by Philip Kerr
I wasn’t bent for myself, but I was quite prepared to be bent for my friends and for my club.
17
‘Bloody hell,’ said Maurice. ‘Look at that lot, will you?’ He nodded. ‘They’re going to do him proud.’
‘Looks like it.’
We were in my Range Rover, leaving London City Football Club for KPG. It was dark and bitterly cold and the air was full of sleet, but hundreds of fans had gathered to pay their tributes to João Zarco, and there were so many orange scarves tied to the gates of Silvertown Dock that it already looked like a sort of Hindu shrine. Some of the fans were singing the club songs – including what else but The Clash?
London calling to the faraway towns, now war is declared – and battle come down…
A few even managed Joe Strummer’s werewolf howl at the end of the lyric.
I was silent for a while as the song and the howls stayed in my head, giving me gooseflesh.
‘That’s the great thing about football,’ said Maurice. ‘When you go, people like to show their respect. Who else gets that these days?’
‘Michael Jackson?’ I suggested. ‘That hotel we stayed at in Munich. The Bayerischer Hof. They’ve still got a shrine going outside the front door.’
Maurice winced. ‘That’s just the fucking Germans.’
‘Hey, careful what you say about the Germans. I’m half German, remember?’
‘Well then answer me this, Fritz. How come they do that – make a shrine to him – when everyone knows he was a kiddy fiddler? Doesn’t make sense.’
‘In some ways the Germans – Bavarians especially – they’d prefer not to know about that sort of thing.’
‘Yeah, well, they’ve got a form for it, haven’t they?’ growled Maurice. ‘Preferring not to know about someone’s past.’
‘I wish he could have seen that,’ I said, ignoring the history lesson. ‘Zarco, I mean. Not the plastic guy.’
‘Did you actually see his body?’ asked Maurice.
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘His legs, I guess. Where the body was – it wasn’t a very large space. There were three or four CSU officers around him, plus all their gear – spotlights, tripods, cameras and laptops. These days a murder scene looks more like they’re shooting a commercial.’
‘What a thing to happen to a guy like João,’ said Maurice. ‘How old was he anyway?’
‘Forty-nine.’
‘Christ. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ He pursed his lips. ‘Tragic, that’s what it is. Without question. But it ain’t a fucking murder.’
‘Listen to him: Inspector Morse.’
‘At least not a murder in the old sense, that is, with intent. Yeah, it’s reasonably foreseeable that if you’re handing out some GBH you might kill a bloke. But I don’t see any intent here, according to how most blokes round our way would look at this.’
‘Keep talking.’
‘You remember how it was in the nick. Nine times out of ten, if someone wanted to kill a bloke, they didn’t do it with a beating. They used a blade. Or they strangled him. And if it was on the outside they’d shoot him or have him shot. But they didn’t kick the shit out of him. If a bloke dies after a beating then that’s a beating that went wrong or simply got out of hand. More like an accident. Manslaughter. No, if you ask me, someone wanted Zarco hurt, but not dead. This was revenge, or a warning, but it wasn’t supposed to be goodnight Vienna.’
‘I’m no Rumpole but the law says different, I think.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s the law, isn’t it? There’s not much common sense in the law these days. If there was we wouldn’t be in the EU, would we? We wouldn’t have the Human Rights Act and all that shit. Abu Hamza. Cunts like that make a monkey out of the courts in this fucking country.’ Maurice paused as some blue light spilled into the Range Rover. ‘Talking of monkeys,’ he said, ‘we’ve got some law on our tail.’
I checked the side mirror and nodded.
‘Let me handle it, okay?’
‘Be my guest.’
We pulled up and I lowered the tinted window a few inches.
A traffic policeman presented himself at the side of the Range Rover; he was already holding a breathalyser unit in one hand and adjusting his peaked hat with the other.
‘Would you step out of the car, please, sir?’
‘Certainly.’
I got out of the car and closed the door behind me.
‘Is this your vehicle, sir?’
‘Yes it is.’ I handed him my plastic licence. ‘What seems to be the problem?’
He glanced at the licence. ‘You were driving erratically, sir. And you were doing thirty-five miles per hour in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone.’
‘If you say so,’ I said. ‘I really didn’t notice the speed.’
‘Have you consumed alcohol this evening, sir?’
‘A couple of brandies. I’m afraid I had some bad news.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. However, I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to take a breath test.’
‘All right. But you’re making a mistake. If you’ll allow me to explain…’
‘Are you refusing to provide a sample of breath, sir?’
‘Not at all. But I was just trying to tell you that—’
‘Sir, I’m asking you to take a breath test. Now, either you comply or I will arrest you.’
‘Very well. If you insist. Here, give it to me.’ I took the little grey unit, meekly followed his instructions on what to do and then handed it back.
We waited a few seconds.
‘I’m afraid the light has turned red, sir. The sample of breath you’ve provided has more than thirty-five millimetres of alcohol per one hundred millimetres of blood. Which means you’re under arrest. If you’ll please follow me to the police car.’
I smiled. ‘For what?’
‘You just failed the breath test, sir,’ said the policeman. ‘That’s what.’
‘Yes, but as I tried to tell you before, I wasn’t driving. My friend was.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The car is left-hand drive, you see?’
There was a long silence and I tried not to smile.
The traffic policeman marched around to the left-hand side of the vehicle and opened the door. Maurice grinned at him.
‘Evening, constable,’ he said, cheerily. ‘I’m teetotal. Diabetic, see? So you’d be wasting your time.’
‘Incidentally,’ I said, ‘this is an Overfinch Range Rover; as well as being left-hand drive it’s fitted with Roadhawk – a black box camera system that films what’s happening at the front, the rear and both sides of the car. In case of accident, you understand.’
The policeman pocketed his breathalyser unit. His face was the colour of the night sky in that part of London: an artificial shade of dark mauve. He slammed the door shut on Maurice’s grin.
‘Does it record sound as well as pictures, sir?’
‘No, sadly not.’
He nodded grimly and then leaned towards me until he was near enough for me to smell the coffee on his breath.
‘Cunt.’
Then he turned and walked away.
‘Good night to you too, officer,’ I said and got back into the Range Rover.
Maurice was laughing. ‘That was fucking priceless,’ he wheezed. ‘I can’t wait to see that again. You have got to put that up on YouTube.’
‘I think I’ve been on YouTube enough for one night,’ I said.
‘No, really. Or else nobody will fucking believe it. That rozzer was so keen to nick you he didn’t even notice that this was a left hooker. Straight up. That was comedy gold.’
‘Might be better to keep it in reserve. Another time I might not be so lucky.’
‘In the circumstances you’re probably right. I thought you were joking about that bitch back at the Crown of Thorns. But it looks like she’s got it in for you, old son.’
‘So what’s new?’
We drove to the north entrance of KPG on Notting
Hill Gate; the south entrance – on Kensington High Street – is reserved for the inhabitants of the royal palace. Not that any of the other houses on KPG looked to be anything less than palaces. I’d say it’s the most exclusive road in London but for the fact that anyone can live there, as long as they can afford to pay between fifty and a hundred million pounds for a house, and it’s only the presence of the grey and very grim-looking Russian embassy at the north end that lowers the tone a little.
Viktor’s house was three storeys of Portland stone with four square corner turrets and had everything except a moat, a flag and an honour guard. You can live in a bigger house in London but only if you’re the Queen.
I got out of the Range Rover and leaned through the open window.
‘You take the car,’ I told Maurice. ‘I’ll get a cab home. It’s not far from here.’
‘Want me to pick you up in the morning?’
I shook my head. ‘I’ll get a cab company to take me in.’
‘Call me when you get home, will you? Let me know if he offers you the job.’
‘You really think he will?’
‘What else could it be?’
18
I turned and gave my name to the gorilla in the gatehouse. He checked me off on his clipboard and then waved me through. I didn’t have to ring the bell; another security man was already opening the polished black door. A butler materialised in a marble hallway that was dominated by a life-size Giacometti sculpture of a walking man as thin as a pipe cleaner and who always reminded me of Peter Crouch. I’d shared this observation with Viktor before and I reminded myself not to offer it again; when you own a famous work of art I expect your sense of humour about who or what it looks like is limited by how much you paid for it – which, in the case of the Giacometti, was a hundred million dollars, so you do the maths. Clearly Sotheby’s or Christie’s had a more developed sense of humour than anyone.
Anyway, I wasn’t really in the mood for jokes. I wasn’t in the mood for anything very much except putting my head under a pillow and going to sleep for about twelve hours.
The butler ushered me into a room that was in keeping with the Giacometti, which is to say that it was one of those ‘less is more’ modern rooms that looks like you’re in the new money wing of a national museum; it was only the huge cream sofas that persuaded me I didn’t need a ticket and an audio-visual aid. The big black log resting on the fire dogs looked as if it had landed on Hiroshima a split second ago and even the smoke rising discreetly up the enormous chimney smelled reassuringly exclusive – like being in an expensive ski-chalet.
Viktor dropped a copy of the Financial Times and came around the sofa, which took a while, and gave ample time for me to admire the Lucien Freud above the fireplace. Although admire is probably the wrong word; appreciate is probably more accurate. I’m not sure I could have enjoyed the sight of a reclining nude man with his legs apart every time I glanced up from my newspaper. I see enough of that kind of thing in the showers at Silvertown Dock.
We embraced, Russian style, without a word. The butler was still hanging around like a cold and Viktor asked me if I wanted a drink.
‘Just a glass of water.’
The butler vanished.
I sat down, stretched a smile onto my face, just to be polite, and told him everything I’d learned about what had happened. This wasn’t much, but still, it seemed more than enough.
Viktor Sokolnikov was in his forties, I suppose, with a receding silvery hairline that was more than compensated for by the amount of hair growing between his eyebrows and on his habitually unshaven cheeks. His eyes were keen and dark and they were the shrewdest I’d ever seen. A little overweight, he had a jowly sort of cheeks with a near permanent smile; and after all he had much to smile about. There’s nothing like having several billion dollars in the bank to put you in a good mood. Not that he always was: right now it was difficult to connect this urbane, smiling man with the guy who’d nutted his fellow oligarch, Alisher Aksyonov, live on Russian television after the two got into an argument. I’d watched the clip on YouTube and, not understanding Russian, it was difficult to know what the argument had been about. But there was no doubt that Viktor had effectively given the other, bigger man a Glasgow kiss – good enough to put him down on the deck. I couldn’t have done it better myself.
‘I was fond of João,’ said Viktor. ‘We didn’t always see eye to eye, as you know. But it was never dull with him. I shall miss this man very much. João was a very special guy. Unique, in my experience. And a great manager. It was a good result today; he’d have been proud. Today of all days I’m glad we won.’
The butler came back with a glass of water, which I drank almost immediately. Viktor asked me if I wanted another. I shook my head, glanced at the huge cock above me and told myself I knew where to get a refill if I needed one. After two large cognacs I was feeling just a little crude.
We talked some more about Zarco, the plans he and Viktor had made for London City, and some of the more outspoken, even outrageous remarks that the Portuguese had uttered, which soon had us laughing.
‘Remind me,’ said Viktor, ‘what was it he said to the guy on Sky Sports when the FA Chairman publicly disinvited him from the England team commission?’
I grinned. ‘He called the commission a “knocking shop”; of course he meant to say “talking shop”. At least that’s what everyone supposed he meant. But that was no mistake. He knew very well what he was saying. Even before Jeff Stelling corrected him.’
‘You think so?’
‘I’m certain of it. Sometimes he pretended his English wasn’t as good as it really was.’
‘That’s true,’ admitted Viktor. ‘It was a useful trick. I do it myself sometimes.’
‘Anyway, a commission might as well be a knocking shop for all the good that it’s going to do English football. Some of us thought it might actually be the FA’s job to look into the declining number of Englishmen playing in the Premier League. It’s difficult to imagine what the hell else those fat fucks could be useful for. None of the cunts on the FA board of directors has ever played the game professionally, which says all you need to know; quite frankly those self-satisfied bastards haven’t done anything to help the English game since they codified the laws of the game at The Freemason’s Tavern in 1863. And it doesn’t require the establishment of an England team commission to tell you that the biggest problem with English football is the Football Association itself. The FA by name and FA by nature, right?’
Viktor grinned. ‘I think maybe you can be quite outspoken yourself, Scott.’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry, Viktor. I was starting to rant. Upset, I guess. Pissed, a bit, too. I had two large cognacs at Silvertown Dock. Spirits always make me a bit fightable. That’s the Scot in me, I suppose.’
‘In that respect at least you are like a Ukrainian or a Russian,’ said Viktor. ‘But there’s no need to apologise. I like a man with strong opinions. Especially when those opinions happen to coincide with my own. That’s not a prerequisite for being the manager of London City, although the press would have you think something else. Yes, we had our differences, me and Zarco. But one thing he and I always agreed about was that if ever we fell out again, you were the best candidate to take over as manager.’
‘That’s very kind of you. And of him.’
‘The players respect you and Phil Hobday speaks very highly of you, as did Zarco. You’re well qualified – a university degree, all your coaching certificates, you’re the most obvious candidate. I only wish I didn’t have to do this tonight. But I’m flying to Moscow tomorrow, and I won’t be back for several days. We’ve bought a player. From Dynamo St Petersburg.’
‘I didn’t know we were in the market for anyone.’
‘Not just anyone.’
‘You haven’t bought the red devil?’
Viktor nodded and I felt my jaw drop. Bekim Develi was generally held to be the best midfielder in Europe; a Turkish-born Russian, he’d be
en playing for PSG until seventy-five per cent French tax had driven him back to his home town of St Petersburg. Viktor had always been keen to have Develi come to London City – they were old friends, for one thing. But Zarco had rejected the idea – it wasn’t like we lacked options in midfield – and as far as I knew Viktor had been obliged to accept the decision of his recently reinstated manager.
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Yes. I am going to finalise the deal this week. Dynamo owes me money. Rather a lot of money, as it happens, so instead of taking what they owe in cash, I’m taking Develi. But I wanted to talk with you in private before I went. To reach an understanding. Man to man.’
I nodded.
‘I’m offering you the job of City manager – at least until the end of the season. Let’s see how we get on. You keep us in the Premier League, then that’s one reason to keep you on full time. An FA Cup and a top-four finish so that we can qualify for the Champion’s League would count for something, too.’
‘I would certainly hope so,’ I said.
Viktor paused and lit a cigar; it wasn’t anything fancy like a Cohiba, just a little Villiger that you could buy at almost any London newsagent.
‘But to be absolutely honest with you, none of that is a priority for me.’
‘It isn’t?’
Viktor shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Then I’d say that for someone who’s the owner of a Premier League football club, you’re a very unusual man.’
‘Yesterday I might have told you something else. But today I tell you frankly, Scott, I don’t give a fuck about cups or titles. There’s something at stake here that’s much more important to me than anything.’
