Dead Ball by Tom Palmer (snow like ashes series .txt) 📕

do a piece on how you feel about the World Cup campaign,’ Forshaw went on. ‘If you have dreams of being the first England keeper to have a decent chance of winning it since Gordon Banks, etc. What do you think?’

Finn smiled and raised his hand. ‘I could dream it,’ he said. ‘But it’s a bit early to be thinking that way. We need to qualify first. One game at a time and all that. Plus, I should say that I don’t assume I’ll be the first-choice keeper in eighteen months’ time, when the tournament’s on. There’re two more great keepers in the squad. Skatie. And McGee.’

‘McGee?’ Forshaw said. ‘He’s never going to get a game ahead of you. And he’s – well – not the best role model in the world.’ As he said this Forshaw glanced at Danny.

There it was again. Someone else talking about Matt McGee, England’s second- or third-choice keeper, like there was something bad about him. Danny was interested. Especially because the person was the editor of a major newspaper: if anyone should know stuff like that, he should. Danny wished he could ask questions. All these rumours. Was there any truth in them?

‘Matt McGee’s straight,’ Finn said. ‘And a good mate. If you don’t mind, Giles, I’d rather we didn’t add to the speculation.’

Danny noticed Giles Forshaw blush bright red as Anton Holt took over seamlessly.

‘Tell us a bit about the game last night, Alex. What would you say was the key point of the match?’

The men talked about the game. In detail. But Danny’s mind was whirring. Matt McGee. Professional footballer. Had a difficult youth. Involved in crime, possibly. He certainly spent time with criminals: Danny knew that. A gambler. Debts. Danny decided he would fill in a few pages about McGee. Back at his desk in his bedroom.

After they’d talked about the game, Anton turned to Danny and said, ‘Have you got any questions, Danny?’

Danny’s mind froze. Say something intelligent. Quick! he thought.

‘Errrrm… Are you worried about the away game?’ Danny said. ‘In Russia, on Wednesday. They play on a synthetic surface. Do you think that’ll be a disadvantage?’

Finn smiled at Danny. ‘Good question,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to watch this lad, Giles. One for the future?’

Forshaw nodded enthusiastically, glad that Finn wasn’t cross with him for his question about McGee.

‘I think it’ll be harder,’ Finn said to Danny. ‘A lot harder. But the Luzhniki is a great stadium. I’ve played there with City.’

‘Spartak away,’ Danny said quickly. ‘I remember. You kept a clean sheet.’

‘That’s right. Spot on. And the plastic pitch was difficult that night. But we’ve trained for it. We should be OK. And – like you say – I have good memories of the stadium. We got through to the semis there, didn’t we?’

‘Yes. To play Real,’ Danny said.

‘Did you go?’ Finn asked Danny. ‘I mean, have you been away in Europe?’

‘No,’ Danny replied. ‘Not yet. Not to see City. But I’ve seen England. This year in the European Championships.’

‘Yeah?’ Finn said. ‘That was pretty good. But I think it would have gone a lot better if there hadn’t been all that terrible stuff with Sam. He wasn’t right in the finals. But you can’t blame him.’

Danny glanced at Holt and grinned.

‘Yeah, you know all about that, Anton,’ Finn said.

Holt nodded, smiling at Danny.

Even though Danny had saved Sam Roberts four months earlier, rescuing him from Sir Richard Gawthorpe and his cronies, people thought that Anton Holt and two painter-decorators had saved him. Danny’s name had been kept out of the press; his parents had insisted. And Danny wasn’t bothered anyway.

The interview continued. Danny listened, but asked no more questions. Nor Holt. Forshaw was leading the interview.

Danny cast his eyes across at the abbey again. He wished his dad was here. He’d have loved this. Sitting in one of his favourite places, enjoying the peace and quiet. It was silent, except for the odd fancy car pulling up in the car park. Porsches. Mercedes. A Rolls-Royce. All with personalized number plates.

And, most recently, a black Range Rover, tinted windows, that arrived and parked up, at the far side of the car park where only Danny could see it.

Like he always did, Danny noted its number plate. Not personalized, he was pleased to see. He hated personalized number plates: what a waste of money! He also noted that no one got into it – or out of it.

Eventually Finn said he needed to go. Everyone stood.

‘Any chance of a couple more questions?’ Forshaw begged.

Finn looked at his watch. ‘Come with me. In the Merc. I’ll give you a lift into town. How’s that?’

Giles Forshaw – a man in his fifties – grinned like a toddler.

And off they went. Forshaw and Finn. Into the Mercedes.

Unaware that unfriendly eyes were watching them.

THE CRASH

‘He’s all right, isn’t he?’ Danny said to Holt.

‘Finn? He is. A gent. Not one of those players who are up their own…’ Holt paused. ‘You know… It’s hard to get an interview with a player these days. They’d rather walk past you, head down, than stop for a chat.’

They were driving behind Alex Finn’s Mercedes along a country road, back towards town.

Danny grinned. ‘So what’s Matt McGee like?’

‘Why do you ask that?’ Holt said.

‘It was what your boss said about him. And I saw something online this morning too. About his dodgy past.’

Holt frowned. ‘McGee’s an interesting character. He didn’t come into football like most do these days. Through the academies, I mean. McGee was in a pub team from sixteen to twenty, then he got picked up by Leeds United, then he moved to City.’

‘What’s so dodgy about that?’

‘Well… some of his mates,’ Holt said, slowing down as a black Range Rover overtook them. ‘They were involved in… criminal activity. Allegedly. And then there’s the counterfeit stuff.’

Danny’s ears pricked up. ‘What sort of criminal activity?’

‘Theft. Cars. Stuff like that.’

‘Was it McGee?’

‘There’s no evidence…’

‘But people like to speculate?’ Danny suggested.

‘That’s right,’ Holt said. ‘And there’s