January Window

by Philip Kerr

  ‘I see.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s disappointing.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Christoph. Truly I wish I could tell you something different. But best keep it quiet, eh? At least until your career is over. And then talk about it. The same way Thomas Hitzlsperger did.’

  He nodded. ‘All right. If you think it’s best.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief as he went out of the door.

  But Christoph Bündchen wasn’t the only one at London City with a secret that had required me to play counsellor. The fact that Zarco was having an affair with Claire Barry, who was the club’s acupuncturist, had become common knowledge at Hangman’s Wood – so common that I had felt prompted to speak to him about it. Me, of all people, offering him advice on the wisdom of having an affair with a woman who was herself married. Claire was a decent woman but her husband, Sean, was a bit of a thug; and if he wasn’t he knew plenty who were. He ran a private security company that did a lot of work in the Gulf States, which meant he was frequently away; he also employed a lot of people who were used to solving problems with violence.

  ‘People are beginning to talk about you and her,’ I’d said over the Christmas holidays, which is a very busy time for an acupuncturist at a football club, as you might perhaps imagine. ‘Tell me to fuck off and mind my own business if you like, but I’m your friend. You’ve been good to me and I wouldn’t like to see anything happen to you, João. The press would love to give you a going-over for something like this. Remember what happened to John Terry. They think you’re an arrogant bastard and they’re just waiting to catch you out. So why don’t you cool it for a while? I’m not telling you to forget her. That’s up to you. All I’m doing is telling you to keep it zipped for a while. Just to put people off the scent.’

  He listened quietly, and then nodded. ‘You’re right, Scott. You were quite right to tell me. And thanks. I’d no idea this was well known at the club. I appreciate it, my friend. And I’ll certainly do as you say. I’ll tell her it’s got to stop.’

  Of course, Zarco completely ignored me. How do I know that? I don’t for sure. But a couple of days before the Newcastle game I noticed he had a packet of single-use, sterile acupuncture needles on his desk. He saw me pick them up and offered an explanation before I could even mention it.

  ‘Claire’s been showing me how to treat my own knee,’ he said, taking the needles out of my hand.

  ‘In here?’

  ‘Yes, in here.’

  ‘You mean you sit in here and stick needles in your own knee?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. What else would I be doing with these needles?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Like a lot of ex-players Zarco suffered from painful knees and acupuncture was able to provide a more effective and safer form of pain relief than drugs and creams. That wasn’t what was suspicious. It was him dropping the needles in the bin while he was talking that made the explanation sound so lame it needed crutches. It looked like someone getting rid of evidence and frankly, given the number of strokes he pulled, he ought to have been a bit better at it. For example, I knew he had three mobile phones: one for work, one for play and one for something else. The play phone and the one for something else he kept in a drawer in one of the filing cabinets in my office and took them out when he needed them; we both knew without him having to ask that this was fine with me. This was just one of his funny little ways and something you had to put up with if you were ever going to be a trusted friend of Zarco’s. You’ve heard of mate’s rates; well this was mate’s traits.

  ‘You should get her to show you how to do it,’ he said. ‘Maybe you could treat your ankle in the same way. There’s no need to be squeamish about needles, you know. It’s just one prick.’

  For a brief irresponsible moment I considered telling him that he was the only prick I knew about before I thought better of it; he was the boss, after all, and if he was still shagging Claire Barry, it was none of my business.

  Nor was it any of my business when, one afternoon, I dropped into a BP service station near Hangman’s Wood to put petrol in my Range Rover. Now the club had an account at the nearest Shell garage and Viktor Sokolnikov always picked up the tab for everyone’s fuel, a perk the taxman knew nothing about and which was worth several hundred pounds a week, especially when you were driving a Ferrari or an Aston Martin, as most of the players did at City. Consequently, no one ever went to the BP garage about three miles further on where they had to pay for petrol. No one except me, that is, for I had always been scrupulously honest in all my dealings with the Inland Revenue and I always paid for my own fuel. Untaxed perks were definitely not my thing. When you’ve been to prison you never want to go back there.

  Zarco was sitting in his left-hand drive Overfinch Range Rover – identical to my own – which was parked next to a white Ferrari. He was having an animated discussion with the owner of the Ferrari, who I recognised immediately. It was Paolo Gentile, the agent who had handled Kenny Traynor’s transfer. Now when you’re a coach you see a lot in and around a football club that turns out to be not your business, and sometimes, if you want to keep your job, you learn to keep your fucking mouth shut. I learned that in the nick.

  So I drove away again without even stopping.

  12

  ‘You’re a bloody little genius,’ I told Colin Evans.

  Colin blushed. He and I and Zarco and Viktor Sokolnikov were standing on the centre spot at Silvertown Dock. I’d brought a ball and had already bounced it several times just to see how it moved on top of the newly repaired surface. Then I tossed the ball in the air and began to play keepy-uppy, all the time trying to test what the spot felt like underneath my feet. I couldn’t tell that anything was different.

  ‘Yup,’ I said. ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Zarco and clapped the Welshman on the back. ‘You’ve done a great job, Colin. I’m really very appreciative.’

  ‘We aim to please,’ said Colin.

  Viktor was comparing the picture that I’d emailed to his iPhone with the ground we were standing on. ‘Incredible,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t know there had ever been anything wrong here.’ He chuckled. ‘You know, the next time I have a dead body to bury quickly and without a trace, remind me to contact Colin. We can do it right here.’

  I almost gasped. That was typical of Viktor Sokolnikov: making a joke out of a rumour that would have been acutely embarrassing to anyone else. Then again he was in a very good mood about something that wasn’t anything to do with the pitch. His face was tanned and he was wearing an enormous Canada Goose coat that would not have looked out of place worn by Sir Ranulph Fiennes at the South Pole. In spite of the bitter January cold he was smiling broadly.

  ‘Come to think of it,’ he added, ‘I wouldn’t mind being buried here myself. As mausoleums go, I think the Crown of Thorns would be perfect.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Zarco. ‘You paid for it, Viktor.’

  ‘But I’d have to do it in secret,’ said Viktor. ‘The local council would never give me planning permission to get buried here. Not without a great deal of arm-twisting. And bribery, of course. You always need that. Even in this country.’

  ‘We’ll bury you in secret, if that’s what you want. Won’t we, guys? Just like Genghis Khan.’

  Colin and I nodded. ‘Sure. Whatever you want, Mr Sokolnikov.’

  Viktor chuckled. ‘Hey, take your time there. Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I’m in no hurry to be under the ground. Let’s think about burying Newcastle here tomorrow before it’s my turn.’

  ‘After the Leeds match?’ said Zarco. ‘We’re unstoppable. Xavier Pepe’s goal was probably the best goal I’ve ever seen in all my years as a manager. And Christoph Bündchen already looks like a star. The team is riding high, right now. Those Newcastle boys will be crapping themselves.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Viktor. ‘But we mustn’t be overconfident, eh? We have a saying in Ukraine. The devil always takes back his gift
s. I hear that Aaron Abimbole is going to be fit.’

  Before signing for Newcastle in the summer, Aaron Abimbole had played for London City, and Manchester United, and AC Milan. In fact he collected clubs like some people collect air miles. The Nigerian was one of the highest-paid players in the Premier League and generally held to be one of the most temperamental, too; when he was good he was very, very good but when he was bad he was total crap. Abimbole’s leaving London City – during Zarco’s first tenure at the club – had been acrimonious, and prior to his departure relations with the Portuguese manager, who had bought him from the French club Lens, had become so bad that Abimbole had set fire to Zarco’s brand new Bentley in the club car park.

  ‘So what?’ said Zarco. ‘This particular Aaron doesn’t have a brother called Moses, so I don’t think we have anything to worry about.’

  ‘He’s already scored twenty goals for Newcastle this season,’ said Viktor. ‘That’s twice as many as he scored for us when he was here. Maybe we should worry about that.’

  ‘He’s lazy,’ insisted Zarco. ‘I never saw a lazier player, which is why clubs don’t keep him. He only scores when it’s up his back to do so but he never tracks back. Not like Rooney. You have Rooney, you have a great striker and a dogged defender. When you have Abimbole all you have is a lazy cunt.’

  Clearly the United fans had thought the same way as Zarco; I remember watching him play for MU against Fulham and the fans singing, ‘Abimbole, Abimbole, He’s a lazy arsehole, And he should be on the dole’. You had to laugh.

  ‘Besides,’ added Zarco, ‘Scott here has a brilliant plan to fuck with his mind. Wait and see, boss. We’re going to put the hex on him.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  Viktor glanced at his watch; unlike the rest of us he wore a cheap Timex. The first time I’d seen it I’d checked it out on Google in case it was actually a valuable antique, but it cost just £7.50, which was another reason why I liked Viktor – most of the time he wasn’t in the least bit flashy; my suits from Kilgour were probably ten times more expensive than his. He was wearing the coat because it was cold. Only the billionaire’s Berluti shoes were expensive. And the Rolls-Royce Phantom in the car park, of course.

  ‘And now I’d best be going,’ he said. ‘I have an important meeting in the City. See you guys at the match on Saturday. Don’t forget, João, you’re coming to that pre-match lunch I’m hosting in the executive dining room for the RBG.’ RBG was the Royal Borough of Greenwich.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world, boss,’ said Zarco, drily.

  ‘Good. Because you’re the trophy guest,’ said Viktor. ‘At least you would be if we had any bloody trophies.’ Laughing, he walked back to the players’ tunnel, leaving the three of us staring at our much cheaper shoes.

  ‘Cheeky bastard,’ said Zarco.

  ‘He’s in a good mood,’ I replied.

  ‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ said Colin.

  ‘I know why, too,’ said Zarco. ‘This morning the RBG planning committee is going to announce that it has granted permission for the new Thames Gateway Bridge. It’s going to be worth a lot of money to Viktor’s company because they are building it, of course. That’s why he’s bringing the RBG council here for lunch on Saturday. To celebrate.’

  ‘But he’s paying for the bridge, isn’t he?’ I said. ‘Rather a lot if the newspapers are correct.’

  ‘He’s paying for some of it, yes. But don’t forget, the Thames Gateway is going to be a toll bridge. And the only bridge between Tower Bridge and the QEII Bridge. That’s exactly ten kilometres of river either side of where it will be built. Fifty thousand vehicles a day – that’s what they estimate. At five pounds a time, that’s two hundred and fifty grand a day, gentlemen.’

  ‘Five quid? Who’s going to pay that?’ asked Colin.

  ‘It costs six quid to get across the Severn Bridge into Wales.’

  ‘Surely it should be six quid to get out of Wales,’ I muttered.

  ‘It’s only two quid to go through the Dartford Tunnel,’ persisted Colin.

  ‘Yes, but it takes forever,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Zarco. ‘So you do the math. They reckon the new bridge will make more than eighty million a year, just in tolls, and pay for itself in less than five years. You see? It only looks like philanthropy for five years, then it starts to look like very good business. He owns the bridge for the next ten years after that, before he gives it as a gift to the people of the RBG; but by then he’ll have made at least eight hundred million. Maybe more.’

  ‘No wonder he’s smiling,’ I said.

  ‘He’s not smiling,’ said Zarco. ‘He’s laughing. All the way to the Sumy Capital Bank of Geneva. Which, by the way, he also owns.’

  ‘That must come in handy when you need an overdraft,’ said Colin.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Zarco shook his head and smiled, wryly. ‘Trophy guest, indeed. He never misses an opportunity to have a little dig at me.’

  ‘Talking of having a dig,’ said Colin, ‘that copper came back here, to the Crown of Thorns. Detective Inspector Neville. He wasn’t very pleased to see we’d filled in and grassed over the hole.’

  ‘What did he expect us to do with it?’ snarled Zarco. ‘Play around it?’

  ‘He said we should have let him know we were going to fill it in. That it was evidence. That they hadn’t had time to take a photograph.’

  ‘I’ll send him a photograph of a hole,’ I said. ‘Only it won’t be a hole in the ground.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ asked Zarco. ‘The cop. You didn’t tell him about my photograph, I hope.’

  ‘No, of course not. Look, all I told him was what Scott told me to tell him. That he took full responsibility.’

  ‘What did he say to that?’

  ‘He said that suing the Metropolitan Police successfully had made you too big for your boots and that it was time someone took you down a peg or two.’

  ‘He said that?’

  Colin nodded.

  ‘The cunt. You’re sure it was me he was talking about and not João?’

  Colin nodded again.

  ‘Hey, don’t drag me into this,’ said Zarco. ‘I’ve enough enemies already.’

  ‘You’ve noticed that too, huh?’

  13

  João Zarco had been on the front of GQ and Esquire and was frequently voted the best-dressed man in football; on match day he cut a very dapper figure in his Zegna suits, cashmere coats and silk scarves. Sometimes he seemed to be as famous for his designer stubble, his Tiffany cufflinks and his bling watches as for his candid thoughts about football. Perhaps that’s not a surprise; these days you don’t just judge a club by results but by the style of the manager, and if you doubt that then ask yourself this: if you were obliged to support a club because of the manager, who would you choose? José Mourinho or Sir Alex Ferguson? Pep Guardiola or David Moyes? Diego Simeone or Rafa Benitez? AVB or Guus Hiddink? These days it’s not just the image rights of players that are important to football clubs; how a manager looks can actually affect the club’s share price. Winning is no longer enough on its own; winning while looking good is the essence of the modern game.

  I like good suits but I think it’s important that, unlike the manager, the coach dresses like his players on a match day. Besides, it looks a bit weird if you take charge of the warm-up in a tailor-made whistle that cost five grand. I don’t like tracksuits very much but I always wear one on the day of a match; picking training cones off the pitch and doing mountain climbs alongside the lads is just easier in a tracksuit.

  London City is nicknamed Vitamin C because the club colours are orange and because it’s good for you; no one in east London gives a fuck about Ukraine’s Orange Revolution in 2004, which is why the club colours are orange in the first place. A lot of modern kit looks like it was designed by the art class in a primary school. You expect African World Cup sides to wear shirts that look like shit, and even a few Scotti
sh ones, but not big European sides. Was there ever a worse kit than the one Athletico Bilbao wore in 2004, which looked like some fat bloke’s intestines?

  City’s kit was designed by Stella McCartney, and so were the tracksuits. I don’t mind the kit so much: the orange makes your players easy to see on the park, and on a foggy night in Leeds that can be a real advantage. It’s the equivalent of playing golf with an orange ball; it seems that seventy-three per cent of golfers find a vividly coloured ball easier to see in flight and on the grass. Come to think of it, that must be why I’m so crap at golf.

  In truth, Sonja likes the City tracksuits better than I do. It helps that hers is a size too small and when she wears it she looks just like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill: Volume 1, only without the Hattori Hanzo¯ sword. But when I’m wearing an orange tracksuit I look like a fucking carrot. We all do. Which is why some rival supporters call us cat shit; apparently some cat shit is orange. You learn something every day.

  When Sonja puts her tracksuit on it’s all I can do not to put my hands inside her bottoms, so I usually don’t bother trying to resist the temptation; unless it’s the day of a big game when, out of solidarity with my players – who are supposed to refrain from sex on the day of a match in order to keep their testosterone levels high – I do my best not to touch her. Testosterone helps players remain aggressive and it’s generally held that aggression helps sportsmen to win. Of course, Sonja knows I find her sexy when she’s wearing the tracksuit and, on a match-day morning, she often wears it anyway and then goes out of her way to be sexually provocative; I don’t know what else you’d call it when she wears the tracksuit bottoms a little too far down her butt and with a tiny bit of dental floss that masquerades as a pair of knickers. Then again she never has knickers like that on for very long; not when I’m around.

  You wouldn’t believe how different Sonja looks when she goes off to her Knightsbridge consulting rooms to listen to girls discuss their eating disorders – anorexic girls on Tuesdays and Thursdays, fat girls on Mondays and Wednesdays: it wouldn’t ever do for them to be in the same waiting room. She doesn’t think my jokes on that subject are very funny, however.