January Window (18 page)

‘You’re joking. Really?’

Viktor lifted the picture down from the wall; the fact that it was covered in glass made it heavy, so I helped him.

‘I’m perfectly serious, Scott. This picture is yours, now, to take home with you tonight. I want you to have this so that every time you look at it, you’ll hear João Zarco saying what I’m going to say to you now:

‘“Find out who killed me and why, Scott. Find my killer. I didn’t deserve what happened to me today. Not ever. So, take control of the game yourself and don’t just leave it to other people, like the police. Please, Scott, for me and for my wife, Toyah, you must discover who killed me, okay? Next time you look in my eyes I want to know that you’re doing your best to get them. Really, I won’t have any peace until you do this for me.”’

Viktor could always do a wicked impersonation of Zarco’s dry monotone of a voice and, just for a second, this seemed more than mere mimicry.

‘That’s what he seems to be saying,’ said Viktor. ‘Don’t you agree?’

I stared at the picture now leaning against Viktor’s desk. The man depicted was looking right into my eyes, as if he too was asking the same question as Victor Sokolnikov.

‘Yes, I do.’

It wasn’t quite the ghost of Hamlet’s father, but I’ll say one thing for Viktor Sokolnikov; he always knew how to get exactly what he wanted.

Viktor’s Rolls-Royce took me and the oil painting of Zarco back to my flat in Chelsea, but in truth if it hadn’t been for the picture I’d have walked down to Kensington High Street and caught a cab home. When I was a boy I always wanted to own a Rolls-Royce, but now I felt acutely embarrassed whenever I found myself being driven in one. I hated the glances I got when the car stopped at traffic lights. You could see what was going through the minds of the Londoners who looked inside – even in Kensington and Chelsea.
Rich bastard. Cunt
. And who could blame them for thinking that about someone who was insensitive enough to ride around in the back of a car that cost ten times the average London wage? It wasn’t even all that comfortable. The seats were too hard. That was bad enough but I hadn’t bargained on there being a host of reporters and TV cameras outside my home in Manresa Road and I felt doubly embarrassed to be getting out of a Rolls-Royce in front of them, especially with a picture of João Zarco in my hands. In order to get through my own front door I had no choice but to bite my tongue and speak to everyone gathered on the steps and on the pavement, and it was probably fortunate that the effects of the cognac had worn off a bit by then.

‘João Gonzales Zarco was without question the best football manager of his generation,’ I said, carefully. ‘And one of the most truly remarkable men I ever met. It was my privilege to call him a friend and colleague, and the whole game of football is the poorer for his untimely death. He was generous, a gentleman, a lovely man and I will always miss him. I’d like to extend my sympathies to his wife and family and to thank all of the fans who’ve already paid tribute to Zarco. You might say that I’m about to do the same. As you can see this is a portrait of Zarco, by Jonathan Yeo, and I am going in now to hang it on my wall. Thank you. I have no further comments to make at this time.’

Of course, all of the reporters wanted to know how Zarco had died and if I was going to take over as London City manager, but I thought it advisable to avoid answering any of their many permutations of the same two questions; in spite of that it took several more minutes and the help of the porter to get me and the painting safely through the front door.

When I was finally in my flat I remembered Sonja was away at a conference in Paris and before doing anything I called her, just to feel grounded again. Just to hear her voice felt like the best kind of therapy and it was easy to understand why she was so good at her job – although I have to question how it is that you need a psychiatrist to persuade you not to eat that second doughnut.

Then I called my dad, who was predictably shaken by the news; he and Zarco had been on many a golfing holiday on the Portuguese Algarve, where both of them still had homes.

After I’d spoken with him I set about hanging Zarco’s picture in my own study where I keep all my football memorabilia, including a twenty-two-carat FA Cup winner’s medal from 1888 – West Bromwich Albion, in case you were wondering – and the shirt George Best was wearing when he scored six against Northampton Town in the FA Cup fourth round in February 1970. When the painting was up on the wall to my satisfaction I sat and looked at it for a while; I kept hearing Viktor’s impersonation of Zarco in my head. Now that’s what I call psychology.

I called Maurice at home.

‘You were right. Mr Sokolnikov offered me the manager’s job.’

‘Congratulations. You deserve it, my son.’

‘Although only as caretaker. Until I fuck up.’

‘No pressure, then.’

‘It all seems a bit premature to me. I mean, Zarco’s not even in the ground yet.’

‘Then again,’ said Maurice, ‘we do have the second leg of the Capital One Cup game against West Ham at home on Tuesday night.’

‘Which I suppose we’ll have to play. Unless we hear anything from the FA to say we can postpone as a mark of respect.’

‘Thrash the arse off the bastards. That’s the only kind of respect that Zarco would have wanted from City. ’Sides, it’s on the telly, so you might as well forget it now.’

‘I suppose you’re right. Look, there was something you said this afternoon, when we were searching Silvertown Dock. You said that Sean Barry had found out Claire was shagging Zarco.’

‘S’right.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘Sarah Crompton told me.’

‘And how did she know?’

‘Because she and Claire are best mates.’

‘So why did Sarah tell you?’

‘Because… let’s just say that I’m good friends with Sarah. All right?’

‘Am I the only bloke at Silvertown Dock who’s not getting his leg over someone else who works there?’

‘No. There’s you and there’s the German lad, Christoph Bündchen.’

‘What about him?’ I asked innocently.

‘Some of the lads think he’s not that interested in girls.’

‘Some of the lads are a bit excitable, jumping to conclusions like that.’

‘Maybe. But he had a hard-on in the shower, the other day. Now that’s what I call fucking excitable.’

‘Did Sarah tell you that, too?’

‘No. Kwame did. It’s not the sort of thing you’d miss, is it?’

‘I dunno. I haven’t seen it. His hard-on, I mean.’

‘Fucking huge, according to Kwame. And he should know.’

‘Really.’ Changing the subject, I said, ‘Sean Barry. He’s a bit excitable, too, right?’

‘Oh, yeah. Very.’

‘So maybe he killed Zarco. Jealous husband ’n’ all that.’

Maurice shrugged. ‘Maybe, yeah. On the other hand I saw him right after the game and he seemed okay. Chuffed about the result, he was. I mean, he didn’t look like he’d beaten the shit out of anyone. Or told someone else to do it, for that matter. What I mean is, he didn’t look guilty. But then you never know with a bloke like Sean.’

‘You also said there were a few unfriendly faces in the ground when you were doing your Where’s Wally this afternoon. Some right bastards, I think you called them. Who did you mean, exactly?’

‘I did, didn’t I? Let’s see now. There was Denis Kampfner – he was none too pleased when Zarco got Paolo Gentile to be the agent on the Kenny Traynor transfer. Missed out big time on a million quid’s worth of commission. Spitting tacks about that, he was. Ronan Reilly. You’ll remember the run-in he and Zarco had at the BBC SPOTY.’

‘Of course I remember it. It was the only interesting thing that happened all evening. Those things are a pain in the arse.’

‘It was a proper scrap they had that night, you know. And I certainly wouldn’t have put it past those two to mix it again.’

‘True. They’re none too fond.’

‘Then there was that referee Zarco slagged off: Lionel Sharp.’

‘I hope you didn’t see him, Maurice, or I’ll start to worry about you. He’s dead.’

‘No, but his son was at the game today. Jimmy, I think his name is. He’s in the navy. Marines, I think. Who else? Oh, yeah. Some Qatari lads. Not so much Where’s Wally as Where’s Ali. Dodgy lot, if you ask me. Connected to some of the powers that be in Qatar, where Zarco’s name is shit. They’ve got one of the executive boxes. Come to think of it, they’ve got three or four boxes. I’ve heard they like some coke at half time, and I don’t mean the stuff that comes out of a can. Coke and Lamborghinis and enough money to put a ceramic brake on your mouth.’

‘Christ, Maurice, you’ve got more possible suspects there than the Orient Express.’

‘And I haven’t even mentioned Semion Mikhailov.’

‘Who the fuck’s he?’

‘Ukrainian business rival of Viktor’s, apparently. Huge bloke. Head like a fucking bowling ball.’

‘What do you know about him?’

‘Only that people are afraid of the guy. One of the security guards who operates the Mobicam – a Russian bloke called Oleg – he spotted him sitting in the crowd. Oleg said he was surprised that the Home Office let someone like that into the country. He’s top Mafia, apparently.’

‘I wonder if Viktor knows he was there.’

‘There’s not much Viktor doesn’t know.’

‘Sounds like we’re spoilt for choice.’ I laughed. ‘Is there anyone we left out? Al Qaeda? Lee Harvey Oswald? Fucking hell.’

‘It’s a funny old game,’ said Maurice.

‘Look, Maurice, Viktor wants me to play Sherlock here and see if I can find the person who did it before the law does. To save him some aggro.’

‘Makes sense. When you’ve got that much loot you’ve got plenty to hide as well.’

‘He reckons the Home Office are out to get him; and that I hate the police just enough to have the guts to tell them to fuck off.’

‘I don’t recall Sherlock Holmes saying that to Inspector Lestrade,’ said Maurice. ‘But fair enough. I guess that makes me Watson, right?’

‘If you like. All right then, draw me up a list of possible suspects. People with a grudge who were at Silvertown Dock. Or people who are just villains. And start putting your ear to the pipe. But let’s keep all this between you and me. No law for now, eh?’

‘I don’t like talking to the old Bill any more than you do, boss. Especially after tonight. That woman from the Yard was really trying to bring you into line, wasn’t she?’

‘I have that effect on women,’ I said. ‘And while you’re at it, check on Zarco’s ticket allocation. Who his guests were this afternoon, if any. It’s usually just his family, but you never know.’

‘Right you are, boss.’

I spent another hour under Zarco’s watchful eye going through the messages and calls on his mobile phones.

Zarco’s ‘play phone’ contained a series of texts to and from Claire Barry. Most of the older ones were spectacularly obscene.
Sexting
, I think they call it. A couple of times I glanced up at his portrait and shook my head.

‘You dirty old bastard,’ I said. ‘What were you thinking of? Suppose Toyah had found these?’

But the tone of their exchanges changed, abruptly, when Claire revealed to Zarco that her husband had discovered the existence of the relationship with the London City manager. Sean’s reputation had gone before him and suddenly Zarco’s texts became stiff and formal. He told Claire he was breaking it off and it was clear from our acupuncturist’s replies that the end of the love affair had caused her considerable heartache – and him, too. It seemed they had been in love with each other, although Zarco – a staunch Roman Catholic – had never made any secret of the fact that he wasn’t ever going to leave Toyah. I didn’t blame him for fancying Claire, she was a good-looking girl. I sent her a message of condolence – from my own phone – telling her I’d come and see her in the morning, if that was okay.

Meanwhile, I made a note of Claire’s mobile number and decided to try and speak with her about what had happened when I next saw her alone at Hangman’s Wood.

The ‘something else’ phone had a flat battery and I didn’t have the right kind of charger for it, so I dropped it in my desk drawer; besides, I now had an important job to do as the new manager of London City. I called Phil Hobday to tell him what he already knew; next I called Ken Okri, the team captain, and informed him that I had been appointed the caretaker manager; then I called our first team coach, Simon Page, and asked him if he would take over from me as assistant manager, and when he agreed, I also asked him to take charge of the training session on Monday morning.

‘Are the police saying anything about what happened to Zarco? Because there’s this rumour on Twitter that he was beaten to death.’ Simon was from Doncaster and whenever he spoke I was reminded of Mick McCarthy.

‘It seems to be the theory the police are working on.’

‘Not everyone loved the man like you and me, Scott.’

‘That was just his management style,’ I said. ‘He didn’t mean half the things he said. He was just winding people up. Playing mind games.’

‘In any other walk of life but football that might be okay,’ said Simon. ‘But for a lot of people, you make these kinds of remarks and they don’t forget them. They don’t forget and they learn to hate. Some of the comments I’ve seen on Twitter are less than complimentary. “Big mouth had it coming” – that kind of thing. So I’m glad you made that speech about him at Hangman’s Wood tonight. I’ve been watching it again on YouTube. In fact I’ve watched it several times. It was good what you said, and it helps cancel a lot of those negative comments out, you know? Everyone appreciated it. I just hope I’ll be as good an assistant as you were.’

‘Thanks, Simon. And you will be. I’m sure of it.’

When we’d finished talking about the team and our next match I switched on my Mac and watched myself on YouTube, the way you do. In truth, I wanted to see if I looked in any way equal to the man from whom I had taken over, who was always a master of man-motivation. Frankly, I had my doubts about that.

Someone behind me had shot the speech on an iPhone – I wasn’t sure who and it didn’t really matter – but they’d also filmed some of the players’ reactions and when I looked at them, it was a shot of Ayrton Taylor that caught my eye. Taylor was the player humiliated by Zarco in front of everyone at the training session before the Leeds game and subsequently placed on the transfer list. He was standing immediately behind Ken Okri and at first I didn’t know why, but something about Taylor struck me as curious. Then I realised what it was: as Taylor moved his hair with his left hand I could see that his hand was bandaged.