THE SOCCER SLEUTH

1. Prologue: The Chief Suspect

‘He’s in tut front room, Mr Reynolds. Not often he gets a visit from top brass like thee.’

Jane Leadenhough a plain woman in her fifties led the City manager and his trainer through the front door and into the sparse, unlit hallway towards a closed door behind which a bird could be heard tweeting. The convergence of a strong odour of mould combined with stale tobacco and an unidentified gaseous element associating together would have engendered a feeling of caution about further encroachment. But like a canary singing down a pit the birdsong introduced a reassuring acknowledgement that it was fine to proceed.

Jack Reynolds clutched the black spherical handle of the door. And rather in the mode of the team under his charge, instead of going on the attack and entering he paused and turned his attention to the wife of the main suspect.

‘Mrs Leadenhough,’ he said circumspectly, ‘has your husband been acting at all strangely since the match on Saturday and the events that thereafter came to light?’

‘He’s been sullen and drinking more beer than’s good for ‘im. But he’s usually like that after tut crap your team serves up for ‘im and rest of tut mugs.’

Jack Reynolds was somewhat taken aback and tried to respond with the platitudes he reserved for the press boys, but found Mrs Leadenhough as intransigent as stony ground.

‘Don’t bother about me,’ she said. ‘I speak as I find, unlike these Southern fops down here. But t’aint me thou has to worry about. Tis your Chairman you’re accountable to.’

Reynolds didn’t wish to engage any further on that issue. The reality was always at the forefront of his mind and the chance to escape his inevitable fate by discovering the identity of the murderer of one of City’s most prominent supporters he hoped would provide him with the necessary divergent respite to tackle the rest of the season and improve results.

Bill Leadenhough sat in his comfy armchair and welcomed his guests like royalty for he had been a City supporter all his life and had attended the Cup Final twenty-six years earlier when they lost out to United at the Crystal Palace. Reynolds and his trainer/physio Dan Betsy sat on the couch to the left of the suspect. The coal bricks had sumptuously assembled like fans behind the home goal in the fireplace and it was crackling healthily and Betsy cast an envious eye upon the Phillips 834A wireless with its art deco curved top taking pride of place on a dust-free sideboard and longed for the day when footballers and those associated with their performances would receive the financial remuneration he thought they deserved. It was evident by the state of the art radio receiver’s presence that Bill Leadenhough, despite the otherwise humble residence, could afford to sit at the ground at all the home matches next to the murder victim.

‘Bill,’ Reynolds said addressing the supporter with the informal familiarity he would otherwise employ on his players. ‘You will now be aware that poor Millie Milkins had her skull bashed in by her own rattle, the one she painted red and white and clanged and clattered pretty well constantly throughout every ninety minutes in support of the lads.’

Bill said nothing, just staring impassively into the fire the only flickers on his face deriving from the shadows of the flames.

‘Everyone in the ground used to say pity the poor sod sitting next to her,’ cut in the trainer hoping his more supportive approach might illicit a response. ‘And that poor sod sat next to her for years at every match was you.’

‘Yes,’ Reynolds rejoined, ‘you can see why everyone would think you were the prime suspect. Especially as the rattle, smashed by the ferocity of the assault, was placed next to her battered body.’

When Queens Park Rangers had three weeks earlier taken the lead against the run of play Reynolds and Betsy had looked at each other on the touchline in search of inspiration to counter the setback and in similar vein they did so now. As the likely culprit in the eyes of most again failed to respond to the question.

‘Bill, if you don’t talk to us you’ll have to speak to the police,’ posited the City boss. ‘I fancy they won’t be quite so accommodating regarding your lack of engagement as we are. So tell us now, God knows you had the patience of a saint sitting next to that racket for all those years. Let us know what happened there certainly must be mitigating circumstances on this one which might help you avoid the drop.’

Even the introduction of the death penalty into the questioning failed to move William Leadenhough. He just sat there staring at the flickering flames with the unruffled assuredness of a poker player. Giving nothing away like the Reading backline against City at Elm Park. Jack Reynolds and his number two shared another look, this one of resignation.

As if to affirm the amateur sleuths were up against a tough cookie Mrs Leadenhough entered the room with a teapot, bowl of sugar and cups on a tray replete with a small plate of hard biscuits and finally her husband stirred from his malaise.

‘Well done our Jane,’ he offered as way of thanks. ‘I will pour.’

‘No sugar for me, thanks,’ the City manager instructed. Despite a reputation in the game for accepting sweeteners.

‘He won’t hear you from that side, you daft apeth,’ Mrs Leadenhough advised him. ‘He’s as deaf as tut post on that wing owing to that noisy cow with that bloody rattle sitting next to him there. Nay, in your parlance Mr Reynolds you need to attack him down tuther wing.’