Playing the Wild Card

by Philip Evans

Genres: Action & Adventure; Thrillers; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Gary Byrne is a footballing genius. When he was transferred to Fiorentina, the Italian fans were soon calling him 'Byron' - a nick-name that suits both his style as well as his romantic good looks. But recently something has gone seriously wrong, and 'Byron' seems to have lost form disastrously. Is it simply the pressure at the top of the game he can't handle? Or is there something else? Ross Armstrong, sent out to assess him for a possible transfer back to England, is puzzled. But as Armstrong delves deeper he finds himself being drawn into an off-the-field drama of deception, tragedy and violence.

Release date: November 28, 2013

Publisher: Mulholland

Print pages: 240

Sample

Of the four people in the Maserati DS5, the only one able to recall the accident was the person who helped cause it.

Everybody agreed that it had been a miracle that the woman travelling in the front of the car had not been killed it plunged into some roadworks on the Via Lodovico Moro just to the south-west of Milan. When the ambulance men arrived she was still breathing; in a state of extreme shock and carrying a broken leg, but still breathing.

The other occupants had not been so fortunate. The man sitting behind her had been thrown out of the car and spread against the side of the roadworks, the head of the driver had been smashed against the steering-wheel, and the female passenger in the back, who had been sitting directly behind him, had hit her head against the window—causing an injury which disfigured her and put a cruel finish to her new career as an actress.

She’d been taken out to a celebratory dinner by her agent, Salvatore Brini, along with Domenico Mozzolino, the lawyer who handled cases for him, and Mozzolino’s Welsh wife Sian, with whom she had struck up a most intense friendship, who had been a vital inspiration in her attempts to speak Italian, and who became her regular companion on visits to the shops and markets of Milan. They had been bonded together by the fact that they were both guarded newcomers to the sophisticated society of the city. The two of them possessed a similar sense of humour and at certain times appeared to be as closely linked as sisters.

When her friends had suggested the evening entertainment on a night when the play was not due to be performed and she had accepted enthusiastically, they’d come to collect her from her large apartment in the eastern part of the city on the Corso Magenta and had driven to the suburb of Corsico along the Via Lorenteggio.

Lying only eight kilometres outside the centre of Milan, La Pianta provided the opportunity to eat al fresco since it was still pleasingly warm even in late September. A background melody provided by frogs and crickets suggested that each was auditioning for parts at La Scala. Being a skilled avvocato by profession, the driver drank only frugally. The two women, however, felt permitted to propose toasts to everybody they could think of so that by the time they left both were laughing happily and neither was in full control of her senses.

During the autumn and winter months the area to the south of the city is frequently blanketed with a thick fog. That particular year it had chosen to make an early appearance so they had driven little further than two hundred metres along the road before the fog suddenly surrounded them.

While the roadworks on the Via Lodovico Moro had involved the removal of a substantial part of its right-hand side, a set of temporary traffic lights, regularly in use, had long before turned from red to green, allowing the driver to travel on with little reduction in speed.

That was the precise moment, however, when the woman sitting in front leant across towards her husband and gave him a kiss that contained raw and sensual lust.

During the spring of the previous year Domenico Mozzolino had been fortunate enough to take a place in a studio used by other avvocati. Only two hundred metres away from the Palazzo di Giustizia in the Porto Vittoria it was less than one kilometre away from the apartment which he had recently purchased in the Via Carlo Crivelli.

His life had taken a turn for the better two years previously when he’d started to act as a legal representative for Salvatore Brini, a very prosperous film and theatre agent who worked mostly in Milan. The advent of cable in Italy, alongside a flourishing television industry, had seen the rights of all those concerned with the stage become very important, and almost all involved made use of either an agent and/or a lawyer or both.

Domenico Mozzolino was making a considerable reputation as a lawyer guaranteed to draw up tight contracts in which the rights of thespians appeared paramount. Much of his work was involved negotiating the finer clauses of contracts with the television companies in Milan, but not infrequently he would have to fly down to Rome and see through a film deal for a personality from the stage who was a paid-up member of a powerful union such as Unione dei Lavoratori dello Spettacolo.

Salvatore Brini had approached him one day in a state of rare excitement. During his vacation the previous month in Sardinia on the Costa Smeralda he had hired a car and driven around the island looking for nuraghi, the massive and squat fortresses dotted round the island which each resembled a cone with its peak cut off and were built from huge boulders. In particular he wanted to visit the Nuraghe Su Nuraxi, near Barumni some sixty kilometres north of the southern port of Cagliari, a nuragic castle with streets, homes and corridors, which dated from before the fourth century BC. On his way southwards that evening he stopped for a drink at a hamlet called Villacidro, noted locally for its liqueur, and had watched a group performing in a village festa.

Once an agent, always an agent, and wherever he went Salvatore Brini sought out talent. One person who in particular caught his attention that evening was a striking girl of seventeen with strong olive-coloured features and flaxen hair bleached almost white by the strong Sardinian sun who danced and spoke with a rich, if raw talent. Astonished by coming across such promise, following the performance he’d approached her with his card, and encouraged her to contact him if she ever thought of coming to the mainland. She’d moved with such grace and eloquence and had thrown out her voice with such passion, he was sure that she would easily find work in the expanding world of television.

Time would tell, of course, he thought as he drove along the country road to Cagliari. Time would tell. She would have to lose that absurd epiglottal accent and certainly would have to change her name. Manuela Decchuras? That would never do. She’d require a much less awkward surname, and probably a stronger first name.

By the time Salvatore Brini reached Cagliari he was convinced he’d devised a winning combination. Donatella Spezia. Yes, that sounded right. Donatella Spezia. He repeated the name several times carefully, and, when he was sure, determined to save that name only for her. It could become a sort of personal patent if the girl ever thought of coming across the water.

Two years later she did.

For Donatella Spezia fame occurred most dramatically. Three months earlier she’d been hailed as a star of the future in an edition of the Corriere della Sera after her triumph at the Piccolo Teatro in a production of Iphigénie en Aulide which had been acclaimed throughout Italy as marking the birth of an actress who possessed a true dramatic talent. It had been announced that the production would go on tour to other Italian cities, and soon after had come the declaration by her agent that she was being considered for a part in a film to be directed in the forthcoming spring by a leading Italian director.

For a youngster who hailed from the village of Villacidro in Sardinia to break into the sophisticated world of Italian films would indeed be a rare triumph. After he’d first seen her acting in Sardinia the agent Salvatore Brini had made sure to keep in regular contact. Twenty-four months later, after the girl had been ordered by her blind father to leave and search for fame on the mainland, she’d flown to Linate Airport from Cagliari. It wasn’t until the plane had flown for half an hour that she discovered in her handbag an envelope that contained most of the family’s money.

With the advice of Brini she’d stopped using her given name of Manuela Decchuras and spent many long, painful hours at stage school learning how to shed the strong Sardinian dialect with which she’d grown up. Very cryptic, with its many vowel sounds, it was almost impossible to understand for anyone not accustomed to the cadence and rhythms of its sound. She’d persevered with dedication in the task of teaching herself to speak pure Italian, and had been given inspiration by looking back to the example of Sophia Loren, another actress from a poor background who had found success, both on stage as well as in films.

Now, almost five years after her arrival at Linate Airport, people had started to see her as another star of the future. Where next, they had wondered? Where next?

THE telephone sounded as I was preparing to finish for the night. I’d just completed the paperwork regarding my visit to Bilbao, and had rushed around by messenger my report and impressions to Keith Nightingale, the managing director of KRN Associates, the insurance investigators.

“Mr. Armstrong?” asked a smooth, medium-timbred voice.

“Yes.”

“Tom Kennart speaking.”

Instinctively I sat more upright in my chair, since the only Tom Kennart I’d heard about was the manager of a leading London football club, of which Keith Nightingale was the chairman. Although I went to a rugby-playing school, football has been one of my leading interests during the past fifteen years, and whenever a case takes me abroad I always make a point of going to see a local match—be it in Buenos Aires, Berlin or Bilbao.

“Can I buy you lunch on Friday? I can’t make Wednesday since we have an away match in the evening, and Thursday is ruled out completely.” It was a Yorkshire accent that had been little affected by living in the South and spoken by a man who sounded as though he rarely took “no” for an answer.

“I understand. Just a moment and I’ll take a look in my diary.” In fact every lunch-time during the coming week was clear of appointments. “Yes. I think I can manage that.”

“Good,” Kennart said and named a restaurant in Greek Street. “I’ll book a table there at about one o’clock.”

“Looking forward to our meeting, Mr. Kennart. See you then.” I paused. “Could you give me some idea of what you want to talk about?”

“It concerns a footballer who was transferred last summer to a club in Italy. I had a discussion with Mr. Nightingale this morning after the board meeting and he suggested that I contact you.” He stopped talking at that moment as though fearful that he might reveal information that was strictly private and confidential. “However, I would prefer to delay any discussion until we meet.”

“I quite understand, Mr. Kennart,” I broke in swiftly before he became more self-conscious. “See you on Friday.”

I looked forward to meeting Kennart, not least because he was known as one of the most intelligent men in football.

Five minutes before one o’clock on that Friday found me sitting in the Gay Hussar in Greek Street, sipping at a glass of white wine. On the principle that it is always wisest to dress up when trying to impress someone, particularly when they might be about to employ you, I was wearing the soberest of my four suits, a three-piece in charcoal grey, along with a light blue shirt, dark blue tie and well-polished black shoes. Nice and conservative, guaranteed to offend no one.

The restaurant had the smell of success. In my job as an investigator in the insurance business I have to travel a good amount, but nevertheless I recognised a number of the faces present, which belonged to a senior minister in the government, several respected journalists and a few who had made their names in television.

Kennart came in just after five past one, a dark-haired, large-boned man with an open, honest face. I made an inelegant attempt to stand up in the cherry-red bench seat that was holding me in order to shake hands. He was flushed, as though he’d been in a hurry.

“Sorry I’m late,” he apologised and sat down opposite me.

“You’re not,” I said, shaking my head. “You said about one o’clock when we spoke on the phone.” Still, it was a useful edge to have in the conversation.

He ordered a gin and slim-line tonic from the Hungarian waiter.

“Do you know this place well?” I asked, before we started to look through the menu.

Kennart shook his head.

“I could easily have dropped by your office.”

Kennart nodded. “True. But I thought you might prefer to go out. In any case this place was recently recommended to me by a supporter who lives nearby and likes his food. At the start of the season he persuaded the owner to become a season-ticket holder—so let’s see what it’s like.” He suddenly glanced down at his watch in the manner of someone accustomed to living a twenty-five hour day and an eight-day week.

He selected the wild cherry soup, I the fish mousse, and then we joined forces for a main and chose some vese-velo tojassal — scrambled egg with kidney and brains—all accompanied by a rare bottle of 1976 Chardonnay.

“Now that’s over, Mr. Kennart,” I said after the waiter had left, “can you tell me exactly why you want to see me?”

“Forgive me for not having said much on the phone two days ago but it’s often wisest not to trust secrets to others until you are sure that your conversation is not being listened to.” Kennart made the statement sound like a question, and as though he had been reading too many thrillers. “The person I’m interested in is Gary Byrne, who moved to play in Italy during last summer on a contract that only lasts a year, as I’m sure you’re aware. The other wealthy clubs like Arsenal, Manchester United, Everton, Celtic, Rangers and Liverpool have been keeping their eyes on him, and in addition it wouldn’t surprise me if Brian Clough hasn’t been following his progress very closely. He’s a shrewd character. But I’m also extremely keen to sign him when he becomes available, and the club is prepared to spend money discovering whether he will be a good asset.

“What I want,” he continued after a moment, “is for you to travel to Italy and find out in close detail what sort of form Byrne is in at the present, what type of life-style he leads, whether he has any particular troubles or vices.” His forehead furrowed.

There followed a lengthy pause after he had uttered the final word. The last thing that managers of football teams wish for is players who have a troubled background. They desperately need to channel all their skills and energies into helping to create a victorious side and not have to spend a lot of nervous energy worrying about the psychological temper of their players.

“Vices?” I asked after a moment.

Kennart gave a grimace. “You know what I mean.” Kennart was acknowledged throughout the football world as being a manager who preached high moral standards, and lived up to them.

“Nothing specific about Gary Byrne?”

He shook his head. “I’ve not heard any rumours about him from friends involved with the media. In Italy club football has rigid tests to discover whether players are drugged. It won’t be that. And after the punishments which were given out following the betting scandal of 1980 it is highly unlikely that Byrne would have become involved with any crooked gambling, searching for easy wins on the Totocalcio, the Italian football lottery that resembles the Pools. As far as I know, he’s straight.”

“Why the sudden interest, Mr. Kennart?” I asked.

Kennart gave a smile. “In one way it’s not at all sudden, in another it is. Yesterday I was interviewed by Mick Knight for a piece which he is due to write for World Soccer. Just over two weeks ago he flew over to Milan to see the match between Internazionale and Fiorentina. Both teams have a number of players expecting selection for the national team due to play against Switzerland at the end of the month and Mick intended to gain material for a piece that would be a preview of that particular game. With the finals of the World Cup due to be held in Italy this summer, each match played by the host nation is carefully scrutinised. Especially through the length and breadth of Italy.” He smiled and paused. “Naturally, when the match was over Mick took the opportunity to have a few words outside the dressing rooms with Gary Byrne.”

“How had he performed?” I enquired.

“Not very well, I understand,” Kennart replied in a low voice. “That was when Knight wondered aloud which English club would be interested in purchasing him at the end of the season when he is due to return to this country, and went on to wonder whether that might be us.” He gave a shrug. “Maybe the fact that his form has slumped might lead Fiorentina to sell him comparatively cheaply. One never can tell in affairs concerning transfers. His value might be better now than it was during the autumn, when he was said to be playing so brilliantly. What we’d like you to do is to travel to Florence and see what might be causing him to play so wretchedly at present. The lad might simply have lost form, and his disappointing failures recently may be totally unconnected with his activities off the field, but we obviously need to know more, to know whether …”

“Whether he can fit easily into your team,” I finished for him.

He nodded. “Precisely. I’ve been a great admirer of his since seeing him play against us three years ago, and I’ve been in touch with one or two people who knew him just before he went abroad. I wonder, though, how well he has been able to adapt to these new pressures, and what effect this has had on his character. Over thirty years ago John Charles fitted in very well at Juventus and in recent seasons Brady especially, Francis, Hateley, Souness and Wilkins have all gone smoothly into Italian football and become popular. On the other side, in the sixties, Baker, Greaves and Law found the style of life there very hard to take and I just wonder how the boy Byrne has been able to adapt.”

He paused and wiped his brow with a handkerchief, although it wasn’t particularly warm in the restaurant. “The entire regime, the habits, the manners of the club game as played in Italy are totally different from those known to us. Italian clubs tend to cosset the players much more than we do, to deprive them much more of their sense of freedom. Before important matches they are inclined to ask the players to enter a ritiro—a special regime at training camp—for several days. The ways of life are completely different.” Kennart was taking a long time to get to the point. “That is why I’d like you to go there for several days and gather information that will tell me whether Byrne will be a good investment, or whether he would be a risky proposition for the club to become interested in.”

“Why him especially?” I asked. I recalled reading reports praising his brilliance, but surely there were other players in this country who would be far less risky to sign?

Kennart poured some more wine into our glasses, and looked in front of him—almost as though to suggest he’d not heard me. I was on the point of repeating myself when he gave a smile, which was followed by a brief nod. “I’ve been told that you know a good amount about football—but before I answer I’ll make a few points concerning the transfer market.”

“Please do.”

“A manager of a team can’t avoid relying on advice. He might be the man in the firing-line if and when Failure, with a capital ‘F’, takes place, but he needs support at all times when purchasing players. Some performers are watched on perhaps a dozen occasions before a club feels confident enough to discuss his merits and make an offer.”

“By scouts?”

“By scouts certainly. In recent seasons there’s also been a new breed of club chairmen who travel a lot, often abroad, insist on watching football, and pass on their thoughts to their boards of directors. In the main, however, this task of sifting is carried out by scouts, often players who have had experience inside the game. There is always a certain element of fortune involved.”

I let him continue.

“For example, when the legendary Bill Shankly purchased Kevin Keegan from Scunthorpe for almost nowt he’d not even seen the lad play, but instead trusted the judgment of his scouts. And look what return Liverpool later made for their investment of only £30,000!” He broke off and gave a chuckle. “So yes, scouts are used by most clubs. But me,” he speared his chest with his right forefinger, “me, I like to watch a player several times playing in different conditions before I’m ready to make an offer.

“On those occasions I’ve watched him, Byrne struck me as being utterly special, one of those players who so often seems to have all the time in the world. Someone who has authentic quality.” Kennart looked away for a moment, before continuing with his panegyric. “In fact we were on the point of signing him when he chose to go abroad, but our chairman happened to be away on business and so we were too late. That’s why this Monday Mr. Nightingale urged me to make contact with you. Byrne has a talent which few over here have fully appreciated but which I am convinced that we can bring out of him. For someone so comparatively young Byrne has the temperament of someone who has performed in the league for about ten seasons. I’ve always admired the way he played before he went abroad, and watched with interest since.”

“I don’t remember him having been picked for England,” I remarked.

“No, you won’t.” Kennart gave a short laugh, and shook his head. “It turns out that although his father is English, his mother is Welsh. Apparently he was brought up during his teens by her sister in Yorkshire, and it was the Welsh selectors she approached after she had discovered how promising he was.”

“Under-21 level, I presume.”

Kennart nodded. “He was chosen four times while he was at Sheffield Wednesday, and twice after he had been transferred to Stoke City.”

“But can’t he still be selected by England at full international level?”

Kennart shook his head. “Afraid not. Of course those games took place before he moved to play in Italy, where he has been gaining invaluable knowledge about the grounds and atmosphere that could be crucial when the World Cup finals are played this summer. Imagine how England must be kicking themselves now! Gary might have been perfect as someone to include in the party at the last minute as a surprise selection.

“As far as the club is concerned, in Monday’s board meeting I had a long talk to Mr. Nightingale about the possibility of signing him. And …” He shrugged an ending to the sentence.

“And you don’t want to be second in the race again,” I said.

He gave a brief nod. “You bet. Although there’s another reason. Did you see us in the big match last Saturday?”

“Yes,” I gave a nod. “Strong in defence and attack but weak in midfield.”

“Precisely. We’ve been like that ever since David Connolly strained a groin in September. He took the devil of a time to recover completely. In fact I’m not sure that he did, although on occasions he can still be inspirational. That injury might explain why he started to slow up before our games at Christmas. Anyway, he got in touch with me on Sunday and said that after much heart-searching he thinks it best if he were to retire at the close of the season. I’m determined to find a place for him on our training staff. He has given us eleven seasons of superb service since he joined us from Celtic.”

“And there are no young players whom you could see taking over?”

Kennart gave a scowl. “At this moment I can’t see any of our apprentices stepping up to the first team. On our books is Tommy Phelan, a twenty-year-old Irishman with a Spanish mother whom I envisaged coming into the side just before David had to retire, and able to succeed him. David had taught him a lot—most important the ability to keep calm at all times—but,” at this point Kennart hit his knuckles against the top of the table, “his game has stopped developing. In fact it’s going backwards. He’s started to lose thousands of pounds gambling, and worrying about that has affected his game disastrously. The latest I heard was that the lad was thinking of leaving football and joining a friend as a scrap-metal merchant. Scrap-metal merchant. Ye gods!” Kennart gave a wintry smile.

“Which explains why you want Gary Byrne,” I remarked. “David Connolly giving his advice, and Gary Byrne using his ability to thread brilliant passes through to the forwards?”

Kennart gave a nod of satisfaction. “Sounds a winning combination, doesn’t it?”

“It could work out fine.”

“You mean you’re interested?” Kennart’s voice rose.

I smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He frowned and became a bit flushed as he looked me firmly in the eye. “Mr. Nightingale suggested that I contact you direct because in addition to knowing a lot about football you’ve frequently worked for him in Italy. He gave me the impression that if you agreed he would like you to concentrate totally on this particular job. He left me to agree a fee with you by myself, however. This is the first time I’ve used the services of someone so on the fringes of the game. I simply don’t know how these t. . .