January Window

by Philip Kerr

  ‘I know you’re feeling very upset, Mr Manson. I know because we were all just watching your very moving speech on YouTube.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, it seems that someone recorded it on a mobile phone and uploaded it while you were driving here.’

  ‘That was supposed to be private,’ I murmured.

  ‘Bloody footballers,’ said Phil. ‘Some of them haven’t got the sense they were born with.’ He shook his head wearily and then pointed at a drinks trolley with so many bottles and glasses it looked like the city of London. ‘Would you like a drink, Scott? You look as if you need one.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll have a large cognac, Phil.’

  ‘How about you, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘No, thank you, sir.’ She handed me her iPad. ‘Here. See for yourself.’

  I looked at the iPad and saw a paused picture of myself near the end of my little eulogy about Zarco; the title tag was A Tribute to João Zarco: ‘The greatest football manager that ever lived’, by Scott Manson. Someone called Football Fan 69 had uploaded it.

  ‘It was a fine speech, Scott,’ said Ronnie. ‘You should be proud.’

  ‘Fifteen thousand views already,’ said Maurice. ‘And it’s been up there for less than an hour.’

  ‘It was supposed to be private,’ I repeated dumbly, handing her back the iPad and taking a large cognac from Phil Hobday’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Nothing about João Zarco is private now,’ said Jane Byrne. ‘At least not until his killer is caught.’

  ‘His killer?’

  ‘That’s certainly what it looks like,’ she said. ‘The body was quite badly beaten up.’

  With a movement of her hand she invited me to sit down. She spoke very clearly and very deliberately as if she were speaking to someone who wasn’t very bright. Or perhaps she just realised that I was still feeling numb with shock.

  ‘I’m in charge of this investigation,’ she explained, and introduced some of the other policemen who were also present in the room – names that went in one ear and out the other.

  She watched me carefully as I drained the glass and let Phil pour me another.

  ‘I know as little as you about what happened, so if you don’t mind, Mr Manson, I’ll ask the questions for the present.’

  I nodded again as she hit an app on her iPhone that would record our conversation.

  ‘When and where did you last see Mr Zarco?’

  ‘This morning at about eleven o’clock. We were at the club’s training facility in Hangman’s Wood where, as usual on the day of a match, we picked the team; then he left to attend a lunch here, in this room. At least that’s where he told me he was going.’ I sighed as it began to hit me again. ‘Yes, that was the last time I saw him. And also the last time I spoke to him.’

  ‘What time did he arrive here?’ she asked Phil.

  ‘About eleven thirty.’

  ‘What was his mood when he left Hangman’s Wood?’

  ‘He seemed to be in an excellent mood,’ I said. ‘We had a good result against Leeds in the week and we both thought we were going to win this afternoon. Which we did.’

  She glanced at Phil. ‘And when he got here? How was he then?’

  ‘Still in a good mood,’ Phil confirmed. ‘Never better.’

  ‘I shall want to interview everyone who was at that lunch,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Phil. ‘I’ll fix it.’

  Jane Byrne looked at me. ‘Mr Hobday has told me about the grave that was found dug into the pitch about ten days ago. And I’ve read the police report of that incident. According to the investigating detective, Detective Inspector Neville, you weren’t very cooperative with that inquiry, Mr Manson. Why was that, please?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Let’s just say that I was more inclined than your detective to think it was just a hole that had been made by vandals and an inevitable corollary of the kind of fanatical support that clubs get in the modern game.’

  ‘It looks like you were wrong, doesn’t it? Especially in view of the fact that a photograph of Mr Zarco was found in the grave. This photograph.’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘It looks like the photograph, or it looks like you were wrong?’

  I shrugged. ‘Both.’

  ‘Why did you choose not to inform DI Neville about the discovery of this photograph?’

  ‘Like I say, the police missed it when they were here and it didn’t seem worth bringing them back again. I figured if they’d really been doing their job properly they’d have found it in the first place. Anyway, it really wasn’t my decision. After all, it wasn’t a photograph of me we’re talking about. Zarco was the boss around here. That’s what being a football manager means, Chief Inspector. He said jump, we said how high. Quite literally, sometimes. So it was very much down to him what we did when we were here. And he said we should forget all about it.’

  ‘So he didn’t seem alarmed by it?’

  ‘Not in the least. You have to remember this: that threats against football managers are an occupational hazard. Speak to Neil Lennon at Celtic, or Ally McCoist at Rangers – they’ll tell you.’

  ‘But they’re in Glasgow, aren’t they? This is London. Things are a little less tribal down here, surely?’

  ‘Perhaps. Which is probably why Zarco didn’t take it seriously when we found his picture in that grave. And why he chose not to report the matter to Detective Inspector Neville.’

  ‘But now he’s dead and here we are with a mystery.’

  ‘Yes. It would seem so. The Silvertown Dock Mystery.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  ‘No, say it.’

  ‘It’s just that there was a film made donkey’s years ago. A creaky old black and white movie called The Arsenal Stadium Mystery, in which a player gets murdered.’

  ‘I must check that out on DVD.’

  ‘I could give you my own copy. But to be honest, I wouldn’t bother. It really is very old and not at all relevant.’

  ‘Have you any ideas as to who might have killed Mr Zarco?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Are you being serious?’

  ‘Yes. Look, this is football, not organised crime.’

  ‘Really? Come on, Mr Manson. From what I’ve read and heard João Zarco was a man who’d made a lot of enemies.’

  ‘Who doesn’t make enemies in football? Look, I’m not going to sit here and say who they were. Zarco was a man of strong opinions. Sometimes his passion for the game of football upset people. But enemies who might have killed him?’ I shook my head. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Enemies like who, for instance?’

  ‘Please. I just lost a very close friend. And this on top of the suicide, not so very long ago, of another man I was also fond of. Matt Drennan. Perhaps you’ll ask me again when I’m thinking straight. But at this particular moment in time I’m not really in the mood to provide you with a list of possible suspects. Perhaps in the morning.’

  ‘Don’t you want us to find out who killed him?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Then the sooner you feel inclined to help the sooner we’ll catch whoever killed him.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now we’re getting to it,’ she said. ‘To the real reason you don’t want to help us with our inquiry, perhaps.’

  ‘With all due respect, and under the circumstances, I think Mr Manson has been more than helpful so far,’ observed Ronnie Leishmann.

  ‘That’s your opinion,’ said the Detective Chief Inspector. ‘Mr Manson’s hostility to the police is a matter of public record.’

  ‘As is the hostility of the police towards me,’ I said. ‘I believe the same public record will show that the police consistently lied about me in court and conspired to have me falsely imprisoned. And by the way, just in case you feel like you want to wrap this case
up very quickly, I have an alibi for the whole of today. There were more than sixty thousand people out there who were watching me all afternoon. Not to mention two and a half million people on telly. When they weren’t watching my every move I was in the dressing room with the team. I like to get naked with other men, if you were wondering.’

  She seemed about to say something, and then smiled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You’re perfectly right, of course. And I apologise. If I’d been through what you’ve been through then I suppose I might very well feel the same way about the police as you do. It’s perfectly shameful what happened to you, Mr Manson. Really it is. Look, let’s start again, shall we?’ She stood up and held out her hand. ‘Jane Byrne. Will you accept my word that I’m not here to protect the reputation of the Met but to apprehend Mr Zarco’s killer? And may I offer my sincere condolences on the death of Mr Zarco?’

  I took her hand. ‘You know, you’re the second police officer I’ve met who seems like a nice person.’

  ‘You mean there are two of us? Christ, who’s the other?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Louise Considine, from the police station at Brent.’

  ‘Maybe you just prefer police officers who are women.’

  ‘There might be something in that. Anyway, she’s the officer investigating Matt Drennan’s suicide.’

  ‘Well, that’s a sort of crime, I suppose.’ She frowned. ‘At least it used to be. By the way, how well did you know Zarco?’

  ‘Zarco? As well as anyone, I suppose. I’ve known him since I was a boy. Back in the nineties, when he was playing for Celtic towards the end of his career, Zarco was the first footballer to endorse a pair of Pedila boots. Pedila is a sports shoe company owned by my father.’

  ‘And how did you come to work with him?’

  ‘I got my UEFA certificates in 2010 and accepted a trainee coaching role with Pep Guardiola at Barcelona. Then, in 2011 I became the first team trainee coach at Bayern where I was working with Jupp Heynckes, who was another old friend of my dad. Then, when Zarco came back here in the summer, I agreed to be his assistant manager.’

  ‘How do you mean, “came back here”?’

  I smiled. ‘I’ll let Mr Hobday explain that, I think.’

  ‘Oh, Zarco was manager at this football club before,’ explained Phil. ‘Seven years ago. Before we were in the Premier League. He managed it very successfully, too. It was João who helped get us promoted. And then he left.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Um, he was sacked, by Mr Sokolnikov. They had very different ideas as to how to run this club. As you might expect, they’re both very strong personalities, which meant that they didn’t really get on that well. Not back then. We had a series of managers after that. But none of them worked out as well as Zarco and the fans kept on demanding his return. So that’s what happened. Second time around they got on famously. Wouldn’t you agree, Scott?’

  I nodded. ‘Both of them got older and richer,’ I said. ‘Became a little wiser, perhaps.’

  ‘I shall want to speak to Mr Sokolnikov,’ said Jane Byrne. ‘Tomorrow, I think.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Phil, ‘just tell me when and I’ll arrange it.’

  ‘By the way,’ I said. ‘Zarco’s wife, Toyah.’ I shook my head. ‘Don’t ask her to formally identify the body. She’s rather highly strung. I’ll do it.’

  She nodded. ‘If you like. Since you say you knew him so well.’

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll answer all of your questions,’ I said. ‘Anything you like. And so will the players. Well, you’ve already heard what I told them, on your iPad. I’ll assemble the players and playing staff at Hangman’s Wood and then bring them here on the team coach.’

  ‘Thank you. Shall we say ten o’clock?’

  I looked at Phil, who nodded.

  ‘Until then,’ I said, ‘I have one request. I’d like to see where it happened.’

  She was quiet for a moment, thinking about it.

  ‘I don’t want to leave any flowers or a teddy bear,’ I said, ‘I just want to see the spot where he died and then say a short prayer for him.’

  She nodded. ‘All right. But give me a few minutes to sort that out with the CSU.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘There’s something I want to get from my office anyway. I’ll come back here and find you. All right?’

  Jane Byrne glanced at her watch. ‘Nine o’clock, okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Before going to my office I went into the men’s toilet to splash my face. Drinking those two cognacs had been a mistake.

  When I came out again I saw Jane Byrne in the corridor. She had her back to me; she was on her mobile and ducked into the ladies’ toilet so that she could hold a private conversation. I paused outside the door for a moment and then pushed it gently open. There was a wall that ran halfway between the door and the cubicles. I could hear her on the other side, walking up and down while she was speaking; on the tiled floor her high heels sounded higher than I remembered them. Quietly, I stepped through the door and listened to what she was saying. Where the police are concerned it’s always a good idea to know what they’re up to. And since Jane Byrne was at that moment the only woman in the building, I felt sure I wouldn’t be discovered.

  The Detective Chief Inspector’s accent had changed. There was more south London in it now, and rather more malice in what she was saying than perhaps even I had expected:

  ‘. . .beat the shit out of him, apparently. That’s what it looks like, anyway. Zarco’s head was pretty badly swollen… Yes, even more than normal… The CSU says it looks so badly fractured that even if he had survived, chances are he’d have suffered some sort of brain damage… Where was he? That’s rather hard to describe. The trouble with modern architecture is that it creates lots of forgotten little places and that’s what this looks like. It’s a cross between a shaft and an alcove. Concrete floor, steel girders, wire fence but open to the elements and covered in bird shit. The security guy I spoke to said it’s a maintenance area but if it is I don’t know what they can be maintaining – other than the steel girders that make up the actual crown of thorns. There was a door at ground level… That’s right… Yes, an ideal place to rough someone up but then again, whoever did it must have had access to the key because the door was locked… I imagine Zarco did. He must have gone there willingly with whoever it was that worked him over… No, a fall doesn’t make sense; there’s nowhere I can see that he could have fallen from… Yes… I’m with them now… Well, you know, they’re bloody footballers – with most of them there’s a peculiar combination of stupidity and ego… I’m dealing with a club chairman who’s as slippery as a fucking eel and a team coach who’s Derek Bentley channelling the Guildford Four. Yeah, Scott Manson. And I haven’t even seen the Russian oligarch who owns this place yet. I’d love to read the Ukrainian police file on that bastard. I bet it’s as thick as a fucking toilet roll. That reminds me, Clive – I want all the files on Manson. I want his life story on my desk when I get back to the Yard. Oh, and Clive, I need this bastard softened up a bit to ensure his more-than-willing cooperation. DI Neville – the copper who came here to investigate that grave in the pitch – he said Manson was an awkward bastard. Right now I’m having to lick his balls just to get him to name a few potential suspects. So, get a local patrol car to do a tug on his motor and give him an alco test. He’s had two large ones since he’s been here. I’ll get one of my officers to text over the index in a few minutes. And Clive? See if you can draft a DI Louise Considine from Brent Police onto my team. And Neville, too, if his guvnor will stand it…’

  I’d heard enough to know where I stood with the nice policewoman.

  I came out of the ladies’ and went back along the corridor. Phil Hobday followed me as he exited the dining room; his office was near mine and he said he wanted to make some calls, but halfway there he stopped me.

  ‘When you’re through with her,’ he said, ‘Viktor wants you to drop in to KPG for a tal
k.’

  KPG was Kensington Palace Gardens, the ultra-exclusive road in Kensington where Viktor lived in a seventy-million-pound mansion.

  I paused. ‘What about?’

  Phil shrugged. ‘I don’t know. No, really, I have no idea. And I wouldn’t dream of trying to second-guess Viktor Sokolnikov. It’s on your way home.’

  ‘All right.’ I glanced at the enormous Hublot on my wrist. ‘But I might be late.’

  ‘How long does it take to say a prayer? I didn’t even know you were religious.’

  ‘I am if it involves the people I love.’

  ‘So what time shall I say you’ll be there?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on, Scott. This is Viktor we’re talking about, not a drink in the Star Tavern.’

  The Star was the posh pub in Belgravia where occasionally I met Phil for a drink. Calling it a pub at all was a bit like calling Phil’s Rolls-Royce a motor car.

  ‘Then tell him ten thirty.’

  ‘All right. And by the way, good work back there, the way you turned that cop around.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’

  ‘Not bad-looking, though.’

  ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

  Phil grinned. ‘As a matter of fact I do. I like that sort of thing very much indeed.’

  ‘Ambitious, I should say.’

  ‘I like that, too.’

  Outside Zarco’s door was a uniformed policeman who was checking his mobile phone. I nodded at him and went into my own adjoining office; the poor copper wasn’t to know that there was a door connecting Zarco’s office with mine and that the minute my door was closed I was through there with the flashlight app on my iPhone to see what I could discover on his desk and in his drawers. I knew there were some sex-toys and bondage paraphernalia – a remote-control vibrator and handcuffs – that no one needed to know about. It wasn’t simply the fact that I didn’t trust the police to find their own arseholes, let alone Zarco’s murderer; it was also that I had his reputation to protect, and not just his reputation but the club’s as well. The Met has a habit of selling sidebar stories to newspapers when they’re supposed to be doing something else; and the newspapers have a habit of burying the people they’ve already praised. Like my old friend Gary Speed; once you’re dead, and they’ve said a few nice things about you and wrung their handkerchiefs a bit, then they can say what the fuck they like. Of course, I already had Zarco’s ‘play phone’ and his ‘something else’ phone in my drawer, but I had to make sure there was nothing that might have left my friend’s family having to deal with a tabloid exposé: The Real João Zarco, or The João Zarco Nobody Knew. Or just as bad, a Twitter storm. Fuck that.