January Window

by Philip Kerr

‘Was he always such a big mouth?’

  I winced a little at that, but left it alone.

  ‘Zarco was someone who called a spade a spade.’

  ‘I certainly hope not,’ she said. ‘That would make my job even more difficult than it is already.’

  I frowned, wondering exactly what she meant by that remark. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I mean he does seem to have gone out of his way to irritate people, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Playing mind games with other teams and other managers was just part of his style. Everyone does it. But Zarco being Zarco, people just paid more attention to it. He was quite a charismatic figure. Good-looking, articulate, well dressed. A breath of fresh air after all the dour Scots managers who used to dominate the game: Busby, Shankly, Ferguson et al.’

  ‘If you say so. But this was more than just mind games, I think. I’m sure you’ll agree that pre-match wind-ups are one thing, but this must have been something much more serious. With that in mind, Mr Manson, I was hoping you and I could arrive at a definitive list of his enemies.’

  ‘Sure, why not? It will save you the effort of having to look them up on Google, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve already done that.’ On her iPad she showed me a dozen names I recognised. ‘Here.’

  I nodded. ‘The usual suspects. Okay. Now all you have to do is round them up. Like Captain Renault in Casablanca.’

  ‘Actually, I was hoping you might help me to shorten the list.’ She shrugged. ‘Or perhaps add a name or two that isn’t there already. That’s what I meant by definitive.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Please. Come and sit down. Talk to me, Mr Manson.’

  I followed her to the far end of the room. Out of the irregularly shaped window you could see the equally irregular steel structure that constituted the exterior of the stadium. The rain had turned to snow; I felt sorry for the fans still out there. I sat down on a leather sofa and reread the list on her iPad. Our knees were just touching, which is more than could be said of our respective characters. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman, just a cunt.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘About this list? You know, if you were writing a piece for a newspaper about who disliked João Zarco, then you’ve already covered the bases with most of these names. But there’s a healthy difference between disliking someone enough to bad-mouth them, and hating them to the extent that you actively want them dead. Some of these men are highly respected figures in football. This is a game that inspires strong feelings, after all. Always has done. I remember my father taking me to an Old Firm match on New Year’s Day. That’s Rangers versus Celtic, by the way. This was long before the laughably named Offensive Behaviour at Football and Threatening Communications Act, which sounds like an oxymoron. The ferocity of the historic and religious rivalry between those two sets of supporters was truly something to behold. And it’s fair to say that murders have been committed because a man was wearing the wrong colours in the wrong part of town. Having said all that—’

  ‘Is this where you start to talk about the beautiful game?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to mention it. But if you’re asking me if I believe any of the men on this list could have killed João Zarco then the answer has to be a definite no.’ I handed back the iPad. ‘If you want my honest opinion, this will turn out to be fans. Newcastle thugs bent on handing out a beating to the opposition team manager. Not these men.’

  ‘I hear what you say,’ she said. ‘And yet. It would seem that some of the men on my list are given to violence. For example: Ronan Reilly.’

  She touched the iPad and opened a file to reveal a photograph of Ronan Reilly. He was pictured with Charlie Nicholas, Jeff Stelling, Matt le Tissier and Phil Thompson; he looked like he was sitting in for Paul Merson on Gillette Soccer Saturday.

  ‘Nice suit. Not sure about the earring. What about him?’

  ‘Reilly and Zarco actually came to blows at the BBC Sports Personality of the Year party last year, didn’t they?’

  ‘So? Reilly’s a hard man with strong opinions. I respect that.’

  ‘He’s certainly a quick-tempered one. I’ve been reading up: in 1992, in the first year of the Premier League’s existence, he received more red cards than any other player.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. But look, that was more than twenty years ago. And I dare say he took most of those for the team. Professional fouls and that kind of thing. The last I heard even the Met wasn’t prosecuting people for getting sent off. But time will tell; it’s an easy nick.’

  ‘And yet it seems that even when he’s off the park Reilly has form for this sort of behaviour. He’s handy with his fists, is Mr Reilly. When he played for Liverpool there was an incident at a nightclub where chairs were thrown and another man was assaulted. Reilly was charged with affray.’

  ‘He went to trial and was acquitted.’

  ‘Yes, the trial was in Liverpool,’ added DCI Byrne. ‘Where he was a very popular man with the red half of the city.’

  ‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘The outcome might have been different with more toffees on the jury. Or if a few bent coppers had testified against him. That always helps with the local clear-up rate.’

  She ignored that one.

  ‘And then, before he was on television, he was manager at Stoke City, wasn’t he? Where he punched a player in the dressing room and broke his jaw, by all accounts, for which he was almost sacked.’ She smiled. ‘Honestly, how anyone can call this the beautiful game escapes me.’

  ‘Like I say. Passions run high sometimes. Besides, I think I’m right in saying that the player – who was no saint himself – withdrew the complaint.’

  ‘Reilly was here yesterday. At Silvertown Dock. Did you know that, Mr Manson?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m not surprised. It was a big game. Pretty good one, too, for us.’ I shook my head. ‘Look, you asked my opinion. And that’s all it is. My opinion. I know Ronan Reilly. He’s not a bad man. Just one with a short fuse. That fight at the SPOTY – it was just handbags.’

  ‘It looked a bit more than that to me. I’ve seen the fight on YouTube. Blood was spilled. I could show it to you, if you like. Refresh your memory.’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve seen enough YouTube videos for one weekend. So maybe they expected people would pull them apart sooner than they did. Besides, they’d both had a drink. Several, probably. I know I had.’

  ‘And that makes it all right, I suppose, Mr Manson.’

  ‘No. But it makes it easier to understand.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to learn that Reilly was absent from his seat for fifteen minutes during yesterday’s match?’

  ‘Have you tried to buy a drink here at half time? It can take a while.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t then. It was during the first half. You see, Sky Sports has made all their footage available to us, from all of their cameras, so we can time his absence precisely. And he’s clearly missing from his seat for a full fifteen minutes at about the same time that people were beginning to realise João Zarco was missing. I could show you that, too, if you like.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes of looking at what, an empty seat? I’ve got better things to do with my time.’

  ‘Come now, Mr Manson. What could be more important than finding your friend’s killer?’

  ‘Look, have you asked Reilly where he was?’

  ‘Not yet. But I intend to ask him this afternoon. I just wanted to get your input first.’

  ‘On what? Reilly’s mind? His criminal credentials? Look, I’m just the caretaker manager here.’

  ‘You appear to be taking rather a lot of care right now, Mr Manson.’

  ‘It seems I have to, with coppers like you around, Miss Byrne.’

  ‘By the way, congratulations.’

  ‘On what? Not getting nicked last night? Or landing this job?’

  She smiled. ‘The job, of course. But beating an alco test, that’s a cause for celebration, too. And hey, un
like so many other people in football, you didn’t even have to call Mr Loophole.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Manson.’

  ‘Trying to set me up like that. Don’t bother denying it. I know you were behind that little stunt. You and your friend Commander Clive Talbot OBE thought you could soften me up, did you? Make me more cooperative? Next time you use the ladies’ loo in this place, you’d best make sure you’re the only lady in there. Using the word in its loosest possible sense.’

  She frowned as if she was trying to remember if she’d bothered to check all of the cubicles and then coloured a little. ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m sorry not to have been more help to you,’ I said. ‘I don’t remember anyone who I think might have killed Zarco. But I have remembered why I don’t like the police.’

  ‘As if you’d forgotten.’

  ‘Are we done here? Is that all?’

  ‘Not quite. Mrs Zarco says her husband was having an affair with the club acupuncturist,’ said DCI Byrne. ‘She’s Mrs Claire Barry, isn’t she?’

  ‘That’s her name.’

  ‘Her husband, Sean, runs a private security company called Cautela Limited. According to Google they just landed a big contract to look after some of the teams for the World Cup in Russia and Qatar. Zarco wasn’t very complimentary about the Qataris, was he? Many of the people Cautela employs are ex-MI5, MI6. They could be out of a job if it doesn’t go ahead. For that reason they might have been pissed off at him. On both counts. Business and personal. Maybe enough to work him over.’

  ‘You tell me, Miss Byrne. You’re the one with all the Home Office connections.’ I stood up. ‘Just so as you know, João Gonzales Zarco was my friend. But I really don’t care all that much if you manage to find his killer. It certainly won’t bring him back. The only things I care about are this football club, its fans, and the match on Tuesday night.’

  ‘You’ve made yourself very clear, Mr Manson. That being the case, let me be equally clear. I hate football. Always have. I think it is the greatest curse of modern life. Until yesterday the only time I’d been in a football ground was in May 2002 when, as a young WPC, I went to help police a game at The Den. Millwall lost a play-off game to Birmingham City and I was just one of forty-seven police officers who was injured trying to contain the violence that resulted – to say nothing of twenty-four police horses. What kind of person would stab a horse with a broken bottle? Or, for that matter, a young WPC? Namely me. So, I have nothing but contempt for people who go to football. And nothing but contempt for the overpaid adolescents who play the game – not to mention the egomaniacs who manage these so-called clubs. I will find Mr Zarco’s killer. I promise you that. But if, while I do it, I can also bring disgrace upon the game and this place, then so much the better.’

  ‘You can do your worst,’ I said. ‘But I’ve a feeling it won’t be anything to compare with the disgrace the police managed to bring on themselves at Hillsborough.’

  23

  ‘How did that go?’ asked Maurice.

  ‘As well as could have been expected. Which is to say not well at all. Detective Chief Inspector Jane Byrne is a piece of work, and no mistake. I think you can safely say we already hate each other.’

  ‘After what happened last night I can’t say I’m surprised. But a friend of mine at the Yard says she’s headed for the top.’

  ‘The top of what? A pile of shit?’

  ‘That bad, eh?’

  ‘Let’s just say she’s not a lover of the game. And right now, she seems to like Ronan Reilly for Zarco’s murder.’

  ‘I never liked that cunt much myself.’

  ‘Him, or Sean Barry.’

  ‘Sean?’ Maurice made a face. ‘Actually, I don’t think it can have been Sean who killed Zarco.’

  ‘No?’

  The phone on my desk rang. It was Simon Page.

  ‘There are two people from the FA here,’ he said. ‘Apparently they just missed us at Hangman’s Wood.’

  ‘The FA? What the fuck do they want?’

  ‘It’s the DCO and the FATSO. They want urine samples from four random players.’

  The DCO was the Doping Control Officer from UK Anti-Doping and the FATSO was what we called the Football Association Supervising Officer. They had enormous powers and it was wise to cooperate with them in whatever way they wanted; famously a UK anti-doping team had given the tennis player Andy Murray a drugs test when he was just about to go to Buckingham Palace to collect his OBE.

  ‘They pick their moments, don’t they? You’d better give them what they need.’ I put the phone down.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Maurice.

  ‘Drug testing. As if having the police here wasn’t enough of a hassle. You were saying. About Sean Barry.’

  ‘It seems that finding out about Zarco and his missus prompted him to reveal that he’d had a girlfriend himself. More than one, as it happens. So we can rule out jealousy. Apparently he’s more upset about Zarco’s death than his wife is. Thinks it’s going to damage our chances of winning anything this season.’

  ‘He could be right. I suppose your friend Sarah Crompton told you that, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So we’re crossing him off our first team list.’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘What about that ref’s son – Jimmy Sharp? What did you find out there?’

  ‘He’s on the bench, too. He’s applied to Campion Hall at Oxford University. Wants to study theology as soon as he’s out of the Royal Marines. I’m told he wants to go into the priesthood. There was an article about him in the Daily Telegraph a few weeks ago.’

  ‘On the face of it, hardly the type bent on revenge.’

  ‘Good cover, though. I mean, if you were going to do someone in it wouldn’t half throw them off the scent if they thought you had the hots for Jesus. Don’t forget the Reverend Green in Cluedo.’

  ‘It’s Mr Green these days. He’s considered more PC. Apparently the Yanks who bought the rights to the game objected to the idea of a clergyman being a murderer.’

  ‘Stupid cunts.’ Maurice laughed. ‘Denis Kampfner, I don’t know about. Not yet. As for that Russian bloke – Semion Mikhailov – he owns a large energy company, not to mention a bank or two and a Russian football club: Dynamo St Petersburg.’

  ‘That’s interesting. Viktor is buying a player from them. Says they owe him money.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, I’m not sure which would be worse: owing Mikhailov money, or having him owe you. He’s seriously bad, that man. But so far all I’ve got are a few sharp intakes of breath. He’s looking for a house in Chelsea, I’ve heard. Best place for him, I reckon. But I can’t imagine he’d actually misbehave while he was trying to set up home here. Wait a minute, Viktor’s not buying the red devil, is he?’

  ‘That’s what he says. But keep it under your hat.’

  ‘Good luck to him. They say Bekim Develi liked French grub even less than he liked paying the top rate of French tax. Word is he’s put on thirty pounds since he went back to play in Russia.’

  ‘Just what we fucking need.’

  Phil Hobday appeared in the doorway.

  ‘How’s it going, Scott?’

  ‘It’s just beginning to dawn on me how much work I have to do.’

  ‘For anything worth having you have to pay a price, Scott, and the price is always work and self-sacrifice. More than that if you’re looking for sporting immortality; in that case it’s only necessary that you die a little, maybe twice a week.’

  ‘You won’t mind if I borrow that for my next team talk, will you?’

  ‘It’s not exactly Henry V, but be my guest. The match on Tuesday night – perhaps we should try to get the FA to have it postponed.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘And fuck up the rest of our season? I don’t think so. Maybe we can make Zarco’s death work for us, if that doesn’t sound too cynical. What I mean is, perhaps we can get the
best out of the lads as a mark of respect for Zarco. Besides, I’m sure all the fans would like to mark his passing.’

  ‘Well, you’re the boss now,’ said Phil.

  ‘That’s what I keep telling myself.’

  ‘Difficult decisions. That’s what management is all about. Get used to them.’

  ‘Maurice? Go and see if the law’s finished at the crime scene, will you? I want to go and take a look at the spot where Zarco died a bit later. And close the door on your way out. I need to ask our club chairman an awkward question. Maybe two.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Phil sat down on a sofa arranged along the wall and waited for Maurice to leave my office. Even on a Sunday he wore a well-cut three-piece suit, an Hermès tie and a matching silk handkerchief in his top pocket. Phil was in his early sixties, not very tall with a full head of white hair; he’d started life with a top American law firm called Baker & McKenzie, which, in 1989, became one of the first international law firms in Moscow, and it was there he’d met Viktor during the privatisation of the Volga Automobile Company. Phil had helped turn Volga into the most popular car-maker in Russia. He might have known nothing about football but he knew plenty about mergers and acquisitions and capital market transactions; and – according to Viktor – he spoke perfect Russian.

  ‘Since you mentioned immortality,’ I said, ‘maybe now’s the time to mention commissioning a statue of Zarco.’

  ‘So, ask Viktor. You’ll be seeing quite a lot of him from now on, sunshine. More than you know.’

  ‘Yes, but I figured you were the go-to man for this. After all, there is a statue of you in – where is it now? The Volga factory in Nizhny Novgorod. I mean, who do you go to in order to arrange these things?’

  ‘Do you think we should have a statue of Zarco outside the Crown of Thorns?’

  ‘Yes. As long as it doesn’t look like the one of Billy Bremner. Especially as that one doesn’t look anything like Billy Bremner.’

  ‘I’ll mention it to Viktor.’ Phil grinned. ‘But that wasn’t what you wanted to speak to me about in private, was it?’

  ‘No. You know Viktor has asked me to play in a new position that’s not exactly our usual 4-4-2. He wants me to become a new sort of midfielder; the clean-up-other-people’s- mistakes kind who’s supposed to make sure our back four avoid any defensive duties at all.’