January Window (19 page)

A good coach knows everything about the injuries all his players are carrying – especially those players who are for sale, because the first thing that happens before a transfer deal can be finalised with a new club is that the player submits himself to a medical – and it puzzled me that Taylor’s injured hand should have escaped my eye until now, especially as he was left-handed.

I could have called Nick Scott, the team doctor, and asked him about Taylor’s hand, but by now it was very late and I didn’t want to disturb him at home in case I’d made a mistake.

So I switched on the television and chose the London City sports channel on the Sky box. Speeding quickly through the tribute to Zarco I finally found what I was looking for – footage of both teams entering Silvertown Dock a couple of hours before the game. I saw myself – ridiculous in my hideous orange tracksuit – leading the players down the tunnel to the dressing room, Ken Okri joking with Christoph Bündchen, Xavier Pepe and Juan-Luis Dominguin lost inside their own Skullcandy, and finally Ayrton Taylor wearing his street clothes. I hit the pause button and with the Sky remote moved the picture forward, frame by frame, until I had exactly the view I wanted. This was a shot of Ayrton Taylor’s left hand. Quite clearly I saw him glance at the enormous Hublot on his wrist – the same kind of watch that Viktor had given me for Christmas.

Taylor’s hand was unbandaged. Whatever injury he had sustained must have occurred between the team’s arrival at Silvertown Dock and my speech at Hangman’s Wood, an interval of time during which João Zarco had probably been beaten to death.

João and Toyah Zarco’s house in Warwick Square was a ten-minute drive from my flat in Chelsea. Pimlico is quiet at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning and as I drove along the embankment in Sonja’s BMW, I hoped I’d be a little too early to encounter any of the photographers and reporters who, according to Toyah’s text, had been camped outside her front door until the small hours. I was wrong about that. They were there in force and looked like they’d been there all night. Muttering curses I drove a couple of times around the communal gardens before leaving the car on the opposite side of the square, in front of the large house the Zarcos were converting, and which was covered in scaffolding hidden behind a mural designed to look exactly like the house next door, and that described itself as ‘noise-cancelling’. Erected by the builders to forestall complaints from the neighbours, it didn’t seem to be doing its job very well; despite it being a Sunday I could already hear the sound of drilling. Texting Toyah to tell her I was approaching her front door, I walked round to the other side of the square and the elegant six-storey white stucco mansion the Zarcos had been renting while the Lambton Construction Company attempted to complete the extensive conversions ahead of schedule.

At the last minute the mêlée of newsmen and women recognised me and, desperate for a syllable of something they could report, they surged round like a pack of beagles as a policeman helped me make my way up the steps where a house door was already opening.

‘Scott! Scott! Over here, Scott!’

‘Sorry to hear about Mr Zarco, sir,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s a great loss to football. I’m a London City fan myself.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, and stepped quickly into the hall.

The Sunday newspapers lay, unread, on the black and white tiled floor, which was probably the best place for them. They were full of Zarco’s murder, of course, and most of them carried a list of some of the things Zarco had said, as if to say here was why Zarco was killed: he had a big mouth. And there was a small part of me that couldn’t disagree with that.

A tall, thin blonde woman wearing black-framed glasses closed the door behind me and let out a deep breath.

‘Hello, Toyah. How are you bearing up?’

‘Not well,’ she said. ‘This would be quite bad enough without all that as well.’ She nodded at the door. ‘I feel like a prisoner in my own home. They’ve been there all night – I could hear them, chattering away, like they were queuing for seats for the centre court at Wimbledon. Them and that policeman’s radio. I wanted to ask him to turn it down but that would have meant opening the door.’

I could hear the grief choking her voice. She shook her head wearily, took off the glasses, wiped her pale blue eyes and then blew her nose with a handkerchief that looked inadequate to the task of coping with so much misery. Putting her thin arms around my neck, she said:

‘Not that I could sleep, even if I wanted to – there’s so much going on in my head right now. I suppose they’re just doing their jobs, but I really don’t know what they want. A picture of me looking like shit, I suppose: the grieving widow’s tears. It’s what sells newspapers, isn’t it?’ She sighed. ‘Oddly enough, it’s the neighbours I feel sorry for. On top of everything else they’ve had to cope with from us since we moved here, now there’s this media circus to contend with.’

She smelled of white wine and perfume and she looked very tired. Her strawberry-blonde hair was combed severely back from her forehead and fastened tight with a black scrunchie. Like a lot of Australian women Toyah tried to avoid the sun, but her plain black T-shirt and trousers made her look even more pale than she probably was.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she replied quietly.

‘I’ll miss him a lot. More than I can say.’

‘A friend emailed me a link to what you said on YouTube,’ she said. ‘That was very nice. And I was thinking… at the funeral, I’d like you to speak about him. If you would.’

‘Of course. Anything.’

I took her in my arms and hugged her close as she started to cry. After a while she pulled away and blew her nose again. ‘I must look such a sight,’ she said.

‘What are you supposed to look like when your husband dies?’

‘Like Lady Macbeth, I guess.
What’s done cannot be undone
. I played that part, you know. At the Old Vic. That was how we met, Zarco and I. It was Patrick Stewart, the actor, who introduced us. He supports Huddersfield Town Football Club. Zarco liked it that he still supported the team from his home town.’

‘I know. João told me.’

‘Would you like a coffee, Scott?’

‘Please. If you feel like making it.’

We went down an open iron staircase and into a huge Bulthaup kitchen that looked as clean and functional as a Swiss laboratory. On the wall was a large painting of the Australian outlaw, Ned Kelly, as imagined by Sidney Nolan. I knew that Zarco had admired the famous outlaw for the simple reason that like Kelly, Zarco saw himself as someone who was very much opposed to the ruling establishment, at least in the world of football. On more than one occasion he had suggested that the best way of improving things in the English game would be ‘to buy a guillotine and cut off some heads’.

‘Is it just you here?’ I asked, looking for the Brazilian housekeeper who was usually hovering around the Zarco home.

‘I sent Jerusa home. She always goes to mass at Westminster Cathedral on a Sunday. I’d go myself if I could get out of the door. Besides, it was João who hired her and I’m not entirely sure she’s legal, and what with all the cops who were in and out of here last night I thought it best to send her away while this is going on.’

‘Probably a good idea,’ I said. ‘Best not to tempt them.’

Toyah paused in front of the built-in Miele coffee machine and sighed with exasperation.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know how to make this work,’ she said. ‘Zarco loved being the barista around here. I’ve never learned.’

‘Here,’ I said. ‘Let me. It’s the same model as the one I have at home.’

She nodded. ‘I forgot. Coffee’s your thing, isn’t it?’

She leaned against the worktop and watched me carefully as I set about operating the machine.

‘Was it Detective Chief Inspector Byrne who came to see you?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

‘A woman. Looks a bit like Tilda Swinton.’

She nodded.

‘Did she tell you how they thought Zarco had met his death?’

‘A blow to the head, she said. And there were several other injuries that were consistent with him having sustained a severe beating.’ She shrugged. ‘There were other things but after that I stopped listening, for a while.’

‘I see.’

‘She said you’d offered to go and formally identify the body. Is that right? Because I’d give anything not to see Zarco laid out on a slab in a morgue. I’ve always had this thing about hospitals and the smell of ether. I really think I might faint. It’s one of the reasons we never had any children, he and I. I’m very squeamish. The sight of blood just makes me shudder.’

‘I have the same feeling about policemen. But, yes, I’ll identify him. It’s not a problem for me.’

‘Thank you, Scott.’

‘If there’s anything else I can do, please don’t hesitate to call me. Manresa Road is only ten minutes away in the car. If you feel you don’t want to be alone you can always come and stay there with Sonja and me.’

‘Thanks but no, I’d prefer to stay here, I think. At least for the moment. Besides, the police are coming back this afternoon. With more questions, I expect.’

‘I get a bit antsy when there’s lots of law around,’ I said. ‘So I’m not looking forward to all that myself. I’m on my way to Hangman’s Wood later on this morning. She – Byrne – wants to question everyone who was at Silvertown Dock yesterday afternoon.’

‘Sounds a little excessive.’ Toyah smiled thinly. ‘There were sixty thousand people there yesterday.’

‘Everyone in the club, anyway. From the kitman to our star striker. Even Viktor Sokolnikov is going to be interviewed.’

‘Good. Because personally I’d put him at the top of a list of possible suspects.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Oh, come on. You know. His background in Russia. All of these oligarchs are dodgy, Scott. Viktor Sokolnikov more than most. Speaking for myself I never trusted him. I mean, you don’t like to disappoint people like that, do you? I’m quite certain that Zarco was afraid of him.’

‘No, he wasn’t,’ I said.

‘Aren’t you?’

‘No. Not in the least.’

‘I’m surprised. You’ve seen some of the thugs he has around him.’

‘They’re bodyguards. He has to be careful. Okay, I wouldn’t want to tangle with any of them. But Viktor’s okay. Really.’ I paused for a moment. ‘Look, he’s asked me to take over as manager, Toyah. I wanted you to be the first to know. Before I told anyone that I’ve said yes. It all seems too soon to be appointing someone new, but—’

‘But there’s a Capital One Cup match on Tuesday. Yes, I know.’ She nodded. ‘I appreciate you telling me, Scott. Just be sure you know what you’re getting into. And remember what I told you. That Zarco was afraid of him.’

‘Thanks for the warning. But in relation to what, exactly?’

‘You remember that Zarco made those remarks about the World Cup in Qatar.’

‘Of course.’

‘It was Viktor who put him up to it.’

‘For Christ’s sake, why?’

‘I don’t know. But I think it was something to do with the naming rights for the Crown of Thorns stadium. But don’t ask me to explain about that because I can’t.’

‘All right. But did you tell any of this to the police?’

‘That he was afraid of Viktor Sokolnikov? I might have mentioned it. But I didn’t mention the Qataris.’

‘What else did they ask you?’

‘Nothing specific. It was more general stuff, really. Did we have any threats at home? Any anonymous phone calls? Did he have any money worries?’

‘Did he?’

‘No, I don’t think so. But he never told me things that he thought might worry me. Anyway, she kept asking me about some photograph of Zarco that had been found in a hole in the pitch at the Crown of Thorns. I didn’t know anything about it. He didn’t tell me. I felt like such an idiot. Did you know about it?’

‘Yes. He told me to forget about it. Not to tell anyone. He thought it was just hooligans, and so did I. I expect he didn’t want you to worry.’

When the coffee was made I handed her a mug. She kept the hot mug in her hands for warmth and indeed it wasn’t very warm in the kitchen. I still had my coat on and was glad of it.

‘What did you tell her?’

‘About what? Threats? Enemies? That kind of thing?’

I nodded.

‘You mean apart from the threats and abuse you guys get during an away game at Liverpool? Or Man U? What was it they used to sing about him at the Stretford End?
One João Zarco, there’s only one João Zarco. With a zarky word and a cheeky smile, Zarco is a fucking paedophile
. Charming. I don’t know how you stand it, Scott. Really I don’t.’

‘It’s rough out there sometimes.’

‘Not that Zarco was any kind of saint. No one knew better than you, Scott, what he was like. He could wind people up like no one I’ve ever met before. Me included. I probably shouldn’t have told that detective that there were a couple of times when I could have killed him myself. But I did and there were.’

She sipped her coffee noisily.

‘So, yes,’ she said. ‘He had his enemies. I’d like to tell you that things were different at home. But we were never going to win any popularity contests around here, either. Since we started work on number twelve we’ve had numerous complaints. Not to mention several noise abatement actions. Ironic, isn’t it? Me having been in
Neighbours
for all those years. Zarco even managed to pick a fight with our bloody builders.’

‘What about?’

‘They demolished a bathroom in number twelve we’d planned to keep. There were these two Victorian baths, side by side and they just disappeared. Stolen, we think. Anyway, the matter was under dispute until a couple of weeks ago. So it looks like everything has been sorted out. But that hardly seems to matter now.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Go back to Oz,’ she said. ‘As soon as the funeral is over. Finish the house and sell it. I can’t bear it here. I couldn’t feel less welcome in this square if I was a bloody Nazi war criminal.’

I nodded. ‘Look, Toyah, I know this is difficult but if you do think of something – something that you think might help the police find out who killed him – then I’d appreciate a heads-up. It could be anything at all. Anything that strikes you as strange. Anything you didn’t know about. Something that might fill in a few blanks, perhaps. As you know I’ve got a few reasons for distrusting the police and I want to make damn sure that no stone is left unturned in finding Zarco’s killer. Even if I have to turn sleuth myself.’