‘What?’
He pointed to the west, where a two-storey brick building slumped along the boundary of the playing fields. ‘The biscuit factory. When I was a kid, I trained for a season with the Vic juniors. When the wind’s in the right direction, you can tell what biscuits they’re baking. I always thought it was a refined form of torture for teenage lads trying to keep fit.’
‘What happened?’ Chris asked, following him round the end of the changing pavilion.
Kevin strode ahead of her so she couldn’t see the regret on his face. ‘I wasn’t good enough,’ he said. ‘Many are called but few are chosen.’
‘That must have been rough.’
Kevin gave a little snort of laughter. ‘At the time, I thought it was the end of the world.’
‘And now?’
‘The money would have been better, that’s for sure. And I’d have a fleet of Ferraris.’
‘True,’ Chris said, catching up with him as he paused, looking out across the grass where a couple of dozen young men were dribbling balls around traffic cones. ‘But for most footballers, you’re on the scrapheap by the time you’re our age. And what’s left? Sure, a handful make it into management, but a lot more end up behind the bar in some shitty pub trading on their glory days and bitching about the ex-wife that cleaned them out.’
Kevin grinned at her. ‘And you think that would be worse than this?’
‘You know it would.’
As they rounded the building, a man in shorts and a Bradfield Victoria sweatshirt headed their way. He looked to be in his middle forties, but he was in such good shape it was hard to be certain. If his dark hair had still been in a mullet, he’d have been instantly recognizable to football fans and indifferents alike. But now it was cut close to his head, it took Kevin a moment to realize he was face to face with one of the heroes of his youth.
‘You’re Terry Malcolm,’ he blurted out, twelve again and besotted with the ball skills of the England and Bradfield midfielder.
Terry Malcolm turned to Chris with a smile and said, ‘I’ll be all right if I ever get Alzheimer’s. You’d be amazed how often people feel the need to tell me who I am. You must be Sergeant Devine. I’m only guessing, mind. In a hopeful sort of way, on account of he’s not my type and I can’t see myself calling him Devine.’ His expression said he was accustomed to people finding him funny and charming. Kevin, already disillusioned with his former hero, was pleased to see Chris Devine unmoved.
‘Mr Flanagan told you why we’re here?’ Kevin said, his tone slightly incredulous. As if he couldn’t quite believe anyone who worked for Bradfield Vic could be so flippant while their finest player lay dying.
Malcolm looked suitably chastened. ‘He did. And believe me, I’m gutted about Robbie. But I can’t afford to let my feelings show. There’s another twenty-one players on the squad who need to stay motivated. We’ve got Spurs in the premiership on Saturday and we can’t afford to be dropping points at this stage in the season.’ He gave Chris the benefit of his smile again. ‘I hope that doesn’t sound callous. Like I said, I’m gutted. But our boys need to be kept on their toes. On Saturday, we’ll be winning it for Robbie. All the more reason not to chuck our routines in the bin.’
‘Quite,’ Chris said. ‘And we need to check out Robbie’s movements in the forty-eight hours before he started feeling ill on Saturday. We want to talk to his mates. The ones who are close enough to know what he was up to between the end of training on Thursday and breakfast on Saturday.’
Malcolm nodded. ‘You want to talk to Pavel Aljinovic and Phil Campsie. Robbie bunks up with Pavel when we’re in a hotel. And Phil’s his best mate.’ Malcolm made no move to summon the players.
‘Now, Mr Malcolm,’ Chris said.
Again the cheap and cheesy smile. ‘It’s Terry, love.’
It was Chris’s turn to smile. ‘I’m not your love, Mr Malcolm. I am a police officer investigating a very serious attack on one of your colleagues. And I want to talk to either Pavel Aljinovic or Phil Campsie right now.’
Malcolm shook his head. ‘They’re training. I can’t interrupt that.’
Kevin flushed an unbecoming scarlet, his freckles darkening across his cheeks. ‘Do you want me to arrest you for police obstruction? Because you’re going the right way about it.’
Malcolm’s lip lifted in a sneer. ‘I don’t think you’ll be arresting me. Your boss likes his seat in the directors’ box far too much for that.’
‘That cuts both ways,’ Chris said sweetly. ‘It means we have a hotline to your boss, too. And I don’t think he’d be very impressed to hear you’ve been impeding our inquiries into the attempted murder of his star player.’
Although Chris had spoken, it was Kevin who was on the receiving end of a glare of deep dislike. Malcolm was clearly one of those men who could only flirt with women and talk with men. ‘I’ll get Pavel.’ He gestured with his thumb towards the pavilion. ‘Wait inside there, I’ll sort you out a room in a minute.’
Five minutes later, they were sitting in a weights room that smelled of stale sweat and muscle rub. The Croatian international goalkeeper was hot on their heels. As he walked in, his nose twitched and a look of distaste crossed his chiselled features. ‘Stinks in here, sorry,’ he said, pulling a plastic chair from a short stack against the wall and sitting down opposite the two detectives. ‘I am Pavel Aljinovic.’ He nodded formally to them both.
The word that came to Kevin’s mind was ‘dignified’. Aljinovic had shoulder-length dark hair, normally pulled back in a tight ponytail on match days, but flowing free this afternoon. His eyes were the colour of conkers baked in the oven then polished on a sleeve. High cheekbones over hollow cheeks, full lips and a narrow, straight nose made him look almost aristocratic. ‘Coach says somebody tried to poison Robbie,’ he said, his accent faint but unmistakably Slavic. ‘How can this be?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Chris said, leaning forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped.
‘And Robbie? How is he doing?’
‘Not very well,’ Kevin said.
