goal, he thought. Well, maybe he’d hit the mark with this latest story. Footballers’ wives had that double allure of belonging to a man’s world and still remaining glamour pusses, his editor had reminded him. They’d already sourced a picture of Janis Faulkner smiling into someone’s lens from her poolside sun lounger. It was true what they said, a picture was worth a thousand words and this one told a lovely little story of self-gratification. It almost begged the reader to indulge in a bit of Schadenfreude . Greer smiled to himself. He’d see what other tasty bits he could rake up while he was at it. The Gazette ’s senior reporter turned back to his laptop. A few more words to knock out then he was out of here.

Even with all the windows open, the newspaper office was stiflingly hot and underarm damp patches had spread like twin Rorschach ink blots across his blue shirt. Greer glanced at his watch. Time for a quick one in the press bar, he told himself, flicking the cursor to ‘save’. Just a wee half before Kelvin FC held their press conference. Greer chuckled to himself, wondering what spin their new manager would have for them and what stories his rival journalists would have for tomorrow’s editions. Well, his sources had brought him something better and he’d have an exclusive.

The boardroom at Kelvin FC was a testament to the club’s long history. Founded in the late nineteenth century, its walls had echoed with the hopes and celebrations of Kelvin’s directors over three different centuries. Old photographs hung on the wood panelling, their teams lingering on for posterity. Names could still be matched with the faces staring forwards to whatever lens had captured their images, some of them remaining forever young, their aspirations cut off by one of the wars that had ravaged the twentieth century. Ron Clark glanced around the empty room. It was his favourite place inside the club, somewhere he could come and feel at home among all these sporting heroes. His last job had been with another First Division team but it had lacked the history of a club like Kelvin. Clark liked it here. Besides, he and Pat Kennedy understood one another.

Chairs had been arranged in ranks facing the largest table behind which he’d placed the Kelvin Chair. This was a fine-carved affair, high backed with the club’s crest emblazoned upon it, a chair normally reserved for Kennedy during more formal occasions. But today it seemed fitting that he should take it himself. Sitting there might give him the confidence he did not presently feel. Or was it because he was unconsciously taking Pat’s place? And would he be trying to emulate the chairman’s tactics?

The Kelvin manager shivered. He’d not felt as nervous as this before, even with a cup-winning match in prospect. But then, he told himself as he rubbed some warmth into his arms through his shirt sleeves, he’d never been involved in a murder investigation. Sometimes players were difficult to handle; temperaments could flare up on and off the pitch and more than once in his career he’d had to step in to settle some belligerent character who’d threatened them with the press. A few pub fights and (once) the father of a teenage girl had caused him some sleepless nights. On the whole the boys here were great. They turned up on time for training sessions, worked hard at their fitness regimes and mainly stayed out of trouble.

But nothing like this had ever happened at Kelvin FC. There was absolutely no precedent for the murder of one of their star players. And, Clark thought sadly, a star who’d never even had the chance to put on a Kelvin strip. He recalled Pat Kennedy’s bitter words. We’ve paid Sunderland top whack for him and now all that money’s gone, the chairman had complained. Clark had remained silent, shocked that Pat could begin to think about hard cash in the face of the footballer’s demise. What was money when a life had been so horribly cut off? But, he reflected, Pat seemed pretty obsessed by money these days. Ron’s own nephew, Davie, who had come up through Kelvin’s ranks and was now one of their regular defenders, had told him about the ill-feeling in the dressing room because of Kennedy’s insistence that they wouldn’t be paid extra for home wins next season.

Clark looked up, his train of thought interrupted as the first of the journalists was shown into the board-room by Marie McPhail, Kelvin’s administrative officer. Rising to his feet, the manager nodded to the reporter from the Gazette . ‘Take a seat, will you. The others shouldn’t be long.’

In truth the conference lasted a scant half-hour but for Ron Clark it seemed that it would never end. Questions about Nicko’s background came up, the reasons they’d had for paying all that money for him, whether he had any ideas about the man’s death to offer. The manager had shrugged his shoulders, bewildered that they’d think he could have any opinion whatsoever on the matter and wishing, not for the first time, that this particular press conference had not come within his remit as club manager. And as for getting in a mention of Jason White? That had been a non-starter.

Eventually he’d shaken all their hands and seen them out at the entrance to the club. It had felt as if he were accepting condolences after a funeral.

‘Have the police been to see you?’ Ron Clark turned to see a thin, cadaverous figure standing a little apart from the other journalists. It was a man he had not recognised; familiar as he was with the sports writers, this one eluded him.

Clark’s puzzled expression must have shown for the man thrust out a hand and gripped his own in a brief, damp clasp.

‘Jimmy Greer. The Gazette ,’ he announced.

‘The police? No they haven’t,’ Clark replied.

‘They will.’ The reporter flicked one long finger against the side of his nose. ‘Trust me, they will,’ he repeated, then with a grin that showed a set of unhealthy stained teeth the reporter turned on his heel and headed for the car park.

Ron Clark stood watching him for a few moments then he shivered, despite the sun beating down out of a cloudless blue sky. There was something about the man Greer that made him more than a little uneasy.