Dead Footballers by Chris Page

Author:Chris Page
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Russia, business, virgins, London, Premiership, footballers, cheating, agents, killer-nun, counter-terrorism, Semtex, bombs, gambling, assassination, police, military, Provos, marriage, Scotland Yard
ISBN: 9781785382079
Publisher: Andrews UK Limited 2015
Published: 2015-07-28T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-eight

‘This,’ said Call-Me-Amelia the following morning gesturing towards the deeply tanned wiry man with long, straggly grey-black hair and a full but trimmed grey-tinged beard approaching Albie’s desk alongside her, ‘is Major Mervyn Madderson.’

Albie nodded hello and received a similar nod in return.

‘Albie Cork is our resident explosives man, formerly with EODC.’

‘Ah, a Joseph Bombhead, eh,’ Madderson said, his brown face splitting in a grin.

Call-Me raised her eyebrows in query. Albie smiled at the old army name - ‘Joseph’ for explosive and ‘Bombhead’ for an addicted idiot - and how it was lost on her. ‘Don’t ask,’ he said.

‘OK, I won’t.’ Her mobile rang and she checked the screen. ‘I’ve asked Mervyn to join us on secondment for a few weeks from his SAS battalion, principally in Don Gates’ old role, in order to harden up our approach. I’ll leave you two old military types to get acquainted.’ She walked away, punching a button on her mobile and putting it to her ear.

‘Ah, just what we need around here, someone who dares to win,’ Albie quipped, referring to the SAS’s famous motto. He gestured to the empty chair by his desk.

‘In one,’ said Madderson, sitting down. ‘Just got back from the Libyan desert where I’ve been trying to drum some fucking military discipline and sense into the brains of the rebels, who since Gaddafi’s demise have been trying to assemble a coherent army out of more feuding factions than a whole forest of Tennessee hillbillies.’

Albie chuckled. This guy spoke his language and would do just fine.

He had worked with these Special Air Service guys all over. An insular group who even in military circles kept themselves to themselves and only really trusted their own, they carried themselves with a certain swagger. Albie had watched them emerge from jungles and deserts where they’d been creeping around for weeks, their badge-of-office long hair and beards concealing knowing looks and smiles. Away from home - Stirling Lines, the regimental headquarters of 22 SAS just outside Hereford - in the field, which was the only place they felt comfortable, no insignia or rank was ever referred to or displayed on their camouflage. There was a hierarchy - they were all experts at some defining part of warfare or another - but only they knew what it was. When someone needed to issue an order they knew who the head guy was and what to do. There was only two things they respected and would happily die for: their mates in the same service and the small, golden winged dagger with its famous motto on their dress uniforms. Albie had more than a sneaking regard for them, and this wiry, hard-looking, sun-bleached guy looked the business.

‘I shipped back home to Hereford for a few days’ R&R three days ago and before I had time to stow my kit and piss in my own pan the C-in-C calls me in and says his sister needs some help so get yourself a suit and get your arse up to Scotland Yard yesterday.

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