January Window

by Philip Kerr

  ‘That’s what he told me.’

  I put a couple of pieces of Orbit in my mouth and started chewing fiercely as if I were about to do my imitation of Sir Alex Ferguson, which had become a very popular turn of mine on the team bus.

  ‘But I do think Viktor should know about this as soon as possible,’ said Maurice. ‘So he can respond to it in whatever way he thinks appropriate. You know him better than I do, Scott. And I’d prefer it if you or Zarco were to tell him what’s happened here. This is well above my pay-grade.’

  ‘Yes, I see your point.’ I glanced back at Detective Inspector Neville. ‘By the way, who brought him along and said he and his size fucking twelves could come here and walk on our grass?’

  ‘I’m afraid that was me,’ admitted Colin. ‘Sorry, Scott. I was so upset when I saw that hole. But it is criminal damage, so I thought I should tell them. I mean, we do want to catch the bastards who did this, right?’

  ‘Never ever bring the filth into this club without speaking to me, to Zarco, or to Phil Hobday first. Got that, Colin? Once you involve the filth in this club’s affairs it’s as good as sending an email to Fleet Street. Undoubtedly it was a copper who texted a mate on the Sun or the Daily Mail about this. Hey, guess what? Someone’s only gone and dug a fucking grave on the pitch at Silvertown Dock. That’s a two-hundred-quid tip. Maybe more if it’s a front page. If it wasn’t for them being here with their fucking cameras we could have put out that it was just a hole and not a grave at all. We might still do that if we can get that rozzer in the duffel coat to cooperate.’

  ‘Yes, I see that now.’

  ‘No worries. Can’t be helped. Look, here’s what we’re all going to say. We’re going to say it looks like the work of some disgruntled fans. Kids, probably. And we’re going to piss on that Sicilian message stuff from an enormous height. The last thing Mr Sokolnikov needs right now is more wild speculation about who and what he is. The people who committed this outrage probably couldn’t even spell Sicilian. Got that?’

  Maurice and Colin nodded.

  ‘More importantly, Colin, I want you to start thinking about if and how and when we can repair the pitch. We’re at home again to Newcastle in ten days.’

  ‘Believe me, I hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘Right then. Let’s talk to that rozzer.’

  I walked towards the policeman.

  ‘I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, Inspector,’ I said. ‘Especially at this late hour. But I really think we’ve wasted your time. Apologies for that, too. It seems obvious to me that this is the work of yobs. Disgruntled fans, so called. That’s nothing we’re not used to at a football club. I can’t imagine you’ll be surprised when I tell you that we get threats all the time and that very occasionally they manifest as vandalism. It’s regrettable but not uncommon.’

  ‘What kind of threats?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Emails. Tweets. The occasional poison-pen letter. Boxes of shit in the post. You name it, we get it.’

  ‘I’d like to see some of these, if I may.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. We have a policy of not keeping anything like that. Especially the gift-wrapped turds.’

  ‘May I ask why, sir?’

  ‘Yesterday’s shit smells bad, Inspector.’

  ‘I meant the letters and the emails, of course.’

  Detective Inspector Neville was thin with a hooked nose that made him look like he had a permanent sneer on his face. To my keen but cold ear his sounded like a Yorkshire accent.

  I shrugged. ‘We don’t keep that kind of thing because frankly there’s so much of it. Really it’s simpler just to erase or destroy anything that’s threatening or insulting. Just in case a player who’s been threatened or abused sees it and is disturbed by what he’s read.’

  ‘I’d have thought anyone would have a right to know if he’s been threatened, sir.’

  ‘You might very well think that. But we take a different attitude. Some of these lads are very highly strung, Inspector. And one or two of them are none too bright. Even threats that are patently absurd can exercise a strongly negative effect on a weaker-minded player at a Premier League football club. And we wouldn’t want that, would we? Not with a third round FA Cup tie against Leeds on Sunday.’

  ‘Nevertheless, a crime has been committed here.’

  ‘A hole in the ground? That’s not exactly seven-seven, now, is it?’

  ‘No, but with all due respect, sir, that’s no ordinary hole in the ground. For a start, there’s the shape. And then there’s the obvious financial loss. As holes in the ground go, I imagine this is an extremely expensive one. Wouldn’t you say so, Mr Evans?’

  The detective inspector obviously knew the kind of person he was speaking to. What groundsman doesn’t moan about the state of a pitch? But even before he started to answer I wished I’d told Colin to play down the cost of the damage to the police. His being Welsh only seemed to make this worse as Colin’s manner was very considered and deliberate.

  ‘A hole like that?’ Colin shook his head. ‘Let’s see now. The whole pitch cost nearly a million quid to lay down. So, frankly this is nothing short of a bloody disaster. In an ideal world we’d rip the whole surface up and start again. But halfway through the season we’ll have to make do with patching it up as best we can, I suppose. Of course, even before you think about the grass there’s the under-soil heating system that stops the pitch from freezing at this time of year. That’s been damaged and will have to be repaired. And the grass – well, it’s not just grass, you see. Artificial fibres will have to be sewn into the pitch alongside the grass so that the roots can wrap themselves around the nylon fibres. Then there’s the fact that at this time of year it’s not easy getting new grass to take hold. So we’ll need to run the grow lights around the clock. That’s expensive as well. I wouldn’t think there would be a lot of change from fifty grand to repair this. Seriously. The damage might be even more than that if the pitch still remains unplayable in ten days’ time. What with the gate ’n’ all. An average ticket price of sixty-two quid means that the total match day income is around six million pounds.’

  ‘So the cost of the damage might be anything between fifty grand and six million?’ said Detective Inspector Neville.

  ‘That’s about the size of it, yes,’ agreed Colin.

  Neville looked at me and shook his head. ‘Well, sir, I’d say this is as clear a case of criminal damage as I’ve come across in a long time. And since a crime has clearly been committed here then I’m bound to investigate it. Which is what the insurance company would insist on, I’m sure, if Mr Sokolnikov were to make a claim for this. They always do, you know.’

  ‘Those figures might seem like a lot to you and me, Inspector,’ I said. ‘But it’s not a lot to someone like Viktor Sokolnikov. I’m sure he’d much prefer just to pay for the repairs himself and avoid as much embarrassing publicity as possible. Which, if things had been done properly, ought to have been avoided. You know, it’s a mystery to me how the press managed to get here before the police. I’m sure no one here would have given them the heads-up.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that someone from Royal Hill station told them?’

  ‘I’m suggesting that if it transpires that the press were tipped off by someone from your station then Mr Sokolnikov will want to know why. Especially since it has been drawn to my attention that the press is already suggesting there might be some link with organised crime back in Mr Sokolnikov’s home country of Ukraine. That’s the kind of sensational reporting that we’d much prefer to avoid. Which we could still avoid, I think. Look, why don’t I just arrange for an executive box to be made available for our next home match so that a dozen of your officers from Royal Hill can come along and enjoy the game? You’ll be our guests and you’ll have a nice day. I’ll make sure of it.’

  ‘You mean if I were to forget all about this?’

  ‘That’s right. We’ll just tell the press that the reports of a grave being found
in the centre of London City’s football pitch have been greatly exaggerated. In fact, I insist on it. Come on. What do you say? Let’s just forget about it and go home. Doesn’t that sound like common sense?’

  ‘What it sounds like is bribery,’ Neville said stiffly. ‘At the risk of repeating myself, a crime has clearly been committed here, Mr Manson. And it’s beginning to look as if you really don’t want the police here at all. Which I admit does puzzle me, since it was someone from the club who summoned us here tonight.’

  ‘I’m afraid that was me,’ admitted Colin.

  ‘He made an honest mistake,’ I said. ‘And so did I when I offered you the tickets. I think I must have assumed that you were the kind of bloke who had something better to do than look into the mysterious case of the hole in the ground.’

  ‘You know what I think? I think you’re one of those people who just doesn’t like the police. Is that what you are, Mr Manson?’

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘if you want a police medal for this then go ahead, be my guest. I was just trying to save you the effort of wasting police time on something that will almost certainly turn out to be a random incident of vandalism. And to save the club owner a bit of unnecessary embarrassment. But when did that sort of thing ever matter to the Met? Look, I think we’ve told you all we know. It sounds to me as if maybe we’ve got even less time to waste here than you have.’

  ‘Yes, you said. An FA Cup third round match against Leeds.’ He smiled. ‘I’m from Leeds myself.’

  ‘You’re a long way south, Inspector.’

  ‘Don’t I know it, sir. Especially when I listen to someone like you. I’m just trying to do my job here, Mr Manson, sir.’

  ‘And so am I.’

  ‘Only for some reason you’re making mine difficult.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You know you are.’

  ‘Then go home. We’re not talking about The Arsenal Stadium Mystery here.’

  ‘That’s an old black and white film, isn’t it?’

  I nodded. ‘1939. Leslie Banks. Piece of shit, really. Only interesting because the film stars several Arsenal players of the day: Cliff Bastin, Eddie Hapgood.’

  ‘If you say so, Mr Manson. Frankly I’ve never been much of a football fan myself.’

  ‘That was also my impression.’

  Detective Inspector Neville paused thoughtfully for a moment and then pointed at me. ‘Wait a minute. Manson, Manson. You wouldn’t be…? Of course. You’re that Manson, aren’t you? Scott Manson. Used to play for Arsenal, until you went to prison.’

  I said nothing. In my experience it’s always best when you’re talking to the police.

  ‘Yes.’ Neville sneered. ‘That would explain everything.’

  7

  Before I tell you anything about what happened to me in 2004 I should first tell you that I am part black – more of a David James or Clark Carlisle than Sol Campbell or Didier Drogba, but I think it’s probably relevant in view of what happened. In fact, I’m sure it is. I don’t consider myself black but I am a keen supporter of Kick it Out.

  My dad, Henry, is a Scot who used to play for Heart of Midlothian and Leicester City. He got picked for Willie Ormond’s Scotland squad and went to the World Cup finals in West Germany in 1974 – the year we came so close. Dad didn’t play because of injury, which is probably how he found the time to meet my mother, Ursula Stephens, who was a former German field athlete – at the 1972 Munich Olympics she came fourth in the women’s high jump – working for German telly. Ursula is the daughter of an African-American air force officer stationed at Ramstein, and a German woman from Kaiserslautern. I’m happy to say that both my parents and my grandparents are still alive.

  After finishing his career in football my dad set up his own sports boot and shoe company in Northampton, where I went to school, and in Stuttgart. The shoe company is called Pedila and today it generates almost half a billion dollars a year in net income. I earn a lot of money as a director of that company; it’s how I can afford a flat in Chelsea. My dad says I am the company’s ambassador in the world of professional football. But it wasn’t always like that. Frankly I wasn’t always the ambassador you would have welcomed in your executive toilet, let alone the boardroom.

  In 2003, aged twenty-eight, I joined Arsenal from Southampton. The following year I went to prison for a rape I didn’t commit. What happened was this:

  Back then I was married to a girl called Anne; she works in fashion and she’s a decent woman but to be honest, we weren’t ever suited. While I like clothes and am happy to drop £2k on a Richard James suit, I’ve never much liked high fashion. Anne thinks that people like Karl Lagerfeld and Marc Jacobs are artists. Me, I think that’s only half right. So while we were still living together we were already drifting apart; I was sure she was seeing someone else. I was doing my best to turn a blind eye to that, but it was difficult. We didn’t have any children, which was good since we were headed for a divorce.

  Anyway, I’d started seeing a woman called Karen, who was one of Anne’s best friends. That was mistake number one. Karen was the mother of two children and she was married to a sports lawyer who had cancer. At first it was just me being nice to her, taking her out for the odd lunch to cheer her up, and then it got out of hand. I am not proud of that. But there it is. All I can say in my defence is that I was young and stupid. And, yes, lonely. I wasn’t interested in the kind of girls who throw themselves at footballers in nightclubs. Never have been. I don’t even like nightclubs. My idea of a nightmare is an evening out with the lads. I much prefer dinner at The Ivy or The Wolseley. Even when I was at Arsenal the club still had a reputation for some hard drinking – it wasn’t just silverware that the likes of Tony Adams and Paul Merson helped earn for the Gunners – but me, I was always in bed before midnight.

  Karen’s house in St Albans was conveniently close to the Arsenal training ground at Shenley, so I’d got into the habit of dropping in to see her on my way home to Hampstead; and sometimes I was seeing a lot more of her than was proper. I suppose I was in love with her. And perhaps she was in love with me. I don’t know what we thought was going to happen. Certainly we could never have imagined what actually did happen.

  I remember everything about the day it happened as if it has been etched onto my brain with acid. It was after one post-Shenley visit, a beautiful day near the end of the season. I came out of Karen’s house after a couple of hours to find that my car had been nicked. It was a brand new Porsche Cayenne Turbo that I’d only just taken delivery of, so I was pretty gutted. At the same time I was reluctant to report the car stolen for the simple reason that I guessed my wife, Anne, would recognise Karen’s address if the story got into the newspapers. So I jumped on a train back to my house in Hampstead, thinking I might as well report the car stolen from somewhere in the village. Mistake number two. However, no sooner had I got back home than Karen rang me and said the car was now standing outside her house again. At first I didn’t believe it, but she read out the registration number and it was indeed my car. More than a little puzzled as to what was happening, I got in a taxi and went straight back to St Albans to collect it.

  When I arrived there I couldn’t believe my luck. The car wasn’t locked but it didn’t have a scratch on it and, anxious to be away from Karen’s house before her husband came home, I drove off telling myself that perhaps some kids had taken it for a joy-ride and then returned it, having had second thoughts about what they’d done. Oddly enough I’d done something like that as a kid: I stole a scooter and then returned it after a couple of hours. It was naïve of me to think that something similar had happened here, I admit, but I was just happy to be reunited with a car I loved. Mistake number three.

  Driving home I noticed a knife on the floor of the car and, not thinking straight, I picked it up. Mistake number four. I should have tossed the knife out of the window; instead I put it in the compartment underneath the armrest. I was so pleased to recover a car I thought had been stolen that per
haps I did exceed the speed limit here and there; then again I wasn’t driving dangerously or under the influence of drink or drugs.

  Somewhere near Edgware I noticed a car in my mirror flashing me and ignored it, as you do; London is full of half-wit drivers. I had no idea it was actually an unmarked police car. The next time I looked, near Brent Cross, the same car was still in my mirror only now it had a cherry on top. And still not suspecting that anything very bad had happened, I pulled over. You can imagine my surprise when two police officers accused me of speeding and failing to stop; I was handcuffed, arrested and taken to Willesden Green where to my greater horror I found myself being interviewed about a rape. A man ‘answering my description’ and driving my car – the victim remembered the marque and half the registration number – had picked a woman up at a service station on the A414 and then raped her at knifepoint in nearby Greenwood Park.

  There was no doubt my car had been involved; some of the victim’s hairs were found on the headrest, her knickers were in the glove box, and there was other circumstantial evidence, too. Her blood and my fingerprints were on the knife, of course; and in the same glove box as the victim’s knickers the police found a packet of condoms I’d bought at a garage in Shenley. The receipt was still in the ashtray. The sales assistant at the garage remembered me buying them because he’d seen me on MOTD mouthing off about some stupid incident in a match against Tottenham. More of that in a moment. Anyway, there were two condoms missing from the packet. The rapist had used one on his victim; I’d put another in my wallet when I’d gone to visit Karen, but I wasn’t about to tell the police this because I was still hoping to spare her and, more importantly, her husband. I figured the last thing he needed was his wife providing me with an adulterous alibi while the poor bastard was having chemo. Mistake number five.