Free Stranglehold by J. M. Gregson

DVLC computer gives your name as the owner of the red Sierra you were driving today. It also gives your address as Sutton Coldfield. Is that correct?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜But you were in this area both last night and today. Did you stay in Oldford last night?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜And what was the purpose of your visit to the town?’
    Knowles glimpsed at last the possibility of a little prestige in a situation which had seemed hitherto to have been designed to humiliate him. He leaned forward a little towards the impassive young face on the other side of the table. ‘This must be in confidence for the moment, Inspector, but I’m expecting to be confirmed as the new manager of Oldford Football Club in the next couple of weeks.’
    The brown eyes widened a little; the rest of the long face remained impassive. A cold fish, this Rushton. ‘I see. I thought Trevor Jameson was the Manager.’
    Damn! Just his luck to get a soccer fan. ‘He is, but not for much longer, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜I see. I didn’t know that. Mr Jameson is a neighbour of mine.’ Rushton allowed his distaste to overlay the simple statement of fact.
    Things were going from bad to worse. ‘Look. Perhaps I’ve said more than I should have done. But you asked me why I was here, you see, and I was trying to be helpful. Between you and me, I don’t think Trevor knows much about it yet, but that’s the way it is in football. I saw Mr Kemp this afternoon –’
    â€˜Charlie Kemp?’
    â€˜Yes. The Chairman of the club. I had an appointment, you see.’ Knowles’s fingers stretched up to the thin gold chain beneath his open-necked shirt, twisted it for a moment, then dropped away as he saw the inspector’s eyes upon them.
    â€˜Yes, I see, Mr Knowles. What I don’t see is why you were in the region of the ground at midnight last night, when your appointment was for this afternoon.’
    Rushton, beneath his careful politeness, was enjoying Knowles’s discomfort, and both of them realized it. ‘I – well, I thought I’d come and look at the set-up here. I had a look round the club, saw how prosperous it was, and –’
    â€˜Did you go into the Roosters Club?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Why not, Mr Knowles? That would have given you an even better view of the “set-up”, wouldn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes, but I didn’t want Mr Kemp or some official of the club to see me. Didn’t want them to think I was spying, you see.’
    â€˜Even though that was exactly the purpose of your visit.’ Rushton permitted himself a small smile; the observant brown eyes creased a little at their corners.
    Vic reached up and tugged at the tie which hung crookedly from his neck. ‘Look, you asked me why I was here, and I’ve told you. It’s normal practice, isn’t it, to want to know what you’re letting yourself in for when you’re considering a new job? I was just doing it discreetly, that’s all.’
    â€˜A wise precaution. Especially when Mr Jameson apparently doesn’t even know that his job is at risk.’ DI Rushton liked Trevor Jameson; and like the rest of the CID, he disliked Charlie Kemp, a crook who had so far been too elusive for them to pin down.
    And he did not care for the man in front of him: Vic Knowles was ‘flash’, with his smooth suits and his glib phrases about the game. Rushton, who enjoyed his football, did not like the flash operators he saw more and more often within the professional game.
    Knowles said, ‘Look, I’m just trying to be as helpful as I can.’
    â€˜As is your duty as a good citizen, Mr Knowles. So give us an account of your movements last night.’
    The tape turned silently beside them, but Knowles’s eye had caught the young DC to the rear of the Inspector, with his pencil poised over his pad. He could not shake away the image of a