Stranglehold by J. M. Gregson Page B

debts.’
    The sentence hit Knowles like a blow in the solar plexus. He settled back in his chair, trying to take the deep breaths which were necessary if he was to speak evenly. Kemp decided that he should have a drink, now that he had been softened up. He reached across with the bottle and poured a generous measure, then moved the jug of water two inches nearer to Knowles. ‘You will give us an IOU for the amount of those debts, which will be torn up provided that you stay with us for at least a year.’
    Vic said weakly, ‘I don’t think I can live on fifteen thousand a year. I’ve got responsibilities, you see. Since my divorce –’
    â€˜You’ll live on it all right, if you cut out your gambling. To assist you in that, our local bookmakers have agreed to inform the club of any ... investments you attempt to make with them.’ He knew the man could still bet with the big firms, but the threat was all he wanted at this moment.
    Knowles scratched desperately for an argument. ‘But surely some of the players will be on more than me.’
    â€˜None of the players will earn more than the manager. We have some promising lads, but they’re all part-timers here. Will be until they get into the league. However, they’re on a big bonus if we get into the Vauxhall Conference at the end of next season, and so will you be, Vic. We believe in payment by results here.’
    A few minutes later it was settled. Kemp conceded what it was not within his powers to deny, that Knowles could keep the fees from any radio and television interviews he was asked to do during the season. They wouldn’t bring in much, but the man still had delusions of grandeur. Kemp didn’t mind that; they could still be useful equipment in a business which lived on the dreams of supporters. He had the big-name manager he needed to put Oldford FC still more firmly upon the map.
    It was not until the deal was agreed that Knowles raised his single, faint, moral scruple. ‘What about Trevor Jameson?’
    Jameson was the existing manager, the one who would have to step aside to make way for Knowles, an honest, anxious man with a flair for football coaching and none for words. ‘Leave him to me, Vic. He’s on the Costa del Sol at the moment, I believe. Shame to spoil his holiday; I’ll see him when he gets back. He’s almost at the end of his contract, anyway.’
    Kemp saw Knowles to the door, then watched from the window of the landing outside as the new manager of Oldford FC drove away his Sierra from the almost deserted ground. Then he went back into the hospitality suite and locked away the bottle. He sat for a moment in the big armchair he had occupied for the interview, turning his glass of whisky through his fingers with satisfaction. He had got his man, and cheaper than he had expected. Research, they called it on the telly. Well, he had researched his man; and it had paid off again.
    He began to think of the wording of the press release. He thought he would break the news to them before local radio. It was always good to have the newshawks under an obligation. At this hour of the day and in the close season, this place was blessedly quiet, and he enjoyed that.
    He was not quite sure how long he had been sitting there when John Castle came into the room, carrying with him an air of subdued satisfaction. ‘I’m glad you’re still here, Mr Kemp. The police want to see you.’ The Secretary enjoyed that involuntary slight stiffening which the word induced in his Chairman.
    â€˜If it’s about the arrangements for policing our matches next season, I’ve already told you: you deal with all that, within the budget we’ve allocated.’
    â€˜No, it’s not about that. It’s top brass, I think. A Superintendent Lambert. He wants to see you about a murder near the ground last night. A strangling, I believe it was.’
    Castle permitted himself the