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Alexander seemed shocked. “A fellow professional? No, no, Mr Holms, that's not the way the game works.
There's not enough money in international football for any jiggery pokery. Club football, now that’s different.”
The players, having finished their training stint and as they headed for the showers Holms followed their progress as they walked past the car park. “One thing, Alexander, did Henderson leave in his car?”
“I suppose so, it's not in the car park.”
“A mysterious text message, and he leaves in his own car. There doesn't seem like much criminality here.”
Alexander exploded with frustration. “But he is missing. It's ma practice, Mr Holms, to wrap ma players in cotton wool before an important game, tae monitor their sleeping patterns, their training, their diet. For all I know at this very moment Jimmy could be eating … a salad.”
“You can't have anything against salad,” I complained.
“Deprivation, Dr Wilson! He should be eating chips, pies, sausages … Help us, Mr Holms, help us.”
Holms sniffed imperiously. “I can do no more good here. With such a lack of clues this requires an exercise in pure deduction.”
“I'll get ye a season ticket,” Alexander offered.
“Make it two,” I insisted.
Holms concluded that there was no more to be gleaned from our stay in Manchester and so we returned to Baker St to apply all the skills and experience we had gained in our years of fighting crime.
“Torture, it's the only answer,” I offered.
“Come now, Wilson, we're not Americans.”
“But if we get the Balfour fellow and the Spaniard and give them a good drubbing we'll find out what happened to young Henderson.”
“But what if they're not involved?”
“They must be,” I insisted, “they'll be in cahoots. Balfour because he wants to captain United and
Montoya because he doesn't want to face up to our midfield maestro.”
But Holms was unconvinced by my argument, “So they merely text him and ask him to disappear for a while?”
I had obviously not thought my assumption through to their logical conclusion.
“I admit my theory has some flaws,” I confessed, somewhat shame-faced.
I was saved further embarrassment by Mrs Houston entering with a tray.
“Your dinner,” she announced, “Stir fried fish fingers.”
“Mrs Houston” Holms bellowed, “This assault on our stomachs must cease!”
“You still haven't paid your rent,” our landlady replied curtly
“Soon, soon,” I placated, “We're working on a very important case which should give us a big payday.”
She seemed unimpressed. “What is it, bank robbery, forgery, blackmail?”