by Philip Kerr
I went into the bathroom, closed the door, and sat down on the toilet. I think this is what they call multi-tasking. There were several texts from a variety of sports reporters asking me to call them but these I ignored, for the moment; better to get it from the horse’s mouth, I thought, already imagining some scandal involving Ayrton Taylor, mouthing off to a newspaper perhaps. Or getting himself into trouble with another player’s wife, again; he wasn’t such an example of good sportsmanship when it came to shagging someone else’s missus.
‘What’s up, Maurice?’
‘I thought you should know, as soon as possible,’ said Maurice. ‘A pal who works for the Met has just given me the heads-up on this. And I think you ought to prepare yourself for a shock. The police have found a body hanging from the railings along Wembley Way.’ He paused. ‘It’s Drenno. He’s only gone and hanged himself.’
‘Oh, fuck, no,’ I said. ‘The stupid, stupid bastard.’
We were silent for several seconds.
‘You know his wife is in the same hospital as Didier,’ said Maurice.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Drenno beat her up quite badly.’
‘Christ. Has she been told?’
‘Yes. The press are there. And given your high-profile friendship it’s safe to imagine that they’ll be outside your flat before very long.’
‘Like a pack of vultures,’ I said. ‘To pick over the entrails.’
‘That’s what generally happens in these situations.’
‘Look, I’ll tweet something,’ I said. ‘And release a statement to the City press office at Silvertown Dock. And to Arsenal. Fuck. He was here, you know. The day before yesterday. Pissed as usual.’
‘Do you want me to tell the police?’
‘No, I’ll do it. But find out who’s heading up the inquiry, will you? And text me a number? I don’t want to explain myself more than once to these bastards.’
‘They’re bound to ask. So I’ll ask: was he suicidal when you saw him?’
‘No more so than usual.’ I sighed because then I remembered what he’d said. ‘But he did say something about making one last headline at Wembley. But I had no idea – Jesus, so that’s what he meant. Oh God. The stupid bastard.’
‘Scott.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry. I know you were fond of him.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t fond of him at all, Maurice. But I did love that man.’
I rang off, wiped the tears from my eyes, washed my face and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I knew what the guy who was looking back at me was thinking, because he looked angry; he was thinking – Drenno came to you for help but you were too dumb to see that; too dumb or just too lazy. You thought you were being such a fucking hero volunteering to take him to the Priory and offering to pay for his first week of treatment, didn’t you? Christ, that was generous of you, Scott. The man needed a friend. Somewhere to stay for a couple of days until he was ready to face the music. He must have known he was going to be arrested for the assault on Tiffany; he’d been cautioned for that before. And you let him down. When you needed a friend, Drenno was there for you – when no one else would give you the time of day; but when he needed someone, where the fuck were you? Christ, he even visited you when you were in the nick. Anne didn’t. Your own wife. In the eighteen months you were inside, Drenno was the only one who visited you, apart from your parents and the lawyers. That’s the kind of friend he was. He came to visit you when everyone in the club told him to stay away.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to the guy in the mirror, wishing it was Drenno. ‘I am so, so sorry.’
Being sorry won’t bring him back, you bastard. One of the finest, most naturally skilled midfielders this country has ever produced – certainly the best you ever played with – and now he’s gone, aged just thirty-eight years old. What a fucking waste.
‘I’m sorry, Matt,’ I said and started crying again.
‘What’s wrong?’
I turned to see Sonja standing in the doorway. She was naked. In the bathroom mirror she looked as perfect as a woman can look and if I’d had a golden apple I’d certainly have given it to her. I felt like Caliban standing next to Miranda. Or something callous and ugly, anyway.
‘It’s Matt,’ I said. ‘He’s hanged himself.’
‘Oh, my God, Scott. I’m so sorry.’
She hugged me for a second and then sat down on the toilet.
‘That’s awful.’
‘He was just thirty-eight,’ I said, as if somehow that made it worse.
‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ she said.
‘But I do blame myself. He needed help. That’s obviously why he came here the other night. Because – because he had nowhere else to go.’
‘Yes, he did need help but the help he needed was the professional kind. Frankly, I’ve been expecting this for a while. He was ill. He should have been in a hospital. His family should have had him sectioned a long time ago. And you know, I think we’ll find out that it wasn’t just depression that he couldn’t play football any more that caused him to kill himself. I’m sure there was something deeper that lay at the bottom of all his psychological issues. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we find that Matt’s childhood was marked by instability and tragedy. Perhaps even the suicide of someone who was close to him.’
‘Thanks.’ I nodded. ‘And you’re right, actually. His brother killed himself – threw himself in front of a train when he was fifteen. And there was some other stuff, too, that he didn’t like speaking about. Like when his best friend and drinking buddy, Mackie, cleared off and joined the army; Drenno was always rather lost without Mackie there to share his exploits. He’s been fucked up all his life, one way or the other.’
‘Come back to bed,’ she said. ‘And let me take care of you.’
‘I will in a while.’
She kept hold of me for a minute. ‘You’re a good man,’ she said. ‘A decent man. That’s why Drenno came here. Because you’re the kind of decent man a man like him needed to cling onto.’
‘I still find that hard to believe. I mean, after everything that’s happened in my life.’
‘Believe it,’ she said. ‘Because it’s true.’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, well if it is, it’s mostly down to you, Sonja. You make me a better person.’
I went into my study, turned on my computer and then switched my phone to mute when it started ringing again: someone from the Sun I didn’t want to speak to. Then I logged on and spent an hour writing something kind but probably anodyne about Matt on Twitter – how could you describe a great character like Drenno in 140 characters? – and composing an email to the Arsenal press office with a quote for the Gunners website. A few minutes later I got a text from Maurice with the name and number of the police officer dealing with the inquiry into Drennan’s death: Detective Inspector Louise Considine LLB from Brent Police, 020 8733 3709. On the BBC News website there was a famous picture of Drenno celebrating after scoring a goal for Arsenal against Aston Villa in 1998, but the sole fact beyond what I already knew was that when he’d hanged himself he’d been wearing his white number eight England shirt – probably the only one he hadn’t yet sold on eBay.
Sonja was right, of course; it was less of a surprise that Drennan had killed himself than that players like Gary Speed or Robert Enke should have done it, but I’d always hoped and believed that my old team mate might turn his life around. After all, I was living proof that you could come back to football after a disaster. Wasn’t I?
I sat in an armchair with my iPad and spent another hour watching a selection of Drenno’s best goals on YouTube. These were some of the sweetest strikes I’d ever seen and a few of them had had an assist from me, which was nice, but the accompanying music – Pink Floyd’s ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’ – while wholly appropriate for a man like Drenno, did nothing for my spirits. And I started to weep once again.
I was about to go back to bed when I n
oticed another text from Maurice, asking me to call him urgently. So I did.
‘What now?’ I asked.
‘Sorry to call you again, and so late, but I’m at the Crown of Thorns,’ he said. ‘And I think you ought to get down here as soon as. Something’s happened. Something unpleasant.’
‘Like what?’
‘Not on the phone, eh? Just in case. Walls have ears.’
‘They wouldn’t dare. Not after paying me all those damages for hacking my phone.’
‘They might, you know.’
‘It’s two thirty in the morning, Maurice. I just lost a good friend. And we’ve got a training session at ten.’
‘So let someone else take it.’
‘You really think I need to come to Silvertown Dock? Tonight?’
‘I wouldn’t have called otherwise.’
‘No one’s dead, are they?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘Look, Scott, I can’t handle this on my own. I can’t get hold of João Zarco, Sarah Crompton, and Philip Hobday is away on Sokolnikov’s yacht.’
Philip Hobday was the London City chairman and Sarah Crompton was the club’s public relations officer.
‘I really don’t know what the fuck to say here,’ he continued. ‘And I’m going to need to say something. You’ll understand why when you get to Silvertown Dock.’
‘Say something to who?’
‘The fucking press, of course. They were here before the police. It looks as if some fucker from Royal Hill tipped them off.’
‘Royal Hill? What’s that?’
‘Greenwich Police Station. Look, trust me, it’s important you get here and as soon as possible. Seriously, Scott, this is a situation that is going to require some delicate handling.’
‘I’m not sure I’m the right man for that job. Especially with the press. Where they’re concerned I feel like I’m wearing boxing gloves when I speak to them. But I take your point. You’re right, you’re right. If it’s serious, you need me the same way I need you.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I’ll be there within the hour.’
6
In the event it took only half an hour to drive the ten-mile journey from my flat off the King’s Road to the East End. There aren’t many people on the road at that time of the morning but the press were there in force when I arrived. As I approached the gates of the club car park they surged towards the Range Rover to see who I was. At the same time I wondered what was so interesting at Silvertown Dock that it could have diverted them from going to Wembley Way; I didn’t know it at the time but Wembley Way was equally popular with journalists that night. There are more newspapers and television stations in England looking for a good story than you might think. Especially when it’s a story about football.
I drove up to the gates of the club car park and waited for our security men to let me in. It was raining heavily now and while I was waiting I switched off the windscreen wipers just to deny the many waiting photographers a better shot of my tired and probably miserable face. The floodlights were on inside the stadium, which was very strange at nearly three in the morning.
‘Scott! Scott! Scott!’
Since I had no idea of what to expect when I got inside the stadium I thought it best not to say anything. That suited me just fine as I don’t like talking to the papers any more than I like talking to the police. Sarah Crompton was always trying to persuade me to be a bit friendlier to the press but old habits die hard; whenever I get doorstepped by reporters or papped by some monkey with a Canon I feel half inclined to hand out a taste of what Zinedine Zidane gave to Marco Materazzi in the 2006 World Cup Final. Now that’s what I call a headline.
I found Maurice McShane waiting impatiently for me at the players’ entrance, next to the riverside and the special private marina where Viktor Sokolnikov sometimes arrived at the stadium aboard a thirty-five-metre Sunseeker sport yacht. Maurice was a big fair-haired man with a beard and a voice like someone shovelling grit. To my surprise he was with the head groundsman, Colin Evans, who Sokolnikov had enticed away from the Bernabeu at great expense: Colin Evans was generally held to be the best groundsman in Europe and the City pitch always won all sorts of awards for its excellent condition.
‘The fuck’s going on?’ I said. ‘What are you doing here at this time of night, Colin?’
Colin shook his head, growled, clearly speechless with anger and led the way out through the players’ tunnel and onto the pitch. He was fit-looking and young for a groundsman – no more than thirty-five – and wearing the same kind of City tracksuit I was wearing, he could easily have passed for a player.
‘You’ll see soon enough,’ said Maurice.
‘Sounds ominous.’
The stadium always looked fantastic for an evening fixture when all the floodlights were on. They made the orange seating look a very appetising and Christmassy shade of tangerine, while the grass seemed to shine like a rare emerald; and for our sixty thousand seated supporters that’s exactly what it was: something very precious, hallowed even. Small wonder that every so often we had requests from fans who wanted to have a relation’s ashes scattered on the pitch. Colin would never have allowed such a thing, of course; apparently it’s very bad for the grass but not so bad for the flowers. Colin’s roses always won prizes.
He led us along the halfway line, through the centre circle to the spot where several policemen were standing as if about to kick off a game. Normally I could never make that walk without a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I was about to play a match; on this occasion, however, I felt as empty as the stadium itself. Drenno’s death was still very much at the front of my mind. For a moment I thought I was about to see a dead body. But I certainly wasn’t expecting to find what I saw now.
‘What the hell?’ I put a hand to my mouth and rocked back on my heels for a moment.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ said Maurice.
A hole had been dug in the centre of the pitch. I say a hole, but it was obviously a grave, about six feet long and at least two or three feet deep.
A stranger wearing a fawn-coloured duffel coat came towards me; he was holding a police identification card in front of him.
‘I wonder if I might have a word with you now, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘My name is Neville, Detective Inspector Neville, from Royal Hill.’
‘Give us a minute here, will you, Inspector?’ I asked. ‘Please.’
I led Maurice and Colin a few paces away so that the detective wouldn’t hear our conversation.
‘When did this happen?’ I asked.
‘I came out here just after midnight,’ said Colin. Originally from the Mumbles, in Swansea, he spoke with a strong Welsh accent. ‘We recently had some electric fox-proof fences fitted to stop them crapping on the pitch at night. The lads hate it if they slip in that shit; it’s much worse than dog shit – the smell stays with you for days afterwards. Anyway, I was out to check that they were working properly and I noticed that someone had left some tools scattered across the pitch: a couple of spades and a fork. That’s when I found it.’
I picked up a spade, glanced at the initials on the handle: LCC and then tossed it aside.
‘How the fuck did they get in here?’ I said. ‘It’s supposed to be ticket only.’
Colin shrugged. ‘They probably slipped in during the day, when the doors are open to the building contractors, and hid in the stadium.’
‘Building contractors? What are they doing?’
‘We’re having one of the bars refurbished,’ explained Maurice.
I grunted. I could hear the internet joke now: thieves broke into Silvertown Dock to raid the trophy cabinet, but left empty-handed.
‘What kind of a bastard would do this, Scott?’ complained Colin.
‘Colin,’ I said. ‘How long have you been in the game? You know what some of these bastards are like. A rival team’s supporters could have done this. But with the results we’ve had since Christmas it could
just as easily be our own fans – for fuck’s sake, our own lot aren’t exactly nice. Have you heard the kind of verbal poison that gets yelled from these terraces?’
‘Well, it certainly wasn’t a fox,’ observed Maurice. ‘I mean, I know foxes are cunning ’n’ all but I never saw one who could dig a nice rectangle like that. Not without a ruler.’
‘And as for you,’ I told Maurice, ‘sure it’s serious and a pain in the arse, but it could have waited until the morning, couldn’t it? I mean, it’s just a fucking hole in the ground.’
Maurice McShane was a former solicitor who’d been disbarred for professional misconduct after it was found he’d used an anonymous account to tweet some insults about another barrister. He’d also been a successful amateur boxer, almost winning a bronze medal in the light heavyweight division at the 1990 Commonwealth Games in Auckland. Maurice was a good man to have around when someone was in a difficult spot, and as able to sort things with his fists as he was with a wad of cash. He said nothing; instead he took out his mobile phone and showed me a text he’d received from a reporter on the Sun:
Mozza. Would you care to comment on the suggestion being made that the grave in the middle of your pitch is a Sicilian-style message for your prop, Viktor Sokolnikov, whose former partner, Natan Fisanovich, turned up in a shallow grave in 1996, having been buried alive? At least that’s what it said on Panorama. Gordon.
There was a similar text from the Daily Mail; and I dare say if I’d bothered to look at the texts arriving every minute on my own mobile phone I’d have found something along the same lines.
‘Would I like to comment?’ Maurice uttered a nervous laugh. ‘No, I fucking wouldn’t. Not particularly. Nor is it a conversation I’d feel comfortable about having with Viktor Sokolnikov. Especially as he’s suing the BBC because of what was said on Panorama. Isn’t that right?’
