The chairman, p.2
The Chairman, page 2
“Be that as it may, no one has complained and in fact the balance is increasing. The fact that it might all go on an all or nothing during the last week of term is just the way racing works old son. Bring on another Velvet Lightning, I say.”
“Well, ‘old Son’, here’s how this bit of racing is going to work. You’re going to distribute all the funds tomorrow according to the last update you gave. Thank everyone for taking part and pop in a five-pound bonus to show what a good bloke you are.”
Grose had heard enough and thought the best way to dissuade Dunn was throwing a big haymaker in his direction. This was an error in two parts – the speed of his punch was such that he might as well have sent a text message to tell him it was on its way and his lumbering technique meant he had no guard to speak of should Dunn respond in kind – which he did. Grose was not used to being struck as he was usually only up for violence against those much younger or smaller. Dunn was neither and as boxing formed a part of his training regime, a straight right, delivered at an open target, was spreading Grose’s nose from the left of his top lip to the base of his right eye at about the same time that he realised his haymaker hadn’t quite found the target.
Boyle observed this and although he could faintly hear Vasher urging him to ‘Smash him’, his primary instinct was self-preservation and although he knew it would mean the end of freebies and nights in the Vasher family’s corporate box at White Hart Lane, he suggested to Vasher that Dunn was right and they should return the money straight away.
“All right, Dunn – you win. For now. How about we keep this chat to ourselves, yeah?”
“You make good with the money and I don’t see why not Piers.”
With that, he turned and strolled back up the lane to school, feeling good about exposing Vasher’s fraud but a little remorseful about damaging Grose so badly – mind you, nothing like putting a bully in his place. He would be wary of Vasher and the end of term couldn’t come quickly enough.
5
Trinnick and Dunn were driven to Eden Gardens directly from the airport. Trinnick feeling fresh after total abstinence and large quantities of mineral water. Dunn feeling just a tad dusty after making his way through numerous selections from the wine list in the final hours of the flight. What began as an attempt to induce some sleep soon transformed into an urgent search for a drinking companion. As it happened, luck was on his side. Two rows back and equally insomniac, he’d found Alpa Parekh, a post-graduate student from Cambridge, returning home to Kolkata for the holidays. Alpa, as Dunn described to an utterly disinterested Trinnick, was the image of the girl in Bend it Like Beckham, except older, he hastened to add. Trinnick’s only response was a bemused look and a request for focus.
On reflection, Dunn couldn’t quite decide whether she was amused by him or simply enjoyed the distraction but her willingness to provide her phone number left him encouraged and looking forward to reacquainting at some stage. That is, if he was going to be able to find time with the workaholic Trinnick as his shadow.
“Mike, we’re here. Get your mind to join us and let’s get on with it,” snapped Trinnick, all too aware that his call for focus had gone unheeded.
They made their way down to the dressing room, escorted by an extremely courteous member of the BCCI. His name was Bharat Patel and he was the point person for all matters on the death of Pradip Mistry.
“Good morning, Mr Patel. Tell me who has had access to the crime scene?”
Patel raised his palms as if Trinnick’s question had been an accusation and his response indicated why. “No one, apart from the Indian captain, who is deeply distressed, the Kolkata police representatives and perhaps one or two players.”
“Is that all?” replied Dunn with more than a whiff of sarcasm.
“Well…I did bring my wife in for a look too,” replied Patel. “It is a momentous occasion in the history of Indian cricket.” He began by way of protest but Dunn knew that, as crime scenes went, this one was about as contaminated as the public baths in Chernobyl.
“Mike, forensically, this is a cot-case. What we’ve got to establish is how the hell someone got in here and what made them drive a piece of mirror into his neck.”
Although tempted to reply, “Yeah, thanks, Sherlock.” Dunn knew that Trinnick was right. There would be no point calling in the crime-scene scientists on this one.
“Mr Patel, who could get access to the dressing room during the Test?” inquired Trinnick.
“Well, only the players can get past security but, of course, for a few rupees or the promise of a favour or two, it is amazing how distracted the guards can get. Fans would pay big money to meet with Pradip Mistry in private, if you understand my meaning.”
Crikey, thought Dunn, thinking back to the photos of Mistry’s body. He didn’t know who was screening his talent but any woman who could bury a piece of mirror that far in would need arms like a commando.
“Mr Dunn, do not get me wrong, male fans would come through as well, buying souvenirs and selling them on Amazon or eBay – it is a thriving business, this memorabilia.”
Dunn knew he was approaching needle-in-a-haystack territory – corrupt guards meant pretty much unfettered access for the right sum of money and it sounded like men and women alike frequented the inner sanctum at Eden Gardens.
As they entered the dressing room, Dunn scanned the interior looking for exit and entry points and anything that looked incongruous. The usual debris of a cricket dressing room presented itself with gear bags, bats, tracksuits and protective equipment strewn around the room. Had he not been a cricketer he may have assumed signs of a struggle but this was situation normal for most rooms he’d seen. A blood stain which had turned a red earth hue made a perimeter around the area where Mistry had sat for the last time. A lanyard which had once been around someone’s neck sat crumpled beside the outline of the body.
“Let’s find out who was wearing this.” Dunn said as he bagged the item and handed it to Patel. “Although everyone in the bloody ground seems to have one these days. Let’s see if we can rule a few people out at least. Mr Patel, can you get the Chief of Police to have the guards brought in for questioning?”
“I will do that and I will also arrange for the guards to be brought in for questioning myself. I don’t need the help of the chief of police to bring the guards in and I’m yet to be convinced I need you either, Mr Dunn,” said Mr Patel. “I will see you back here at 9 am tomorrow.”
“All right, Bharat. Let’s work together on this, shall we?” They strolled in silence back to the main foyer and shook hands in departure with only a nod.
Dunn’s mind wandered as they returned to the hotel and as they disembarked, he rummaged in his pocket for the boarding pass where Alpa Parekh’s details were held.
6
Sydney is frequently written up as one of the world’s great cities. From Conde Naste to Lonely Planet, travel writers have expended all manner of superlatives describing the New South Wales capital. Sydney is the city for all comers – 50-dollar mains meet fish and chips in the park, million dollar launches cruise by the Manly ferry and at the Sydney Cricket Ground, corporate boxes hosting seven-figure executives share the ground with families in the bleachers. Whether sipping chilled champagne in elevated luxury or soaking up a Tooheys New or six at the base of the Brewongle, Sydney crowds agreed that watching Mitch Howard bat for a session was worth the price of a season ticket, let alone the admission for the day’s play.
This ground had its share of favourites over the years – Bradman and Ponsford, Walters and the Waughs had all thrilled the crowds of their era but there was something about Howard that magnetised a crowd. Most of the world’s greats tended to be known for a certain style-elegance or abrasiveness, technical perfection or innovation but few had ever displayed the prism of styles that Mitch Howard had at his command. Regardless of the situation or the quality of the attack, Mitch Howard played with a certainty and an imperviousness that even his detractors had to acknowledge with tight-lipped praise.
And, yes, great player that he was, Howard had his detractors. It was not that Howard was often outwardly rude or obnoxious, it was just his obsession with perfection left others a little cold. Mitchell Howard was concerned with scoring the most runs at the fastest rate in the history of Australian cricket. He had no room for anything else in his life but beating the runs that Ricky Ponting had accumulated over 287 visits to the crease. Selectors and administrators were dealt with perfunctorily. He never expressed it directly but his manner suggested well enough that regardless of his unwillingness to attend sponsor’s functions, drink at the members’ bar or give interviews, he knew he was first name on the sheet.
Such behaviour was annoying for many but there was general acceptance of his quirks as the requirements of a champion. Not surprisingly, Howard was a fanatical trainer, and once his teammates had had enough, he would have the net bowlers bowl until their arms were horizontal. The last person to make eye contact was ordered to set up the bowling machine, where the finishing touches were applied to his preparation.
It was Thursday afternoon and the players were preparing for the season ahead, which included a busy calendar of Test matches, ODIs and T20s. This summer’s opponents were New Zealand, followed by a series against a resurgent West Indies. Mitch loved playing the Kiwis and even though Cam Peters had touched him up a couple of times early in his career, matches against New Zealand had provided a good chunk of his international aggregate.
Net practice was over and as the rest of the team headed for the showers, Mitch picked up his kit and headed for the indoor nets. One of the net bowlers had got under his skin and, perfectionist that he was, Howard wanted to spend another half-hour or so feeling the leather pinging from the middle of his 2lb 12 oz. Gray Nicolls, as a young man, he had dreamt of being sponsored by a gear company and he loved the striking logo and clean willows that Gray Nicolls produced. Although not short of offers, Howard still got a kick out of going to the factory and picking up half a dozen bats made exactly to his specifications. They were big pieces of willow but beautifully balanced and more than a few times, teammates had swapped the stickers from their sponsors so they could use one of Howard’s blades.
The killer watched as Mitch Howard made his way to the indoor net facility. He had arranged a membership for the gym at Moore Park, which made access to the facilities remarkably simple.
Howard had been working hard and, as was his want, was getting ready to put in those vital extra minutes that separated the great from the good. It was getting late and helpers to feed the bowling machine were getting hard to come by but the killer’s attire of an NSW Blues fan shirt and navy tracksuit pants didn’t raise eyebrows or warrant a call to security. Howard just wanted someone to feed the bowling machine – if they could put a ball in a chute, they were good enough for him. A young boy approached the killer and asked if he could help with practice.
“Hi, kid. Look, we’re trying a few new things tonight. I think Mitch would prefer a private session.”
“But, sir, I’ve been here all day. I was told I could feed him a few balls if I stuck around to the end.”
“That’s a shame, Son. They’ve given you a bum steer there. I’m afraid it’s a no for tonight.”
The sight of tears welling might have induced flexibility in some but the killer had long ago eschewed emotion and sentimentality and remained resolutely dry-eyed. He also knew that the last thing he needed was a helicopter parent visiting the nets and complaining about how little Tobias should be given a turn on the machine. Peeling off a couple of crisp green hundred-dollar notes, he gestured to the boy.
“Sorry, it didn’t work out today. Since you’re such a good sport, go and get yourself some new gear or something.”
The money made the lump in little Toby’s throat disappear and he scuttled back to the car park with a couple of hundy in his pocket and the prospect of being home in time for an episode of Sponge Bob.
The killer set up the machine and waited for Howard to appear. He heard him before he saw him.
“New balls, mate – and crank it up to 150ks,” he barked as he entered the nets.
The killer observed his quarry. Pads, protector and thigh pad in place, Howard ambled down to take guard and prepare for the session. Wearing his one-day international pants and a tight sponsor’s T-shirt, he looked the epitome of an international cricketer. His fit frame and muscular arms in stark contrast to the muffin-topped players of yesteryear.
Not wanting to raise any concerns, the killer made sure the first couple of deliveries pitched nicely, just short of a length, allowing Howard to stroke them into where the cover field would be. The new balls danced a bit off the seam but Howard was able to get in line and leave or play accordingly.
After the first 36 deliveries, Mitch leant down and picked up one of the balls, which moments before had been the recipient of a particularly violent late cut. Whipping of his helmet, he began to gather the rest of the balls down his end.
156 grams of polished leather, six seams sitting proudly, a new Kookaburra cricket ball was the colour of a good pinot noir and harder than the practice wickets at the WACA.
The killer watched Howard as he bent to pick up a ball, made a subtle adjustment to the machine and watched as one of the new ‘cherries’ whirred past Howard’s ear. Howard’s response was predictable and a tirade of abuse flowed down the pitch. The killer raised the direction of the machine a few degrees and fired the next ball at his throat, turning a well-practiced expletive into an onomatopoeic gasp. Howard reeled and tried to steady, momentarily fixing his eyes on his assailant. The killer caught the register in Howard’s eyes. “Hello, Mitchell – been awhile…”
There was to be no further opportunity for re-acquaintance. The next ball struck Mitch Howard on the right temple and the killer realised that he had achieved something few other bowlers in the world had – he had beaten Mitchell Howard’s defence and with a noise like a golfer using a three-iron on a ripened peach, he had confirmed Mitchell Howard’s mortality.
7
Checking in at the Hyatt in Kolkata, Trinnick and Dunn were stunned by the obvious opulence, situated not two blocks from desperate poverty. The palm-tree-lined drive and ornate water feature created a distinct barrier from the rest of the city. Dunn had heard such stories from cricketers returning from tours but neither the wealth nor the destitution had been done justice. The lobby was all polished granite and shiny smiles, as an army of staff made a good fist of anticipating one’s every requirement.
Handing them their keys with a gesture of practiced welcome, the receptionist pointed to the lifts and motioned to the bell boy with an exaggerated flourish of her uniformed arms.
“I wish you well in solving Pradip’s murder, gentlemen,” leaving neither in any doubt as to their lack of anonymity.
Dunn threw his bag on the side table, sat on the bed and unlaced his shoes. Loakes were perfect for London but in India, they doubled as a slow cooker for his feet, which ached and throbbed in painful rhythm. An ice-cold Cobra or two and the sleep of the dead was the extent of Dunn’s agenda but he knew that a hotel meeting room, Trinnick, and a run-through of the day’s notes was pretty much a certainty.
Dunn waited for Trinnick to call but the thought of a hot shower and a lather up was irresistible. Inevitably, the phone rang just as the temperature became perfect, which elicited a nude dash and an ungainly sprawl across the bed to grab his phone.
“Mike, Guy here. I’ve booked the Topaz room – it’s a little large but it’s all I could get at short notice. Have a shower and let’s meet in 20 minutes.”
“Good shout, sir. Perhaps we could organise a couple of beers and some of that Bhuja mix?”
“Perhaps. See you in 20 minutes – and bring your notes too if you would.”
Well, thought Dunn, I wasn’t expecting gin and tonics in the lobby bar but ice water and a hotel meeting room seems a bit bleak.
The bathroom was now impenetrably steamed and Dunn enjoyed washing 12 hours in the air and eight on the ground from his body. He dressed, threw on a splash of fragrance and made his way to the lifts.
Trinnick’s predictability delivered once more with pages of notes and a bowl of mints the only adornment to the meeting room table.
“Seriously, Guy, can’t we do this with a beer and something to eat?”
“Mike, a beer is on its way. Let’s look at this for an hour and call it a night. We’ll summarise what we know and get a good night’s sleep. I don’t see tomorrow getting any easier.”
“OK,” said Dunn. “First impressions – Mistry, a prize git if ever there was one, is taken out as he waits to bat. Likelihood of the killer doing so unnoticed – close to zero. So, motive unclear but means and opportunity suggest assistance – a person or persons has been paid to look the other way.”
“Agreed,” Trinnick responded. “But the killer would have only needed seconds to walk in and commit the murder.”
“Yes, 15–20 seconds and Mistry is off to the land of flat tracks and dribbly mediums.”
“Mike, please, be respectful. I’m not keen on your rather unfortunate brand of humour causing an incident over here. Prize git or not, Mistry had legions of admirers in this part of the world and we’re going to need every scrap of goodwill if we’re going to progress this inquiry.”
Dunn leant back on his chair and considered a witty rejoinder but Trinnick’s face convinced him this would be a foolish move.
“Sorry, just a little jaded. I’ll be diplomacy personified with the locals. Now, apart from Bhagwat Puttaswamy and his troop of guards, who else have we got on the list tomorrow?”
“Let’s work through ground staff, dressing room attendants, the team manager and a few of the players. And let’s not forget Mistry’s family.”
“Sounds good. Tell me, is Abhishek Misra among the players we still need to talk to?”
