Francis hoped that, in return, Tupolev would be happy to part with somewhere in the region of £400 million to help him buy City FC. A club that had just come on the market. Francis wanted control of City more than anything. And if it meant England failing to qualify for another tournament, then so what?
Although he was rich, the Englishman was not rich enough to lay his hands on a spare £400 million. He had about half that amount stashed away. In Swiss accounts. Under several names. He used to have more. Including properties and cars and a football club of his own. But he’d lost it all.
Kenneth Francis realized that he was not coming across well in the telephone conversation. He needed to appear more decisive. Utterly decisive, in fact. England v Russia was the first game between the two teams. But they had to play each other again. In Russia. Next Wednesday. If Russia won that, then they would be back at the top of Group F. And Tupolev would probably be happy.
Francis knew that he had to keep Tupolev happy anyway. Tupolev was a man who was alleged to be responsible for at least thirty murders. Of journalists, sportspeople, politicians and business rivals. Even former girlfriends. He was not a man to be messed with.
‘Dmitri?’
‘Yes, my friend?’
There was something menacing about the way Tupolev said my friend. It was almost as if he meant quite the opposite.
‘Dmitri. I will deal with it. Tomorrow Alex Finn will have an accident. Then I will contact his England understudy, Matt McGee. He will be quite clear why Finn had his accident. Russia will win the return match. Have no fear. Tell me what score you would like it to be.’
THURSDAY
WORK EXPERIENCE
Danny got off the bus in the centre of town and walked the length of Wellington Street to the newspaper offices.
The city centre was not how he knew it. When he came into town at the weekend – with his dad or to meet his friends – it was full of younger people and children. As well as adults. But today it was adults only. All dressed in black. All walking quickly. All looking miserable.
It was the fourth day of Danny’s work experience. The year-tens were out of school for a fortnight. Danny’s friend Paul was working in a computer software office – mending joysticks. Charlotte was sorting files at police HQ. Other friends were sweeping hair off the floor, putting books out on shelves, distributing staples at a TV station. And one was painting a perimeter fence at an undertaker’s. Black.
But Danny was working at the regional newspaper, the Evening Post. Assisting the Chief Sportswriter.
Once he’d got through reception, Danny sprinted up three flights of stairs. He was eager to know what the Chief Sportswriter thought of the match the night before. He’d have written his report on the way back from Wembley Stadium first thing this morning. On the train from King’s Cross.
Danny reached the top of the stairs. He went along a corridor, taking the third door on the left. He passed three desks – two journalists said hello – and knocked on a hollow wooden door at the end of the large office.
‘Come in, Danny.’
Danny opened the door and closed it quietly behind him.
Anton Holt was at his desk, frowning at his laptop screen. He held his hand up, then pointed at a pile of newspapers. That meant he was in the middle of writing, still finishing his match report, maybe; and that Danny should have a seat and read the day’s papers.
So Danny started work, smiling. There were all the day’s papers, plus FourFourTwo, World Soccer and Match of the Day magazines.
Work?
Reading about football was about as good as work could get.
The reason Danny had got such a good work placement was because he knew Anton Holt.
They’d met four months before. First at a City press conference. Then in a hail of bullets at the football stadium.
It had started when Danny witnessed the kidnap of England’s leading scorer, Sam Roberts. City’s chairman, Sir Richard Gawthorpe, claimed a terrorist group had kidnapped Roberts. Danny and Holt had solved the mystery and rescued the player. They had been in touch ever since.
Sir Richard, the real kidnapper, however, had disappeared, despite a Europe-wide hunt. Most people assumed he was dead.
Danny read several headlines in that morning’s papers.
ALEX FINN-ISHES RUSSIANS ALEXANDER THE GREAT THE RUSSIANS ARECOMING GOING
Alex Finn had been awarded nine out of ten in some papers.
But the big news for Danny was Sam Roberts. A broken shin, shattered against the goalpost after he’d scored the winner. Danny looked at the photo: Roberts being carried off on a stretcher, his face twisted in agony. But still raising his arm to wave at the crowd, eighty thousand people standing to applaud him.
‘He’ll be out for months,’ Anton Holt said, shutting the lid of his laptop.
‘How bad is it?’ Danny asked.
‘A clean break. He’ll be three months in a pot. Then three – at least three – building his leg up again. Then his fitness. He’ll miss most of the season.’
Danny put his head in his hands. This was terrible. Roberts wasn’t only England’s leading scorer. He was City’s. Without him, their chances of a decent run in the Champions’ League were poor.
‘Good game, though,’ Holt said.
‘Yeah.’ Danny nodded. That moment when he turned to stare at his sister after Roberts had scored would stay with him for a long time.
‘Anyway,’ Holt said, ‘to work.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Join me. Down the pub.’
Danny frowned.
‘Three o’clock this afternoon,’ Holt smiled. ‘You, me and the newspaper’s editor, a nice country pub, interviewing… Alex Finn. He’s giving us
