The chairman, p.1
The Chairman, page 1
The Chairman
Will Thomas
Austin Macauley Publishers
The Chairman
About the Author
Dedication
Copyright Information ©
Acknowledgement
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About the Author
Will Thomas is a New Zealander based in Sydney who loves sport, wine and crime fiction. A capable sportsman in his youth, Will played first grade cricket and rugby and has completed a marathon, a half Ironman and a dozen half marathons.
After a career in the wine business, this is first novel.
Dedication
To Helen – Faith, Gorgeous
Copyright Information ©
Will Thomas 2022
The right of Will Thomas to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781398410640 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781398410657 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published 2022
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®
1 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5AA
Acknowledgement
To the Collective Fiction – thanks CC and the group
1
Spirited applause was not unusual at Eden Gardens. Test matches brought crowds that were enthusiastic and parochial in equal measure, so the fall of a wicket inevitably brought celebration. The applause this morning was in response to the dismissal of Harish Lal, the Indian opener, after a brief but volatile innings. Eight boundaries in the first ten overs of a Test match were a thrilling spectacle and the crowd acknowledged the audacity of Lal’s play, particularly as it came against the generational enemy from across the border, Pakistan.
The applause didn’t signal delight at Lal’s dismissal but it heralded the arrival of Pradip Mistry, a player whose esteem in India gave even the cows a run for their money. Around the world, his quality as a cricketer was acknowledged without hesitation and barely a Test match passed where he didn’t evoke deletions and new entries into the record book.
Not wanting to fly in the face of public opinion, Mistry concurred that he was in fact pretty special and often pondered on how remarkable it was that such a good sportsman could also be so incredibly good-looking. His bearing conveyed a sense of divine privilege, a demeanour that seldom endeared him to those that breached his inner circle. Not, surprisingly, he was on very few speed dials among his opponents and they worked assiduously to ensure he would not re-write records against them. They were seldom successful.
Mistry sat in the dressing room, immaculately kitted and apparently ready to begin another matchless onslaught. His hair was gelled down, his collar up and his green eyes seemed to be rehearsing the thousand-yard stare he reserved for the unworthy.
The crowd knew that Mistry liked to make them wait to make an entrance. This time, though, the legend was overdoing it and the crowd began to chant in a seductive rhythm, urging him to appear. For their part, the Pakistanis began discussing an appeal for timed-out.
Mistry’s captain, Srinivas Srinath, was moved to check on Mistry, so he hurried down the stairs to the Indian room. As he entered, he could see that Mistry was ready to bat – pads strapped on, gloves in the helmet – and leaning back in his chair as if barely willing to design such a tawdry attack.
Then Srinivas Srinath realised why the crowd had to wait. Although, to all intents and purposes, his star batsman was ready, there was one severely limiting factor – the large shard of mirror buried into the side of his neck. The dressing room mirror had been shattered and the red carpet, that Mistry had insisted on, camouflaged the litres of blood that had flowed from his carotid artery.
The skipper knew immediately that it was game over at Eden Gardens – and game over for Pradip Mistry.
2
Mike Dunn loved Sundays. The combination of a beer buzz, a suite of newspapers and the prospect of a fry-up of industrial proportions gave the morning a sort of muddling serenity. Others chose a walk in the woods for their Sunday morning reverie and he could see their point, but for him the angry sputter of a middle rasher left the blackbird’s warble a sorry second.
Dunn also saw Sundays as a day of reflection – not on the deeper quandaries of humanity but on the previous day’s sport. In the winter, it was the satisfaction of watching his beloved Harlequins, a rugby team he had watched as a boy, played for as a young man and now enjoyed with a pint and some old mates. Come spring, he took the field for his village cricket team, the Old Ecumenians. Dunn loved the frothy exuberance of the dressing room as much as the cricket – his day job didn’t typically allow for a great deal of humour, so the banter and bonding were both his relaxation and his release. Dunn had been a competitive sportsman in his day and still bore the muscular frame of an athlete but also bore the outcomes of many a Saturday afternoon collision.
Dunn woke late and was moving gingerly as he stooped to pick up the stack of Sunday papers sitting at his front door. The sight of Pradip Mistry on the front page was unusual and at first Dunn thought he must have gone past Lara’s Test record or had found another way to fall foul of Fleet Street. The headline ‘Murder Mistry’ was as bewildering as it was annoying for as a detective for the International Cricket Council, Dunn was caught between astonishment at this apparent crime and piqued that a Sunday paper should be the bearer of the news. His mobile phone was often on silent during the weekend and as he scrolled through, he could see there were messages from many parts of the world and several from his boss, the increasingly irritated Guy Trinnick, chief investigator of the ICC. The first of his four messages began cordially enough as he conveyed the news of Mistry’s death. The last was distinctly cool.
Mike, you and I are booked on the four o’clock flight to Kolkata. I’ll see you at the airport.
He looked down at his phone and checked his now aborted plans for the day. So much for the Sunday session at the Ring of Bells.
3
Thank God we’re up the front of this plane, Dunn thought as the flight entered its ninth hour. He’d spent an hour poring through the details of the crime and its scene but found photos and the printed word were no replacements for experiencing the scene and absorbing its feel. In his experience, every scene had a tone or an ambience that a camera just couldn’t catch. After a post prandial cognac, he’d exhausted the movie selection and although he found a few albums he liked in the music offering, he felt that listening to Beast of Burden at full noise for the tenth time could ruin the song for good.
Guy Trinnick had proved to be ordinary company, which didn’t surprise Dunn given their relative backgrounds and dispositions. He couldn’t believe Trinnick had chosen to travel in a navy-blue pinstripe suit, white shirt and a club tie of some persuasion and felt a bit under dressed in his ink-coloured slim fit jeans, a sky-blue V-neck merino top and his favourite indigo jacket with purple lining.
Dunn was a casual man in a serious job – Trinnick was a serious man who seemed to play everything with a straight bat. Whether it was matters cricket, law or his weekend passion of philately, Trinnick was not a man with whom flippancy or inattention to detail sat well. Everything had its place and its purpose and anything beyond this structure was imbued with risk. He was happy to eat and drink but being merry was never quite on the agenda. Trinnick was also an ambitious man with his sights set on a desk at ICC headquarters in Dubai. Solving crimes and a squeaky-clean personal life would see him there before his 60th birthday.
In the course of their working lives, many had been the time that Trinnick had censured Dunn for his Machiavellian approach to process and what he considered needless sparring with the press. In the same breath, Trinnick knew that, maverick that he was, Dunn had a terrific track record of solution with many forms of match fixing, bribery of umpires and pitch tampering, all but removed from the game. ‘All but’ being an important distinction with corruption never far away from a game that was a bookmaker’s heaven. Trinnick was smart enough to realise that although they may not sit down and discuss the latest valuation of the Penny Black or watch football with a few pints of bitter on board, his partnership with Dunn was a successful one. Although he would only admit it if he was held down and had a blowtorch bearing down on him, Trinnick knew that he needed Dunn. Getting to the truth on the demise of Pradip Mistry was going to need Dunn’s remarkable nose for crime.
4
Dunn’s instinct for wrongdoing was fashioned early in his life – at about the same time his loathing of privilege began to manifest. Surprisingly, both traits were developed at public school, an odd English term, which suggests they are open to all when in fact ‘public’ schools were about as open to the general public as the back bar at Raffles. At thousands of pounds per term, they were typically the domain of the wealthy.
Dunn, whose father drove a taxi and whose mother worked in the office at the local comprehensive, was able to attend only because of 80-hour weeks from his father and his mother’s extraordinary frugality. Unlike many of his peers, his first day was the start of secondary school and as he climbed from the family sedan, the rotor blades of a helicopter buffeted his farewell embrace. It proceeded to set down at about deep square leg on the main cricket oval, sending autumn leaves off on a dervish dance and the Head Groundsman into a fit of pique. From within, a slight young man with undeserved swagger emerged, closely followed by enough luggage to clothe an entire dormitory. It was Dunn’s first glance at Piers Vasher and his first impression of ‘complete cock’ remained resolutely undiminished in the years that followed.
Vasher was of the view that since ‘Daddy’ had paid for the cricket nets to be resurfaced (and, to prove that mobile phone entrepreneurs possessed an appreciation of culture, had financed the new acoustics in the auditorium), he should bat three, field at first slip and wear the number ten jersey on the rugby field. Dunn, as an elegant and at times muscular batsmen and an industrious loose forward, took the view that Vasher might like to front at the trials like everyone else. Apprising Vasher of this opinion meant the chance of a friendly coffee and a cheese roll in the dining hall together went from unlikely to inconceivable in as long as it took to say, “I don’t care if your old man makes the Queen look a bit short of a quid, the master in charge picks the team.”
Although spot on in principle, the relevant master returned for the Christmas term sporting a tan that didn’t result from lounging in a deck chair on the Blackpool pier Were one to speculate, Barbados or The Bahamas would have seemed the likely provider of the sunshine and the greeting he gave Vasher would suggest that Vasher’s father was the likely provider of the holiday.
The school years that followed elicited an uneasy co-existence and although both played in the same sporting teams (eventually making the 1st XV and 1st XI), ‘teammates’ applied only on the team sheet. In their final year, Vasher, who was already earmarked for a spot in Daddy’s firm, decided that making a bit of cash on the side was a better bet than worrying about exams or other trivia. Apart from the inherent benefit of having a bit of extra folding, it meant he could confidently navigate the occasional expenditure audit that his old man put him through. Having to create a plausible reason for buying 200 pounds worth of stationery, which was actually 50 quids worth of stationery and 150 on a dead cert at Fontwell Park, was never pleasant and his father made him sweat through every flaky reconciliation.
Convincing youthful and, at times, admiring pupils that his racing syndicate was a great way to bolster their funds for the summer holidays was easy. For five pounds a week, Piers would run through the fields with his dad’s bookmaker and apparently place educated bets on behalf of the syndicate. There was of course a small management fee and he’d be happy to take one off bets from anyone who thought they’d spotted something interesting beyond the syndicate’s wagers. Subscribers were not difficult to find, particularly when convinced by Vasher’s resident bully boys, Matt Grose and Fraser Boyle, that being part of the syndicate was a significantly better option than having their cigarettes taken or their food lockers eviscerated.
After a couple of early wins, word got around that this was the greatest money-making venture since the Aga Khan pieced his strategy together. Vasher was light on detail but would distribute news of the week’s balance through nominated runners in each house. As long as the balance was heading north, his punters were happy and as many of the group had been press-ganged and found horse racing as interesting as floral arrangements, there was little enquiry into method.
Little enquiry, that was, until Mike Dunn became interested. After Ben Varcoe, one of his junior housemates, filled him in on the deal, Dunn sensed heartache ahead for the constituents of the racing syndicate. As they predominantly hailed from the junior ranks and Vasher was leaving school forever come July, Dunn sensed a rort of the Ponzi persuasion. Using Varcoe as his eyes, Dunn followed the performance for a few weeks, seeing nothing untoward in a moderately increasing tally. Maybe the old man’s bookie was guiding the punt well or maybe he was going each way on favourites and keeping ahead on place money – but, unfortunately, there was nothing about Vasher’s demeanour that suggested a big divvy up come the end of term and a few celebratory pints at The White Swan.
Because the information on performance was of a general nature and all that came back was a running balance, Dunn wanted to find out when and where the bets were being placed. He called Varcoe aside.
“Ben, I want to get Vasher to place a bet for me. Ten pounds on Velvet Lightning in the fifth race at Epsom.”
“Ten pounds, Velvet Lightning. I’ll catch up with him after evening lessons tonight.”
That Friday afternoon, Dunn saw Vasher and his ever-present cronies, Grose and Boyle, head out of the main gates and down toward the direction of the local village. Following at a plausible distance, he watched the three of them enter the local William Hill and made his way to a conveniently placed lamp post, where he leaned nonchalantly waiting for the trio to reappear.
Vasher was first out the door and gave Dunn the sort of look reserved for one who has broken wind in private only to find his girlfriend’s mother had entered the room in stealth.
“Dunn, fancy seeing you here!” He imparted with exaggerated bonhomie.
“Vasher, the pleasure’s mine. Look, I’m just checking on a bet I got one of the boys to put on with you. Horse called Velvet Lightning.”
“Oh, was that you? Bit of a roughie, Dunn, no joy there, I’m afraid. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
“Thanks, Vasher, I appreciate that but there’s just one thing. There is no Velvet Lightning.” Vasher’s eyes narrowed in the manner of a rookie gambler whose bluff has been called.
“That’s right, Vasher – I knew something was up. Nothing rang true about this whole caper, so I thought a little dummy run might bring a few things to light. So tell me, if you’re not placing all the bets you’re asked to, how does the whole thing work?”
By now, Boyle and Grose had made their way out of the shop and were providing just enough menace to make Dunn wary.
“As you’re not a member of the syndicate, I’d say that how it works is none of your fucking business.” Spat Vasher. “I’m helping some kids make a bit of pocket money, so why don’t you just sod off?”
“I’d be happy to Piers but I don’t like seeing people get parted from their cash unfairly, most of whom have only joined up because of pressure from these two scrotes.”
