As George came out of the station he wondered how both it and the branch line he had just travelled on had survived the Beeching cuts he remembered his parents talking about in the 1960s. The station had a certain rustic charm and it was swept clean, a big favourable point for George, who had always abhorred litter and those who dropped it. The older he became, the more that obsession grew. So cleanliness was good, but for the rest, well, it didn’t require a close inspection to see that the station required more than a lick of paint to make good its ageing wooden structure. Maintenance repairs which once would have been minor were turning major. There hadn’t been many people on the train either and most of those had been of a certain age. However, whatever the financial status of the station and the line, they had served their purpose for the day.
There was a marked lack of officialdom—in fact, the station seemed uninhabited. Obviously one inspection of his ticket on the train from London before he’d changed was deemed to be enough. It was a good thing, George reflected, that he hadn’t chosen to hide in the toilet at the crucial moment. Outside a black saloon car was waiting with its engine idling and the driver leaped out as soon as George came into view. “Chief Superintendent Skelton?” he enquired. He was a friendly-looking man with silver hair and red cheeks wearing a woolly cardigan buttoned up to the neck and corduroy trousers.
“I was once,” George replied.
The driver’s inherent cheeriness turned to a hint of dismay. “That’s what it says on the docket.”
“Who am I to disagree?” George was conscious that after the long journey he felt weary and his testiness was growing by the minute as a result. He was looking forward to sinking into the black leather seat at the back of the car. He opened the door and tucked himself in. After a moment of indecision the driver took his place at the front.
“And we’re going to Cauley Mortimer’s place?”
“That’s right.”
The confirmation seemed to do the trick and the driver eased the car away from the kerb. “My name’s Vernon by the way,” he said. George nodded in acknowledgement. “How did you manage to fix the meeting with Cauley?”
“Oh, I have a friend in the Welsh FA who organised it,” George responded vaguely.
“That was a piece of luck. Mind you, it’s only us old ’uns who remember Cauley these days—a real fox in the box he was. You’ll like his place—right by the sea it is. Rumour is he spent most of his money on it but he was always very careful with money.”
“Oh, really.” George was conscious they were moving on to dangerous terrain.
“Yes, he had a stand-up fight with a bank in London which lost money for him—years ago that was but he wasn’t having any of it.”
George just nodded this time. He hoped that the conversation would either dry up or change tack—and quickly. “Just a social visit is it this time?” Even more dangerous terrain.
George decided to take the initiative. “That’s right—to hear Cauley talk about the old times and how he put those goals away, get an autograph for my grandson, that kind of thing. Nice weather here today. It was snowing yesterday where I live.”
“Oh yes, well we get all sorts here, four seasons in a day sometimes. But beautiful for you today.”
And indeed it was with a bright blue sky, sun fully out and scattered white puffy clouds being driven here and there by the strong wind. They had left the environs of the station and were now out in the countryside with flower-filled low hedges lining the road. George could already glimpse the sea shimmering in the distance.
“Cold wind out there though,” Vernon rattled on, taking a hand off the wheel for a moment to tap his waistcoat. “You’ll be pleased you brought your coat with you.” He took a fork in the road through some woodland and as they came down a hill George could suddenly see the coastline spread out in front of him. Large houses in their own grounds were the name of the game here and they became gradually more opulent as the coast road came nearer. “Cauley’s place is over here,” said Vernon, pointing at the same time as he executed a right turn. He pulled up outside a low-lying white house with a tall black metal fence in front of it and gates in the centre. As he looked along the row, George could see the neighbours all had the same sense of security. Vernon ushered him out of the car.
“He’s added a man cave to the side down there since I was last here. There’s a snooker table in there, I believe. Then there’s a hot tub out the back. Mind you, you’d expect him to have all the gizmos, wouldn’t you? Now how long do you think you’ll be, sir? A couple of hours will do it?” He proffered a card. “I’ll book you in for two. Let me know if it’s any different.” He hopped back in and George watched as he took off. Then he stepped forward towards a speaker phone screwed on to one of the iron railings.
“Yeah,” came a disembodied voice as he pressed the button.
“This is George Skelton,” he said into the speaker.
“Oh yeah,” came the voice again. “Come in.” One of the gates swung slowly open.
As George walked in, he saw a new building to his left, which had to be the man cave, made of light wood with a flat roof. It seemed totally out of keeping with the rest of the house. He wondered idly where the driver got his information from—local gossip presumably. Then the front door of the house was opened and George blinked. The darting, slightly bowlegged figure he remembered causing havoc with defences hadn’t aged well. The man now confronting him seemed shrunken, the floppy hair of the past was thin and grey, and the body had expanded in all the wrong places including a pot belly.
“Good to see you,” he hailed George. “It’s not every day that an ex-chief superintendent comes to call. I assume this is unofficial.” While the eyes smiled, they remained fixed on George’s face.
“I’ve long since retired,” responded George in the most placatory voice he could summon. “And I live in a retirement community—nobody under sixty and everything gets done for you.”
“Sounds ideal,” returned Cauley Mortimer, standing to one side to allow George in. In fact there was no need for the polite gesture as the double front doors provided enough space to admit a small car. “Perhaps it’s something I should take a look at.”
“Not when you own a place like this,” commented George gazing around the vast, white-painted entrance hall. “I like the suit of armour.” He indicated the exhibit in one corner.
“Oh, that’s only to frighten any punters who find their way here. It’s real though—came from an old castle somewhere. I prefer that.” He pointed to a life-size model of an ostrich. “They’re fast little movers, just like I used to be. Anyway, come through. Unfortunately, it’s too windy to sit outside today but the conservatory will give you an idea of the view.” They went through a living room equally as large as the hall and filled with several sets of furniture in different colours with china figures at every turn. “The wife’s got a thing about that china—we must have virtually every one they’ve produced.”
When they got into the conservatory, which ran the whole length of the back of the house, the view was quite stunning and George paused to admire it. The sandy beach immediately below reached out in both directions as far as the eye could see, while beyond heavy rollers with whitecaps dancing along them crashed down in a regular fusillade. “Big seas today,” Cauley commented laconically, “but it’s often calm as a feather. At least the sun’s out.” As if to confirm his words, light shone into the room from every direction while electric blinds in the roof waited to be deployed if the temperature rose. “The wife’s out but she left a salad bar for us. We’re on a diet at the moment but I hope that’s OK with you.” The salad was set out on a white side table below a framed photograph of a youthful Cauley Mortimer shooting for goal. “That was the goal I scored to win the Cup Final,” Cauley went on. “Those were the days. Anyway, help yourself.”
George picked up a shiny white plate and filled it with cold ham, chicken, lettuce and tomato. “This is really nice of you and perfect for me. They fill us with far too much rich food at the Village where I live.”
“Come and sit down at the front,” Cauley invited. “Fancy a beer?” He didn’t wait for an answer before he made his way to a large fridge, from which he extracted two cans. They were emblazoned with large red roaring dragons on their hind legs with the words “Deadly Dragon” along the top. “Local company brews these. They send me a shipment now and then.”
George tore off the tab and drank from the can. The beer was good and refreshing. Cauley sat cross-legged opposite him, crunching on a lettuce leaf which he picked up with his fingers. “So,” he said. “You wanted to talk to me about my brush with Richard Pennington. Why’s that?”
“The cold case came up in the press again recently and the body was found very close to where we live. I suppose we don’t have too much to think about at the Village and it stirred our interest. Noel White at the FA said he knew you and you might be willing to chat so I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity. I’m hoping you might give me an autograph for my grandson.” He’d practised this little speech a few times before he set out and rehearsed it silently on the train. It seemed to disarm Cauley, who relaxed back in his chair. “Yeah, I’ve got stacks of pictures. I’ll sign one for you before you go. As for Pennington, well, nobody at the time really asked me why I was so pissed off with him. I mean the police interviewed me and wanted to know where I was when he was supposed to have been killed. That was easy—I was training for an international with all the other players. After that they lost interest. If they’d bothered to ask me how I felt about him, I’d have told them. I hated the bastard—he tried to steal my money.” He screwed up the beer can, tossed it accurately into a metal bin by the salad table and went over to fetch two more, one of which he placed at George’s side.
“How could he do that?”
“Easy—I’ve never trusted bankers. They’re in business to make money for themselves, not for me. I had advisors back then who recommended Gonzalez as they paid good rates. Their Reserve Fund is only by invitation and they invited me even though some of my mates were turned down. At first it worked fine. Statements came every month showing the fund was increasing but then came the one which said we’d lost thirty grand. The story was that they’d made a bad investment and it was just tough bananas. Well, I wasn’t about to accept that. Pennington ran the fund personally so I demanded to see him. I was pretty upset and I told him he ought to be strung up. There were two others who made a protest as well; I never found out who they were.” He buried his fork in a mixture of tomato, ham and lettuce and thrust the whole lot into his mouth.
“So what happened after that?”
“Pennington told me he hoped the deficit would be made up in time,” Mortimer went on indistinctly, “but he reminded me that I had signed up to their terms and conditions acknowledging the risks I was taking. He also made the comment that if I went on making threats against him, he would have to respond, and it could be bad for my career. I was asked to a lunch to sign a statement saying I was now content. The press said I went to the lunch even though I never did. I did sign the statement to get rid of Gonzalez and then told my advisors to move my money to a bank that was more reputable if they could find one. And that was the end of that until Pennington was murdered.”
George pushed his empty plate to one side. “Have some more, mate,” Cauley urged him. “There’s plenty there. I can you tell you something else about Pennington which I haven’t told anyone up to now.” He waited until George refilled his plate and sat down. “You know Pennington was regarded as a bit of a ladies’ man?”
“I’ve read about that.” George pulled off the cap on his second beer.
“Used to have his secretary across the desk if stories are to be believed. I tell you if I’d tried anything like that when I was playing, I’d have been hounded by the papers forevermore. But the real story was the woman who said he raped her and he denied it. There was no proof so the police let it go. Well, I was at a do in the same building as him that evening. In those days I was well paid for stuff like that—making appearances, like. When I came out to get my coat, I saw Pennington come out of the hall where his party was. He had his arm round this woman. I could hear them talking. They went into another room, checked it was empty and closed the door. I know it was him because I’d had my upper and downer with him a few days before.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Cauley finished off his last mouthful of salad. “You’ve got to think, I was famous then. I was playing football all the time so I wasn’t really following the news and I didn’t make the connection. Even if I had, the press would have said I was trying to get my own back on Pennington. And the police had given me a hard time before. So staying out of it was for the best, for me at any rate. The woman was a real looker with long black hair.”
“Would you recognise her if you saw here again?”
“It was thirty years ago, mate. People change.” He tossed the second empty beer can into the trash. “I’ll get that picture signed for you.”