Dee had awoken first at around ten; she just lay in bed waiting for me to stir. When I did it took us a while to make it out of the bedroom. We moved quickly once I remembered it was West Ham United versus Bolton Wanderers today and that I needed to buy another ticket.

We arrived at the ground and Dee looked suitably impressed. She confessed that she had not attended a football match before. I was a taken aback. First I find her name is really Delia, and now I find she isn’t a football fan. Could this relationship work? Yes, after last night I knew it most certainly could.

We walked in through the glass fronted main entrance and made our way to the Legends restaurant, where a three course lunch was served from one o’clock on match days. The lunch was served carvery style, and so we helped ourselves from large silver domed tureens. The food was always plain and simple but beautifully cooked.

We took our seats and I introduced Dee to the regulars at our table. Actually I didn’t, she introduced herself when I suddenly realised that I couldn’t really describe her as my close protection officer and the term girlfriend seemed too presumptuous. Dee filled the silence by saying that she was a colleague. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

As we ate and drank our Foster’s lager, Dee chatted non stop with Ron and Danny, lifelong supporters who lived for their families and West Ham, not necessarily always in that order. Danny and Ron were plant fitters at the Ford plant in Dagenham and they invested a goodly proportion of their wages on these twenty one matches a season, in the best seats. We had nineteen home league games and the ticket also included the first round matches of the Carling Cup and the FA Cup.

I often cursed commentators who pointed at decent hard working guys like these and dismissed them as corporate guests who were not really interested in the match but only interested in the hospitality. All because they chose to pay for the best seats from a relatively small income. These guys were real supporters.

This was our second match of the season, after an undistinguished placing last season. We had lost the first away match at Villa Park. We were all hoping that the first home match would be one to celebrate.

***

We took our padded seats in the West Stand. Dee chose to sit between Ron and me, taking advantage of Ron’s running commentary and smiling at his occasional cries of despair.

Bolton Wanderers had a reputation for the long ball game, but it seemed to me that they never played that game when I watched them. They played the ball through the midfield with some slick passing. In fact, Liverpool play more of a long ball game when they visit. I think that there is some prejudice that augurs against the less popular clubs in the league, even when they are playing well.

The Boleyn Ground, as we were now expected to refer to it, was bustling with over thirty two thousand fans attending. West Ham started well enough and looked in control when we were awarded a penalty; a penalty that our best player missed. The disappointment seemed to resonate with the players as much as with the crowd, and the Trotters, Bolton Wanderers, started to play.

We reverted to the bar at half time for a Coke and a comfort break. The match was still tense. But at nil-nil we were still controlling the play. It would only be a matter of time until our efforts were rewarded, we decided after a round table discussion.

We took our seats for the second half and were just settling down when Bolton went on the attack. The ball broke and headed towards the Bolton striker. Our reliable centre half seemed to have the situation covered, but then he was pushed and knocked the ball past our goalkeeper for an own goal. I jumped up, outraged. It was a clear foul and I yelled my opinion at the referee fifty yards below me. I looked around to confirm that Dee too was suitably disaffected, and I saw her smiling.

“It isn’t funny,” I protested, perhaps more harshly than I intended.

“No,” she agreed, “but you are.” I had to smile.

When the second Bolton goal went in twenty minutes later the crowd could see the writing on the wall. There was a brief respite when we were awarded, and scored, a second penalty, but five minutes later Bolton scored again.

We didn’t stay long after the match, as it was too depressing, and so after the crowds had subsided we made our way back to the Tube station. We were just about to exit onto Green Street, immediately outside the ground, when we saw a potential flare up. A young lad of around sixteen or seventeen had unfastened his windjammer jacket to reveal a White soccer shirt bearing the Reebok logo. He looked terrified as three older West Ham fans confronted him. Two of them looked uncertain but one was apoplectic with rage.

Before I could stop her, Dee was at the young man’s side.

“Are you OK?” she asked, with concern in her voice.

“Nuffin’ to do with you, darlin’,” the enraged Hammers supporter said, sizing up the attractive brunette facing him. Dee was slightly built at around five feet eight in her trainers, but there was something in her eyes that flashed a warning. The Neolithic fan didn’t see what the rest of us saw and took his chance. His right arm stretched out to grab the young Bolton fan by the collar. The next move was so quick I almost missed it. Dee shot out her right hand and grabbed the man by the wrist. Her thumb on the back of his hand, she twisted his hand counter clockwise. He yelped with pain as the pressure on his wrist and elbow increased. Dee pulled his hand down, keeping intense pressure on the wrist and elbow, and unless he wanted a wrist or elbow injury he had no choice but to follow. In a few seconds she had him on his knees. He was silent now; he didn’t know what was coming next.

“Now, why don’t you go home and drown your sorrows? Don’t make a bad day worse.” Dee then released her grip and helped the man to his feet. She massaged his wrist and said, “I haven’t done any damage, the soreness will wear off before you get home.” She smiled at the defeated supporter and I wondered whether he would unwisely seek retribution. He didn’t.

“I was just having a friendly discussion about the match. I wouldn’t do nothing,” he said, rubbing his elbow.

“I know,” Dee said sweetly. “That’s why I didn’t break your arm.”

The three Hammers supporters walked away chanting at the tops of their voices, restoring their bravado. A car pulled up and the young Bolton fan took his place in the passenger seat. He waved at Dee as the car drove away.

Did I display those doe eyes when I looked at her, I wondered, and concluded that it was quite possible.

Chapter 2 7

Ashburnham Mews, Greenwich, London. Sunday 10pm.

This had been the most enjoyable weekend I could remember for a long time, although it would have been perfect if West Ham had won. We had both agreed not to mention the case or my sudden indebtedness over the weekend. If I am being honest, I was quite relieved about being alive and free from Bob and his twisted machinations.

We had spent our time together in eating, sleeping, taking long walks and watching talent competitions on TV. As we sat relaxing on the sofa listening to Norah Jones, the door buzzer sounded. I wasn’t expecting guests.

I picked up the phone, determined not to buzz anyone in who would disrupt my evening.

“Hello, Mr Hammond, my name is Jayne Craythorne.” The name didn’t mean anything to me. “I am the daughter of Sir Maxwell Rochester.” I buzzed her up and explained how to find my flat.

I told Dee who the visitor was, and she transformed from a relaxed girlfriend into a bodyguard in a matter of seconds. Dee let Jayne Craythorne into the flat and invited her to sit on my easy chair. I sat on the sofa and Dee took the footrest. After accepting our condolences on the recent death of her father, she explained the reason for her visit.