WLKRAS

I rang an old buddy of mine in the Met the next day. It was the Friday before Christmas and while many were winding down, the Met was preparing itself for a busy weekend. My friend sounded harassed when he answered the phone. “Chandler” he breathed in his hoarse voice. “Ray! It’s Marlowe. I know you’re busy, so let me get straight to the point. What can you tell me about Andy Jones’ death?” I asked him. He let out an expletive and said: “Haven’t heard from you in a while. Still chasing ambulances?” “Not quite” I answered, gruffly. “Right” he replied. “Andy Jones. Was that the car crash?” “Supposedly” I said “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, “The daughter thinks he was murdered” I said bluntly “She’s out of her mind. Guy drove straight through a red. The garbage truck had no chance... ” “You got that on camera?” I interrupted. “No, but..” “Also, what’s a garbage truck doing, driving around late at night? I don’t know about you, but my trash gets picked up in the day-time” “Oh-kay, I see what you’re getting at. But as far as the brass is concerned, this case is closed” Chandler said. “So, you can send me a copy of the file?” I tried to put a cheerful note in voice, but failed. “Ah look Marlowe, you’re not going to cause a whole load of trouble, are you?” he asked again. “I never cause trouble” I lied. “Yeah sure. I’ll see what I can do about the file, but don’t expect it before Christmas. This place is manic” “Sure thing, Ray. Thanks. Have a good one” “You too Marlowe” he rang off.

I’d dug up the newspaper report on the death of Andy Jones. It made for grim reading. When I dug a little further I found the report that said the police had completed their investigation and that Jones himself was to blame for his death after ignoring a red light. An eyewitness had come forward to say he was behind Jones and he saw him deliberately run the red light. The case was closed as far as the Met was concerned. Meanwhile, a complete unknown called Sam Spade had been appointed Orient manager. His first game in charge would be on Boxing Day.

Count me in

“You think he was murdered?” I repeated. “He died in a car crash. The police say it was an accident, but I know my father. He was the most careful driver in the world. He wouldn’t drive through a red light, that’s just not him” she said, close to tears. “Look, doll, I’m not sure what I can do here” I began, but she started crying. I didn’t know what to do, so I turned to the one thing that always stood me in good stead. Alcohol. I opened the desk drawer and pulled out the bottle of Scotch. I poured her a generous measure, walked round the desk and handed it over. “Here, drink up” I said, handing her the glass. I turned back and leant on my desk. The drink seemed to steady her nerves, but she was still fragile. “What makes you think it was murder?” I asked her. “The night before he died, he called me. Said if anything happened to him, I should look in the lockbox he keeps under his bed and take whatever’s in there to the police” “And did you?” I asked. “It was gone” she replied. “And what did the police make of this?” I went on. “They say there’s nothing to investigate. A witness said he ran a red light and that’s that, according to them. They say he could’ve moved or misplaced the lockbox. I don’t think they want to look too closely at it all, cause they’ll have to own up they got it wrong in the first place” “Who would want your father dead?” “I don’t know. It’s obviously something to do with what was in the lockbox. Oh Mr Marlowe, please find out what happened to my father. The club paid out the rest of his contract, so I can afford to pay you” she despaired. “The club?” I frowned. “He’s a football manager, in charge of Leyton Orient. Was, I suppose I should say” she corrected herself The realisation hit me like a punch to the gut. “Your father was Andy Jones?” I asked, confusion etched on my face “Yes, Greytrak is my married name” “Pity” I commented under my breath again. “I’ll do my best to find out what happened to your father, Ms Greytrak, but it may be just as the police say, an accident” I cautioned her. She stood suddenly and pulled a piece of paper out of her bag. She placed it, deliberately, on my desk. Her eyes burned with ungodly fire as she stared into mine. “Everything you need is on there. Do what you can” she said, almost hissing the words. I watched her walk out of my office. Stared at those legs and curves as they disappeared through my door. Then I shook my head and poured myself another shot of Scotch. I had work to do

Author’s Notes: FM 2007, with 2009/2010 data updates. Running England L2 and above, Scotland Third Division and above and top leagues from France, Germany, Holland, Italy, Spain and Brazil. Game starts December 2006. Welcome back to another WLKRAS story. A few notes of caution for those reading. Please drink responsibly. Smoking can cause serious harm to you and those around you. Be advised that this story may contain, scenes of violence, strong language, substance abuse, scenes of a sexual nature and scenes that may not be suitable for younger readers. As always, if you are offended or upset by any of the content of this story, feel free to DM me. I’ve always wanted to do a Noir/Hard-Boiled type story and this one has existed in some sort of format for the past five years without getting anywhere. I’ve finally bit the bullet though and started posting, so let’s see where it goes.

Leyton Noir The night was cold, like going skinny dipping in the Arctic Circle. Outside, the wind was howling, blowing snow down the deserted streets. I was sat in my office, huddled in my trench coat. A bottle of Scotch the only thing to keep me warm. I’d given up paying the heating bills a long time ago. I had no money. I could barely keep up the rent for this place. It was a mess. Two drawers of the filing cabinet stood open, their contents spilling out like an overflowing river. More papers were strewn across the room, making the office look like some sort of whirlwind had travelled across it. On the far wall, a sagging couch held most of my belongings. A sleeping bag and some clothes. Being a private detective isn’t all it’s made out to be. So here I was. Down to my last bottle of Scotch and out of luck. Sitting in a cold office, the only light coming in through the frosted glass window in the door to the hallway. I could see the letters that spelled ‘Jack Marlowe Private Investigator’. The words seemed meaningless now. I was doing as much investigating as a sleeping baby. As I looked out my door, a shadow slowly appeared, like a cloud passing in front of the sun. It raised an uncertain hand and paused. Then there was a knock on the door. There was no time for me to tidy up the dump that was my office. I’d have to go with the flow. “It’s open” I called The door opened slowly. It creaked on its hinges, screeching like some wicked banshee announcing her presence. But the figure that walked through the door was no banshee. She was a fiery angel. Clad completely in red, with looks to die for. Her wavy red hair fell past her face, obscuring the left side. It went all the way down to her bare shoulders. The dress she wore was some off the shoulder, gravity-defying piece. I wasn’t sure how it was staying on. It continued on all the way down her legs. I caught a glimpse of them through the slit as she moved. They went on and on, like a road disappearing into the horizon. They finally ended with a pair of red high heels. She couldn’t have been any older than thirty. “Mr Marlowe? Jack Marlowe? Private Detective?” she asked. “That’s me, doll” I replied. “And you are…” “Isabelle. Isabelle Greytrak.” “Can’t argue with that” I muttered under my breath. “What brings you here” I said more audibly, pointing to the only unoccupied chair in the room. She moved like she was walking on clouds. She floated over to the chair and sat down. Slowly, deliberately, she crossed her left leg over her right. The split off the dress showed off a wonderful piece of thigh. My eyes were drawn to it like mosquitos to light. She coughed nervously and my eyes flicked back to her face. “I was told you’re a smart man. A man who can find things out” she said nervously. “Sure” I replied. I lifted a packet of Camels off the table and held it out for her with my left hand. With my right, I flicked open a lighter. She fished a cigarette out of the packet and leant forward towards the flame. She was in serious danger of spilling out her dress, but by some miraculous wonder, she didn’t. When the cigarette was lit, she sat back and re-crossed her legs. I lit a cigarette myself and sat back looking her in the eyes. They had a fire to them, like a burning ember waiting to be poked. Something told me this lady was no ordinary woman. “What needs finding out?” I asked her, as smoke from my cigarette circled to the ceiling “I think my father was murdered” she said with a sad face.

Spending 28 million on a left back ffs. At least putting @BenArsenal out of the cup makes up for it

Bah, my manager needs to have a word with himself. Heading for a second 14-1 win in a row and he decided to do that!

Champions again

*waves goodbye at Ben*

*waves to Ben*

And how many League titles have you won?

\o/ Champions

Up the Johor DT's

I do like the idea of bringing back the challenges. Would give me another chance to have a bash at this one (previously submitted as an FMS challenge, but don't think it won the vote). The Last of the Vikings Harald III of Norway, better known as Harald Hardrada, is generally recognized as the last king of the Vikings. With his death at the battle of Stamford Bridge in 1066, the Viking age came to an end. Incidentally by his invasion of England, he probably cleared the way for the Normans to displace Harold Godwinson as King of England. Harald was a well travelled man, having served in the Kingdom of Kievan Rus (now Ukraine) and Byzantium. Your goal is to retrace his steps and claim the ultimate price where Harald failed, be crowned King of England. Stage I Start of with a manager of Norwegian nationality and grab yourself the job at Viking Stavanger. Win the Norwegian league and be crowned King of Norway. Stage II Travel east to either the Ukraine or Russia and defend the kingdom of Kievan Rus. Win the national league and make sure you advance further into Europe than your rivals (Further than any Ukrainian team if Russian and vice versa). Stage III Travel south to Byzantium (what is now Istanbul). Take charge of any team based in Istanbul and win the Champions League as well as a league title and the cup (not necessarily in the same year). Stage IV Return to Scandinavia (Norway/Sweden/Finland/Denmark) and consolidate. A league title or a cup will suffice. You may also take charge of one of the national teams and qualify past the group stages of a major tournament Stage V The battle for Stamford Bridge. Win an English league and cup double. Win any game you play at Stamford Bridge.