January Window

by Philip Kerr

  Meanwhile the fourth official lifted his electronic board to reveal that we would play four minutes of extra time.

  But this was the moment I had been dreading. In memory of João Zarco the crowd began to sing another favourite City anthem – ‘Auf Wiedersehen Sweetheart’, as sung by Vera Lynn, which seemed especially appropriate on that particular night. No fans are as sentimental as football fans, which is another reason I love it – because I’m a sentimental bastard myself.

  Of course it’s one thing promising as the song says, not to let the teardrops start; it’s quite another to deliver on that when sixty thousand fans start singing a song like this one. Which is how I missed the fifth goal as well. I was crying my eyes out when the crowd around me jumped up as one; and again I had to wait for the replay on the big screen to see the goal.

  Having scored a superb goal himself, Zénobe now had a wonderful assist, running the length of the pitch, drawing two defenders onto himself and, leaving them both for dead, hitting a fantastic cross to the opposite side of the penalty box to find Iñárritu arriving like Bond’s Aston Martin at the end of Casino Royale. To say the Mexican boy struck the ball hard on the volley hardly describes what happened; he belted it – so hard that the ball turned in the air like a living thing, as if it was actually trying to avoid the keeper’s hands.

  5–3 and West Ham’s rout was complete. The match restarted with the crowd chanting for six.

  A minute later the referee blew full time and the dock erupted. It felt like the proudest moment of my life. As a fitting tribute to João Zarco it could not have been bettered.

  And this feeling was only enhanced by the realisation that I had almost certainly guessed the identity of Zarco’s murderer.

  48

  ‘Whatever happened to dinner?’ asked Louise Considine as we drove swiftly away from the dock in my Range Rover. The fans were still celebrating loudly and would be for the next few hours. There would be some sore heads at work tomorrow, I thought.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s not going to be any time for dinner,’ I said. ‘We’ve got something much more important to do right now.’

  ‘Like what? I’m hungry. What could be more important than feeding me?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘You really don’t mess around, do you?’ she said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, let’s see now; we’re driving west,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit too late to go to a restaurant in the West End. And since I’m supposed to be a detective I would surmise that we’re going back to your flat in Chelsea. Where I imagine you’re planning not to feed me but to take me to bed.’

  I didn’t answer. It was a nice idea and for a moment I let my imagination run free with it. She was a nice girl; bright, funny, and very pretty, and whenever I was with her I found it hard to believe she was in the police. And even harder to believe how much I liked her in spite of that. Taking Louise Considine to bed was a very attractive idea, and one that would probably keep me awake for the rest of the night. Especially now that she had led me to form the impression she was not averse to the idea.

  ‘I suppose you’re much too excited to eat after a match like that,’ she added. ‘I suppose you want to make the most of all that excitement. At your age I imagine you have to strike while the iron’s hot.’

  I grinned. ‘The Viagra of football? Yes, there might be something in that, I suppose. I’m not sure my heart could stand too much of it. But I do feel pretty high after what happened tonight. And at my age that doesn’t happen very often.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. I rather like the idea of you all sweaty and excited and keen to score.’

  I laughed. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Of course. I assumed that’s why you rushed us away from the ground when everyone else who was there seemed keen to celebrate. But I’m glad. As a matter of fact I’m rather keen to score myself. And after a match like that, I’m up for anything. Even extra time.’

  ‘How would that work?’

  ‘I was thinking that you might want me to stay for breakfast.’

  ‘You really do like my coffee, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure. Although I imagine the coffee’s only the second best thing I can put in my mouth while I’m there.’

  I laughed again; she really was a hell of a girl.

  ‘How old are you, anyway?’ she asked.

  ‘Forty. That’s not so old.’

  ‘It is for me. I’ve never slept with anyone over thirty. However, I do have a question, first.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘I was under the impression that you already had a girlfriend, Mr Manson.’

  ‘I did have one. Sonja gave me the sack on Sunday night.’

  ‘Did she give you a reason?’

  ‘She said that when she finishes work on a Friday she wants a proper weekend.’

  ‘Yes, I know what that’s like myself. I mean, I’ve had boyfriends who didn’t like the unsocial hours I keep.’

  ‘She wanted someone to go shopping with after a week at work. Stuff like that. A Saturday and a Sunday with newspapers, which doesn’t include football.’

  ‘And now you want to bring on a substitute. Is that it?’ Louise shrugged. ‘Well, why not? I’m cool with that, I suppose. Just as long as this isn’t a friends with benefits sort of thing.’

  ‘You’re hardly a friend,’ I said. ‘Besides, I already told you – I don’t much like the police.’

  She smiled a big smile. ‘How’s that working out?’

  ‘For some reason I seem to be getting over it.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’

  ‘And now I feel I really do owe you an apology.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Because I may have misled you. I wasn’t actually taking you to my flat in Chelsea at all.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  She sounded disappointed, which left me feeling pleased. I snatched up her hand and kissed it.

  ‘No, you don’t. Not yet. I’d like you to spend the night with me very much indeed, Louise. I can think of nothing nicer. And I sincerely hope you will. At the earliest opportunity. But the fact is, I’ve been investigating Zarco’s death myself; and right now I’m taking you to meet the person who I think killed him. So that you can get the collar and the credit.’

  Louise took her hand away and put it to her mouth. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’ve thought about almost nothing else but Zarco’s death since Saturday night and now I’m confident that I’ve found the culprit.’

  She turned in the passenger seat and let out a gasp. ‘Oh my God, you are serious, aren’t you? Jesus, Scott. Are you sure you know what the fuck you’re doing?’

  I told her a small part of what I now knew; she didn’t need to know about the bung and about the inside share deal; there was only part of the story she needed to know about now.

  ‘That does sound fairly convincing,’ she admitted. ‘And now I’m sort of embarrassed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve done my job, that’s why. How would you feel if I did your job?’

  ‘Anyone can do my job. Being a football manager is just selecting the best eggs.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Look, don’t you want the collar? This will be a big feather in your cap, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Well, yes. Of course. But—’

  ‘I’d much prefer you to get the credit than the bitch you’re working for. I’d rather not tell anyone than tell her.’

  ‘Jane Byrne? Yes, she is a bit of a bitch, isn’t she? But you know I really should inform her of what’s happening. Otherwise she’s going to have my guts.’

  ‘Why don’t you wait until we’ve confirmed my suspicions? You can tell her you didn’t know what I was going to do until I’d done it. That you had no choice but to wait for me to make my play.’

  She thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘All right. You’re
the manager.’

  ‘Besides, you owe me this after the way you handled telling me that it was Drenno’s friend Mackie who raped Mrs Fehmiu.’

  ‘That’s true.’ She winced. ‘Shit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It looks like I’m working tonight after all.’

  I grinned at her. ‘Did you have other plans?’

  ‘I did when I got into this car. Now they’ll have to wait. It’s disappointing.’

  ‘That’s how I feel about it, too.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad.’

  ‘But I have to see this all the way through. For Zarco’s sake.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I understand all that. But you’re going to have to make this up to me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’ She nodded. ‘Yes. When this is all over, I’d like you to take me to your lovely flat and do whatever you like to me for twenty-four hours. I would say forty-eight hours, but I know you’ve got an away game against Everton on Saturday.’

  ‘That’s quite an invitation, Louise.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Anything at all.’

  ‘Christ,’ I said. ‘No one has ever said anything like that to me.’

  I turned down a side street and stopped the car.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘Why have you stopped?’

  ‘I’m a bit old-fashioned,’ I said. ‘I can’t think about doing anything until I’ve kissed you.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ she said and then let herself be kissed; she even allowed my hand up her skirt.

  ‘Put your finger inside me,’ she said after a while. ‘Every time you touch your face I want you to know exactly what you missed having tonight.’

  49

  I pulled up outside Toyah Zarco’s big white house in Warwick Square and turned off the ignition. The car’s engine pinged like a pinball machine and the trees in the communal gardens shifted uneasily in the breeze. The policeman still on duty outside Toyah’s front door eyed us patiently. In his thick coat and protective vest his body looked too big for his legs; he might have made a good goalkeeper. The press had cleared off; somewhere else there was probably another widow in tears they wanted to film and harass with questions. A man walking his dog hauled the animal away from the tyres of my car before it could piss on them. The light from the full moon shone on a neat row of Boris bikes in front of the nearby church; it looked like a series of fitness machines in some weird, twenty-four-hour gym, as if the stained-glass window of Saint whatever-it-was might at any moment turn into a giant television set. But the church reminded me that I was going to Drenno’s funeral on Friday and that I was dreading it.

  ‘Do Drenno’s family know what Mackie did?’ I asked. ‘And that Drenno helped cover it up?’

  ‘No,’ said Louise. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Let’s leave it that way, can we?’ I asked. ‘At least until after the funeral.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘This feels weird,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It feels weird that it’s you who’s going to try to get a confession and not me.’

  ‘Relax. I already got a result tonight. I’m in the groove. Besides, I’m hoping I won’t have to say very much at all. That copper standing behind us should give us all the leverage I’m looking for.’

  ‘Just be careful. That’s all I want to say. This isn’t a game.’

  ‘What, and you think football is? After a match like the one you just saw you should know better than that.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘You’ve got your ID?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Just flash that copper your badge and put him under your command. I’m hoping you’ll do the same when you come to my flat. I like dominant women.’

  We got out of the car and walked up to the policeman. Frankly, he looked pleased to see us, like a dog that has been left for too long outside a supermarket.

  ‘Evening, sir,’ he said. ‘Good result tonight. Mr Zarco would have been very proud.’

  I’d forgotten the copper was a City fan. That was handy. ‘Thanks, Constable,’ I said. ‘I think he would.’

  ‘5–3. I just hope my Sky Plus was working.’

  ‘Let me know if it doesn’t and I’ll send you a DVD.’ I gave him my card; I was softening in my old age. I figured it was the effect that Louise Considine was having on me; she was living proof that not all coppers were bastards. Maybe there was still hope for me to become a decent, law-abiding member of society.

  She showed him her ID. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Considine,’ she said, ‘from Brent CID. What’s your name?’

  ‘Constable Harrison, ma’am. From Belgravia Police Station.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have thought they needed one in Belgravia,’ I said.

  ‘I need your help, Constable,’ said Louise. ‘Will you come with us, please?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, smartly. ‘What’s it all about?’

  ‘I’d rather not say yet,’ she replied.

  I led the way down the street, to the opposite side of the square.

  The mural of a house in front of number twelve rippled in the January wind as if a seismic event was about to take place in the quiet streets of Pimlico; and in a sense it was, at least for the inhabitants of the house next door. All of the lights were switched on. After the twenty grand I’d handed over they probably figured they didn’t need to worry about the electricity bill. As I mounted the front steps I glanced through a chink in the curtains drawn in front of the big window and saw Mrs Van de Merwe and her daughter reading while, sitting on the sofa, was a man watching television. But it wasn’t Mr Van de Merwe; it was another, younger, fitter man and he was watching the edited highlights of the match from Silvertown Dock on ITV. It’s odd how different a match you’ve seen live looks when you see it on television.

  I rang the ancient bell and we waited a while before the bolts were drawn and the door opened to reveal Mr Van de Merwe. As he caught sight of the policeman standing behind me his Adam’s apple shifted under his collar like a small, sleepless man.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, in a tone of quiet resignation. ‘You’d better come in.’

  The three of us trooped into the hall. Constable Harrison closed the door behind us and immediately made the house seem small. There were several suitcases on the floor, as if the Van de Merwes were going somewhere – South Africa, probably – but if I was right, a passport to Pimlico was all they were going to need for the present.

  We went into the sitting room, where the sight of Constable Harrison brought everyone to their feet. Mariella folded her arms and turned away immediately, while her mother stifled a short wail with the back of her hand, and sat down again; she took out a dainty embroidered handkerchief and started to cry.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Considine, from Brent CID.,’ I explained. ‘And Constable Harrison. Detective Inspector Considine has been investigating the death of João Zarco at Silvertown Dock on Saturday.’

  I didn’t call it murder; I figured we had more chance of securing a full confession now if I tried to play down the gravity of what had happened.

  ‘Which I think you know about, Mr Cruikshank.’ I was speaking to the man who had been watching the television. He was about thirty-five years old, six feet tall, stocky, with light brown hair and green eyes, and he was wearing jeans and a thick blue woollen pullover that looked as if it had been knitted by his mother-in-law.

  ‘It is Mr Cruikshank, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said dully. He sighed and then closed his eyes for several seconds. ‘It was an accident,’ he added. ‘Please believe me when I say that I didn’t mean it to happen.’

  ‘I think you’d better tell us exactly what did happen,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, I think I had,’ he said.

  ‘Do you mind if we si
t down?’ I asked.

  ‘No, please, go ahead.’

  He pointed at the vacant sofa on which Louise, Constable Harrison and I now arranged ourselves, and then turned off the television.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ he asked.

  We shook our heads.

  ‘Do you mind if I do?’ he said. ‘I think I need one.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said.

  He helped himself to a large whisky from a bottle of Laphroaig, emptied the glass and poured himself another.

  ‘Dutch courage,’ he said, sitting down in front of us.

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t have some of that on Saturday,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? By the way, how did you—?’

  ‘You were on Mr Zarco’s guest list of complimentary tickets, Mr Cruikshank,’ I said. ‘On its own, of course, that wouldn’t have been evidence that you killed him. But the piece of ceiling moulding you gave him when you met was still in his pocket when his body was recovered.’

  I glanced up at the ceiling, and then from my coat pocket took out a photograph of the chunk of ceiling moulding photographed by someone at the East Ham Mortuary.

  ‘It matches the piece missing from this ceiling. The piece that you gave him when you were complaining about his builders next door. It was them who caused the damage, wasn’t it?’

  Cruikshank nodded. ‘You’ve no idea the distress this building work has caused my wife’s parents,’ he said. ‘Day in, day out. They’re old. They’ve a right to the quiet enjoyment of their retirement.’

  Mr Van de Merwe went and sat beside his wife on another sofa, and together they gave every impression of two old people who were trying to enjoy their retirement, quietly.

  ‘I can understand that,’ I said.

  ‘Can you?’ said Mariella, bitterly. ‘I doubt that very much. This whole sorry saga has driven us bloody mad, I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘Please, Mariella,’ said her husband. ‘Let me handle this. By myself. The way I should have handled it before.’

  ‘So, Zarco gave you tickets,’ I said. ‘For Saturday’s match and tonight’s match, too. As a sign of good faith, perhaps. A little token to help continue the dialogue you’d already had in the hope of resolving your dispute.’