‘Sure. And we’ll arrange that. And you’re playing for the school team, which is great.’

  ‘But I want to play in the Premier League.’

  ‘And if you keep going the way you are, I’m sure you will. One day. But football isn’t the be all and end all, Ollie. Professional footballers have a relatively short shelf life, you need to have a fallback position.’

  ‘So what’s your fallback position?’

  Gabe grinned. It was a good question. His worsening knees had made him realise that his playing days were numbered, and frankly he didn’t have another career lined up. ‘I could coach,’ he said. ‘Be a manager maybe.’

  ‘You always say you hate managers.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  Ollie nodded solemnly. ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘Not hate,’ said Gabe. ‘You should never hate anyone.’

  ‘I’ve heard you tell mum that you hate Mr Guttoso.’

  ‘I’m sure I never said that.’

  Ollie nodded again. ‘You did.’

  ‘We sometimes have differences of opinion,’ said Gabe. ‘And I might say that I hate something he’s done. But that doesn’t mean I hate him. He’s a good manager, he knows what he’s doing. But that’s not the point here, the point is that even the best players only play for a few years, and some of them have their football careers cut short because of injuries. That’s why you need to go to university and get a good degree.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Ollie. His head jerked as he heard a car in the driveway. ‘Mum’s home!’ he shouted. He dropped the ball and ran towards the house at full pelt. Gabe grinned as he watched the boy run. Ollie was fast. And he had amazing ball control, too. There was nothing that would make him prouder than seeing Ollie sign professional papers but he had meant everything he had said – football was a precarious career and while Gabe had been lucky, the problems he was having with his knees only emphasised that playing professional football was a young man’s game.

  CHAPTER 8

  CK Lee was sprawled on his sofa watching Sky Sports on the massive flatscreen above his fireplace. He was drinking brandy from a large balloon glass and smoking a cigar. He was only half watching an interview with the Chelsea manager talking about the following day’s match. Chelsea were the underdogs and even the Chelsea manager had to admit they had a tough game ahead of them. The Skype logo started to flash in the corner of the screen letting Lee know he had an incoming call. He put down his cigar and brandy, picked up the remote and swung his bare feet off the marble coffee table. He stood up and pressed the button to accept the call.

  Sky Sports was replaced by Yung Jaw-Lung, his face almost filling the screen. Jaw-Lung meant Like A Dragon in Chinese, but Yung looked more like a turtle, peering out of its shell. No one knew for sure how old Yung was. He was seventy at least, but he could just as easily be eighty or ninety. He was completely bald and his eyelashes were so pale as to be virtually invisible. His face was smooth and unlined but his neck was mottled and wrinkled and peppered with skin tags. He licked his lips before speaking. ‘You killed LeBrun?’ said Yung in guttural Mandarin. He had lived in Hong Kong for more than fifty years but he still favoured the mainlander language over Cantonese.

  ‘I had no choice,’ said Lee. ‘He was going to talk to a journalist.’

  Yung nodded. ‘And the journalist?’

  ‘Teddy Kang is dealing with him tonight.’

  ‘Killing a journalist is a big thing,’ said Yung. ‘People will notice.’

  ‘He couldn’t be bought off, he couldn’t be bribed. He’d already spoken to LeBrun, he has notes and recordings.’

  ‘So the story is already out?’

  Lee shook his head. ‘The journalist is a freelance. He hasn’t approached anyone with the story yet. By acting quickly we can make sure the story stays buried. We are getting his computer tonight.’

  ‘And the bodies?’

  ‘They will never be found.’

  Yung nodded slowly. He hadn’t blinked once during the conversation. He rarely did.

  ‘What about tomorrow’s game? We need them to lose, you know that. We have millions riding on the match.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘We are depending on it, CK. We are depending on you.’

  ‘I will take care of it.’

  ‘Make sure that you do,’ said Yung. The call ended. Sky Sports was back on the screen. It was an interview with Gabe Savage. The interviewer was a blonde woman with an impressive cleavage. She was talking to Gabe in the garden of his house. A small boy was kicking a football around in the background. The woman was asking Gabe about the record he was close to breaking – the most consecutive scored penalties. Gabe was confident, obviously. Then the interviewer asked Gabe about his son – was he destined to play for England. Gabe laughed and called the boy over. ‘This is Ollie,’ he said, then he asked the boy to show what he could do. Within seconds the boy was doing a very impressive job of bouncing the ball off his feet, his knees, his chest and his head. The boy was good.

  Lee bent down and picked up his brandy glass. He swirled it between his hands, then sniffed it as he watched the screen. The boy used his knee to put the ball onto his head, then he span around in a full 360 with the ball on his head and dropped it to his knee again. The blonde was laughing and Gabe was beaming with obvious pride. Lee sipped his brandy and smiled at the screen. He had an idea. An idea that would get Yung Jaw-Lung the Chelsea victory he needed.

  CHAPTER 9

  Gabe always had pasta and chicken the night before a big game, loading up on carbs and proteins because it was never a good idea to eat a lot on match day. Laura had roasted chicken pieces and cooked spaghetti with an Alfredo sauce, one of Gabe’s favourites. There was also a salad and French bread.

  Gabe opened a bottle of Chablis. He poured wine into Laura’s glass and water for himself and Ollie.

  ‘How did training go this afternoon?’ she asked after she’d sipped her wine and smiled her thanks.

  ‘It was okay. Nothing heavy.’

  ‘Your knees?’

  ‘Are fine. Really.’

  ‘What about penalties?’

  ‘What about them?’

  She waved a chunk of bread at him. ‘You know what I mean? I’m assuming you practised penalties. How did your knees feel?’

  ‘Laura, baby, penalties aren’t about banging the ball into the back of the net. It’s technique and timing, it’s knowing which way the keeper is going to go. It’s not about power, it’s more of a mental thing.’

  She opened her mouth to say something else but her mobile rang. She picked up the phone and grimaced. ‘It’s the hospital.’

  ‘I thought you were finished for the day.’

  She stood up and walked into the hallway to take the call.

  ‘Women don’t understand football,’ said Ollie.

  ‘She tries,’ laughed Gabe.

  ‘But she’s a good doctor, dad.’

  ‘Of course she is. The best.’

  ‘So when she says you shouldn’t play, she’s right.’

  Gabe put his head on one side. ‘Well, they’re my knees,’ he said. ‘I know how they feel.’

  ‘But she’s a doctor,’ said Ollie. ‘And like you said, she’s a good doctor. She always takes good care of me when I’m sick.’

  ‘But I’m not sick, Ollie. It’s wear and tear.’

  ‘Because you’re old?’

  Gabe laughed and ruffled his son’s hair. ‘Yes, because I’m old.’

  ‘You have to take care of yourself, dad,’ said Ollie.

  ‘I will. I just want to break the record. You know about the record, right?’

  Ollie sighed as if Gabe was stupid. ‘Of course. Rickie Lambert scored 34 consecutive penalties for Southampton. You’ve scored 34. You need one more to beat his record.’

  ‘And you can see why that’s important, right?’

  ‘The most important thing is your health, dad,’ said Ollie, solemnly.

  ‘You sound just like your mum.’

  ‘Because she’s right. You say she’s right when she says I have to go to university. And she’s right when she says you need to take care of yourself.’

  Gabe played for time by popping a piece of chicken into his mouth and chewing slowly. The problem was that deep down he knew that his son – and his wife – were right.

  Laura came back into the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got to go?’

  ‘It’s a young boy, not much older than Ollie. He’s getting worse and they’re going to operate. I need to be there.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She walked over and kissed him on the lips. ‘I have the best husband in the world.’

  ‘Baby, you’re a doctor, you save lives. I just kick a ball around. I’m the one who’s proud.’

  ‘I love you.’

  Gabe laughed. ‘I hope you do.’ He gestured at her plate. ‘Shall I put it in the oven?’

  ‘I’ll be a while,’ she said. ‘I’ll microwave it when I get back.’

  She picked up her bag. ‘Make sure Ollie does his homework, then bath.’

  ‘It’s Friday, mum,’ said Ollie. ‘I can do my homework on Sunday.’

  ‘Deal, but bath and make sure you clean your teeth.’

  She grabbed her coat and headed out. They heard the front door slam.

  ‘She nags sometimes,’ said Ollie.

  ‘Because she loves us,’ said Gabe.

  ‘Can we play FIFA 16 later?’

  ‘After your bath.’

  ‘Before?’

  Gabe laughed. ‘It’s not a negotiation.’ He pointed at Ollie’s plate. ‘Eat.’

  ‘I hope you win tomorrow, dad.’

  ‘We will do.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘It’s called visualization. If I believe we’ll win, we’ll win.’

  ‘Does that work on FIFA 16?’

  Gabe laughed. ‘We’ll see.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Teddy Kang cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders. He didn’t like sitting and he had been in the car for the best part of two hours.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked the driver. His name was Billy Huang but he was known as Big Billy because he was huge, and not just for a Chinese. Huang was a third generation British Chinese who had benefited from a Western diet his whole life coupled with a love of bodybuilding that had gripped him from his teenage years.

  ‘What the hell is he doing in there?’ asked Huang, gesturing at the pub across the road. ‘He’s taking forever.’

  ‘Drinking, probably,’ said Kang

  ‘It was a rhetorical question,’ said Huang. They spoke in English. Huang’s Cantonese was rough at best and his Mandarin was non-existent. He spoke English with an Essex accent unlike Kang, who had a good grasp of the language but sometimes had trouble making himself understood.

  ‘So why did you ask it?’

  ‘That’s the point of a rhetorical question,’ said Huang.

  Kang didn’t want to give Huang the satisfaction of admitting that he didn’t know what rhetorical meant so he stared out of the window and cracked his knuckles again. He was wearing tight-fitting black leather gloves and a black bomber jacket.

  The van they were sitting in had the name of a Chinese wholesale food company on the side. They had put down sheets of polythene in the back because even though Kang was an expert with a knife there was always some blood.

  Ian Johnston lived in a flat in a rundown part of Ealing in a house which had once been home to one large family. In the eighties it had been subdivided into one-bedroom and studio flats with the garden paved over for parking spaces. The house was on a busy road and Kang had realised that it wasn’t a suitable place for what he needed to do. Kang had downloaded the man’s picture off the newspaper’s website. He had the picture on his lap. The pub was a short walk from Shepherd’s Bush Tube station so Kang figured the man would take the train home. They had watched the journalist go into the pub at six o’clock and it was now almost eight.

  The door opened and Kang stiffened, but then two women in short skirts and tight tops appeared, clearly the worse for wear.

  ‘What if he doesn’t come out?’ asked Huang.

  ‘He has to leave at some point, it’s a pub,’ said Kang. ‘What time do pubs close? Eleven?’

  ‘Sometimes later,’ said Huang. He looked at his watch. ‘My wife is cooking won ton soup tonight.’

  ‘It’ll keep,’ said Kang.

  ‘She won’t be happy.’

  ‘She’ll get over it,’ said Kang. ‘If we don’t get this done CK Lee isn’t going to be happy and when CK Lee isn’t happy…’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished. He looked down at the picture. Johnston was in his thirties, balding with a comb-over, and thick lensed glasses. When Kang looked up he saw the man himself standing on the pavement, wrapping a black and white scarf around his neck. ‘That’s him,’ said Kang.

  Huang started the engine.

  ‘Pull up alongside him after he turns into the next road. I’ll get out and talk to him.’ The journalist had started to walk away from the pub, swinging a battered leather briefcase as he walked. ‘Get the side door open.’

  Huang did as he was told, indicating before he made the turn to follow the man down the quiet side street. He stopped and Kang jumped out. ‘Hey, mate, do you know where Seymour Road is?’ asked Kang. He looked left and right. There was no one else on the pavement and the van shielded them from any passing traffic.

  Johnston stopped, frowning. ‘Seymour Road?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s near here somewhere.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘I’ve got the address.’

  The side door grated open and Johnston turned towards the sound. Kang pulled his flicknife from his pocket, pressed the steel button with his thumb and felt the blade shoot out and click into place. He stepped forward, slapped his left hand over the man’s mouth and stabbed him half a dozen times in the kidney. Johnston struggled for a few seconds but went limp as he bled out. Huang grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him into the van. Kang lifted the man’s legs, rolled him over, and then slammed the door shut. It had taken less than five seconds.

  Kang retracted the blade of his knife, slipped it back into his pocket and climbed into the passenger seat. Huang joined him.

  ‘You’ve got blood on your hand,’ said Kang.

  Huang held up his gloves and groaned when he saw the smear of blood across the knuckles of his left hand. ‘Bastard was bleeding all over,’ he said, and wiped it on his seat.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ said Kang.

  ‘Wiping it off,’ said Huang.

  ‘On the fucking seat? Are you retarded? Don’t you watch television? CSI? Blood trace?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Huang. ‘I’ll clean everything later.’

  ‘Make sure you do,’ said Kang, folding his arms. ‘All they need is one drop and they’ll know everything. You’ve got to be careful. It’s not like China where no one gives a fuck if a journalist disappears. This is London and someone will be looking for him.’

  Huang drove to a lock-up in Southall, the middle garage in a line of seven with identical green wooden doors. Huang stayed at the wheel while Kang got out and unlocked the up-and-over door and switched on the single lightbulb that illuminated the interior.

  Huang reversed in. The lock-up was about four feet longer than the van and up against the far wall were two oil barrels. Kang tapped on the side of the van once the nose was just inside and he pulled down the door.

  Huang got out and opened the rear door of the van while Kang took the top off one of the barrels. Together they rolled the body out of the van and tipped it into the barrel. Next to the barrel were twenty one-gallon containers of hydrochloric acid drain cleaner. Hanging on a nail in the wall were two protective masks. Kang put one mask on and gave the other to Huang. Together they emptied the containers of drain cleaner into the barrel. It took them the best part of ten minutes, then Kang replaced the lid and banged it into place. ‘We’re done,’ he said. LeBrun’s body was in the other barrel. The barrels would be left in the lock-up for a week while the acid did its work, then someone else would dispose of them.

  Huang got back into the van. Kang opened the door, switched off the light, and Huang drove out.

  ‘Why did we kill him?’ asked Huang as Kang got back into the van.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Huang shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Not really.’

  ‘So it’s a rhetorical question, right?’

  Huang chuckled but didn’t reply.

  CHAPTER 11

  Gabe was lying on his back staring up at the ceiling. He was visualising taking penalties. The goalkeeper was Ted Crowley, the man he’d be facing in just fifteen hours time. Gabe placed the ball, took four steps back paused, then ran forward and kicked. The ball powered into the back of the net.

  ‘You’re not sleeping?’ whispered Laura. She was curled up with her back to him, her hair a jet black curtain across her pillow.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘You know you’re kicking?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m taking penalties.’

  She chuckled. ‘Yes, I know. It’s your thing.’

  ‘My thing?’

  ‘Your thing. You keep running them through your mind and when you kick, your right leg twitches.’

  ‘It’s called visualization.’

  ‘I know what it’s called, baby.’ She rolled over and draped her arm across his chest. ‘Are you worried about tomorrow?’

  ‘No more than usual,’ he said. ‘I’m just playing all the options, where to place the ball, where to feint.’

  ‘You’ve done it a thousand times, baby.’

  ‘I know. Like you said, it’s my thing.’

  She snuggled against him. ‘You need your eight hours,’ she said. ‘You know how grumpy you get if you don’t get your eight hours.’

  He looked over at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was just before one. ‘It’s early,’ he said. ‘I’ll sleep soon.’

  Her fingers ran through the hairs on his chest and down his stomach. ‘Would a blow job help?’

 

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