“I’ve rung the boys in blue,” he said.
“I’m more interested in the boys in blue and white,” said Hewlett, referring to the club colors. “Why aren’t they training? Cup match on Saturday. We need to be at our peak.”
“They wanted to see the damage, Martin.”
“They should think about the damage to their fitness instead. Go on,” he urged, clapping his hands. “Get changed and get out there. If you work hard, I’ll let you lick the carpet dry in the bar afterwards.”
After some good-natured badinage, the players drifted off to the changing rooms and left Hewlett and Rosie alone with Neil Woodville. The vice-chairman’s suspicions had had time to harden into certainty.
“I think that Doug Lomas is at the root of all this,” he said.
“Rubbish!” exclaimed Hewlett.
“It’s his revenge because we refused to put his wages up.”
“Doug is not a vengeful sort of person.”
“No,” said Rosie, stoutly. “He works hard. He has to, now that they have a child to look after. Doug needs this job. Why would he do anything that might make him lose it?”
“I don’t trust him,” said Woodville.
“You don’t trust anyone.”
“Rosie is right,” said her husband, twisting in his wheelchair. “You never give a man the benefit of the doubt. All right, Doug Lomas is no saint. We knew that when we took him on. But my brother vouched for him and that’s good enough for me.”
“Well, it’s not good enough for me,” snapped Woodville. “Once a thief, always a thief. That’s my feeling.”
“I can see why you didn’t become a probation officer,” said Rosie.
“Whereas my brother did,” noted Hewlett. “Adam deals with ex-cons all the time. His job is to keep them from reoffending.”
Woodville was blunt. “He slipped up badly with Doug Lomas.”
“This crime has nothing to do with him, Neil.”
“Then who did turn those taps on — the Phantom Beer Spiller?”
“I’d have thought there were two obvious suspects.”
“Go on — surprise me.”
“First of all, there’s our neighbors,” said Hewlett, pointing towards a nearby campsite. “I’ve lost count of the number of times the gypsies have tried to buy some of our land so that they can increase the number of permanent caravans. They’ve got more reason for revenge than Doug.”
“You said there were two obvious suspects.”
“We’re playing the other one on Saturday.”
“Crowford?”
“Who else?” asked Hewlett. “This is just the kind of stunt that they’d pull. We’ve had a terrific season, Crowford have been crap. They know we’ll beat them hollow on Saturday in the elimination match. We’ll kick seven barrels of shit out of them.”
“No need to be vulgar, Martin,” said his wife. “We take your point.”
“Question is — does Neil take it as well?”
“Yes,” admitted Woodville, thinking it through, “and you may be on to something. Last time we played Crowford, someone let down the tires of my car as a joke. And we know how their team cheats like mad on the pitch. This could be down to them, Martin.”
“Or to the gypsies,” Rosie reminded him.
“Anyone but Doug,” added Hewlett. The sound of a motorbike made him turn his head round. “Talk of the devil — here he is.”
“Late as usual,” complained Woodville.
“Bang on time, I’d say.”
Hewlett checked his watch, then waited until the motorbike bumped its way down the rough track that led to the club. Shelton RFC was situated in a leafy corner of Warwickshire, a beautiful, isolated spot whose tranquillity was only ever shattered by occasional jet aircraft from Birmingham International Airport some four miles away. Reaching the club meant a long drive for Doug Lomas, yet he was invariably punctual. He switched off his engine, dismounted, then put his motorbike up on its stand. Pulling off his crash helmet, he gave them a wary grin.
“What’s this, then?” he asked. “A reception committee?”
“You’ve got some explaining to do,” said Woodville aggressively.
“Leave this to me, Neil,” said Hewlett, “and give the man time to get his breath back.” He smiled at the barman. “Hello, Doug. Looks as if you won’t be pulling too many pints this evening.”
“Oh?” Fearing dismissal, the barman was cautious. “Why not?”
“We’ve been attacked by our rivals — Crowford.”
“Attacked?”
“They cut off our beer supply.”
As he propelled himself towards the clubhouse, Hewlett gave him a brief account of what had happened, then they viewed the damage for themselves. Doug Lomas was horrified when he saw the state of the bar. He took the sabotage as a personal insult.
“I cleaned up in here on Saturday night,” he said balefully, “and left the place spotless. Then I switched on the burglar alarm and locked up. There’s no sign of forced entry. How could anyone get in here to do something like this?”
“The police will ask the same thing,” said Rosie, glancing through the window at an approaching patrol car. “Here they are. I suggest that we get out of here and let them take over.”
After taking statements and examining the scene of the crime for evidence, the police authorized a cleanup of the bar. Doug Lomas was the first to grab a mop. Short, stringy, and still in his twenties, he was deeply grateful to the club for giving him paid employment, even if it was only for one full day and three evenings a week. It was the start he needed after coming out of prison. Having stolen to support a drug habit, Lomas had turned his back on crime and narcotics, and was leading a much happier life now that he was sharing it with his girlfriend and baby son.
The position at Shelton RFC was only one of five part-time jobs that he did in the course of a week, but it was his favorite. He liked rugby, got on well with the players, and ran the bar efficiently. Though he handled a large amount of money when the bar was full, not a penny had ever gone astray. With the glaring exception of Neil Woodville, everyone trusted him and he repaid that trust with total commitment to his work. While the barman mopped away, Peter Rayment moved all the furniture out of the room. Rosie Hewlett helped him, using a cloth to wipe the chairs and tables dry.
“I can manage, Rosie,” said Peter. “You keep an eye on Martin.”
“He’s fine. Martin is much better off watching the training session from the touchline and yelling at the players. Good exercise for his lungs. Anyway,” Rosie went on, grabbing another table, “this is no time to stand on ceremony. It’s a case of all hands to the pumps.”
Peter had the greatest admiration for her. Rosie was a buxom woman in her thirties with a practical streak that had come to the fore since her husband had been disabled. That streak was in evidence now as she heaved the furniture about. Unlike many of the players’ wives, Rosie had an insider’s knowledge of the game, having played rugby herself and represented the county in a Women’s XV. The crash tackle that ended Martin Hewlett’s days on a rugby field had also separated her from the sport. It was a double loss.
“That’s it,” said Rosie as the last of the chairs was moved out of the bar. “We’ll give Doug a hand to mop up the beer then get that carpet out of there. It stinks to high heaven.”
“One moment,” said Rayment, a gentle hand on her arm. “There’s something I think you should know. It’s about Neil Woodville.”
She heaved a sigh. “It always is!”
“I don’t need to tell you how much he resents Martin.”
“Martin is the heart and soul of this club,” she said loyally. “He’s put years of his life into it, on and off the field. It’s about time that Neil accepted that and stopped bitching.”