Much More Than a Game: An Andrew Ball Novel

By Duncan Pell

Andrew Ball returns in a multidimensional thriller set in todays turbulent world.

When Englands cricket captain is attacked and injured, Ian Thorne is promoted to lead the team on their tour of India. But life gets complicated for Thorne when his ex-wife disappears and a Sunday newspaper exposes him for conspiring to organise betting scams.

Cricket lover Andrew Ball cant save an old friend from dying on the streets of Florence when he helps an ex-cabinet minister infiltrate an Italian secret society. And theres no respite for Russian speaker Ball as he is persuaded to go on a dangerous mission to help set up a network of spies along Ukraines eastern border. But perhaps its one assignment too many for the semiretired intelligence officer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504937481

Duncan Pell

Duncan Pell is English and grew up near London. During a long career in business, he lived and worked in the United Kingdom, Netherlands, France, Dubai, and Ukraine. He is now based in Ras al-Khaimah in the United Arab Emirates. There, he concentrates on writing. The Musandam Mystery is his fourth novel. In his spare time, he travels, sails, and plays golf.

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2015 Duncan Pell. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of the author by Anne Kelly Cumming.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/11/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-3747-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-3746-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-3748-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Author’s Note

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks again to the wonderful team at AuthorHouse for their help and professionalism. Also, my thanks to Joe, who always gave encouragement and valuable feedback. And a special mention for Maryna Borysenko who has advised, supported, and inspired me over the last seven years.

I am grateful to the many readers of Risks and Rewards and Normal Lives who took the trouble to contact me and comment on the books. I was pleasantly surprised by the popularity of Andrew Ball. So here he is again … for the last time?

I have fond memories of my playing days at Cheam Cricket Club in Surrey and thank my teammates from the 1970s and 1980s for helping me appreciate and enjoy the great game.

Lastly, I thank my playing partners at Al Hamra Golf Club for tolerating my constant chatter about new plots and characters when they really wanted to concentrate on their next shot!

www.duncanpell.com

To my daughters, Mollie and Annie:

You are always in my thoughts.

To my friends in Ukraine:

I pray the future brings peace and prosperity to you and your great country.

PROLOGUE

Ian Thorne didn’t usually drink alcohol after the end of play, but with three days’ break before the last cricket game of the season, he allowed himself a pint of lager in the pavilion bar. Keeping match fit was tough for all the professionals, but at thirty-four-years old, he found it more and more of a struggle. It was 7:30 p.m., and he was thinking of going home. His teammates had left, and there were only three other drinkers at the bar.

A grey-haired, overweight man approached him. He was wearing a club tie, and he had a florid and round face with puffy cheeks and several chins. He was carrying a long glass containing ice, lemon, and a clear liquid that Thorne thought was probably gin and tonic. Can I get you a drink, Ian, to celebrate your selection for the winter tour? he asked in a posh accent that Thorne associated with wealthy, well-educated people from the south of England. The stranger was wearing an expensive-looking, dark suit, but a dusting of dandruff on his shoulders detracted from the fine tailoring of his jacket.

No, thanks. I’m only allowing myself this one. Yes, I was surprised to get the call because I’ve not had a great season.

You’re the best player of spin bowling in the country, so it’s a no-brainer to take you to India. Four years ago, you averaged over eighty.

True, but four years is a long time in this game. Anyway, I’m looking forward to the tour, and I’ll do my best.

Good man. I was told you’ll be vice-captain.

I don’t know. It hasn’t been discussed with me.

Take it from me: you’ll be named. They need an experienced guy like you to support young Derek. Anyway, captains can get injured or fall sick, so they must have a dependable number two who can step up.

Touring is tough on the captain, and I’ll be pleased to help him out if they ask me.

They will. I should have introduced myself: my name is Cyril Remington.

"Ah! Now that’s a famous name. The chairman of Remworth Construction, unless I’m mistaken. Glad to meet you; you’ve done some great things for the club. I haven’t seen you here before. Do you get to watch games very often?"

Before replying, Remington called to the barman and ordered a large gin and tonic. No. Unfortunately, I’m usually too busy. This is a rare treat. I’m meeting with the committee later to talk about the new grandstand and media centre and came early to watch the last few overs.

I’ve seen the drawings, and they look fantastic. It’s just what this stadium needs to host international matches. But can we afford it?

Good question. The simple answer is no, not right now – but I’m prepared to finance the project subject to a few details to be discussed tonight. We hope to sign the deal this evening and issue a press release in the morning.

That’s great news!

Remington looked thoughtfully at Thorne, took a large gulp of gin and tonic, and explained that he was hoping to lay off some of his costs of the project to other financiers and would be holding a few lunches and dinner parties during the next month. He said he needed a high-profile player to be a sort of ambassador for the club and thought Thorne would be the ideal person to get potential investors to part with their money. You would shake a few hands, tell some cricket anecdotes, and make the odd short speech. People are always keen to meet a professional sportsman who has succeeded at the highest level.

Thorne was flattered. And with a few free weeks before heading to India, he hoped his bosses would allow him to smoodge some investors. It would be interesting and give him a chance to mix with successful people from outside cricket.

The wealthy businessman intended to mention his plan to the committee later that evening. If they agreed, he would ask them to square it off with England’s management. He promised to pay Thorne his expenses plus a retainer. You’ll not lose out. You can also promote your autobiography – bring some books to every event and sell signed copies. I’ll make sure the buggers buy it!

Ian Thorne shook hands with his new friend, left the ground through the main gates, and walked the short distance to his apartment. He planned to take his car in the morning and collect his kit. Their last game of the season was in Northampton, so he had a two-day break before driving there and taking part in a pre-match practice.

Remington made his way to the committee room on the second floor at the back of the pavilion. He was pleased with his good luck at finding Thorne in the bar. He thought about his first impressions of the England cricketer and muttered to himself as he climbed the stairs slowly, The ideal man: impressionable, insecure, lonely, no life outside of sport, not earning much, and in the twilight of his career. He was going to ask the committee’s approval to approach Thorne, but now he could tell them the player was keen to help. He would insist on an immediate decision. His favourite saying was, He who pays the piper calls the tune. He hoped the committee would not need reminding that his generosity to the club entitled him to call many tunes for many years. The first part of his plan was falling into place, and he had a few weeks to work on Thorne before the team left for India.

By the time he reached the second floor, he was out of breath. He could hear voices and laughter coming from the committee room, but he didn’t want to enter until his breathing returned to normal. He stopped by a portrait of a former club captain, pretending to admire it. He smiled to himself because a modern phrase much used by politicians had come to mind as he thought about the upcoming England tour: I still need to orchestrate a last-minute regime change, but that just requires money, not luck or cunning. He turned away from the picture, pulled back his shoulders, and walked boldly into the committee room.

CHAPTER 1

Derek Sanderson heard the sound of breaking glass and then footsteps in the hallway. He’d not been asleep long and was disoriented for a few moments. By the time he got up and reached the landing outside his bedroom, three men in stocking masks were climbing the stairs. Two were carrying baseball bats, the other had a chain that hung from his right hand and clanked against the riser as he rushed upwards. Sanderson backed into his bedroom and tried to close the door, but he was too late. He was naked and vulnerable with nowhere to go and no one to call to. They entered the bedroom and grabbed his arms. One man kicked him viciously behind his left knee, and the others took Sanderson’s weight as his leg folded. They turned him face up. Two men dragged him backwards across the room while the third punched Sanderson gratuitously in the groin before opening the old-fashioned, wood-framed window. Sanderson’s right arm was put across the stone sill and hit hard with one of the bats. They didn’t just break his arm, they crushed his bones and caused injuries far worse than were needed to achieve their objective. He did not fight, threaten, or plead because it all happened so fast. But he did shout out as the pain shot through his body.

His attackers pushed him roughly to the floor. He fell on his injured arm and screamed in agony. They tied his feet and left wrist to the bed and put white tape and cloth over his mouth. One of the men spoke. Sanderson could smell alcohol on his breath. The gag is so we won’t have to listen to you moaning. I’m not worried about you calling out because there’s no one else for miles. Why the hell do you live out here in the middle of this bloody forest, Mr England cricket captain?

While Derek Sanderson lay naked and injured on the floor of his bedroom, his attackers ransacked the house. He could hear the men going from room to room, dropping things on the floor, and opening and closing drawers and cupboards. He was cold. He lifted his head and tried to pull the duvet off the bed with his teeth, but that entailed twisting his body and putting weight on his injured arm. The movement was too painful and he gave up. One of the men returned, pulled off the gag, and asked for the location of the keys to the safe using the threat that the other arm would be broken unless Sanderson cooperated. Sanderson gladly told them where the keys were hidden. He asked for water but was ignored. The gag was replaced. The pain from his right arm was excruciating, and he was drifting in and out of consciousness. He just wanted them to go without any more violence. He had no idea what he would do if they left him tied. No one was due to call at the house for several days. The postman delivered to a box at the farm entrance more than one hundred yards from the house. And his fiancée, Sandra, was not due back from a modelling assignment in Egypt for four days.

Sanderson lay still with his eyes closed and tried to focus his mind on pleasant thoughts and away from the pain in his arm. He recalled the first time he met Sandra Marsh. It was at a charity cricket match where celebrities and professionals had played together to raise money for Children In Need. Her father was one of the celebrities, and she was there to watch him. Sandra was already a successful fashion model and signed many autographs during the match as she walked around the ground chatting with spectators. Wherever she went, little groups gathered and asked her to sign scorecards, baseball hats, and T-shirts sold by the charity to raise money.

Graham Marsh had introduced Derek to Sandra during the tea interval. The pair had chatted again in the bar after the game, exchanged telephone numbers, and agreed to meet for lunch two days later. During the early days of their relationship, it became obvious to Sanderson that she was a determined and professional businesswoman. She ensured she controlled what she called the Sandra Marsh name and insisted her management team pursued her brand strategy – not just ask her to chase the highest-paid assignments. Sanderson admired her single-mindedness, and she gradually influenced the way he thought about his own brand potential and earning power.

He felt the prod of a toe just above his hip and looked up at a stocking-masked face. We’re leaving now. I’m taking your mobile. We’ll call an ambulance when we get ten or so miles away. I don’t want you dying here on your own; that would make it a very serious crime! Derek Sanderson heard the three of them laughing as they went downstairs, and then he heard the sound of an engine starting up. It was abnormally loud, and he guessed they had left the front door open. He took that as a sign that they would be true to their word and call an ambulance. At least the paramedics can walk straight in, he thought.

It took his rescuers nearly forty minutes to reach him. During that time, he lay beside the bed as waves of pain sent him gasping and crying in agony. His attackers had not closed the window, and the chilly air of early morning meant the room was getting colder and colder. He lay shivering and frightened, not knowing whether help was on the way. His most lucid thought during that time was that neither he nor Sandra would live in that house on their own again. He would put it on the market at the first opportunity, and they would move out immediately. Stupid idea of mine to buy this remote place just for the view and a crazy notion of becoming a farmer when I retire.

By the time he was carried downstairs to the waiting ambulance, the courtyard seemed full of emergency vehicles with their blue flashing lights reflecting off the white stone of the empty cattle barn opposite the farmhouse. How long ago did they leave, Derek? And how many of them were there? a voice asked. It was a young, uniformed sergeant leaning over the stretcher with an anxious look on his face. A paramedic had given Sanderson an injection to help with the pain, and he felt slightly light-headed.

"Not sure. Maybe an hour – not much more. Three of them were wearing stocking masks, and they were armed with baseball bats. They had London accents and youngish voices. I only heard one vehicle leave. It was something powerful.

You get off to hospital, Mr Sanderson, and an officer will interview you when the doctors have finished patching you up and you are well enough to talk. This is going to be a huge news story once the media hears who has been attacked and injured. Huge. The sergeant added the last word wistfully as if imagining himself giving a press conference and breaking the news to the world.

I’m supposed to fly to India at the end of the week, but I won’t be playing cricket again for a while. I think they crushed the bone. Bastards!

Once Sanderson was on board, the ambulance travelled slowly north along the winding country roads of the Forest of Dean before joining the A40 trunk road. And then it was able to speed in the direction of the accident and emergency department of Gloucestershire Royal Hospital, where an unhappy orthopaedic surgeon had been called from his bed to attend to the injured England cricket captain.

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It was seven o’clock in the morning and Chief Inspector Roy Simpson had spent the last two hours selecting a team of officers. With a high-profile celebrity victim, he knew people would be watching their every move, and it was tempting to assign the best and most experienced officers to the Sanderson robbery. But he had to strike a balance and be careful not to prejudice other ongoing enquiries. So far, he had chosen five people to join the investigation. By eight o’clock, they were assembled in the first-floor meeting room of the regional headquarters of Gloucestershire Constabulary. He opened the meeting by stating the date and time and naming the officers in attendance. He asked the administration assistant sitting by his side to record in the minutes of the meeting that it was the first briefing relating to a major crime that had happened near Lydney in the Forest of Dean local policing area. He briefly described the events of the night and what the officers in attendance at the crime scene had reported. He allowed everybody to finish writing their notes, and then he issued an instruction: "I know it only happened a few hours ago, but already there is a frenzy of media activity. We must forget all the public interest and concentrate on the investigation as if it’s any other robbery-with-violence case. Don’t be distracted by the speculation of journalists. That’s their job. Our job is to get to the truth and prosecute the perpetrators."

He continued by reminding the team that they must not talk to anyone from the media or discuss details with family members or friends. He stated that the press office would handle all outside enquiries and added, I am sorry to be so emphatic, but I think we can all guess how angry and upset the public will be at breakfast today when they hear the news about Sanderson’s injuries. We have to stay calm and follow procedure.

The injuries to poor Sanderson are very specific and particularly harmful for a professional sportsman. If they wanted to immobilise him while they robbed the house, why the hell would they crush his right arm? mused Jenny Stevens.

Simpson nodded before replying, That will be one of the biggest questions to answer. Could be a coincidence and they had no idea he was the England cricket captain. Or they knew, and the injury was intended to stop him from playing for a while. Perhaps they even wanted to wreck his career. He had three hours of surgery under general anaesthesia during the night. The doctor in charge said he would let me interview Sanderson later today. Perhaps his attackers said something that will answer that question.

Roy Simpson and Jenny Stevens were on loan to Gloucestershire Constabulary as part of a government culture-swapping initiative. Another three officers from Hampshire had been transferred along with them. In return, five officers headed in the opposite direction. The government department responsible for the decision was the Home Office in London. Those in charge of policing policy believed that the rural county forces in England and Wales were too insular, that their officers needed to broaden their experience by moving to another area for twelve months.

Simpson and Stevens had worked together for the first time in Southampton, investigating the case of a serial killer. With the help of the intelligence services, they had identified the murderer, but his whereabouts had remained a mystery for months. Eventually, his body was found in a villa on the Spanish Island of Tenerife. His throat had been cut and his corpse left to flies and vermin. It had been a grisly and smelly discovery for the owner and his family when they arrived for their vacation some months after Steve Powell had been killed.

Few people felt sympathy for Powell because he had abducted and killed young adults in England, France, and the Netherlands. His victims were two sons and a daughter of wealthy parents. In each case, he held a grudge against either the mother or father for something that had happened earlier in his life. Jenny regretted that they never had the chance to interview him and find out what made him tick.

Jenny had left the uniformed branch a few months before the move to Gloucester to become a detective constable. She felt she had learned a lot from working with a team of experienced detectives, but she was shocked by the long and unpredictable hours. Jenny was also surprised by how disciplined the team members were in terms of following procedures and using training manual methodologies. It was not what she had imagined. Despite spending weeks at college preparing for the transfer and being told that detective work was 90 per cent the hard slog of interviewing witnesses and gathering evidence, she had hoped it would be more intuitive and exciting. Still, she was impressed by the amount of science involved in solving cases. She remembered one lecturer saying that forensic scientists and computer specialists were now right in the front line of modern policing and usually held the key to a successful prosecution. He advised trainees to respect and consult them and not treat them as back-room boffins and geeks. From the little she had seen first-hand, she agreed, and she vowed to maintain a close relationship with the technical support staff and include them in team discussions.

Roy Simpson was in his late forties. He was a little overweight, but he was still fairly fit. He played squash regularly and drank moderately. He enjoyed family life, and his wife and three sons were the main focus of his attention in his spare time. He’d married Christine at the age of thirty-four and just six months after meeting her. She was also a police officer, from a neighbouring force. They had met at weapons-training day and gone for a drink afterwards. Christine was the same age as Roy and ready to give up her career and have children. Simpson found it tough to leave his family behind and live alone in a rented apartment in Gloucester. He drove home on days off, but he was rarely able to spend more than twenty-four hours with his wife and three children. Occasionally, when workload permitted, he made the one-hundred-mile trip in the evening, spent the night in Southampton, and returned early the next morning. In summer, a daybreak start and a journey through pleasant countryside was enjoyable, but he dreaded doing it in winter when fog and ice would create problems and delays.

For Jenny, being in Gloucester meant a lifestyle improvement because, normally, she lived alone and only saw her partner once a week. But now it was possible for them to be together more often. Anne lived in Oxford – only fifty miles to the east. Some evenings they had been able to visit one or the other’s home, stay the night, and travel back in time for work in the morning.

Jenny and Anne met two years earlier in a bar on the gay-friendly, Greek island of Mykonos. Jenny had travelled there alone hoping for a holiday romance. Their first encounter was when Jenny and Anne were standing side by side at the pool bar trying to get the waiter’s attention. Anne had looked at Jenny and snarled, These guys drive me crazy. They seem to ignore us girls. I’ve been standing here five minutes waving like a lunatic trying to get some service.

Leave it to me; just close your ears, Jenny said and smiled at Anne before pointing at one of the staff and yelling, "Come here, you! Stop flirting with the boys and serve us now!"

Other customers stopped talking and stared while the waiter walked over and asked in a timid voice, Yes, ladies? What can I get you?

Anne answered first, A Mythos for me and whatever my friend is having. Without her help, I would still be standing here waiting.

"Same please. With a glass," Requested Jenny.

The waiter brought the beers, two glasses, and some nuts in a ceramic dish. Will that be all, ladies?

This time Jenny spoke first: For the moment. But the next time I’m here, don’t ignore me or I’ll shout louder and use really foul language. Tell the rest of the staff because I can be an awful pain in the arse.

Anne and Jenny introduced themselves and took their drinks to a table by the pool. Anne was a short girl in her mid-twenties with dark and spiked hair, hazel eyes, and a tanned face and body. She had a small waist and narrow hips. Jenny thought she was very attractive and was anxious to know whether she was alone. She didn’t want to sound too desperate, though, so she approached the subject indirectly. She asked Anne how long she had been on the island. Jenny was disappointed to find out that she was returning home the next day after a two-week holiday. Anne said she was with her partner, Susan, a nineteen-year-old girl she had met at drama club in Oxford.

Where’s Susan now? asked Jenny

"She’s sulking in the room. Big mistake bringing her. I didn’t realise how teenage she was until we got here. She’s got no conversation and bores me to death – nice body, though. But coming here with her is like carrying coals to Newcastle. Are you on your own?"

Yes, but I hope not for long.

"You’re nice–looking, Jenny, and … let me think … yes, feminine with your rosy complexion and wavy, fair hair. You’ll be fine here. This is a good place for single gays. If you are in a serious, loving relationship, there are more romantic places to go."

Are you in a serious, loving relationship with Susan?

Not on my side, but Susie still thinks we are. I’ll deal with her when we get back to Oxford.

Jenny went to the bar and was served immediately. She bought two more beers and charged them to her room. They sat for over an hour talking about their backgrounds, interests, and jobs. Anne was the first to make a proposal and surprised Jenny with her directness. I’m sure Susie will find us soon. Before she comes and to avoid making her jealous, let’s exchange phone numbers and agree to keep in touch on Facebook. It’s a real pity we can’t have a few days together here. I think we would have hit it off.

I’m very flattered, Anne. I feel the same. I think you are the person I came here to meet.

"Don’t you get teenage on me, Jenny. There’re plenty of other fish in the sea – many have washed up on this island just for your enjoyment," she said before laughing. She put her hand on Jenny’s and held eye contact for several seconds. Jenny took a message from the softness in those eyes and knew that image would stay with her. Her heart was melting or undergoing some similar emotional response.

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While Sanderson was coming round after surgery on his arm, Ian Thorne was having breakfast on the stern of Remington’s forty-five-metre yacht in Marina di St Elmo on the Italian island of Sardinia. It was a beautiful October morning. They wore pullovers because there was a slight chill in the air that would disappear as the sun rose higher.

Ian Thorne had attended many lunches and dinners in support of Remington’s search for investors for the stadium project. He had enjoyed the events, including chatting with guests who seemed genuinely interested in hearing stories about his life as a professional sportsman. But after two months away from competitive cricket, he was looking forward to playing again and the test series in India. The team members were due to fly to Mumbai at the end of the week. In preparation for a long and challenging tour, Remington had proposed a few days of relaxation on his yacht. But Thorne was bored with sitting on the boat. It hadn’t moved from the marina since they arrived, and Remington seemed content to do little except go ashore for lunch and dinner and snooze on the boat in between.

Remington’s breakfast conversation was about his favourite subject, money, and the secret of making plenty of it. Thorne listened to a long monologue including advice about seizing opportunities, not being frightened to back one’s own judgement, and the importance of luck. Remington also recommended spending money on luxuries such as yachts and cars. In his opinion, buying such things was the only way to enjoy money and have the incentive to make more. He said without shame that he also liked to show off to other people how much he’d achieved.

In contrast, Ian Thorne had few possessions and little money saved. His wife had divorced him three years before,