Chapter 14:
16th September, 2011.
Salford, Manchester.
“ ...well I certainly haven’t told anyone! You didn’t let it ‘slip’ at a press conference, did you?”
“Of course not! What the **** do you take me for?” I yelled back across the table to Alice, who was furious. Spread in front of me was this morning’s News Of The World, on a full two-page spread detailing how my girlfriend was pregnant. Naturally, I had said nothing about the subject to anyone other than her, so both of us were blaming the other.
“Look, Alice. I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s seen whether any journalists have been sniffing around. Then we can sort this out, eh?” That calmed her down a bit.
“OK... it’s just a bit.... mad, that’s all. Anyway, I’ve got to be at the office in ten, see you later.” She left, more shocked than anything.
As I drove to training, I pondered over whether anything odd had happened since I’d got the text after the Napoli match. I always left my phone in my suit jacket during training, which was in...
My office. What if some journo had told the receptionist that he wanted to see me, just on the off chance he’d get some scoop? Would they have sent them up to wait? Possibly. I called into the security office once I arrived at the ground.
“Mr Newton, would never have expected you. What brings you down here?” John, the guard on duty, asked. John Martins was a big guy and built like a bodybuilder, exactly the type of man you’d expect as a security guard.
“Not much, Johno. Can you bring up yesterday’s CCTV, from outside my office, in here?” I mentioned, almost whimsically.
“Of course, wouldn’t be much of a security office if it couldn’t!” he joked. Chuckling to himself, he typed for a few seconds and my office came into view.
“9 o’clock... 10... 11” He commented as he fast forwarded the tape. “See anyone that interests you?”
I didn’t answer as I watched the footage like a hawk. “There! Pause it!” I pointed at the screen. A man was frozen leaving my office, a press pass clearly visible. “What time was this?”
“44 minutes past 3. Guessing you weren’t having an interview, then?”
“No, John. So I want to know what he was doing in my office.”
I wandered out of the security office and toward reception. The receptionist looked up with a glittering smile. “What can I do for you today, sir?”
“The journalist you sent up to my office yesterday, about half 3? Do you have his name listed anywhere? It’s just I want to give him a call back.” I said, trying to sound as innocent as possible.
“Of course. Let me just find it.” Another smile. “It’s Peterson.... Bill Peterson, News International.”
Walking out, I retrieved my phone from my car and dialled. Steve Kirkwell, my old gaffer, had retired and become a reporter for some local paper based in Manchester. He’d still be able to do some digging, though.
“Hey, Steve. Long time no see. Can you do me a favour? I need a phone number, of one Bill Peterson. Can you do that? Good.” I put the phone down and checked my watch. I still had half an hour to get to Carrington for training.
There was the important match against Liverpool coming up, and I don’t think “personal reasons” would please the fans if we lost.