DEADLINE: a riveting debut crime thriller from an exciting new voice in fiction, page 1
DEADLINE
ERKUT SOGUT
CA PUBLISHING
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First published in Great Britain in 2022, by CA Publishing House Ltd
Copyright © 2022 by Dr Erkut Sogut
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: erkutsogut@gmail.com
Typesetting by Tom Witcomb
Cover Design by Nick Castle
ISBN 978-1-7397288-1-6 (ebook)
CA Publishing House
Summit House,170 Finchley Road
London, United Kingdom
NW3 6BP
www.erkutsogut.com
Dedicated to my beloved wife and sons.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
1
Ander Anaia watched out through a wall of glass as the sun rose over La Concha Bay. He sipped quietly on his coffee, preparing himself for the next forty-eight hours. He breathed in and closed his eyes, allowing himself to calm. He could do this. Just a few more days and he’d be at The Table. A few more days and he’d be granted unimaginable power. All doors would be open to him.
The noise of the espresso machine kicked in from the kitchen behind him and jolted him out of his revery. Joska stood there – the makeup around her eyes was still smeared.
The ceramic burrs chewed at the coffee beans, kicking the fine dust into the portafilter. She gently tamped the coffee down and locked it into the La Marzocco machine that sat in pride of place on the countertop. Placing a glistening white tulip cup beneath the filter, she set the machine in motion.
The rich aroma of almonds and chocolate filled the air as the black-brown liquid filled her cup. She picked it up, brought it to her nose and took a sip before walking over to Ander.
“Morning, dad.” She followed his gaze across the bay.
“My love, how are you feeling? Did you sleep?” Ander placed his arm around his daughter. “I see you found something to wear…” he laughed as he noticed his daughter’s reflection. She didn’t stay with him often, but he had kept a room for her exactly the same as she had left it. That had been years ago. The wardrobe hadn’t been touched either, so was filled with the sartorial whims of a fourteen-year-old girl. In this case a pair of shorts that barely fit her and a t-shirt that would have once been baggy but now fit a little too snug.
“Eventually. The coffee will help. When do you have to leave?”
“Soon. There are fresh towels, food in the cupboards. You can stay as long as you like. You know that.”
She grabbed his arm and squeezed it around her tightly for a moment, remembering how safe he had always made her feel as a child. A car horn sounded outside, breaking the moment.
“Say hi to Uncle Marco, aita.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow, maitea. Enjoy the beach.” Ander wheeled his case across the expansive parquet floor, opening the double-width front door and breathing in the fresh air. He was ready.
Joska walked back through to the kitchen placed her espresso cup on the side. She checked her phone, ignoring the several missed calls from her mother and placed it back into her bra.
She moved back to the bedroom to get changed, walking through to the en suite and turning on the shower. As she began to undress, she walked over to her old CD player and switched it on smiling as she picked up the beat of the music and started sashaying around the room, embracing the opportunity to be a kid again. When things were more innocent.
Remembering the towels, Joska went out to the long corridor that connected the open plan kitchen lounge to the bedrooms and opened the airing cupboard. She felt a breeze on her skin, and it took her a second to realise that her father hadn’t closed the door properly. She walked down the hall, her bare feet cold on the parquet and closed it again, double locking the latch, and picked up her towel as she made her way back to her room.
Steam was trickling beneath the bathroom door, which Joska opened to a backdraft of vapour. She moved over to the sink and opened the mirrored bathroom cabinet, taking out cotton wool and some make-up remover. One hand wiped the condensation that had formed on the mirror, the other wiped a cotton pad across her eyes, the cooling cucumber micellar water washing away the evidence of last night’s emotional conversations.
She didn’t know why her mother had to be the way she was. Why she seemed to want to stand in her way on every last thing. If Joska wanted to study to be a veterinarian then why couldn’t she? It was a world away from her mother’s glamorous brunches and sponsored social media posts. It was a better life, more fulfilling. She had never enjoyed the excesses that her father’s wealth had afforded their family. Even now they were divorced, her mum managed to afford a lavish lifestyle. God knows why her dad still founded it.
She closed her eyes and rubbed the cotton wool over them again.
So she didn’t see the dark figure move behind her, obscured in the condensation that had reformed on the mirror’s surface.
A hand reached around her mouth and muffled her scream. A sharp prick and she felt her head go light, her eyelids drooping. She mustered the ounce of strength she’d been left with and pushed back against her attacker, and they slipped on the wet tiled floor.
Joska landed hard on his chest, but he held on fast. Moments later, she felt her whole body relax and the world around went dark.
2
David Miller sat and watched through his office window as three pigeons pecked their way around the green square of lawn in Hanover Square, picking up remnants of the lunches the workers in the office buildings around the square had absent-mindedly eaten as they flicked through social media and news updates on their cell phones.
He snapped out of his pigeon-gaze; he did not have time for daydreaming. He had received an offer from Manchester United. He had reread the terms and reread them again. He made a list for himself of everything that still needed to be sorted and finalised.
It was early afternoon already and tomorrow, at 6pm, the summer transfer window would close in England. He had to be quick and precise with his decisions.
Almost everything was prepared and the one-way business class ticket from Dusseldorf to Manchester for Patrick had been arranged by the club officials last night. He was due to land later this afternoon in Manchester. David would take the train so that they could meet at the hotel after his arrival. On the face of it, nothing could stop this deal anymore, yet David had a strange feeling about it.
He had been in the office early. He was a man of routine, something bred into him by his German mother and her tendency for discipline and order. One of many traditions she was proud to impart on her son. Ones that he felt he owed it to her memory to uphold.
Every morning he would roll out of bed and spend the next hour reading anything from the news to books, to history, to languages, law, or economics. He would then push himself on a five-mile run before showering and eating a hearty breakfast.
He was often alone in the office for a while, waiting for his two colleagues to join him once they’d eventually got out of bed.
The three had met at Oxford University as they studied for their master’s in international law. That was three years ago now and after exploring different routes they had each decided to start their own businesses and had moved to London together. By sharing an office – and an apartment – they had been able to save money and help each other on their journeys.
David stared at the clock. Anxiety was creeping in. This was set to be a deal that would break him out as a rising star in his world. It had to come off. But not just for him, for Patrick as well. Patrick had been his first ever client, when David made the decision to be a football agent. He had discovered him on a trip to Germany to see his mother’s family. He had stopped off at a local football club and been astounded by the talent Patrick showed. He dominated the game, fo
United’s officials had assured David that all the necessary details were in place and that the required contracts would be signed on the last day of the transfer window.
David questioned the need to leave it until the last minute, and his mind raced with all the things that might go wrong between now and six o’clock tomorrow.
The only explanation he’d been given was that the large volume of ongoing transfers at the moment had caused the delay. He wasn’t really convinced but he had to believe it. He had no other choice. The next day and a half would unfold in front of him, he would control what he could and do his very best to get his deal done.
***
“Couldn’t we have done that later? We have the entire day ahead of us”, said Jose, wearily rubbing his bloodshot eyes as he steadily worked through documents that David had given him to double check.
David watched him, exasperated. “Jose, it’s almost 2pm! Please tell me you didn’t go out last night? Every minute is important today!” He made every effort to clearly emphasise the magnitude of the day ahead.
Jose looked up at him sheepishly, “Si, Amigo – you know every Wednesday is Latino Night. I couldn’t miss that. But I made sure I was back by 4am.”
“You can have a siesta later this afternoon when I leave for Manchester,” said David with a shake of the head and a wry smile.
“Si, si, claro amigo.”
David turned to William. “What about you, mate? Are you ok?” William looked pale and unwell; his eyes a similar bloodshot to Jose’s.
“I’m all good, Davey-boy,” he responded with an exaggerated effort to sound buoyant. David still sometimes had difficulties understanding William – a young sports lawyer originally from Glasgow — especially when he spoke too fast, but the two had become firm friends. It was hard not to like him; William was always one for a joke and was always a pleasure to have around.
“Don’t worry about me. Just had a couple of drinks in the pub before bed.”
He looked down, trying to appear busy and avoid further questioning.
“What happened to not drinking in the week?” David laughed.
William looked awkward, “Only if there’s a special occasion, David.”
“And what was so special about last night?” David asked with a smirk. There had been a few ‘special nights’ recently.
“Ah, well…” William spluttered as he sipped on his coffee, “The landlord, Sam, I think you might know him? It was his wife’s birthday, and I was invited too. I had to go and have some drinks to be polite, right?”
David sighed before breaking into a friendlier smile.
He firmly grasped William’s shoulder, “Please, just check the final documents one more time. Then we can go through them together. I have to make a quick call.”
“Your mysterious journalist friend?” asked William smiling, pushing his luck and trying to lighten the conversation.
“Yes, don’t even try. She’ll introduce herself to you guys when the time is right. I promised her I wouldn’t tell you anything until then.”
David left the office and walked past the Statue of Pitt the Younger. His mind wandered. Pitt was just 24 years old when he was elected to lead the country. He found the story inspiring. Too often, people were told they had to wait their turn. But that was just a way of maintaining the status quo. You didn’t need to. You could just take it.
David had recently taken a particular liking to a small wooden bench tucked away in the far-left corner of the square. It offered views over the entire park, and he could see his office window in the distance, but it was overarched by a large tree, providing a sufficient level of privacy.
He sat down, reached into his pocket for his mobile, took a deep breath and made the call.
The line connected after a couple of rings, “David, how are you? Is everything going well down there?”
“All good, Annabel, thanks” He usually liked talking to Annabel, catching her up on what he’d been up to. David started to get the same feeling he’d been getting recently every time he’d spoken to her. At some point he needed to tell her. It was hard to describe the feeling he had when he thought about her, but it was warm and pleasant.
But today there was little time for small talk.
“Are the contracts okay so far?” Annabel said.
“For the most part, but some of it’s missing. I’m praying that they’ll send everything today so we can check it’s all in order. Jose and William are in the office so they are able to help out which should make the workload more manageable.”
Annabel could sense David’s anxiety through the phone and tried to calm him, “I’ll call my guys inside the club – they might be able to help us.” It was kind of her, thought David, but unless they were willing to read over contracts, he didn’t know what help it could be.
Annabel saw the good in everyone. She was originally from North London; born into a liberal British-Jewish family and spent most of her life in and around Finchley. There was a large population of British-Jews in the area and from an early age she was exposed to the traditional principles and behaviours of Judaism.
Although her close family was not particularly strict with religion, she spent most weekends at the Sternberg Centre in East Finchley where she had learned Hebrew. She had encouraged her family and friends to have a Shabbat ceremony every Friday, the highlight being the delicious Challah bread that her mum made.
As she got older, despite her best efforts, the visits to the Synagogue became increasingly infrequent. Nevertheless, she stood by her Jewish beliefs and principles and planned to bring her children up under the same lifestyle one day.
This would be difficult in the Wilmslow community where she now lived. The Jewish population was scarce and there had only ever been one formal congregation recorded, right after the second World War, presumably held by evacuees.
The nearest Synagogue was in Manchester, but other than the most important Jewish celebrations she struggled to find the time to visit.
These days, she focussed all of her energy and her morals on combatting the unethical side of football, hoping to make the game a better place.
“Thanks Annabel, have you heard anything about Ander Anaia?” asked David.
“Nothing yet, but you can be sure that he’s either on his way to Manchester now or already there. He wasn’t listed on the manifests of any commercial flights, so he must have hired a private jet.”
The stress in David’s voice resurfaced, “He stopped calling me a week ago. I told you before, to begin with he was nice, and we spoke about doing deals together in the future. But now he’s completely ghosted me.”
“Don’t worry about Anaia, David. He’s not a good guy. Other than the guys from The Table, no one really likes him.” She paused, considering her next words. “I’ve actually heard rumours that even some guys at the Table have started disliking him and the way he conducts his business. But nothing can change how influential his brother is and will continue to be.”
David knew this was true, but it didn’t stop him hating the fact that an unscrupulous agent could be successful just because of his famous brother.
“He was pretty aggressive last time we spoke, actually. Told me to call him in future before offering any of my players to United if I ever wanted to successfully complete a deal there.”
Ander had suggested David send Patrick to La Liga and tried to pretend he was helping them. David had batted off the offer. His unwillingness to cooperate had clearly frustrated Ander who, in their last call, eventually cracked and revealed his motivation behind discouraging David.
“David,” Ander had said, “You must understand that without my brother’s permission, no player will be bought by or sold from the club. My brother is not just my brother, he’s my client too. I negotiated his contract three years ago. I ensured that no one in the club would be able to do anything significant without his approval.” David could picture Ander’s smug grin on the other end of the line.
