Stranglehold by J. M. Gregson

bonus.
    Kemp went into the hospitality suite on the first floor of the building; it had a door at one end which opened straight into the directors’ box in the main stand, but that was kept locked, except on match days. Behind a small door on the opposite wall of the room, the Secretary of Oldford FC had his office. He was an employee of the football club, not Kemp’s; the man was clear enough about that, but as with other things around the club, the distinction was blurred in other people’s minds.
    Beside the Secretary’s door, there was a neat box with three lights, designed to light up when the button beside them was pressed and the man inside responded. They said ‘Engaged’, ‘Wait’ and ‘Enter’, and lit up when the Secretary pressed the appropriate button on his desk.
    Kemp opened the door abruptly without knocking. ‘’Afternoon, Jack,’ he said. ‘Has Vic Knowles confirmed his visit?’
    If John Castle was disturbed by the manner of the Chairman’s arrival in his office, he gave no sign of it. ‘He rang about half an hour ago, from his car phone. He should be here in a few minutes, now.’ Unlike other people around the place, he never called the Chairman ‘sir’. It was one of his tiny assertions of independence.
    Kemp noticed the fact, but for the moment it suited him to ignore it. ‘Good. I think it would be a good idea if you had a word with the groundsman, Jack. He’s cutting the grass on the pitch pretty short, and there’s no sign of rain. If we have to water it during this hosepipe ban, we’ll have the usual busy bodies writing to the Echo. ’
    It was a direction that Castle should be absent when Vic Knowles met the Chairman, and both of them knew it. The Secretary didn’t like what was going on, but he knew he could do nothing about it. He nodded, made a face-saving remark about the newly seeded goalmouths, and went downstairs and out into the sunshine. That at any rate felt something of a relief.
    Kemp looked after him for a moment with a grin, then made a small redisposition of the furniture in the hospitality suite in preparation for his visitor. In ten minutes, he and Vic Knowles sat opposite each other in big leather armchairs, the atmosphere consciously informal, the Chairman a little more at ease in these familiar surroundings than his visitor.
    Knowles sat too far forward to be comfortable in the low armchair. He had a heavily lined face, which made him look older than his forty-four years, and rather prominent front teeth. He had never been handsome, but in his better moments he carried the air of a cheerful Jack-the-lad adventurer. This was not one of those moments.
    â€˜So you think you might be interested?’ Kemp looked at Knowles across the top of his glass with a conspiratorial smile: this was still a secret between them. ‘Do help yourself to water, by the way. I take it neat.’
    Knowles reached forward awkwardly to the jug on the low table between them, taking the few seconds to try to size his man up. He had met a considerable number of football club chairmen in his day, and they were not a breed he trusted. But in his profession they were a necessary evil, one you had to live with.
    â€˜I’m interested, yes. It would be a bit of a comedown for me, of course, going outside the league, Mr Kemp, but –’
    â€˜Charlie, please. We don’t need the formalities, at least in private. We find these silly distinctions get in the way of efficiency at Oldford.’ He waved a vague and benign hand to indicate the rest of the extensive premises which made up Oldford FC. There would be time enough to make his withdrawals when he had netted his man. ‘And don’t forget we shall soon be in the league. You’ll be impressed with our set-up.’
    Vic Knowles had heard that one before, but he had more sense than to say so. He couldn’t afford to admit it