Everybody knows. It was front page on all the nationals that Wayne Thompson’s transfer to Barcelona was a world record fee. But what they didn’t know yet is that he’d already sold his house in Formby. The indoor pool, the steam room, the white shagging pile carpet, the lot! Three and a half million was the word on the street but of course nobody was talking.
And Chris had managed an appointment to talk to the new owner. First outing for the new motor so he was feeling dead made up as he hit the button on the gatepost. “Chris Warwick. Liverpool Globe to see Mr Foster, mate.” Not quite right for somewhere this posh, maybe, but from the sound of the voice on the other end, he wasn’t noticing.
The gates swung open. Huge wrought iron things painted black with the spikes picked out in gold. And the BMW growled through like it belonged there. You couldn’t see the house from the road but the drive wasn’t all that long – just round behind some trees and hedges to keep the fans out – and he pulled up on the gravel next to the front door. A Range Rover and an S Class Merc were parked there too. And he noticed a helicopter parked over on the side.
As he got out the car, the front door opened and a pack of huge dogs came running out barking and growling so he jumped back in and closed the door, sharpish like. Bloke emerged and called off the hounds so he got out again.
“Nick Foster.” He held out his hand.
“Chris Warwick. Impressive dogs. What are they?”
“Black Russian Terriers.”
“Terriers? I thought terriers were small - chased things down holes – not like curly haired Rottweilers.”
“No. That’s just the name. These were specially bred in Russia by the KGB for guard dogs. Black Russian Terrors, really. They’re fine. As long as they don’t take a dislike to you. Or think you look like lunch. But come inside.”
The paper was mainly interested in the previous owner – traces of wine and women and forget the song – but Chris had to show enough interest to keep Mr Foster happy so he kicked off with the standard openers. “And what was it about the house that caught your attention?”
“It’s a buyer’s market. I’ve always been a Liverpool fan and the building business is on the up so I’ve got the cash to pick up a bargain. I wanted a bit of space and, like any footballer’s house, they’ve had it done over by a pro, so it’s got all the gear.”
“Nothing you needed to change?”
“We had to add the heli-pad. And they had a snooker room that I’ve converted – trophy and gun room now. I wanted somewhere for that. Anything else we can do later.”
They took a look around the house. Foster showed off his new footballer lifestyle. Dining room the size of a tennis court, day lounge, night lounge, bedroom with the tele-wall, baby’s walk in wardrobe. Then they went downstairs to the leisure area. Already fitted out with the hunting paraphernalia. A bar with a load of guns on the wall both sides of it, trophy heads hanging around and animal skins on the floor. Even a stuffed leopard standing next to the sofa.
He’d just started to tell Chris about stalking deer in Scotland with the toffs when a minion came in. “Sorry. You’ll have to excuse me. This shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.” And he disappeared up the stairs.
Chris sat on the sofa and eyeballed the leopard. Perhaps it was one of those pay per shot ones where they kept them in the freezer waiting for the white Bwana from England to show up? Then he walked round and took a look at the bar. A selection of Cognacs in fancy bottles and a dozen single malts. Not to mention the rainbow coloured liqueurs on the top shelf.
So he went over the side and looked at the guns. A couple of shot guns. He didn’t know enough to see whether they were Purdeys – the only name brand he knew – but they were ornately engraved with pictures of animals and birds. On the other side were some rifles, complete with telescopic sights and spare magazines. No ammunition that you could see. He reached out to take one down. And uh-oh! The lights started to flash. There was an ominous whirring sound and a glass shutter rolled smoothly down in front of the bar like a garage door.
By the time he was round the front of the bar, it’d locked down and he was stuck on the wrong side. With a gun in his hands. He quickly put the thing back in its place on the wall; perhaps the partition would go back up. But of course it didn’t. There was no alarm sounding so you had to assume that a light was flashing in some local police station.
What would Waxman have to say about this little episode? Chris could see his face. “So, Christopher. Above and beyond the call of duty again?” Waxman fancied himself a comedian, taking the piss, but his imitation of a posh voice stank and the Scouse accent sort of ruined his attempts at public school type sarcasm.
There was no point in calling out – adding interrupting to the list of offences – so he settled on a bar stool to wait. Tempting to help himself to a beer but who knows what it’d trigger if he opened the fridge. Then, just when Chris thought he was joining the leopard as a permanent exhibit the man himself came back down the stairs.
“Sorry, er, Mr Foster, I didn’t mean to...”
Foster laughed and cut him off. “I should have warned you. Computer room protection’s my day job so we’re well secure down here.” He took out his iPhone and keyed in some numbers to make the glass wall go away.
“Impressive.” Getting out of the display case felt better than sex. “I saw some computer security up at City Uni in Liverpool. Scary stuff.”
“We put that one in too. Just after Christmas, before we got so snowed under. We’ve got so much on now that I don’t think we’d have time for something that small. We’re turning down jobs for the start of next year.”
“How come you’re so busy?”
“Who knows? But by the time we’re finished there won’t be a computer room between here and London that you could stop with an atom bomb. Still. I can’t complain. That order book’s paying for this place and if I can’t get away on safari this time – well there’s always next year.”
“So it’s not just in the North West that it’s happening?”
“No way. The whole industry’s gone mad busy. I’m having to bring tradesmen in from Poland and Romania just to keep going.”
As he was leaving, Chris felt his story detectors start to twitch. Waxman could have the Footballer’s Baby’s Wardrobe piece. This thing on the computer security was the real scoop here. Tied right in with that boffin writing viruses at the Uni. There was a London market for this story, he was convinced, if he just had the guts to go for it.
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