January Window

by Philip Kerr

  ‘So I believe. How is she, by the way?’

  ‘At home now. Avoiding the newspapers and the newspapermen who are camped out at the bottom of her drive.’

  ‘I tried calling her, but…’

  ‘She’s not answering the phone. Now, I appreciate that this might be difficult for you, but I need to ask you some questions about exactly what happened when Drennan was here. After all, you were one of the last people to speak to him before he killed himself. At least according to Maurice McShane you were. It was on your behalf that he contacted us, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. It was. I wanted to help with your enquiries.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And I think I was, probably, one of the last people to see Matt.’

  I told her precisely what had happened.

  ‘So he was drunk and he was depressed,’ she said.

  I nodded. ‘Definitely. I even offered to drive him to the Priory. I could see he was in a bad way. But he wouldn’t let me. I mean he was pissed, but he wasn’t that pissed. Not by his standards. I mean he wasn’t legless. Besides, he’d been before – to the Priory – and it didn’t work.’

  ‘Did he say what he was depressed about?’

  ‘How long have you got? The fight with his wife would have depressed him. He’d lost his diamond stud, from his ear – like I told you. He told me she’d thrown a boot at him but he didn’t say he’d assaulted her. I suppose that might have resulted in a custodial sentence because he’d assaulted her before. That would have depressed him, too.’ I shrugged. ‘What else? Not being able to play football any more. Getting older. His health. Drinking again. Being broke. Life in general. It’s a typical football story, I’m afraid. Look, he certainly didn’t mention that he was going to kill himself. But if he had I’m not sure what I could have done about it.’

  ‘You could have kept him here and talked him out of it, perhaps.’

  ‘Clearly you didn’t know Matt Drennan. You couldn’t talk him out of an off-licence or a last game of bar-billiards, let alone what you’re suggesting, Miss Considine.’

  ‘So he didn’t say anything to you about his best friend from Glasgow, Tommy MacDonald.’

  ‘Mackie? No, nothing at all.’

  ‘You know he was in the army. In Afghanistan.’

  ‘Kind of. Hey, has something happened to Mackie?’

  ‘Sergeant Thomas MacDonald was blown up on patrol in Helmand Province last Tuesday.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘He died later on, in hospital.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that.’ I nodded. ‘But it certainly explains a great deal about Drenno’s mood. He never really talked all that much about Mackie. At least not to me. But I know he and Mackie were close. You might even say they were partners in crime, since they were always in trouble for one thing or another: fighting, vandalism, practical jokes that went too far, general bad behaviour. It was nearly always drink-related. When Mackie joined the army I think my old club Arsenal were more than a little bit relieved. They figured he was a bad influence on Drenno. But actually I’m sure it was the other way round. Mackie joined the army to get away from Drenno and the drinking. At least that’s what Drenno always said.’

  ‘Did you know Sergeant MacDonald?’

  ‘I met him a few times. I couldn’t say that we were friends, though. We weren’t. I didn’t like him, to be honest. I’m sorry he’s dead. He served his country and you have to respect anyone for that.’

  ‘Why didn’t you like him? Any particular reason?’

  I shrugged. ‘Like I said, I thought he was a bad influence. Frankly I was very surprised when he went into the army. He’d spent a lifetime sponging off Drenno and he was the most ill-disciplined sod you could hope to meet. A typically belligerent Scot. It was hard to see why he should suddenly have decided he wanted to do something like join the army. Unless it was just to get away from Drenno.’

  ‘Tell me, what was Matt Drennan wearing when he came to see you?’

  ‘You mean was he wearing an England shirt?’

  ‘No, I mean what was he wearing?’

  ‘Leather jacket. Jeans. Trainers. Plain white shirt. There was blood on the collar. And on his earlobe. I already explained that. Was he wearing an England shirt when he hanged himself?’

  ‘I’m really not at liberty to say.’

  ‘It was in the Daily Mail.’

  ‘Then it must be true.’

  ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not being straight with me, Miss Considine?’

  ‘One: you don’t like the police – you said so yourself, Mr Manson. And two: I’m not being straight with you because I’m here to ask questions, not to provide you with answers. Sorry. This is a police inquiry into a man’s death. Even if it looks for all the world like a suicide, there are still rules of evidence I have to observe. As a police officer I operate to a different standard than the Daily Mail. Look, all I’m trying to do is build a picture of Matt Drennan’s last few hours so that there’s no room for any doubt that he killed himself. And in case that seems a rather laborious matter of dotting the “i”s and crossing the “t”s, it is; however, we live in an age of conspiracies and it won’t be long before someone who read a book called Who Killed Kurt Cobain? Or Who Killed Princess Diana? Or Who Killed Michael Jackson? is tempted to write a book called Who Really Killed Matt Drennan? That’s what I’m hoping to avoid. For his sake. For the sake of his family and friends.’

  ‘Fair enough. And I appreciate you saying so.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so. I certainly wouldn’t like you to sue the Met again because of my incompetence or dishonesty.’

  I nodded. ‘I’m beginning to see why they sent you to see me.’

  ‘Oh, good. Then we’re making progress.’

  ‘You are. I’m not sure about the Met.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question you might find a little insensitive?’

  ‘You mean the comments about Drenno being a waste of space weren’t?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  I shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Thank you. Well then, it’s this. I’m puzzled. You have a university degree. You speak several languages. You live in a fifteen-million-pound apartment in Chelsea. Why would someone as obviously successful as you, Mr Manson, still have a friend who was as big a loser as Matt Drennan?’

  ‘That’s not insensitive. It’s just a little ignorant of what football is about, Miss Considine. You see football is an international club, a fraternity – a bit like the Freemasons. Wherever you go it’s almost inevitable that you’ll run into someone you once played with, or against. Matt Drennan was my team mate. What’s more, he was the only team mate who came to see me when I was in prison. He came even though he’d been advised by the people who were trying to manage his image not to come. At that time it was me who was the loser, not him. I was scum. A rapist. That picture by Peter Howson. That’s what people thought of when they thought of me. Everyone but Drenno. Not many people know it, but Drenno lost a sponsorship deal with a pharmaceutical company because he came to see me in the nick. So, for all his faults, he had a good heart and I loved him for it.’

  She nodded and placed her coffee cup on the low table in front of her.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ she said. ‘And thanks for the excellent coffee. By the way, did you win yesterday?’

  ‘Yes. We won. 8–0.’ I smiled. ‘That’s good, by the way. Very good. In case you were wondering.’

  11

  In the week leading up to the Newcastle match, Kenny Traynor arrived at the club and gave his first interview on the Press Bureau TV Sports Channel. Our new goalkeeper was a big fair-haired lad with an easy smile and an accent that was as thick as the head on a pint of heavy. When he spoke it was like listening to Spud in Trainspotting. As a result Zarco insisted on my appearing with them in front of the invited newsmen, to translate, which added a usefully comic touch to these dull proceedings. Otherwise it was the usual bullshit
about how Traynor was ‘really looking forward to the challenge of the Premier League and working with a world-class manager like João Zarco’. Asked why he had decided to join City instead of another club like MUFC, Traynor made no mention of fifty thousand quid a week, but instead talked about the quality of the squad and the attractions of living in a great city like London. Asked what he thought he could achieve at a club like London City – which is more or less the same question, when you think about it – Traynor declared he wanted to keep a clean sheet for as long as possible and to help City to win the Premier League. Champions League… FA Cup… Zzzzz.

  Traynor and Zarco were also filmed in the doorway of Hangman’s Wood holding up Traynor’s new silver goalkeeping shirt with his name on the back. That’s the thing I hate most about football: the clichés. You can’t blame the players for that – they’re just kids, most of them; Traynor’s only twenty-three and he doesn’t know any better. No, I blame the fucking reporters for asking the same old tired and predictable questions that produce these clichéd answers.

  Things got a little more interesting when Bill Fleming, an old warhorse of a reporter from STV in Glasgow, suggested that it was extremely insulting to Scots viewers to have what Kenny Traynor was saying ‘translated into English’, as if they were ignorant of the language. Zarco paused for a short moment and then asked me to translate what Fleming had said, which got a big laugh. I think he understood perfectly well, but Zarco’s comic timing was always excellent. He waited for me to repeat Fleming’s complaint and then smiled.

  ‘I don’t mean to be insulting,’ said Zarco. ‘But I have been told that it’s not just the Portuguese who have a problem understanding Scottish people. It’s English people, too. So where is the insult in having a translation? That is something I don’t understand. Scott Manson is from Scotland and I understand everything that he says. You, Mr Fleming, you are from Scotland but I don’t understand anything of what you say. You say you speak English, and I will take your word for it, but this is not how it sounds to me. Maybe the problem is not with me but with you, my friend. Maybe you should learn to speak better English, like Scott here. Perhaps this is something Kenny will also achieve while he is playing at London City. I don’t know. I hope so, for his sake. To make yourself understood in a foreign country is not so difficult, I think. Everyone here seems to understand me all right. But I’m no Professor Henry Higgins and I don’t care about the rain in Spain. For sure I can help to make Kenny a better goalkeeper, but I’m the wrong person to offer him speech elocution on how he can make himself understood. Maybe if he opens his mouth a little when he speaks it will be better, I don’t know. You should try that yourself, Bill.’

  To his credit Kenny Traynor kept on smiling good-naturedly while his new boss was speaking. Lots of people were laughing but they did not include Bill Fleming.

  Later that day I found myself translating again, this time from German. Our new star striker, Christoph Bündchen, came to see me in my office at Hangman’s Wood. He spoke good English but told me that he preferred to speak in German, in case anyone overheard our conversation.

  ‘Is something the matter, Christoph?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ he said. ‘But I wanted to have your advice about something.’

  ‘Sure. What is it?’

  ‘First of all I want you to know how much I love this club, and how much I like living in London.’

  My stomach lurched a little; Christoph Bündchen was quite likely a star striker in the making, and one we had bought cheaply, but where was this going? What was he going to tell me? That he was a compulsive gambler like ‘Fergie Fledgling’ Keith Gillespie? A secret boozer like Tony Adams? A compulsive gambler and a secret boozer like Paul Merson? Or had he already been tapped up by Chelsea – who had form for this, of course – or one of the other big clubs? Not that I had much time for the FA’s farcical rule against tapping up: good players were always going to be tapped up. Tapping up – approaching a player contracted to another club without its permission – has always been part of the game. I smiled thinly and tried to contain my jangling nerves.

  ‘That sounds ominous. Please don’t tell me you want a transfer to another club. You’ve only just got here and made your mark. We need you, son.’

  ‘This is very difficult for me, Scott.’

  ‘Look, if it’s about pay then I’ve already spoken to Zarco. He’s confident that we can get you another ten grand a week.’

  ‘Thank you, but it’s not about money. Or a transfer. It’s about something else. I don’t really feel I can be who I am. I’m different from these guys.’

  He folded his arms defensively, stood back on one heel and then tapped his lips with a forefinger, like Samir Nasri making his famous shush gesture. (I still don’t get why he does that – who the fuck is he telling to be quiet? The fans?)

  ‘Different? How?’

  ‘When I was playing in Augsburg I was living in Munich.’

  ‘I know. That’s where we met, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but do you want to know why I was living in Munich?’

  For a brief moment I wondered if he was a neo-Nazi and then rejected the idea; Christoph only looked like a Nazi.

  I shrugged. ‘Munich is a nicer city than Augsburg. At least that’s my own impression.’

  ‘Have you heard of a part of Munich called the Glockenbachviertel?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. It’s the trendy part. Lots of art galleries. I often used to go there and look for paintings.’

  Christoph nodded. ‘There are lots of gay people living in that part of Munich.’ He paused for a moment. ‘That’s why I was living there, Scott. Because I couldn’t live the way I wanted in Augsburg. What I mean to say is I was living in Munich with a man.’

  I felt my spirits sink. This was going to be coaching football at its most challenging. The only gay footballers who’d ever stepped out of the closet as far as I was aware were Thomas Hitzlsperger and Justin Fashanu, and Fashanu committed suicide, which wasn’t exactly an encouraging precedent for anyone else in the game who felt moved to declare his homosexuality.

  ‘Right. I see.’

  ‘It’s just that Mr Zarco said some things the other day on television about the Qatari World Cup – about having gay friends – which was very encouraging. And I thought that perhaps it might be all right to be gay at this club. Unlike my last club, where I had to live a kind of lie about who and what I was. Which is hard, you know?’

  I winced a little at the mention of Zarco and the Qataris. Since his comments about the 2022 World Cup the London City press office had been besieged with threats from anonymous Arabs; we’d had three bomb threats at Hangman’s Wood. Meanwhile the Qataris continued to deny any impropriety and FIFA’s executive committee in Zurich had complained to the FA about Zarco; as a result of this the FA had felt obliged to cancel their invitation to Zarco to become a member of its England team think tank. Zarco’s response to all this would certainly have been to repeat his allegations had Phil Hobday not told him to button it.

  ‘Look, Christoph, if you’re asking me for advice on being gay, I can’t give you any. I have one or two friends who are gay but none of them are in football. But if you’re asking me what I think you’re going to ask me…’

  ‘Should I tell the guys in the team I’m gay? That’s what I want to know. That’s what I’d like.’

  ‘Then the answer is no, absolutely fucking not. Don’t ask me to justify it, Christoph, because I can’t, but being gay is just not acceptable in football for the simple reason that the game is the last bastion of open bigotry and homophobia. There are no openly gay footballers in any of England’s top four divisions. Of course that’s not to say there are no gay players. Everyone knows who they are, or thinks they do, but those players keep it quiet for one simple reason: fear. Not of the other players, but fear of the abuse an openly gay player would receive from the fans. Right now there are lots of fans on terraces all over England who still sing songs about the
Munich air crash and about the Hillsborough disaster, and who make gassing noises towards Tottenham fans who are all presumed, wrongly, to be Jews. In my time in football I’ve heard these bastards sing songs about Sol Campbell’s mental breakdown, Dwight Yorke’s disabled son, Karren Brady’s miscarriage, the floods in Hull, and the excellent public service done by various murderers including Harold Shipman and Ian Huntley. All of which means that there’s quite enough shit that they can throw at you already without giving them anything more. That’s why you can’t tell anyone, Christoph. Wear a pair of rainbow football laces if it makes you feel any better; there are at least some straight players who’ve done that. Otherwise you have to keep this quiet. You’ll be committing career suicide if you say something now. I know this is not what you wanted to hear, but I’m sorry, that’s just how it is.’

  Bündchen sighed. Looking at him now it was hard to believe the young German could be gay; then again, I never notice these things. Sonja claims she can tell, but I never can. A small part of me wanted to applaud him for his desire to be so open, but mostly I felt I’d told him how it was. Individually most football fans would probably tell you they couldn’t care less about someone’s sexuality, but on the terraces, a different mood prevails. The Germans have a word for it: Volksgeist. It means ‘the spirit of the people’, and the spirit of the people usually collects around the lowest common denominator.

  ‘Look, you have a wonderful talent and on the basis of what I saw the other night against Leeds, you have a fantastic future ahead of you, Christoph. You could do anything in the game. You could play for your country, make a great deal of money and get right to the top of football. And having got there – who knows? In a few years it could be you who leads from the front and who changes things for the better. I for one hope they do change. But you’re at the start of your career and right now my advice to you is never to talk about this with anyone but me at this club. Anyone at all. The fewer people who know about this the better.’