First published in We'll Score Again in January 2006, this is episode one of a story that was never finished. I may do so if I feel inclined as I did have an ending in mind at the time...
Padraig O’Riordan, Professor of Football Cryptography at
the University of
Liffey, formerly Dublin
Polytechnic, was working on his pulp novel in his Holiday Inn room in Preston.
O’Riordan, often described as the Irish Indiana Jones as he resembled a
mix of Han Solo and a King Edward potato, re-read the poorly written prose in
front of him. He hated it. But writing academic books wouldn’t pay the
rent. His mind wandered as he tried to
think of character names for his book.
Should they be true to life, just pluck a name from the phone book or
the local paper – risking a law suit if someone with the same name as the
fictional character took offence – or should they have a certain Dickensian
ridiculousness ?
The phone rang.
O’Riordan lifted the receiver “Hello ?”
“Sir, it’s the concierge here,” said a voice at the other
end. O’Riordan wondered how long Holiday Inn had had something as sophisticated
as a ‘concierge’, particularly in Preston. “There’s a man who needs to see you urgently.”
“Tell him I’m working,” said O’Riordan, slamming down the
phone.
Moments later there was a knock at the door. “Open up. It’s the police.”
“Very funny,” said O’Riordan. “Now sod off.”
“Sir, I am Detective Sergeant Jeremiah Fuzzyduck of the
Lancashire Constabulary,” said the man at the door. “Your expertise and assistance are needed
immediately.”
O’Riordan opened the door of his hotel room to a man in his
late twenties with mutton-chop sideburns.
“What is it ?” asked O’Riordan.
“I can’t explain now,” said Fuzzyduck
emphatically. “My inspector will explain
everything . He’s at The National
Football Museum, just at the other end of Deepdale Road.”
O’Riordan was ushered into the cordoned-off area of the
‘First Half’ of The National Football Museum that was being used as the scene
of crime base. Sergeant Fuzzyduck led
him to a large, once-muscular but now rotund man in his late fifties. “Ah, Professor O’Riordan. I’m Detective Inspector Freddie Flintoff,”
said the pentogenarian grasping O’Riordan’s hand in a firm and vigorous
handshake.
“Like the cricketer.
After Fred Flintstone,” replied O’Riordan nervously, slightly
intimidated by the strength of his grip.
“I was christened Fred.
As was my father. And his father
before him. Long before the cartoon or
that big, daft lad,” said Flintoff brusquely.
The author in him made O’Riordan realise that the rejoinder
would stand in for hundreds of words establishing character. He also wondered how, even in a Lancashire accent, four sentences comprised of twenty-two
words could be uttered ‘brusquely’.
“Anyway,” said Flintoff.
“We need your help. The curator
of this museum, Mr Jack Salter, has been murdered and there are certain things
that you, as the world’s foremost football cryptographer, may be able to
decipher. Will you help us ?”
O’Riordan only just stopped himself from saying “OK Fred”
in a Barney Rubble voice but instead blurted out “Yes…yes, of course.” He thought it odd that they couldn’t have
asked him this back at the Holiday Inn.
“You’re not squeamish, are you, Professor ?” enquired
Flintoff. “The body has been mutilated.
It’s not pretty. It’s this way.”
Flintoff took O’Riordan into the Hall of Fame. Lying on the floor was the body of a man in
his sixties. His shirt lay to the side
of the room and his bare chest bore a number of small cuts. The blood that these had brought forth had
been used to scrawl something on the floor.
As O’Riordan moved closer to get
a better look, Inspector Flintoff said “The forensic boys haven’t done their
job yet; try not to disturb anything.”
How very unprofessional, thought O’Riordan.
The Professor peered at the body. He was so intrigued that he found himself
talking aloud. “Who would want to do this ? The marks on his chest look like.. erm,
like..” He paused, realising that what he was about to say would sound
ridiculous. “Erm, like.. a bus timetable for the Medway area from the 1970s.”
He then looked at the message on the floor.
Blame sick token.
Now sob, true fish-face.
(Note to Dan Brown {Like
he’d read this – Ed}: Wouldn’t it
have been more fun if the curator of the Louvre had written on the floor
“Vindaloo and rice. Ah ! Not a smile.”)
He looked up at Flintoff. “Why murder a man , mutilate him
and use his blood to write gibberish ?
What sort of animal could do that?” asked O’Riordan.
“You fail to understand, Professor,” said Flintoff
ominously. “We believe that, although he
was murdered, the messages on his chest and the floor were written by Jack
Salter himself.”
To be continued…
