Only a Game (7 page)

The man's language was as efficient and serviceable as the room, but he had a thick Lebanese accent. He studied his visitor for a moment, gave him a quick, mirthless smile, and said, ‘Is all this secrecy really necessary?'

Capstick slid off the anorak, revealing the expensive suit beneath it as if it were a gesture of confidence, a sign that he was now willing to relax and trust this man with the sallow face and very black hair. ‘Probably not. I don't enjoy the cloak and dagger approach any more than you do. For my other dealings, I do not have to use it. But for both of us, it is a sensible precaution. Any disclosure of what we are about here would make any deal improbable if not impossible.'

The man took a second to digest this before he nodded. ‘All right. I can understand that. It is not a problem for me; secrecy is usually important to the deals I broker.'

Capstick smiled, relaxing a little further, leaning back as far as the cramped little chair would allow. ‘You have the advantage of me there. I have usually been able to be quite open in my dealings.'

The man opposite him doubted that. He knew only a little about his visitor, but that little told him that Capstick had not amassed his millions without some fairly clandestine manoeuvres. ‘I should emphasize that I am not empowered to conclude any deal. My client wishes me to ascertain merely whether a deal is possible, and upon what terms.'

Jim Capstick gave him a practised, experienced smile. He was feeling more at ease with each passing minute. ‘And for my part I must tell you that there can be no firm commitment from me this evening. I also am here to discuss the prospect of a deal, whether it is even possible for us to conclude such a deal, rather than to reach an agreement.'

The Lebanese was at his smoothest, his most emollient. But he was also studiously polite; there were millions in this for him if he could nudge the parties towards an agreement. ‘That is what brokers are for, Mr Capstick. To discuss the feasibility of an agreement, in the early stages. And perhaps, at a later stage, to initiate a discussion of terms and bring the parties together.'

Capstick wondered if this was the way ambassadors behaved. Did they talk around a difficult subject, treating each other like chess players trying to anticipate the next move? He was quite enjoying this game. But he was used to blunt and direct dealings, with cards on the table and a take it or leave it attitude, rather than the obliqueness which seemed to be second nature to this oily operator. Well, the preliminaries were completed now, the terms of the contest were established. He did not want to spend any longer here than was strictly necessary.

He said brusquely, ‘I am the majority shareholder in Brunton Rovers. It is not a public company, as many of the clubs in the English Premiership are. I can do a deal without reference to third parties, if it suits me.'

‘That is a point of interest for my client. That is one reason why he would consider buying your club, when there are other, more successful clubs available.'

‘It would need to be an attractive deal, for me even to consider selling the club.'

The Lebanese nodded and smiled, preparing to cloak his first harsh words of negotiation with an amiable veneer. ‘You mean you want a sizeable sum for the club. My client also would need to find the deal attractive, if he is to follow up this initial interest. He would also need the confidential information about the present state of the club's finances which would enable him to decide whether to make any bid at all.'

‘Of course. That will be available to him at two days' notice whenever he requires it. Provided of course that you can satisfy me tonight that this is a serious approach.'

‘This is most important. Before he considers such an approach, my client will need the very full account of the debts and assets of the club which I have just mentioned.'

Jim Capstick was surprised anew to find that he was enjoying this cautious fencing, as the two opponents moved around each other in a narrowing circle. ‘I understand that. I agree that no firm offer can be either made or entertained until your client has made a detailed examination of our finances. Nevertheless, I should emphasize to you at this stage that any Premiership soccer club is an attractive proposition. The Sky television fees alone will be thirty million for the bottom club in the league this year. And we do not intend that the bottom team will be Brunton Rovers.'

‘Of course not, Mr Capstick. That would mean relegation, and an absence from the Premiership. My client would not be interested in any such club.'

‘Of course not. But Brunton Rovers will not be in that position.' Capstick stood up, sensing correctly that no further progress could be made without the detailed financial analysis they had agreed. ‘I am sure your client and his advisers will be gratified to see the sensible lines on which the club has been administered during the last few years. For my part, I am happy to state formally that I am prepared to consider a substantial offer for the club.'

The man in the other chair took his cue. ‘“Substantial” is an interesting word, Mr Capstick. But a vague one. What sort of sum were you envisaging?'

‘Ah! I too would obviously need to give the matter considerable thought in the weeks to come. There is more than mere finance for me to consider, of course. I am attached to the club and to the town. Sporting allegiance and the sheer excitement it brings can never be measured merely in money.' Jim wondered if he should have said that. It sounded hollow, even in his own ears, and he wondered if this suave man from a different culture would even comprehend the sentiments, let alone believe them. ‘But I would have to say that no figure of less than a hundred million would be of interest to me.'

He said it firmly but casually, as if he had been mentioning the sale of a second-hand car. The man opposite him said that it was much too early to discuss figures, that he would need to take an account of this very preliminary discussion back to the man he represented, that the detailed examination of the club's books they had agreed would form the basis of any offer. But he did not reject the sum of one hundred million out of hand.

Driving the Bentley back up the M6, Jim Capstick tried ineffectively to control his excitement and optimism.

FIVE

‘
M
arch is supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb. Some hope!' Agnes Blake drew back the curtains in the low-ceilinged bedroom of the cottage and looked accusingly at the clouds flying swiftly over the top of the long mound of Longridge Fell.

Her daughter rubbed her eyes and struggled to raise herself in the single bed. She had only dozed for the last half hour, clinging to that drowsy euphoria between sleep and full consciousness, the sensation which overtakes one when one wakes in a familiar place with pleasant associations. She had slept in this bed in this room when she was a girl, snuggling beneath the blankets as she heard the familiar voice of the father she had loved and who had loved her. That father had been dead twelve years now, but the sweet, sad memories this place held were one of the joys of sleeping here. One of the reasons why she still enjoyed spending the odd night here, even though she had long since asserted her independence and acquired her own snug modern flat in Brunton.

She looked out at the more limited view of fell and sky she could see from her bed. ‘At least it's fine, Mum. Be thankful for small mercies! I might take you out for a pub lunch later, if you behave yourself.'

‘Fat chance of doing anything else, at my age!' Agnes came and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, as she had been used to do when her only child was young. She poured the tea from the pot into the two china cups on the tray. ‘Am I to see the wedding dress this morning?'

‘Isn't there some superstition that forbids that?' teased Lucy. ‘I wouldn't like to break any of your old folklore rules.'

‘There's no such nonsense!' said Agnes indignantly. Then, realizing her daughter was not serious, ‘The only rule about wedding dresses is that the grooms mustn't see them until the day of the wedding. And you'll not be flouting that, my girl, I'm sure.'

‘I don't suppose any dire curse would fall upon me if I did, but I wasn't proposing to let the man see it before the big day, no.'

‘Percy Peach wouldn't consent to look at it, anyway. He's more respect for tradition than some people,' said Agnes huffily.

She picked up her cup of tea and sipped it thoughtfully. ‘The replies to the wedding invitations are coming in. It seems nearly everyone is able to make it, despite the short notice you allowed them.'

‘I told you they would.'

‘No thanks to you, our Lucy. If it had been left to you, we wouldn't have had a wedding at all!'

‘That's not true! It wasn't that I had any doubts about marrying Percy. You know that. I just didn't see any need to rush into it so soon.'

‘You'd have put it off for ever if it had been left to you. Thank goodness you're getting a husband with more sense than you have!'

Lucy was silent for a moment. She'd have to get used to that word ‘husband', she supposed. She'd just about got over her surprise that she had taken Percy Peach as a lover. Now she'd have to spend the rest of her life introducing him as her husband. She found that an unexpectedly pleasing prospect.

She enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, accepting the bacon, egg and tomato she never had at any other time, drawing the line at the fried bread her mother tried to slide on to her plate. It was a luxury to linger over her toast, to savour the home-made marmalade, even to admit to her mother that she usually snatched breakfast on the move in her tiny kitchen at the flat.

She took a big mug of tea into the cosy lounge, settling into the cushions on the sofa and smiling up at the twin photographs in their silver frames upon the mantelpiece. One was a black and white one of her father in cricket gear, sweater over his shoulder, smiling shyly at the applause as he climbed the steps towards the sanctuary of the pavilion. The caption beneath, in her mother's familiar, careful print, gave the information that this was Jim Blake leaving the field after taking six wickets for thirty-three against Blackpool in the Northern League.

The coloured one beside it was of Percy Peach, taken only three years ago in front of another pavilion. He looked surprisingly young and dapper, his baldness hidden beneath a bright red cricket cap. Agnes Blake's neat black printing beneath it read: ‘Denis Charles Scott Peach leaving the field after another dashing half-century for East Lancs in the Lancashire League.'

Typical of her mum to give Percy his full and proper names, thought Lucy with a smile. Then she thought of the vicar at the marriage service, enunciating those names clearly to Percy's CID colleagues who had never heard them, and the smile became much broader. Now that she had time to get accustomed to the notion, marriage was beginning to seem quite a good idea after all.

‘Percy gave the game up much too early. I hope that was nothing to do with you, our Lucy.' The older woman had stolen unnoticed into the room and interrupted her daughter's reverie.

‘Nothing at all. He gave cricket up before I ever met him – just before, admittedly. But he'd taken up golf by then.'

‘GOLF!' Agnes produced the decisive explosion of contempt her daughter loved to hear; she would not have thought it possible to compress so much derision and indignation into a simple monosyllable. Mrs Blake did not go in for expletives, but golf was the most obscene of all the four-letter words for her. ‘Percy was a fine aggressive batsman; I tell you, he should never have given up cricket so early.'

‘From what I hear, he's also quite good at golf,' said Lucy provocatively.

‘Game for nincompoops and people with too much time and money!' said Agnes dismissively. ‘Game for the Bertie Woosters of this life, not hard-working men like Percy.'

‘I think times have moved on, Mum. All sorts of people play golf now.'

‘All sorts of idiots and creeps, you mean! You even hear of men losing games to their bosses deliberately, to curry favour. What sort of a game is it where men are willing to do that? What sort of boss is it who doesn't realize what's going on?'

Lucy had a secret sympathy for that point of view. She found it hard to envisage anyone deliberately throwing away a golf match, least of all Percy Peach with Tommy Bloody Tucker. So she said casually, ‘I might even take up golf myself. It would give me some exercise and fresh air in my leisure time.'

‘You won't have much leisure time in the next few years. Not with a home to set up and children to cope with.'

Lucy decided it wasn't the moment to discuss this. Agnes had not borne her only child until she was forty-one, and it was perfectly understandable that a woman of seventy should want grandchildren sooner rather than later. But Lucy did not want to abandon a promising CID career which was giving her much satisfaction. She could not at the moment see a way of reconciling these contrary ambitions of mother and daughter, and the situation was not helped by the fact that Percy Peach as usual favoured her mother's viewpoint.

She said hastily, ‘Should we look at those replies to the wedding invitations now? Is it too early to begin thinking about a seating plan?'

The ploy worked well enough. Agnes had the box of replies and her tentative seating plans out in an instant. The pair spent a happy hour exchanging views on the various guests and who would go well with whom. After a cup of coffee, Lucy eased herself into her wedding dress – and caused a rare phenomenon. For almost a full minute, Agnes Blake was lost for words.

Lucy twirled repeatedly in what she thought would be the approved manner, looking into the long mirror they had brought in from the hall and secretly delighted with the way she looked in the ivory silk. Finally, she stood very still and looked down with concern at the small figure on the sofa. ‘You don't like it, Mum, do you? It's not what you were expecting.'