Thursday legends

34

Mcllhenney trapped the ball, fired a pass wide to Grant Rock and moved forward into position to take the return. He felt as fit as in the playing days of his twenties and, maybe, even fitter since he trained harder now than then, and drank less.

Grock's one-two pass was tantalisingly short; Bob Skinner had a fifty-fifty chance of getting there first. No bailing out now: quicken the stride, right foot in, sole-first, big Bob off balance for once, spinning off to the side, clear shot at goal, on weaker foot — so what — drive! Rocket, top-left-hand corner, Spike Thomson in goal, nowhere. Stick that on your turntable, sunshine.

He turned and flashed a quick thumbs-up to Rock, acknowledging the pass, perfect now that it had worked. 'Lucky bastard,' Skinner grunted as he ran past him, back into his own half. 'Used to be,' he replied.

And then the door opened, signalling the arrival of the nine o'clock crowd; another gathering of the Legends was over. As usual everyone knew which side had won, although no-one had any idea of the final score.

Upstairs they showered, dressed and paid their money for the hall, then Mcllhenney drove Skinner, David McPhail and Benny Crossley, whom he had collected in Gullane on the way through, back to the Golf Hotel in Dirleton Avenue, their post-match pub. 'I think I'll arrange to be on your side next week, young man,' said Skinner, as he drove up the slope into the small car park. 'You're coming on to something of a game; four don't usually beat five.'

'Yes,' muttered McPhail. 'Bloody Diddler not turning up.'

'Why do they call him the Diddler, anyway?' Mcllhenney asked, as they stepped into the hotel's small bar.

Skinner laughed. 'That's down to Grant Rock; the man of a thousand nicknames. When he was younger Howard fancied himself as a great ladies' man. He was always going on about diddling this one, diddling that one. One night in the middle of the game, he's got the ball, dwelling on it as usual, and Grock shouts across to him, 'For fuck's sake, Diddler, over here!'

'We all fell about laughing and the name stuck. He's never been called anything else from then on. Even Edith, his wife, calls him Diddler now, although she thinks the name refers to his alleged skills with the ball, rather than with his cock.'

Skinner picked up the pint of lager which Lesley, the barmaid, had poured for him unasked, and eased his way into a window seat, well away from the bar so that it would not be he who went up for the next round. Spike Thomson sat opposite him, then leaned across the table. 'Bob,' he said, quietly. 'I was speaking to Andy Martin today; met him at a disastrous party last weekend. I put forward the idea that he might come on the show next Monday as a guest. I've got more scope for chat on this new AM format, and I want to have more people in.

'I promised him that I'd steer clear of current stuff and just talk about the generality of his work. He said he'd do it if it was okay with you.'

The DCC took a bite from his pint, and shrugged. 'Sure, I don't mind. You never bloody invite me, though,' he added, with a grin.

'I have done and you know it,' the presenter protested. 'You've always turned me down.'

'Aye, well. More Andy's style than mine. Even if you started playing games on air you'd never wind him up; stick an awkward question at me and I'm liable to put you off air… not that you would do that, of course!'

'I promise, I promise.'

'Make way, lads, make way,' came a call from above, as Neil Mcllhenney leaned over the table looking for clear space for a tray, on which he was carrying a bottle of port and nine glasses.

'What's this?' asked Mitchell Laidlaw, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the W amp;J Graham's vintage. 'You had a birthday two months ago, Neil.'

The big policeman's only reply was a quiet smile.

'This is something else,' said Skinner, as his exec filled the glasses. 'As of this week, Detective Sergeant Mcllhenney is now Detective Inspector Mcllhenney. From now on, you lot'll be getting kicked by two line commanders, not just one.'

'Congratulations, Inspector,' Andrew John called out, triggering of a chorus of congratulation as he raised his glass in a toast. 'Can I sell you an ISA?'

'Not a chance,' the new inspector replied. 'But the Diddler's been trying to flog me one that his firm operates.'

'You won't go wrong there,' the banker conceded. 'The wee fella might be an eccentric on the football field, and a grade one chromium-plated gossip, but he's one shit-hot investment manager.'

He leaned back, allowing Lesley room to clear away some pint glasses; as he did he spotted a newspaper left on the floor by an earlier customer; he bent and picked it up. It was a copy of the Evening News, two days old. 'Have you put a name to this bloke yet?' John asked, pointing to the likeness on the front page.

'I don't think so,' Skinner replied, 'but I've been away; I don't know the whole story.'

'Let's have a look,' said Mcllhenney. 'I haven't seen that e-fit yet.' He took the newspaper from John and studied in.

After a few seconds he started to laugh… and then the laugh tailed off and was replaced by a frown, as he thought of the man who treated Thursday as if his life depended on it, who never missed a game, yet who, without warning, had failed to appear that evening.

He passed the crumpled News to the DCC. 'Here, Boss,' he said. 'Look at this picture, this unidentified floater. Could that or could that not be the Diddler?'