by Philip Kerr
‘I hate to disagree with you, Viktor. For me there’s nothing more important than those.’
‘I want the people who work for me to be passionate about what they do, certainly. And of course this is why I’m offering you the job. But with some strings attached. It’s those strings I’m trying to explain here. You see the one thing I’m really passionate about – more passionate about than football – is my privacy. Nothing is more important to me than this.
‘I don’t ever give interviews. I avoid the light like I was a vampire. Everyone thinks that the panel glass I sit behind at Silvertown Dock is bulletproof. It’s not; it’s camera-lens neutralising. It’s also part of the London City contract with Sky that they don’t do cutaway shots to my seat. I don’t go to film premieres or parties very much. But it’s not always so easy to keep out of the public eye. Especially with the media you have in this country. And the police you have, too. You of all people know to your cost that the media and the police here have an uncomfortably close relationship. If the police want to arrest someone at six o’clock in the morning, they like to tell the newspapers. But this is not a public service. Someone in the police gets paid for the tip-off. For other stories, also.’
I nodded. ‘Where is this going, Viktor?’
‘We have a saying in my country: if you send a man out to shoot a fox, don’t be surprised if he hits a rabbit. In a murder inquiry the police can go where they want and look where they want. Almost anywhere. So the police won’t just be looking for Zarco’s murderer. The police will use Zarco’s murder as a fishing trip to investigate all of my affairs. Any information they get they’ll share with the media. With Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. With the Financial Services Authority. With the security services – MI5 and MI6.’
‘With all due respect, sir, this country is a little different from yours. I know our police can behave disgracefully. But what you’re suggesting—’
‘Has already happened, Scott. I’m sorry to disappoint you but you see, in the name of national security, this country is much more like Russia and Ukraine than you might imagine. I have my sources in the British government who keep me informed of things that might affect me. I pay very well for this information and it comes from the highest level, so believe me, it can be trusted. Your Detective Chief Inspector’s boss is a man called Commander Clive Talbot OBE, and at this very moment he’s having a meeting with some shady people in the Home Office.’
‘I see. So the quicker Zarco’s murder is solved the better.’
‘Precisely.’
‘I understand.’ I frowned. ‘Actually, no, I don’t. You say you want Zarco’s murder solved quickly. Surely that implies we ought to cooperate with the police. I mean, how else are they to find out who killed him unless we help them? I don’t see how we can let them hunt for our fox in any other way. If I can borrow your metaphor for a moment, surely the risk to our rabbit is the price we have to pay in order to shoot the fox.’
‘Then let me explain. I want you to hunt for our fox, Scott.’
‘Me?’
Viktor nodded.
‘You want me to play detective?’
‘I pride myself on knowing the people who work for me and I think that you would also prefer to have things handled as discreetly as possible, out of your loyalty to the club and to Zarco. Am I right?’
I thought of the two mobile phones I’d already taken away from Silvertown Dock and which were now in the bag at my feet. You had to hand it to Viktor Sokolnikov: he had me sussed all right.
‘Yes. You are.’
‘We both know that Zarco pulled quite a few strokes in his time as City manager. It certainly wouldn’t help him and it probably wouldn’t help me if some of those strokes were laid bare in the media.’
‘Agreed.’
‘You’re not afraid of the police, Scott. That makes you a very unusual man. That makes you ideally suited to steer your own course in this investigation. To risk their collective displeasure. You understand?’
‘Yes. I think I do.’
‘I also have the impression that it would give you some pleasure to embarrass the police a little. Am I right?’
‘Of course. But look, Viktor, I’m not a policeman.’
‘In Ukraine we say that a policeman is just a thief with no manners. In truth, Scott, have you ever really met a policeman you thought was well qualified for the job? No, of course not. Motorists are the only criminals in this country who are regularly caught and prosecuted. Why? Because they have registration numbers. The police will arrest someone for making a racist tweet, or an NHS manager who’s fucked up, but try asking them to catch a burglar and they wouldn’t know how to begin going about it. We live in a country where it is quicker to order in sushi than to summon the police.’
‘It’s true I don’t like the police any more than I trust them. But detectives have their ways. Investigative techniques. Forensic reports. Informers.’
‘I have several reasons for thinking that you can catch Zarco’s murderer quicker than the police can, Scott. You are intelligent, well educated, you speak several languages, you’re resourceful, you knew Zarco as well as anyone, you know the club, you know Silvertown Dock, you know Hangman’s Wood, and you know football. That woman from the Yard – Detective Chief Inspector Jane Byrne: in the days it would take just to bring her up to speed with what you know, I’m certain this case could be solved.’
I nodded. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Forensic reports? I’ll get those for you. Believe me, News International aren’t the only ones who can pay the police for information. I guarantee to have a copy of the pathologist’s report delivered to you before that cop even knows it’s finished. As for informers – well, you know the same people the police do. People who’ve been in prison. Our own club fixer, Maurice McShane, is just such a person. Yes? Perhaps information can be obtained from this world, also. The criminal world.’
‘You could be right about that, Viktor. As a matter of fact Maurice has already suggested that Zarco’s death was an accident. A beating that went too far.’
I explained what Maurice had said in the car.
Viktor nodded. ‘You know, I have a little experience of this myself. Back in Ukraine, in the last days of communism and the beginning of the new republic, there was no company law, no law of contract, no commercial law, so we handled things ourselves. No Mafia, just businessmen. To be honest, Scott, sometimes things went a little too far there as well, you know? So it strikes me that Maurice is probably quite right.’
I nodded.
‘I’m glad you agree,’ said Viktor. ‘But before you say yes, Scott, let me tell you that in addition to everything I’ve told you, you’ll also have two very important incentives to find Zarco’s killer that Detective Chief Inspector Jane Byrne and the police won’t have.’
‘Like what?’
‘The manager’s job, for one thing. You find out who killed Zarco, and soon – you get the police out of our hair for good – and the City job is yours, permanently. A five-year contract. On the same salary as Zarco. Same bonuses. Same everything.’
‘That’s very generous, Viktor. And the other incentive?’
‘I know you like pictures, Scott.’ Viktor glanced up at the painting of the naked man. ‘You like this portrait?’
‘I hadn’t noticed the face very much.’
‘My wife, Elizabeth, doesn’t like it. She’s English, as you know, and she’s not what you might call comfortable with the human body. When I first met her she used to wear a swimming costume in the banya.’
Banya was what Russians called the sauna.
‘Anyway, I paid ten million dollars for this painting, back in 2008. It’s worth twice that now Freud’s dead. Perhaps more.’ Viktor stood up. ‘Come with me. There’s another portrait I want to show you.’
We walked through the house into his study where, above a Hitler-sized desk, there was a large and very striking portrait of João Zarco. I’d read about the portrai
t in the London Evening Standard at the time of its commission. It was painted by Jonathan Yeo, one of Britain’s most collectible young artists.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked.
‘Very much,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you owned it, Viktor.’
‘It was a gift from Zarco. I suppose his idea of a joke – to give me a picture of himself. But it’s very fine, don’t you think? It was having his photograph taken by Mario Testino – yes, that photograph – which gave him the idea to commission a portrait from a painter.’
I nodded. ‘I won’t say it’s an excellent likeness. That much is obvious. But there is something very lifelike about it. And I like the way that the clothes don’t matter all that much – the way they fade away. It seems to make him seem altogether more himself. He’s not smiling but there’s a real twinkle in his eye, as if he’s about to say something else that would get him into trouble.’
‘You say more than you know, Scott. When Jonathan Yeo showed the portrait to Zarco he said he didn’t like it. Said it made him look too ugly and too grumpy. That’s why he gave it to me. But I think it’s excellent. I think that in a few years a painting by Jonathan Yeo is going to be every bit as sought after as one by Lucien Freud. Anyway, I want you to have it, Scott. That’s the other incentive I was talking about.’
‘You’re joking. Really?’
Viktor lifted the picture down from the wall; the fact that it was covered in glass made it heavy, so I helped him.
‘I’m perfectly serious, Scott. This picture is yours, now, to take home with you tonight. I want you to have this so that every time you look at it, you’ll hear João Zarco saying what I’m going to say to you now:
‘“Find out who killed me and why, Scott. Find my killer. I didn’t deserve what happened to me today. Not ever. So, take control of the game yourself and don’t just leave it to other people, like the police. Please, Scott, for me and for my wife, Toyah, you must discover who killed me, okay? Next time you look in my eyes I want to know that you’re doing your best to get them. Really, I won’t have any peace until you do this for me.”’
Viktor could always do a wicked impersonation of Zarco’s dry monotone of a voice and, just for a second, this seemed more than mere mimicry.
‘That’s what he seems to be saying,’ said Viktor. ‘Don’t you agree?’
I stared at the picture now leaning against Viktor’s desk. The man depicted was looking right into my eyes, as if he too was asking the same question as Victor Sokolnikov.
‘Yes, I do.’
It wasn’t quite the ghost of Hamlet’s father, but I’ll say one thing for Viktor Sokolnikov; he always knew how to get exactly what he wanted.
19
Viktor’s Rolls-Royce took me and the oil painting of Zarco back to my flat in Chelsea, but in truth if it hadn’t been for the picture I’d have walked down to Kensington High Street and caught a cab home. When I was a boy I always wanted to own a Rolls-Royce, but now I felt acutely embarrassed whenever I found myself being driven in one. I hated the glances I got when the car stopped at traffic lights. You could see what was going through the minds of the Londoners who looked inside – even in Kensington and Chelsea. Rich bastard. Cunt. And who could blame them for thinking that about someone who was insensitive enough to ride around in the back of a car that cost ten times the average London wage? It wasn’t even all that comfortable. The seats were too hard. That was bad enough but I hadn’t bargained on there being a host of reporters and TV cameras outside my home in Manresa Road and I felt doubly embarrassed to be getting out of a Rolls-Royce in front of them, especially with a picture of João Zarco in my hands. In order to get through my own front door I had no choice but to bite my tongue and speak to everyone gathered on the steps and on the pavement, and it was probably fortunate that the effects of the cognac had worn off a bit by then.
‘João Gonzales Zarco was without question the best football manager of his generation,’ I said, carefully. ‘And one of the most truly remarkable men I ever met. It was my privilege to call him a friend and colleague, and the whole game of football is the poorer for his untimely death. He was generous, a gentleman, a lovely man and I will always miss him. I’d like to extend my sympathies to his wife and family and to thank all of the fans who’ve already paid tribute to Zarco. You might say that I’m about to do the same. As you can see this is a portrait of Zarco, by Jonathan Yeo, and I am going in now to hang it on my wall. Thank you. I have no further comments to make at this time.’
Of course, all of the reporters wanted to know how Zarco had died and if I was going to take over as London City manager, but I thought it advisable to avoid answering any of their many permutations of the same two questions; in spite of that it took several more minutes and the help of the porter to get me and the painting safely through the front door.
When I was finally in my flat I remembered Sonja was away at a conference in Paris and before doing anything I called her, just to feel grounded again. Just to hear her voice felt like the best kind of therapy and it was easy to understand why she was so good at her job – although I have to question how it is that you need a psychiatrist to persuade you not to eat that second doughnut.
Then I called my dad, who was predictably shaken by the news; he and Zarco had been on many a golfing holiday on the Portuguese Algarve, where both of them still had homes.
After I’d spoken with him I set about hanging Zarco’s picture in my own study where I keep all my football memorabilia, including a twenty-two-carat FA Cup winner’s medal from 1888 – West Bromwich Albion, in case you were wondering – and the shirt George Best was wearing when he scored six against Northampton Town in the FA Cup fourth round in February 1970. When the painting was up on the wall to my satisfaction I sat and looked at it for a while; I kept hearing Viktor’s impersonation of Zarco in my head. Now that’s what I call psychology.
I called Maurice at home.
‘You were right. Mr Sokolnikov offered me the manager’s job.’
‘Congratulations. You deserve it, my son.’
‘Although only as caretaker. Until I fuck up.’
‘No pressure, then.’
‘It all seems a bit premature to me. I mean, Zarco’s not even in the ground yet.’
‘Then again,’ said Maurice, ‘we do have the second leg of the Capital One Cup game against West Ham at home on Tuesday night.’
‘Which I suppose we’ll have to play. Unless we hear anything from the FA to say we can postpone as a mark of respect.’
‘Thrash the arse off the bastards. That’s the only kind of respect that Zarco would have wanted from City. ’Sides, it’s on the telly, so you might as well forget it now.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Look, there was something you said this afternoon, when we were searching Silvertown Dock. You said that Sean Barry had found out Claire was shagging Zarco.’
‘S’right.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘Sarah Crompton told me.’
‘And how did she know?’
‘Because she and Claire are best mates.’
‘So why did Sarah tell you?’
‘Because… let’s just say that I’m good friends with Sarah. All right?’
‘Am I the only bloke at Silvertown Dock who’s not getting his leg over someone else who works there?’
‘No. There’s you and there’s the German lad, Christoph Bündchen.’
‘What about him?’ I asked innocently.
‘Some of the lads think he’s not that interested in girls.’
‘Some of the lads are a bit excitable, jumping to conclusions like that.’
‘Maybe. But he had a hard-on in the shower, the other day. Now that’s what I call fucking excitable.’
‘Did Sarah tell you that, too?’
‘No. Kwame did. It’s not the sort of thing you’d miss, is it?’
‘I dunno. I haven’t seen it. His hard-on, I mean.’
‘Fucking huge, accordi
ng to Kwame. And he should know.’
‘Really.’ Changing the subject, I said, ‘Sean Barry. He’s a bit excitable, too, right?’
‘Oh, yeah. Very.’
‘So maybe he killed Zarco. Jealous husband ’n’ all that.’
Maurice shrugged. ‘Maybe, yeah. On the other hand I saw him right after the game and he seemed okay. Chuffed about the result, he was. I mean, he didn’t look like he’d beaten the shit out of anyone. Or told someone else to do it, for that matter. What I mean is, he didn’t look guilty. But then you never know with a bloke like Sean.’
‘You also said there were a few unfriendly faces in the ground when you were doing your Where’s Wally this afternoon. Some right bastards, I think you called them. Who did you mean, exactly?’
‘I did, didn’t I? Let’s see now. There was Denis Kampfner – he was none too pleased when Zarco got Paolo Gentile to be the agent on the Kenny Traynor transfer. Missed out big time on a million quid’s worth of commission. Spitting tacks about that, he was. Ronan Reilly. You’ll remember the run-in he and Zarco had at the BBC SPOTY.’
‘Of course I remember it. It was the only interesting thing that happened all evening. Those things are a pain in the arse.’
‘It was a proper scrap they had that night, you know. And I certainly wouldn’t have put it past those two to mix it again.’
‘True. They’re none too fond.’
‘Then there was that referee Zarco slagged off: Lionel Sharp.’
‘I hope you didn’t see him, Maurice, or I’ll start to worry about you. He’s dead.’
‘No, but his son was at the game today. Jimmy, I think his name is. He’s in the navy. Marines, I think. Who else? Oh, yeah. Some Qatari lads. Not so much Where’s Wally as Where’s Ali. Dodgy lot, if you ask me. Connected to some of the powers that be in Qatar, where Zarco’s name is shit. They’ve got one of the executive boxes. Come to think of it, they’ve got three or four boxes. I’ve heard they like some coke at half time, and I don’t mean the stuff that comes out of a can. Coke and Lamborghinis and enough money to put a ceramic brake on your mouth.’
