by Philip Kerr
‘That’s right,’ said the DCO.
‘You know, Mr Hastings, I’m not a lawyer. But I’ve had considerable experience of the law, not all of it welcome, and I wonder if you’ve ever heard of the rules of natural justice.’
Hastings shook his head.
‘It’s a technical term for the rule against bias and the right to a fair hearing. And it does seem to me that the duty – your duty – to act fairly, trumps everything that the FA have written down here. I suggest that any court of law would think it more than a little unfair of you to come here today of all days, a day when we’re in mourning for our late manager, and a day when the police are conducting an inquiry which, with all due respect, would seem to take precedence over anything that the FA could fairly ask of us.
‘Having said all that, I’d have thought that there are not one but two very good reasons to support a compelling justification argument such as I’ve just described. And I haven’t even mentioned the special relationship that existed between the late Mr Zarco and Mr Bündchen. You see, it was Mr Zarco who brought young Christoph from Augsburg in Germany, and who gave him his big chance just the other night against Leeds United. Mr Bündchen is very upset. Perhaps more upset than any of the other players, I hardly like to mention this to you now – however, you leave me no choice. Earlier on, one of the police officers informed me that Christoph Bündchen wept when he was questioned about Zarco’s death. If I’m honest, I’m not in the least bit surprised that he’s forgotten that he was supposed to take a drugs test. It might save us all a lot of time and embarrassment if you were to take that into account.’
I’d said enough. In my mind I was already phoning Ronnie Leishmann and instructing him to start preparing the club’s legal case for the FA hearing – whenever that might be. I was thinking of Rio Ferdinand in 2003, and the eight-month ban he’d undergone for missing a drugs test, not to mention a fifty grand fine. Everyone in the game knew Rio was as straight as an arrow, but the farts on the FA still went ahead and busted him, making him ineligible for the 2004 European Championship in Portugal. Which the Greeks ended up winning. How did that happen?
‘I’ll be outside if you need me.’
29
In the corridor outside the drug-testing station I found Simon speaking agitatedly on the phone.
‘Where the fuck are you?’ Simon caught my eye and then handed me his phone. ‘It’s Christoph,’ he said. ‘Daft bugger says he’s at a fucking football match.’
‘Where the fuck are you?’ I yelled into the phone. I was speaking German now, in case I was overheard. When there are UKAD people about it’s best to be a little close-lipped. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages.’
‘I’m at Craven Cottage,’ said Christoph.
‘What the fuck are you doing there?’
‘I came to see Fulham play Norwich City, with a friend. It’s my local team.’
‘Don’t you ever answer your phone?’
‘I honestly didn’t hear it until half time.’
‘At Fulham? Don’t make me laugh. There’s never that much noise at Craven Cottage. The neighbours wouldn’t allow it.’
‘It’s true, boss. They’re four goals up.’
‘You must be on fucking drugs, son. Look, you know you’ve missed giving a urine test. That’s bloody serious, Christoph. You could be facing a ban.’
‘Yes, I know. And I’m really sorry, boss.’
‘The guys from UKAD are still here, debating your fate. In five minutes you might have a lot more time to watch football than you could ever have imagined.’
The door to the drug-testing station opened and the two officials from UKAD emerged.
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I think we’re about to learn if they’re going to cite you for a breach of the code, or not.’
I lowered the phone and waited, my heart in my mouth.
Mr Hastings looked at me and nodded what looked like his acquiescence. ‘Under these exceptional circumstances it’s been decided that no further action will be taken.’
I let out a sigh of relief and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thanks for being so reasonable, gentlemen.’
As the two UKAD officials left I almost punched the air and cheered; and so did Simon.
‘Blimey. What did you do, boss? Put a gun to his head? I felt sure that boy was fucked.’
It probably wouldn’t be the first time, I thought.
In German I said to Christoph: ‘Did you hear all that?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Did you forget about the UK doping people or are you just an idiot?’
‘I guess I’m just an idiot, boss.’
I frowned. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean? You mean you didn’t forget?’
‘I went to a friend’s birthday party in Soho on Thursday night, you see. A gay party. And by accident I took some tina. Someone slipped it into my drink, I think. For a laugh. At least, that’s what they told me. I mean, I really didn’t know until it was too late.’
‘What?’
So Christoph Bündchen hadn’t forgotten about the UKAD officials at all; he’d panicked and taken off because he knew he was guilty. I now realised just how close we’d been to an even bigger, Adrian Mutu-sized disaster; I hadn’t a clue what tina was but I assumed it must be a drug of some description and not the kind you could ever have argued was a cold remedy.
‘It was a soft drink, I swear. An orange juice.’
‘Oh, I guess that’s all right then.’
‘I’ve never taken that stuff before. It just happened. And when those two UKAD guys showed up at the dock this morning I freaked out, I guess. I promise it won’t happen again.’
‘You’re bloody right it won’t. And don’t tell me any more. Not another bloody word. But you are so fucking busted. See me in my office at Hangman’s Wood tomorrow morning after training and we’ll discuss your punishment. But I can tell you this: don’t expect to go home with any bollocks in your Y-fronts.’
I handed Simon back his phone.
‘What’s he got to say for himself?’ he asked.
Simon didn’t need to know. A trouble shared is never a trouble halved. Not in football and certainly not with a man like Simon who, in spite of his tall, handsome, silver-fox, appearance was possessed of a hard, gloomy, northern disposition. He wasn’t called Foggy for nothing. He had only one expression and that was stoic. Even his smile looked like ice forming on a line of gravestones. Born in Barnsley, he’d played football for Sheffield Wednesday, Middlesbrough, Barnsley and Rotherham United – hence what was truly surprising about him was that he should ever have left Yorkshire. This was entirely due to his much younger Venezuelan wife, Elke, whom he’d met on a trip to Spain where he had a holiday home – it was said that she’d refused to marry him unless he lived in London. I certainly couldn’t blame her for that. But Simon hated the south of England almost as much as he hated southerners, and to say he was one of football’s hard men was like describing the SAS as butch.
‘He said, “Entschuldigung”,’ I replied. ‘That’s just German for “I was a stupid cunt”.’
‘That’s what I thought it meant.’
I went back to my office where I found Maurice glued to the television set.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said.
I glanced at the screen. It was the weather report.
‘After what I just experienced I think I could believe anything,’ I said. ‘Even a warm sunny day in January.’
‘No. Wait a minute and the news will be on again. This is just priceless. The law’s only gone and arrested Ronan Reilly.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘I kid you not.’
‘For murder? No way.’
‘Dunno. They’re not saying. Apparently they went to Reilly’s house to interview him and he legged it out of the window. He was doing an O.J. down the drive when they nicked him.’
‘Maybe it was to do with something else.’
/>
‘Let’s hope not, eh? And then we can get back to normal.’
A few moments later Reilly was on screen, being led to a police car in handcuffs. He’d looked better, even on the BBC; he was wearing a wife-beater and had a black eye. The famous scar on his forehead that was the result of a juvenile gang fight was even more pronounced than usual. He did at least seem like a murderer. There were guys in Wandsworth Prison who looked less obviously criminal than Ronan Reilly did.
Maurice laughed. ‘I never liked that cunt,’ he said.
‘Yes, you’ve made that clear before.’
‘And with good reason. He’s never had a decent word to say about this football club. Not ever. You think I’m exaggerating, boss, but I’m not. He hates us. Even before Zarco came back here he hated us. Every time he was on MOTD he was giving us stick for this and bad-mouthing us for that. I’m surprised he’s got the nerve to show his face in this ground.’
And then Detective Inspector Neville could be seen leaving Reilly’s home in Coombe Lane without answering any of the reporters’ questions.
‘Hold up,’ said Maurice. ‘That’s the copper who was here earlier on today.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Detective Inspector Neville.’
‘Blimey, maybe it really was Reilly that topped Zarco,’ said Maurice. ‘I mean, why run away if you’re not guilty?’
‘I can think of a few damned good reasons.’
‘Christ. Who’d have thought? Ronan Reilly a murderer.’
‘We don’t know for sure that’s what it’s about.’
‘What else could it be? They don’t arrest you for nothing, boss.’
‘That’s certainly not been my own experience.’
We waited a moment and then the Sky reporter mentioned the fight Reilly had had with Zarco at the BBC SPOTY and started to speculate that Reilly’s arrest might have something to do with the Portuguese manager’s death.
‘See?’ said Maurice. ‘He thinks so, too.’
‘Believe me,’ I said, ‘I’ve been there. Where Reilly is now, I mean. People jumping to conclusions. No smoke without fire. Guilty until proved innocent.’
‘Talk about Super fucking Sunday.’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’ I told him about the UKAD officials and how Christoph had narrowly escaped being busted. ‘What is tina, anyway?’
‘Crystal meth. Methamphetamine. Popular with PnP boys having a chem session.’
‘PnP?’
‘Party and play. Crystal meth’s a gay drug, popular in the clubs.’
‘How long would that stuff stay in your urine?’
‘Up to five days, I reckon. Ninety days if they were to use a hair-follicle test to look for it. Which they can, of course. Provided you’ve got a bit of hair – unlike him.’
Maurice nodded at the TV and laughed cruelly as Sky re-showed the footage of a handcuffed Reilly being led to the police car. It couldn’t be denied: Ronan Reilly was a bit of a slaphead. It was hard to connect him with the mop-top and babe-magnet who’d once played for Everton and was married to a former Miss Singapore.
‘You just made picking the side for the game against the Hammers a lot easier.’ I picked up my phone and started to type a text to Simon. ‘If Christoph can test positive for drugs today then he could test positive on Tuesday night. Ayrton can play instead of the German lad.’
‘Ayrton? I thought he was on his bike, to Stoke.’
‘Not any more. I asked him to stay on.’
Maurice nodded. ‘That was smart. We need his experience. It’s the one thing that Mr Sokolnikov – for all his millions – can’t buy.’
30
I spent the remainder of the afternoon in my office avoiding the police, fielding calls and texts, drinking tea, and studying the previous Hammers match on my iPad. I’d always liked the Thames Ironworks, as we used to call them at Arsenal – that was their name back in 1895 when the team was formed. I’d nearly signed for them myself, once. You always had the feeling that the Premier League was never quite the same without West Ham, like in 2011. There were plenty of other sides who never looked right in the Premier League, but the Hammers weren’t one of them. It was always a tough game when we played West Ham and thanks to the likes of Harry Redknapp and Frank Lampard senior, they’d always had a pretty good Academy – one that had produced nine England internationals, including Bobby Moore – which meant that we were probably in for a few surprises on Tuesday night.
Just before five, when I was getting ready to go home, Viktor put his head around my office door. He was wearing a long brown Canali coat with a fur collar and in his hand was a beautiful Bottega Veneta briefcase.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘Viktor. What are you doing here?’ I asked.
‘I came to see that woman,’ he said. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Byrne. To tell her what happened at the lunch yesterday.’
‘And what did you tell her?’
‘That everything seemed normal. Zarco was his usual ebullient self. I had no sense that this was a man who thought that someone was going to beat him to death. He was in a good mood.’
‘You asked me to investigate his murder underneath that copper’s high heels. With respect, it might help if you were to afford me the same opportunity to question you a little. After all, you were one of the last people to see Zarco alive. Maybe I can learn something useful I didn’t know before. Something you overlooked when you talked to the police, perhaps.’
He glanced at his cheapo watch and nodded. ‘Sure. Good idea.’
That was Maurice’s cue to make himself scarce again. As he opened and closed the door I caught a glimpse of a couple of Hulk-sized bodyguards outside in the corridor. I thought it best to keep my questions very respectful indeed.
Viktor shrugged off his coat and sat down on the sofa.
‘Did you see the news on television?’ he asked me. ‘About Reilly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think he killed Zarco?’
‘I honestly don’t know, Viktor.’
‘If you’re innocent, why run away?’
‘I’ve been wondering that myself.’
‘They used to be friends, he and Zarco. Did you know that? Long before all that stupid business at the SPOTY. When Reilly and Zarco were still playing, back in the early nineties, there was an incident on the football pitch, during a match. Reilly used to play for Benfica. This was at the same time Zarco was playing for Porto. Anyway, words were exchanged and Zarco elbowed Reilly in the face, which almost cost him an eye and ended his season. Indeed, it almost ended Reilly’s career.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘It’s in Reilly’s book, which is long out of print so I don’t suppose anyone really remembers it now. But I do. I remember it because I remember everything I read. I don’t say I have an eidetic or photographic memory. Frankly I don’t believe they exist. However, my memory is exceptional.’
‘Since you remember so much, tell me more about the lunch. About Zarco and how he was the last time you saw him.’
‘Like I say, he seemed himself,’ explained Viktor. ‘Dry and funny, as he always was. And confident about the match, of course. Always confident. Sometimes too confident. He had steak for lunch. And a glass of red wine – just the one. What else? Yes, he had a hat with him, and a pair of sunglasses.’
‘A hat? What kind of a hat? Malcolm Allison, Roberto Mancini or Tony Pulis?’
‘Malcolm Allison, I don’t know. I’ve never heard of this man. A Roberto Mancini, I think. A woolly hat. Well, yesterday was a very cold day.’
‘City colours?’
‘Actually no. The orange ones make your head look like a flower pot. A black one. He was wearing the hat and a pair of scary-looking motorcyclist’s gloves. With black knuckle armour.’
‘He was scared of you, did you know that?’
‘Sophocles says that to him who is in fear everything rustles.’ Viktor smiled. ‘Believe me, Scott,
around me there is always a lot of rustling. Everyone seems to hear it. Everyone except me. It’s said – mostly by people who are my enemies – that I have ties to organised crime. This is not true; but what is true is that this was not always the case. When I first started doing business in Russian and Ukraine it was more or less impossible not to make deals with so-called Russian Mafia figures. But let me tell you, if I may, something about the Russian Mafia. It does not exist. It never did exist. It was convenient for the racist government in Moscow – Boris Yeltsin’s government – to blame all of the country’s problems on so-called ethnic gangs: the Georgians, the Chechens, the Tatars, the Ukrainians and the Jews. Always the Jews. But you know mostly these were just businessmen who saw an opportunity and took it in a country where opportunity had not existed in almost a hundred years. Were they greedy? Yes. Were they ruthless? Sometimes. Was I one of these men? Undoubtedly. Did I make a fast buck after the collapse of the USSR? Certainly. Did I do it by means that would not satisfy the SEC or the FSA? Perhaps. Did I ever have anyone killed? No, I did not.’
He meant this little speech to be reassuring, I think, and yet somehow it wasn’t. For one thing there were the bodyguards outside, and for another there was the simple reality that even if Viktor was just a businessman, he knew plenty of people who operated on the edge of the law.
He grinned. ‘Next you’re going to be asking me for my alibi, Scott. It’s just as well I spent the whole afternoon with those people from the Royal Borough of Greenwich. They’ll vouch for me.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Because I think Zarco had a good reason to be afraid of you. He’d done something wrong. Something illegal.’
‘So, you know about that.’ Viktor’s cold, dark eyes narrowed. ‘I can see I wasn’t wrong about you, Scott. I made the right choice.’
‘Let’s hope you still think so at the end of this conversation, Viktor.’
