Philip Kerr - Hand of God

‘They think purple.’

‘Any jewellery?’

The boys looked a bit shifty.

‘He insists she wasn’t wearing any jewellery,’ said Charilaos, ‘but I don’t believe him. For sure they stole it.’

‘Forget it. Anything else that might distinguish or identify her?’

One of the boys said something and Charilaos asked him to repeat it.

‘ Tatouáz ,’ was the word he used.

‘She had a tattoo,’ said Charilaos.

‘What kind of a tattoo?’ I asked. ‘And where?’

‘On her shoulder. A sort of geometrical design, in black. It sounds to me like he means a lavýrinthos . You know? Like the story of Theseus and the Minotaur.’

‘A labyrinth?’

‘That’s right. About the size of a teacup.’

‘Did he tell that to the police?’

Charilaos laughed. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I don’t think the police were offering forty euros in cash. Besides, people in Athens, in Piraeus—’

‘I know. They hate the police.’

Our walk back to the car took us past Monsieur Croesus again and this time I was surprised to see someone I knew standing on one of the upper decks; not only that but someone who recognised me, which was perhaps more unusual. It was Cooper Lybrand, the hedgie. He wasn’t wearing the white suit any more but he still looked like a cunt.

‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘What brings you down here?’

‘Curiosity,’ I said. ‘They fished a dead girl out of the water on the other side of the marina. Apparently she spent the night with one of our players. So now we’re forbidden to leave Athens. I just wanted to take a look at the spot for myself.’

‘I heard about that,’ he said. ‘And about Bekim. I’m sorry.’

‘I thought you were staying on Viktor’s boat,’ I said.

‘I was. But I had some business with the guy who owns this one. Gustave Haak. And now here I am. We only docked here an hour ago so I guess that puts us in the clear, huh?’

‘If you say so.’

‘I’d invite you on board but it’s not my boat. Gustave is a very private person.’

‘Who says I am?’

Another head appeared on deck. Older and taller than Cooper Lybrand, he had a full head of longish grey hair, a face like a hawk and almost invisible glasses.

‘Gustave. This is Scott Manson. He manages Vik’s football club.’

‘Of course, I know who Scott Manson is,’ said Gustave Haak. ‘Do you take me for an idiot? Forgive our manners, Mr Manson, and please come aboard. We’re just about to have a glass of wine.’

I looked at my watch. ‘All right. As a matter of fact I could use a drink.’

I told Charilaos I’d see him back at the car and went aboard.

By this time, Cooper Lybrand had told Haak what I was doing in Marina Zea and Haak was full of questions about the dead girl, most of which I was unable to answer.

‘But you’re quite right to come down here and take a look for yourself,’ he said, ushering me into a spectacular drawing room that looked like it had been designed by a man with no children: everything was white. ‘I find that the best, most original ideas come to me when I’m not behind a desk. It’s the same when I’m investigating a company with a view to taking it over. You have to have good intel to know what the right move is going to be. Without that, you have nothing.’ He smiled and waved at one of the many cartoonish blondes wearing very fetching white uniforms — which is to say they were all wearing white swimsuits and white sneakers.

‘Will you have some of this excellent German Riesling, Mr Manson?’

‘Thanks, I will.’

One of the blondes handed me a glass of liquid gold while Haak continued talking.

‘I love the game of football,’ he declared. ‘And the thing I appreciate about football managers is that, unlike most managers in most businesses, you always know what they do. They manage football teams. And they’re either good or they’re bad. Most companies are full of managers who do nothing. No, that’s not quite true. Most of them fuck things up, which is worse than doing nothing. I spend most of my time trying to find out who they are so that I can fire them. As soon as you do, the value of the company always goes up. It’s uncanny. Anyway, that’s my job, Mr Manson. The elimination of managers who are redundant in all but name.’

He was Dutch, I think, because his accent reminded me of Ruud Gullitt. Fortunately for him he had a better haircut.

‘Vik tells me that you’re a good manager, Mr Manson. But do you think it’s wise to get involved in this? Wouldn’t it be better to leave things to the police?’

‘Have you met the police here in Attica, Mr Haak?’

‘No, I can’t say that I have.’

‘The way I see it, Mr Haak, I can do one of two things in a situation like this. I can look to see if I can do anything, anything at all to help sort it out; or I can do nothing. I’m generally the kind of person who likes to do something, even if that something turns out to be not very much. For all I know that might push me into the category of manager you don’t like, the kind who fucks things up. But, you know, I never mind fucking up just as long as I learn something. In that respect at least I’m just like the police. They fuck up all the time and it never seems to deter them.’

‘Good for you,’ he said. ‘And now because I’m a Dutchman, let’s talk about something more important. Let’s talk football.’

Back at the Grande Bretagne I had a light dinner on my own in the Winter Garden restaurant next to Alexander’s Bar and contemplated my next move. The only people calling or texting me were journalists and someone called Anna Loverdos from the Hellenic Football Federation — the Greek equivalent of the FA — offering her assistance, as well as several other managers sympathising with London City’s plight, including José Mourinho, which struck me as a little out of character.

I watched a guy talking to a girl in the bar at the same table where I’d first met Valentina and after a while I knew I recognised the barman serving them as the same one who’d served us. After I charged my dinner to Vik’s suite, I went and sat at the bar under the sceptical eye of Alexander the Great who knew a thing or two about murder himself having connived at the death of his own father, Philip.

The guy with the girl at my old table was working hard to seem like a regular sort; he was from Australia, one of those impeccably casual, sockless types, with stubble that never seems to grow beyond a certain uniform length. But I figured he was on the wrong side of five feet six inches and while he was doing his best to seem relaxed, he wasn’t. Short guys are always bustling around like terriers to make up for their lack of inches; it’s fine if you’re Messi or Maradona but for most guys it’s a problem. Especially when they’re with a girl as tall as this one was; she looked like a Trojan prince’s wet dream with beanstalk legs, plenty of big black hair, and a bow mouth that was probably too big for Cupid but looked just right for me.

The barman came over and I ordered a Macallan 1973. At three hundred and ten euros a glass that got his attention; and it was his attention I wanted more than I wanted the Scotch. When he brought the bill, I put four crisp one hundred euro bills into the maroon leather folder and told him to keep the change. As he reached for the folder I covered it with my hand.

‘Maybe you remember me?’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir, I don’t.’

‘I was here a few weeks ago when Olympiacos played the German side, Hertha FC. I was in here with a girl. A Russian girl. Blonde. She wore a tweed minidress and Louboutin high heels. Her name is Valentina and I got the feeling you certainly remembered her from another time. On the Richter scale I would say she was at least an eight point nine. The kind of girl that causes major structural damage, even to earthquake-resistant wallets and credit cards. You remember her?’