Ark Angel - Anthony Horowitz [47]
Alex entered a modern, surprisingly empty area with a ceiling so low it was oppressive, and grey tiles on the floor. There was no sign of Silver Tooth. There were a couple of gleaming silver bins and a bench where injured players could receive immediate physio. The air was cold and sterile, endlessly recycled by a powerful air-conditioning system. Everything smelled brand new, and Alex recalled that the owner of Chelsea had spent hundreds of thousands of pounds smartening the place up. He pushed open a door and found himself looking into the press room, a rectangular space with about twenty seats facing a narrow platform. The journalists had already left. There was an outer room with two walls covered in carefully placed advertisements and he recognized the spot where Adam Wright had been interviewed only a few minutes before.
He tried another door. As he pushed it ajar, he heard voices coming from inside. One was all too familiar. He held the door open a crack and looked through. Yes. Combat Jacket was there. The last time Alex had seen him, he had been shooting at him with an FP9 single-action pistol, blocking his escape from a blazing building. Now he was standing with his back to the door, hands on hips. Silver Tooth and Spectacles were with him. They were surrounding a fourth man who was sitting on a bench, a towel wrapped around his waist.
It was Adam Wright. This was the visiting team’s changing room. Peering through the narrow crack – Alex didn’t dare open the door any wider – he took in the blue padded benches, the lockers, the vending machine filled with water and Lucozade, the ultra-modern showers and toilets on the far side. The ceiling was low here too. Alex could almost feel the weight of the seating in the stand directly overhead.
The Stratford East captain was the only player in the room. The others must have left while he was being interviewed, getting out as fast as they could after losing the game. Adam Wright was looking up at the three men towering over him. He was clearly surprised to see them.
“If you guys don’t mind,” he said, “I was just going to take a shower. We don’t usually have visitors in the players’ changing room.”
“We represent the Stratford East Supporters’ Club,” Combat Jacket said. “And we have something for you.”
“A thank-you present,” Spectacles added.
“That’s right. To thank you for everything you’ve done for the team.” Combat Jacket took a sealed plastic box from his pocket and held it out.
Adam Wright took it. “Well, that’s very kind of you guys. But if you don’t mind, I’ll open it later.”
“We’d prefer you to open it now.”
Alex was only a few metres away from the Stratford East captain, who was sitting facing him. He watched as the player opened the box and took out a gold medallion on a chain. It was an appropriate present. Adam Wright wore more jewellery than most women: earrings, bracelets and a different necklace every day of the week. But none of this made any sense. The three men in the dressing room were killers. What were they doing offering gifts to a footballer who’d just blown a game?
“It’s really nice,” the Stratford East captain said, holding up the medallion. It was round and chunky, about the size of a mini disc. There was a figure engraved on the front. Himself, heading a ball into a net. “It’s great!” he exclaimed. “Can you tell the fans that, you know, I really appreciate this.”
“Aren’t you going to put it on?” Combat Jacket asked.
“Sure!” Wright slipped it over his head. The medallion rested on his