As David predicted, the deal was done within the week. An agreement was made, the contracts were signed, and Enrico Brigante was now officially the property of Mile End Athletic. He was indeed a good player – better than Mile End was accustomed to – and the news of the signing broke sharply. This caused a bit of a stir – and silenced some of David’s more vocal critics – because the fact was that Brigante had quite a reputation as a player. He operated at a skill level that was highly sought after and would make a big difference to Mile End’s chances. At long last, the team would be a force to be reckoned with. Even Wayne Carter would have struggled to keep up with Brigante. This new signing might make all the difference. It might make up for all the years of ill-advised signings of mediocre players that had held Mile End back.

This was the way the pundits and the fans assessed the news, with the help of David Carter’s PR team. Brigante might just be a game-changer. So the media coverage underwent a subtle shift, and over the ensuing days David was pleased to see that his name was beginning to drop from the headlines and Brigante’s was taking its place. He would ride out the scandal. He would recoup his losses. Soon, he would be back on top.

Getting the stuff into the country was only half the battle. Once the coke was on terra firma, there was the thorny business of distributing it. Again, David had come up with a neat and practical solution. Mile End played matches up and down the country, with the team piling into a long luxury coach. Usually one of David’s people – frequently Max – would travel with the team. He would then oversee the distribution, with the match serving as another handy smokescreen.

As a scheme, it was more or less detection-proof. David had thought of everything. Even when it came to the rivalry with the Popovs, he had taken no risks. When the team bus was journeying up and down the country, it never travelled without a police escort, so there was no chance of the Russians intercepting a shipment. David had taken McMinn’s principle and refined it, turning it into the well-oiled machine that it was today.

This was the way things should have gone. It’s the way they would have been done in ordinary circumstances, but David was keen to expedite the process. He was more than keen; he was desperate. So he opted to forego the patsy. Instead, when he made his call to Edwards at Scotland Yard, he passed him a false lead – a tip that he knew would come to nothing. He told him a shipment was coming in at Gatwick, he gave the details of the flight, he even gave a (fictional) description of the mules. He knew he was stabbing the old bastard in the back, but what did he care? When Brigante was in the country, when that huge shipment was in his hands, he would be able to reassess the situation. He might even be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. And besides, one bent copper was very much like another. If Edwards was pissed off about the false lead, he was disposable. There were plenty more where he came from.

Mile End was not only an ideal cover for David’s business operations, but also a perfect resource for laundering profits: merchandise, t-shirts, even match day hotdogs – every single penny raked in from the fans was a means of balancing the books. Of making the whole operation appear squeaky clean.

That’s the way things usually worked. But these were unusual times. David knew the most important thing was to act and act fast. He could worry about the consequences later. He knew that his plan was far from flawless, but it was the best he could do with the time he had. He needed money – fine, so he would bring in a double shipment. He needed to distract the fans and the press from his own recent indiscretions – fine, he would bring in a high profile new player. On paper, it was fine.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

But Max Linley was concerned. “David, can I have a word?”

“Oh, I don’t like the sound of that,” David grinned. “Am I in for a bollocking?”

They went into a vacant conference room on one of the upper floors of the stadium’s business suite. Once inside, with the door safely closed, Max looked David in the eye and said: “I hope you know what you’re doing.” It was about as close as he ever got to a rebuke of his friend and partner in crime.

David blinked back at him like a kid acting innocent. “How long have we known each other, Max? You can trust me.”

“I know, I know,” said Max, “I do trust you, David. But that doesn’t make me any less worried about the way things are going. It’s moving too fast.”

“That’s your problem, Max. Everything’s always moving too fast. Sometimes you just have to roll with the punches. You have to improvise. You have to be decisive.”

“And this is you being decisive, is it?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact it fucking is.”

“It’s the shipment that’s worrying me.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s such a big one, and I don’t think you’re taking the right precautions.”

David nodded, letting this sink in. “Well, I can appreciate that. It’s true that we’re just about keeping our heads above water financially. Needs must when the devil drives. I’ve had to take one or two calculated risks. But it’s all in the interest of the club.”

“Are you sure about that?”

David narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I think you’re being rash. You’re not taking the right precautions. You spoke to Edwards earlier, didn’t you? You gave him a tipoff?”

“How did you know that?”

“Never mind how I know. The point is I know. And there’s no decoy in place, is there?”

“Like I say, I’ve had to take some calculated risks.”

“But this shipment is double the regular size!”

“Calculated risks,” David repeated. It was evidently going to be his final word on the subject.

Max sighed. “Fucking Silvertown,” he said to no one in particular.

David didn’t reply. He strode out of the meeting room and headed back toward his office. Once inside, he gave a wastepaper bin a petulant kick, sending detritus flying across the room. Then he slumped into his chair and lit a cigarette. He wanted a drink, but he had been trying to limit himself during working hours. At home, Felicia had been getting on his tits by keeping track of how much he drank. She said he was putting on weight. She was worried about his heart; worried that he was turning into a lush. So what if he was? He had every reason to.

He closed his eyes and tried to centre himself. He took a deep breath.

It was a roll of the dice. Things might work out in his favour, or they might not. If they didn’t, then he’d just have to come up with something else. Simple as that. He’d been in scrapes like this before. It was the nature of the game.

He thought about that little telling-off Max had just given him. Was there more to it than had met the eye? Was Max really as stressed as he appeared? David tried to put himself in his second-in-command’s shoes. If he were Max, what would he be thinking right now?

The answer was simple: he would be wondering whether he was betting on the right horse. He might even be contemplating some kind of hostile takeover.

David sucked on his cigarette and pondered. Was Max Linley capable of something like that? The answer, obviously, was an emphatic no.

But still, David pondered.