‘Some nutter wanting to cut up a flash car, I reckon,’Holt said in a deadpan voice, like he didn’t mean what he said.
Danny frowned. ‘There was more to it than that. They waited for us to leave the car park.’
‘I reckon that was a coincidence, Danny,’ Holt said. ‘Listen. We’ve talked about this.’
And for the first time since he’d known Holt, Danny felt that the reporter wasn’t treating him like an equal. Maybe even treating him like a kid.
Danny looked him in the eye. Holt looked away first.
Then the phone rang.
Holt picked it up. Then nodded.
‘Danny, it’s something… you know… do you mind just sitting outside for a minute?’
Danny nodded. Holt had done this before. They’d agreed that Danny would leave the room if Holt was having a conversation that was off the record or sensitive. Danny wasn’t bothered about that. But he was bothered that the call wasn’t from his dad. He really wanted his dad to call. To say, yes, he could go to Moscow.
Outside Holt’s office, Danny read some more newspapers. Holt had insisted he read not just other sports pages, but the news too. He said Danny needed to know about more than football. He needed to know what was happening in the countries where football was going on.
Were there wars? Was there poverty? Was there a lot of corruption?
To understand football, Holt had said, you needed to understand the world.
Danny sat down to read The Times.
Railway workers on strike.
More trouble in the Middle East.
Boys not reading as much as girls.
Then a story about Russia.
RUSSIAN FOOTBALL FANATIC TUPOLEV IN GAS COUP
The Russian billionaire and football impresario Dmitri Tupolev has been in talks with governments in Hungary, Bulgaria and Serbia, to finalize the route for his gas pipeline, running from Russia to Western Europe. Reports suggest he will seal a contract with all three countries to deliver gas to the West for the next fifty years.
Tupolev, who owns 51% of Gasprospekt, also owns 100% of the top football clubs in Ukraine and Russia. It is very much anticipated that he will move soon for a club in Spain, Italy or England.
Another English club owned by someone from abroad, Danny thought. This worried him. Whenever outside investors came in and bought a football club, the fans always lost out. They were charged more. Some could no longer afford to get in the stadium their family had gone to for generations.
Danny looked up to see Anton waving at him through the glass wall of his office, holding his phone out to Danny.
‘It’s your dad,’ Holt mouthed, grinning.
Danny went back into Holt’s office, breathed in and took the phone.
‘Dad?’
‘Danny?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ve talked to your mum,’ his dad said.
‘Yeah?’
‘About Russia.’
‘Right?’ said Danny, getting impatient.
‘Do you want to know what she said?’ Dad said.
Danny said nothing. He waited. His dad was doing this on purpose: winding him up.
‘Are you still there, Danny?’
‘Come on, Dad,’ Danny said. ‘You’re doing my head in.’
‘Danny.’
‘Yes?’
‘You can go to Moscow.’
Danny punched the air.
THE GAMBLE
The telephone rang dead on midday. Just as Kenneth Francis had expected. He had no doubts about who was calling. Again. This time he let it ring for a few moments: he didn’t want the person at the other end to think he was at his beck and call.
After four rings he answered.
‘Dmitri? How are you?’
‘Good. And are you having news for me?’
Kenneth Francis smiled. There was no messing about with Dmitri Tupolev. He wanted answers.
Francis paused again, glancing round the study in his yacht. Dark oak bookshelves holding twenty metres of the world’s greatest books. He knew the exact measurements because he had ordered the books by the metre. Not by the book. He was, in fact, proud to say that he’d not read one of them. They were all in mint condition.
‘I do have news,’ Francis said eventually.
‘Then Alex Finn is dead? This is –’
‘Not dead,’ Francis interrupted. He knew he had to handle this well. The future of his relationship with this Russian – and therefore his own future – depended on it.
‘Not dead?’ Tupolev said in a cold tone.
‘Alex Finn suffered a car accident yesterday, Dmitri. He will be out of football for a long time. And, of course, he is very scared.’
‘Not dead?’ Tupolev repeated, as if he wanted to hear a different reply from what he had just been told.
This was the moment Kenneth Francis had to strike. The most important speech of his life.
‘No, not dead,’ he said firmly. ‘If he were dead, the English police would launch an investigation into a serious murder, rather than merely logging another car accident. If he were dead, the game on Wednesday would be called off, ruining our plans. If he were dead, the English police would get to the bottom of it, I promise you.’
Francis paused in case Tupolev wanted to interject. But the Russian was silent. This, Francis knew, could be a good sign. Or a bad one. And he knew he had to gamble.
‘Frankly, Dmitri, the police in England are much more thorough than they are in your country. Mainly because they are not told what to do by the likes of me – or you. And here, also, we do not need to kill people to –’ Francis tried to find the right words – ‘influence their behaviour.’
Francis stopped speaking. He had said his piece. He wanted to hear what Tupolev had to say now, to see if the gamble had paid off.
There was a short silence.
Then an explosion of laughter.
Over two thousand kilometres away from the laughter, Francis smiled. He knew he had said the right thing. He had been direct with the Russian. Rude about his country. But it had worked. Dmitri Tupolev truly was into plain speaking.
Then the Russian spoke. ‘So, what will you do to speak to the other goalkeepers? McGee? Skatie? For me… is clear… I mean important… that
