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Prologue

"Grundy Gone. Bar Open". The sign outside Medford Rugby Club said it all. The good citizens of Medford, an insignificant market town in the east of England, could breathe easy. They had successfully mounted a campaign to wrestle control of their beloved rugby club back from the hands of Jim Grundy, and could now begin to believe again.

Grundy had taken control of Medford RFC from the now-penniless wrestling promotor Gary Fearn after Fearn's assets were frozen by the High Court. Bought for a single pound apparently, but with a mountain of debt. Not long after taking charge, the Barford locals were horrified to hear his plans - the club would become an 'Asian' rugby club, tapping into that well-known love of rugby that Indians and Pakistanis have. Performing seals in the car park. And worst of all, a plan to shift the club en bloc to Coventry, that dismal suburb of Birmingham. Action was taken - funds raised, palms greased but most importantly Grundy evicted. It was a bittersweet victory - they were elated to remove Grundy, but it hurt to pay him off. It had taken £150,000 to buy him out, plus taking on the debt, but at least the club was safe.

As for Grundy, well life was good. As he reclined his first-class seat on the Air Escobar flight to Bogota, he could only see a future full of good things - fast cars, big yacht, fine wines and women. Lots of women. All of them for him. He had taken those puffed-up middle-class fools of Medford for a pretty penny, and he had plans to invest it in the industry with the best return-on-investment figures known to man - the cocaine industry. He had made contact with London-based Triad Tommy Chan and his beautiful wife Emma, old friends from his days as a pimp for Eastern European immigrant girls. The Chans had acted as a conduit between Grundy and the Columbians. For a small cut of any profit, of course. Grundy had convinced the Columbians that he could open up a new channel to the lucrative European market, and he had money up front to prove it. So he was on his way to meet and greet, show the colour of his money and close the deal. Soon he would be richest son-of-a-Wigan-dock-worker anywhere!

Sheryl Wilson-Dallas sighed as the screams and chokes of vomiting children on the roller coaster echoed through the marble halls. Much as she loved Mark, he was getting through their hard earned fortune quicker than an aging, pathetic rock star gets through flowers, burning cash on his beloved football club. The previous evening they had come to a decision - if Derek could find a suitable buyer, they would sell up and save some cash for the kids and grandchildren. Plus American geriatric healthcare was expensive, and Mark was not as strong as he used to be. The flights from Miami to London were taking their toll. Time for someone else to take the burden. But the reason she sighed was not just Mark's health. She was unsure about letting their idiot son-in-law Derek Good handle the sale, but Mark was blind when it can to Derek's obvious faults. He was the son they had never had, so Mark doted on him, even after he left their daughter for the Harpenden barmaid. Derek had even once tried it on with Sheryl, but she rebuffed him with a firm kick in the bollocks. Derek handling the sale of Luton Town. She shook her beautifully coiffured head. It will end in tears, she thought. But whose?
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