Hand of God

by Philip Kerr

  ‘And without the EpiPen that would have been potentially fatal.’

  She nodded.

  ‘But surely someone at Dynamo St Petersburg, his previous club, would have known about this?’ I wasn’t asking her, I was asking myself.

  ‘And if they didn’t mention it?’ She left that one hanging for a few seconds before saying what was already in my mind. ‘That would have affected the transfer fee, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It would have affected the whole transfer,’ I said.

  ‘I know Russians much better than I know football,’ said Svetlana. ‘They certainly wouldn’t allow the small matter of medical disclosure to affect a big payday. Not just his previous club, but Bekim, too. He was really delighted to go and play for a big London club. Russians love London.’

  ‘So they must have colluded in the deception,’ I said. ‘Him and Dynamo.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Svetlana. ‘Your own doctor probably just asked him a simple question. Are you allergic to anything? And all he had to do was answer was a simple “no”.’

  I took a long hit on the cigarette and then put it out; the flavour brought back strong memories of prison when a single fag can taste as good as a slap-up meal in a good restaurant. I said: ‘The more important question now is what Bekim’s EpiPens were doing in Nataliya’s handbag?’

  Svetlana didn’t answer. She lit another cigarette. We both did. There was much to think about and all of it unpleasant.

  ‘This is serious, isn’t it?’ she said after a while.

  ‘I’m afraid so. If Nataliya took his pens it must have been because she was paid to do it.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘I don’t know. But forty-eight hours ago this guy from the Sports Betting Intelligence Unit – part of the Gambling Commission back in England – asked me if Bekim could have been nobbled. In spite of what I told him, it’s beginning to look as though he might have been.’

  ‘Nobbled? What does it mean?’

  ‘It means fixed. Interfered with. Doped, like a horse. Poisoned.’

  I tried to remember the late lunch we’d all had at the hotel, prepared by our own chefs according to the guidelines laid down by Denis Abayev, the team nutritionist: grilled chicken with lots of green vegetables and sweet potato, followed by baked apple and Greek yoghurt. Nothing to worry about there. Not even for someone with an allergy to chickpeas. Unless someone had deliberately introduced some chickpeas into Bekim’s meal.

  ‘He must have eaten something with chickpeas in it before the match,’ I said. ‘There’s no other explanation.’

  ‘Okay, let’s work this out. How long before the match did you have lunch?

  ‘Three or four hours.’

  ‘Then that can’t have been it. When you have an allergy it’s almost instantaneous. He’d have gone into anaphylaxis the minute he ate the stuff. On planes they’ll sometimes tell you that they’re not serving nuts just in case a person who suffers from an allergy should inhale a tiny piece.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Which makes you realise that for someone who has got an allergy a nut or a chickpea can be as powerful as a dose of hemlock.’

  ‘And anyway,’ she asked, ‘why would someone do such a thing?’

  ‘Simple. Because on the night that Bekim died, someone in Russia took out a very big in-play bet on the match we played. These days, people will bet on anything that happens during a match: ten-minute events, the time of the first corner, the next goal scorer, the first player to come off – anything at all. It means that someone from Olympiacos, or someone from Russia, must have nobbled Bekim somehow. A ten-minute event like Bekim scoring and then being taken off. That must be it.’

  ‘Nobbled. Yes, I understand.’

  I looked at my iPhone but as before there was no signal. ‘Shit,’ I muttered. ‘I really need to make some calls.’

  ‘You can’t,’ she said. ‘Not up here. But I could drive you into Naoussa where there’s a pretty good signal at the Hotel Aliprantis. I have a friend there who’ll let us use the internet, as well. If you think it’s necessary.’

  ‘I’m afraid I do. Svetlana, if I’m right, it wasn’t just Nataliya who was murdered, it was Bekim, too.’

  46

  Naoussa was a very typical little Greek town by the sea, with lots of winding, cobbled streets, low white buildings, and plenty of tourists, most of them English. The air was humid and thick with the smell of cooked lamb and wood smoke from many open kitchen-fires. Jaunty bouzouki music emptied out of small bars and restaurants and in spite of the English voices you would not have been surprised to have seen an unshaven Anthony Quinn step-dancing his way around the next corner. A line of Greek pennants connected one side of the little main square to the other and behind a couple of ancient olive trees was a taverna belonging to the Hotel Aliprantis.

  The minute we entered the place I got a five bar signal on my iPhone and the texts and emails started to arrive like the scores on a pinball machine; before long there was a little red 21 on my Messages app, a 6 on my Mail app but, mercifully, fewer voicemails. As Svetlana led me through the restaurant and into the little hotel’s tiny lobby I uttered a groan as life began to catch up with me again. But worse still, I’d been recognised by four yobs drinking beer and all looking as pink as an old map of the British Empire. It wasn’t long before the innocent holiday atmosphere of the Aliprantis was spoiled as they struck up with a typically English sporting refrain:

  He’s red,

  He’s dead,

  He’s lying in a shed,

  Develi, Develi.

  and, just as offensive, although I’d heard half of this one before:

  Scott, Scott, you rapist prick,

  You should be locked up in the nick,

  And we don’t give a fuck about Bekim Develi,

  That red Russian cunt with HIV.

  Svetlana spoke Greek to the hotel manager, a big swarthy man with a beard like a toilet brush, and then introduced me to him. We shook hands and as he led us both up to his office where I could make some calls in private and send some emails I was already apologising for what I could very clearly hear through the floorboards. Somehow, in the frustrating week I’d spent in Greece, I’d forgotten that when they wanted to be, a few English supporters could be every bit as unpleasant as the worst from Olympiacos or Panathinaikos. That’s football.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said.

  ‘No, sir, it is me who is sorry that you and your team should have had such poor hospitality while you are in Greece. Bekim Develi would often have a drink in here. And any friend of Bekim Develi’s is friend of mine.’

  ‘I ought to have realised I might be recognised. I should go. Before there’s any trouble.’

  ‘No, sir, I tell them to leave. You stay here, make your telephone calls, get your emails, I fix those bastards.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But on one condition. That I pay for their meal.’ I laid a hundred euro note on the desk in the office. ‘That way, when you tell them to leave, they’ll think they had a free meal and just clear off without any trouble.’

  ‘Is not necessary.’

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Take it from me. This really is the best way.’

  ‘Okay, boss. But I bring you something to drink, yes?’

  ‘Greek coffee,’ I said.

  The manager glanced at Svetlana who asked for some ouzo.

  I picked up the iPhone and started to read my texts.

  Downstairs, the singing in the restaurant had stopped and moved outside where it continued for a while longer. I went to the window and looked out on the square and watched the four culprits as they sat on the edge of a fountain in front of the Blue Star Ferries office, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. One of them was wearing a T-shirt with a Keep Calm and Carry On slogan; another was wearing one that I’d seen almost as many times: Lookin’ to Score BRAZIL. They stayed there for a while and then, to everyone’s relief, left.

  I picked up the iPhone and started to li
sten to my voicemails but these were just some of the same people and messages – more or less – as the ones who’d texted me already. There wasn’t enough bandwidth to download the document that Prometheus had attached to his email; the rest were unimportant. I called my dad to reassure myself that he really was okay; then I called Louise.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you arrived,’ I said. ‘I should have met you at the airport.’

  ‘That’s all right. Where are you? I was getting worried.’

  ‘On the island of Paros.’

  ‘Paros? What are you doing there?’

  ‘I came to Bekim Develi’s house to check out a few things. I’m glad I did because things are a lot clearer to me than they were before.’

  ‘So are you finished down there, Sherlock?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m sorry, baby, I’m not going to be able to get back to Athens until tomorrow morning. There just isn’t a flight.’

  I heard some laughter in the background.

  ‘Where are you anyway?’ I asked.

  ‘On Viktor Sokolnikov’s yacht,’ she said. ‘He invited me for dinner. Wait a minute. He wants to speak to you.’

  There was a longish pause and then Viktor came on the line.

  ‘Scott? What are you doing on Paros? You should be here with your girlfriend.’

  I told him what I’d just told Louise.

  ‘Paros is only half an hour away from here,’ he said. ‘I’ll send the helicopter for you right now. Drive to the Hotel Astir on the north coast where I happen to know there’s a helipad we can use. I’ll have it come and pick you up. You can be here within the hour.’

  ‘There’s no need to go to all that trouble.’ I was keen to see Louise again but somewhat mortified that I’d forgotten that she was coming to Athens; I was also nervous about the idea of taking a night-time flight in a helicopter. ‘I can catch the plane back to Athens tomorrow.’

  At the same time I knew it was wiser to return to the mainland as soon as possible. I could hardly delay telling the police what I knew for much longer. Not only that but the Wi-Fi on The Lady Ruslana was as quick as any on the mainland and I was keen to read the email from Nataliya’s outbox. I had a feeling it would be a key piece of evidence in identifying her murderer.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Vik, ‘it’s no trouble at all.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course, I’m sure. Look, you can both spend the night here on the yacht. And the tender will take you back to shore in the morning. Okay? Besides, I want to talk about this German guy, Hörst Daxenberger. And Kojo’s goalkeeper, Mandingo. And then you can tell me everything you’ve discovered since you put on your deerstalker hat and lit your favourite Meerschaum.’

  47

  We got back into Svetlana’s car and drove slowly out of the town of Naoussa, west around the bay, towards Kolymbithres and the Astir Hotel’s helipad. There was plenty of time. The hotel was less than five miles away and the only thing causing traffic on the road were the geckos.

  ‘I know the guy from Loukis Rent-a-Car,’ she said. ‘I’ll drive over there in the morning and tell him to come and fetch the car from my place. Zoi will lock up, of course. She’s very reliable.’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t have the guts to tell her that Bekim is dead.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell her. What’s going to happen, do you think? To the house?’

  ‘I’ve really no idea,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry I have to leave so suddenly. I haven’t been here for very long, but I can easily see why you are. It’s a beautiful island. And look, I promise to do everything I can to keep your name from the police, Svetlana. But to do that I may need to speak to you again. So, tomorrow and for the next few days, will you make sure you go back to the Aliprantis, or somewhere that you can collect your texts and emails?’

  ‘Okay. I promise.’

  I squeezed her hand on the gear stick.

  We had driven about two miles from Naoussa when I recognised two men on the road, trying to hitch a lift. I glanced at the big Hublot on my wrist; it told me there was just enough time for a bit of payback.

  ‘Pull up,’ I told her. ‘I know those two guys.’

  ‘They’re the hooligans from the town?’

  ‘Two of them, anyway.’

  ‘Please, Scott, I don’t think this is a good idea.’

  ‘Actually, it’s an excellent idea,’ I said. ‘All the same, stay in the car and if they come after you, don’t wait for me, just drive away. Okay?’

  Svetlana said nothing.

  ‘I mean it. Just drive off. Don’t think twice about it.’

  I took off my watch, laid it carefully on the dashboard, buttoned my shirt to the neck and got out of the car; the road was empty and there was no one about, which suited my purpose. In the distance I could just make out the blue glow of what was likely the Hotel Astir’s floodlit swimming pool. And somewhere far away – possibly the same place – there was music: it sounded like Pharrell Williams. The two men were already running to where we were parked under a twisted olive tree thinking that they’d landed a ride home. But they stopped when they realised exactly who and what they were hurrying to.

  I walked towards them in the moonlight, clapping my hands and singing a song to the tune of ‘Cwm Rhondda’; a joyous, taunting song you could hear at every football ground, on any match day in the season.

  ‘You’re not singing any more. You’re not singing any more.’

  The one wearing the Lookin’ to Score BRAZIL T-shirt was about six feet tall, heavy-set, with a gold chain around his pink neck and so much golden stubble on his mug it looked like a newly harvested wheat field. The other one – the one wearing the Keep Calm and Carry On T-shirt was taller and thinner, his mouth as thin as a slash in a potato, his forehead curled up into a knuckle of irritation and concern. He tossed away his cigarette without a thought for the forest fires that often ravage that part of the world; he deserved a smack just for that. The best and the brightest they weren’t; but they looked tough enough.

  ‘We’re not looking for any trouble, mate,’ he said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. We’re not.’

  ‘You should have thought of that when you were back in the town,’ I said. ‘I didn’t like what you were singing. It’s fuckers like you that give English football a bad name. Who spoil it for decent people. But I’m not here for me. I’m here for my friend, Bekim Develi. My friend didn’t like your singing either.’

  ‘Listen, Manson, get back in your fucking car and drive on, you stupid black cunt.’

  I grinned; any doubts I’d had about what I was going to do were now removed.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do.’ All this time I kept walking towards the pair. ‘Just as soon as this black cunt has sorted you out.’

  The one thing I learned in the nick was how to fight like you mean it; that’s the only way you can fight when you’re in the nick. It’s not the kind of fighting that you see hooligans getting up to in the street, if that can even be called fighting at all. That’s the same way chimpanzees fight and most of it is just for show; they run at each other, shove a bit and shout and then stop, take a few steps back and then run at each other again, egging everyone else on, looking to see who’s really up for it, where the weaknesses are and, as a corollary, where to attack first. But in the nick you go in fast – before a screw has a chance to interfere and put a stop to it – and hard – hard enough to inflict real pain; and you don’t fucking care if you get hurt because there’s no time to think about that. Once you’re committed to it, you have to stay committed no matter what. The other thing you learn about violence in the nick is to keep your feet firmly on the ground and use your head and your elbows to aim at something small, because there’s not a lot of room in a cell or on a landing when you’re handing it out to another con. And there’s nothing smaller or more effective to aim at than another bloke’s nose.

  Without a moment’s hesitation I launched a b
attering ram of a head-butt at the centre of the taller man’s face, and I felt something give like the sound of an egg breaking and heard him utter a loud cry of pain; it meant the fight was already half over because he collapsed onto the road and lay there holding his face. Les Ferdinand would have been proud of me; it was a great header.

  One down, one to go.

  Now the other man came at me and threw a big right hand which, if it had connected, would certainly have caused some damage; but he was tired, and probably drunker than I was, and the punch seemed to come all the way from Luton, on an EasyJet Airbus; delayed, of course. I had plenty of time to block it with my left forearm, which left me ample opportunity to bring a right elbow hard through my centre line against the left side of his face. Probably I didn’t have to hit him again, but I did – a hammer blow on the side of his nose that felled him like a pile of cardboard boxes, intended to render him every bit as ugly as he’d sounded in the Hotel Aliprantis. In spite of what I’d told these two guys, I hadn’t just struck a blow for Bekim: I’d also hit them for every banana ever thrown at me and for every racist epithet or obscene taunt yelled my way during a game. I kid you not, there isn’t a guy in the Barclays Premier League who wouldn’t like to hand out some grief to a bunch of fans now and again. Just ask Eric Cantona.

  It was all over in less than sixty seconds; neither of them showed any intention of getting up and carrying on. I thought about kicking them both when they were on the ground and immediately rejected the idea. Knowing when to stop is as important as knowing when to start. I didn’t even say anything. I’d said all there needed to be said. I figured it would be a while before they sang anything again, least of all some crap about a man’s death.

  I got back into the car, unbuttoned my shirt collar, calmly put on my watch again and then checked my appearance in her rear-view mirror; I wasn’t injured. I didn’t even have a headache.

  ‘Drive,’ I told her.

  ‘Feel better now you’ve done that?’

  The wind took hold of the distant music and hurried it to our ears. Pharrell Williams.