Stranglehold by J. M. Gregson Page A

here, but he needed the money; it was an effort to seem as relaxed as he hoped he appeared. He needed to clear his gambling debts; last week he had even pawned the gold watch he had been presented with after a Cup triumph in his heyday of management. He said, ‘Well, I’m open to offers, Charlie. I’m considering one or two proposals at the moment, but ...’
    â€˜Open to offers, yes.’ Kemp weighed the phrase. He took a sip of the whisky he had hardly touched, and smiled into his cut-glass tumbler, letting Knowles know that he knew the score. ‘I think you’ll find ours interesting.’
    Ten years ago, Vic Knowles had been one of the biggest names in football management, a gifted but not exceptional player who had made it through the ranks of more gifted footballers to become manager of a big first division team. He had been interviewed often on television then, fingering the lapels of the colourful suits which he had bought as the accoutrements of success, squandering the increasingly generous appearance and interview fees on booze and gambling.
    They had been heady days, tarnished eventually by a too-public affair with a player’s wife and a fight in a motorway cafe in front of hundreds of delighted fans. He had moved around the divisions since then, steadily downwards and with varying degrees of success. He did not often last more than a year; initially, he brought discipline to clubs, but he was too careless a martinet for his control to endure in an era of player power.
    He had been unemployed since a third division club terminated his contract in April, and Kemp knew all about it. He had taken care to have Knowles’s financial background investigated before he approached him through an intermediary. The man must be desperate now. But he was still news, still a big name to land, for a club like Oldford.
    And he would be Charlie Kemp’s man, if he came. Another coup for Charlie: he could see the Echo headlines in his mind’s eye already. ‘You’d need to move into the area,’ he told Knowles. He noticed that the man had already finished his drink, but he did not pour him another one.
    â€˜That’s no problem. If the deal’s right,’ said Knowles. He tried to appear laid back – that was the phrase the media still used about him, and he tried to live up to the image – but he found himself swigging automatically at a glass that was already empty.
    â€˜We could probably rent you a club house, if it would help.’ That would put the new manager more firmly in his power; especially as the said house was owned not by the club but by one Charles Kemp.
    Knowles tried not to show his relief. ‘It would be a help, I think. In the early stages. Until I sorted things out.’
    â€˜That’s if we can agree a deal.’ Kemp sipped reflectively from the inch of whisky which still occupied the bottom of his tumbler. ‘You would be responsible for the team, of course, and for all disciplinary matters.’
    Knowles went into the spiel he had used before on such occasions and found effective. ‘I think my track record speaks for itself as far as that goes, Charlie. I’ve managed the best, and got the best out of them.’
    Kemp smiled as he might have done at the naïvety of a child. ‘Past glories, Vic, past glories. In football, you’re as good as your last match. You’ve been around long enough to know that.’
    He produced the clichés with a grave air, as though he were offering a new wisdom upon a troubled scene, and Knowles found himself nodding agreement before he realized that he was making a concession. ‘I can handle the team, have no fears about that. Now –’
    â€˜I believe you can, or I wouldn’t be talking to you, Vic. We’ll pay you fifteen thousand.’
    â€˜Oh, but I couldn’t possibly –’
    â€˜And we’ll settle your extensive gambling