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Matheson folded his arms.
‘I mean, that match against Kidderminster. No way I thought that goal was going in.’
‘You’re an expert?’ Matheson asked between gritted teeth.
‘Nah. But watching that guy,’ Penn said, doing a little shuffle with his feet, which brought out a few more phones. ‘I mean he wasn’t exactly Ronaldo, was he?’
‘Are you trying…?’
‘How old was he, late forties?’
‘He was thir—’
‘Early fifties. I mean he was getting on a bit.’
‘Time for you to fuck—’
‘I mean, the defence was shit for letting him through, but I was sure you’d get it.’
‘I’ve heard enough of—’
‘But he just sailed it past yer, didn’t, he? The old guy was too quick for yer, wasn’t he?’
‘Hang on.’
‘Were you napping?’
‘For fuck’s—’
‘Were you texting?’
‘I’m warning you to—’
‘Or was the old guy a better player?’
‘Shut the—’
‘Oh, mate, you lost to a pensioner. You were done.’
‘Step away.’
‘Granddad nailed yer. You just couldn’t keep up. You couldn’t stop him putting it in the back of the net.’
‘I coulda fucking stopped him. I let it pass,’ Matheson shouted, stepping right into Penn’s face.
Penn remained still.
‘Did you not hear me, thicko? I said, I didn’t lose. I let it pass.’
Stacey looked around the bar that was now silent.
By her reckoning, his admission had been heard by around thirty people and captured on a dozen phones.
Penn stepped away. ‘Well, Mr Matheson, thank you so much for clearing that up.’
SIXTY-ONE
‘Oh shit,’ Stacey said, reading the message that had just dinged to her phone.
