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  ONE

  Sunday 8 August 2010

  Jimmy Fisher stood on the goal line and stared into the eyes of the man ten metres in front of him. Paulo Rubio was a central defender and not known for his goal scoring skills but Jimmy had learned a long time ago that you could never assume anything in the game of football. There were good days and bad days; anything could happen. Rubio placed the ball on the penalty spot and made the sign of the cross on his chest. Why do these South Americans always do that? Jimmy thought. It always unnerved him; it was as if they thought they had the power of God on their side.

  Jimmy was tired. Ninety minutes of regular time plus extra time had taken its toll. The crowd were booing now; they were getting restless. York City were up four three on penalties and if Jimmy saved this penalty they would be promoted to league one. It would be the first time in ten years for York City. Everything would change after that. It would mean more money, more status and for Jimmy it would mean an opportunity to break away from York once and for all. Nobody bothers with the players from the lower leagues, he thought, the scouts don’t even look at them any more.

  Paulo Rubio walked away from the ball and looked up at the crowd. Thirty eight thousand people were waiting to see what would happen. More people than either player had ever played in front of before. Jimmy thought about the three men in the bar in town the week before. He thought about what they had offered him; what they had told him to think hard about. He had not liked the look of any of them. Eastern European types, he had thought, maybe former Soviet Union.

  Paulo Rubio started his run up. His eyes were pointing towards the left hand goal post, Jimmy’s right. He could be bluffing, Jimmy thought, or he could be wanting me to think he’s bluffing. Jimmy looked at the ball. Rubio was approaching slightly to the left of it. Either he was going to tap it to the right or he was going to blast into the left hand side of the net. Rubio’s foot struck the ball. Jimmy dived to his right. The ball went right. Rubio had not been bluffing. Jimmy’s hand made good contact with the ball and it was sent flying over the crossbar into the crowd behind the goal. Rubio had missed. York city were going to be playing in League One the following season.

  The other ten York City players rushed towards the goal. Jimmy was picked up by three or four of them and raised in the air. The sound from the crowd was something he had never heard before. This was a huge moment in the history of the club. Jimmy found himself being paraded up and down the pitch. He was a hero. He would be in all the papers the next day. The noise from the crowd was getting louder and louder. The sun was shining down on the roof of the stadium. It caught something metal on one of the houses behind it and a bright glint could be seen for a second or two. Jimmy Fisher was on top of the world. He did not want this moment to end. He would be remembered for years to come as the goalkeeper who saved the penalty that secured promotion for York City.

  The crowd were showing no sign of calming down. The silencer on the Dragunov SVD rifle had been unnecessary. The heavy calibre bullet hit Jimmy Fisher in the chest, exited out his back and pierced the shoulder of one of his team mates. It took a few seconds for the men who were carrying him to realise what was happening. Blood was gushing out of the huge hole in Jimmy’s chest. Jimmy Fisher was definitely going to be in all the papers the following day.

  TWO

  Monday 9 August 2010

  Detective Sergeant Jason Smith ran down the stairs to answer his phone. He swore as his foot hit the nail that was sticking out of the bottom step. He was in a terrible mood. He had suffered with toothache all night and had hardly slept. Theakston, his Bull Terrier was waiting to be let out of the back door. Smith let the dog out and picked up the phone.

  “Smith,” he said.

  “Good,” it was Detective Inspector Bob Chalmers, “you’re up.”

  “What’s going on?” Smith said.

  “Be at the station as soon as you can,” Chalmers said, “I’ve called an emergency meeting.”

  “What’s happened?” Smith said.

  “I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

  Chalmers hung up.

  “Great,” Smith said, “just what I need on a Monday morning.”

  Chalmers rarely called emergency meetings unless something serious had happened. Smith’s tooth was throbbing so he decided not to risk drinking any coffee and went upstairs to get dressed. He glared at the nail sticking out of the bottom step and made a mental note to hammer it back in when he had the chance. He brushed his teeth and winced. I need to see a dentist, he thought. He hated dentists.

  Fifteen minutes later, Smith parked his car in the station car park and got out the car. The car park was full. Everybody seemed to be there. Smith had a feeling that something really bad had happened. PC Baldwin was manning the front desk inside the station when Smith walked in. DS Thompson was talking to DC Bridge next to the counter. Both of them had grave expressions on their faces.

  “Morning,” Smith walked over to them, “who died?”

  Thompson glared at him.

  “That’s not funny,” he said.

  “Why all the miserable faces?” Smith said, “I know its Monday but it could be worse.”

  “You haven’t heard have you sir?” Bridge said.

  “Heard what?” Smith said.

  “Jimmy Fisher was killed yesterday,” Bridge said, “shot through the chest in front of thirty eight thousand people.”

  “Who’s Jimmy Fisher?” Smith said.

  “Only the best goalkeeper York City has ever seen,” Thompson said, “he could have gone all the way to the top.”

  “Goalkeeper?” Smith was none the wiser.

  “Football,” Thompson said, “they do play football in Australia don’t they?”

  “I hate football,” Smith said, “what happened?”

  “Fisher had just saved a penalty,” Bridge said, “brilliant save. It means we’ll be promoted to league one next season. The team were celebrating and a shot came from nowhere. There wasn’t much left of his chest.”

  “You say he was shot in front of thirty eight thousand people?” Smith asked.

  “That’s right,” Thompson said, “biggest crowd in years.”

  “Then interviewing witnesses is going to be a bit of a problem isn’t it?”

  “Everything’s a joke to you isn’t it?” Thompson said.

  “Not at all,” Smith looked him in the eyes, “I’m merely stating a fact.”

  Thompson was about to say something else when DI Chalmers walked in.

  “Ten minutes,” he barked, “main conference room in ten minutes. We’ve got some special guests joining us.”

  He walked off down the corridor.

  “What did he mean by that?” Smith said, “Special guests?”

  “Could be anyone,” Thompson said, “when a high profile footballer gets murdered things have to be done differently.”

  “High profile?” Smith said, “I’d never even heard of him. If he’s been murdered, I’ll investigate it like I would any other murder.”

  He walked towards the canteen. DC Whitton was sitting in her usual seat by the window. She was one of the few officers Smith enjoyed working with.

  “Morning Whitton,” he sat opposite her.

  “Morning sir,” she said, “you look awful.”

  “Toothache,” Smith said, “kept me up all night.”

  “You should see a dentist.”

  “I hate dentists,” Smith said, “do you know who this Jimmy Fisher is? This ball keeper?”

  “Goalkeeper,” Whitton laughed, “of course I know who he is. I’ve lived in York my whole life. He was supposed to be the best we’ve ever had.”

  “Why do people keep saying that?” Smith said.

  “Saying what?”
r />   “We,” Smith said, “us and our team. It’s as if a stupid football team are part of your lives.”

  “Don’t say that too loud sir,” Whitton said, “people take their football very seriously in this country. I suppose we’d better get to the meeting.”

  The conference room was packed to the brim when they walked in. Superintendant Jeremy Smyth was sitting on a chair at the back of the room. Chalmers was sitting next to him. Everybody seemed to be there. A man and a woman Smith did not recognise were sitting to the side of the room. Outsiders, Smith thought. He did not like the look of either of them. Superintendant Smyth stood up.

  “Can we have a bit of hush?” he said.

  He was not using a microphone for a change.

  “You’re all probably aware;” he began, “that an awful shooting occurred yesterday afternoon. Now, football isn’t really my thing so I’ll hand you over to DI Chalmers.”

  Chalmers stood up.

  “Thank you sir,” he said gravely, “Jimmy Fisher was shot once in the chest in front of a packed crowd. From the size of the hole in his chest, he must have been shot with a very high calibre weapon. As a lifelong supporter of the Minster men, I’m taking this one personally.”

  “Minster men?” Smith whispered to Whitton.

  “It’s their nickname,” Whitton said.

  Smith shook his head.

  “Jimmy Fisher,” Chalmers continued, “was a keeper in the prime of his life. He was going all the way to the top. I don’t have to tell you that all eyes will be on us now. The people of York will want results.”

  Smith looked at the man and the woman sitting at the side of the room. He could tell at once they were not part of any local police force. The man was dressed in a suit he obviously did not buy from any high street store in York. His hair was cropped short. He looked like a marine. Smith did not like the look of him one little bit. The woman sitting next to him was also dressed in a suit. Her hair was cut in a short bob. She had a small pointy nose and dark brown eyes that were full of suspicion. She was scanning the room around her. Smith found himself staring at her. She caught his gaze and he broke off eye contact immediately.

  “As this is a rather delicate matter,” Chalmers said, “we have a couple of observers here today. You will have no doubt noticed them. I must point out that they are here to help and you are to let them do exactly that.”

  “I knew it,” Smith said to Whitton, “I knew those two were bad news.”

  He said it louder than he had intended. Chalmers glared at him. Superintendant Smyth stood up again.

  “May I take over from here?” he said.

  Nobody said a word.

  “As DI Chalmers has stated, our two esteemed guests are here to help. For the time being, they will be merely observing.”

  “Who are they?” Smith stood up.

  The woman looked over at him.

  “You do not need that information at this moment in time,” she said directly to Smith.

  “Who are you?” Smith ignored her, “MI5? MI6? You’re not police are you? We all have eyes in our heads.”

  “Like I said, you don’t need to know that yet.”

  “What have you got to do with the death of some sportsman?” Smith was not giving up.

  “Like your superintendant said,” she was clearly starting to get impatient, “we are here to help.”

  Smith’s mouth was starting to hurt again. He stood up and left the conference room.

  THREE

  “I’ve heard all about you detective,” the woman found Smith in his office.

  He was holding the left side of his face with his hand.

  Smith turned round and looked at her.

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” he said.

  “I don’t get my information from the papers,” she said, “Sarah Proud. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  She held out her hand. Smith did not accept it.

  “Like I say,” Proud said, “I know all about you. I’ve read all the reports. The man who shot you in Whitby, the Fulton twins, the Ladybird killer. All very impressive.”

  “Not really,” Smith sighed, “I just seem to end up in the wrong place at the right time.”

  “What’s wrong with your face?” Proud asked.

  “Toothache,” Smith said, “started last night. I’ve got a date with a bottle of Jack and a pair of pliers when I get home today.”

  “Tough guy,” Proud said, “you should see a dentist. It looks like it’s your wisdom teeth.”

  “Thanks for the concern,” Smith said, “what do you want?”

  “I heard you could be a bit bull headed.”

  “What are you really doing here?” Smith said, “A football player gets shot; it’s a big deal but we can handle it. What’s the real story?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” Proud said.

  “Then can you close the door on your way out? I’d rather suffer this toothache in peace.”

  “Detective sergeant,” Proud said. The tone in her voice had changed completely, “you’ll soon find that it is much easier to work with us than against us.”

  Smith stood up. He realised that Sarah Proud was almost as tall as he was.

  “How am I supposed to work with you?” he said, “When I don’t even know who you are or what this is all about.”

  “I’ll leave you to suffer in peace. I’ll be seeing you detective sergeant.”

  Smith watched as she turned round and left the room. She left the door open. Smith looked down and saw that she had left her business card on his desk. He was about to throw it in the bin but for some reason he changed his mind. He picked up the card and put it in his pocket.

  The pain in Smith’s tooth was getting worse. He remembered there was a bottle of aspirins in his desk draw. He took them out and read the label. They were a couple of years old but they were all he had. He popped four in his mouth and crunched them between his teeth.

  “Popping pills now are you?” It was Thompson.

  “What do you want Thompson?” Smith said.

  “I never pictured you as a pill popper,” Thompson said, “I always saw you as a whisky drinking bum.”

  “What do you want Thompson?” Smith asked again.

  “It’s not what I want,” Thompson said, “Chalmers wants us to get over to forensics. Grant Webber has found something interesting.”

  “What’s that?” Smith said.

  “If I knew that I wouldn’t be here talking to you now would I? After that you’re in for a real treat. The two of us are off to Bootham Crescent.”

  “Bootham Crescent?” Smith was confused.

  “The home of the Minster men,” Thompson said.

  “The football team?”

  “You’re catching on,” Thompson said, “we’ll go in my car though; yours always seems to have a funny dog smell to it.”

  The pain killers had numbed the ache in Smith’s tooth as they drove to the forensics department on the outskirts of the city. Thompson’s driving was erratic at times but today it was so bad that Smith had to say something.

  “Have you got a license for this thing?” he said.

  “I’ve been driving since before you were born,” Thompson said.

  “You drive like a schizoid,” Smith said, “back there you were idling along like an old lady and then you floor it away from the lights. Next time we’re going in my car, dog smell or not.”

  “What did you make of the suits at the meeting?” Thompson changed the subject.

  “Bad news,” Smith said, “very bad news. Something’s going on that we don’t know about and I don’t like it one little bit.”

  “What do you mean?” Thompson said.

  “Open your eyes Thompson. A football player is gunned down after a game. It happens all the time in Africa or South America but it doesn’t happen here. Why shoot the guy in front of a crowd of people? Something else is happening here and we’re being kept in the dark about it
. We had special guests at the meeting today for a reason.”

  “Who do you think they are?” Thompson said.

  “I don’t know,” Smith said, “from the way the woman spoke, Sarah Proud or whatever her name is, she’s not from around here. I’m no expert on your English accents but I’d say she was from down south somewhere.”

  “London you mean?” Thompson said.

  “Could be,” Smith said, “wherever she’s from she’s bad news for all of us. I hate this cloak and dagger stuff; this need to know bullshit. If you ask me, they’re government.”

  “I think those pain killers have numbed your senses,” Thompson said.

  He parked the car in the car park outside the new forensics building. He broke the wing mirror off a parked car in doing so. Smith was about to say something but changed his mind.

  Grant Webber was sitting in his office looking at something on a computer screen when Smith and Thompson walked in. He had a huge grin on his face. Smith was taken aback. In all the years he had known Webber, he had rarely seen him smile.

  “Are you alright Webber?” Smith asked, “You’re smiling. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “Detective Smith,” Webber said, “once in a while you stumble across something that makes all the other hours of tedium worthwhile. This is one of those moments. Let me enjoy it.”

  “What’s that?” Thompson pointed to an image on the computer screen.

  “This,” Webber said, “is the ballistics report of the bullet we pulled out of Craig Standen’s shoulder.”

  “Craig Standen?” Thompson said, “Random Standen. The striker?”

  “That’s him,” Webber said, “I’m not a city fan, I was born in Middlesbrough and I’ll be a Boro fan until the day I die but I must admit when Standen’s on form he’s brilliant. He was standing behind Fisher when he was shot. Luckily Fisher took the brunt of the impact otherwise Standen would be missing an arm right now.”

  “What are you talking about Webber?” Smith said.

  “The bullet entered Fisher’s chest,” Webber said, “it shattered his rib cage and exited through his back. The broken shards of the ribs pierced the heart and lungs on impact. He was dead before he even knew what was going on. Standen got what was left of the bullet in his shoulder.”