Philip Kerr - Hand of God

‘Not by me. But look, given what happened, is that the same thing as asking me if Bekim Develi could have been murdered?’

‘I don’t know. Is it?’

‘I watched him die in front of me, Louise. It was a heart attack. The same thing happened to Fabrice Muamba when he was playing for Bolton against Spurs, in March 2012. I don’t know how you can bet on something like that.’

‘Just speak to him, will you? For me?’

‘All right. Look there’s something you can do for me, as it happens. I want you to find a woman called Sara Gill. Last known to be living in Little Tew in Oxfordshire. It seems that about four or five years ago she was attacked here in Athens by a fellow named Thanos Leventis. He’s now doing life on three counts of murder. I’d like to know everything she can remember about what happened that night. And in particular if anyone else was involved.’

She tutted loudly. ‘You’re not playing detective again, are you?’

‘Why do people always call it “playing”? I’m not playing at anything. It’s a serious business, detective work.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘Besides, the sooner I find out what happened here the sooner I can come home to you, baby.’

‘Just as long as you do. I’ll see what I can do.’

I finished my call with a sigh and chucked the phone onto the seat.

‘You can put the radio on, if you like, Charlie.’

‘I’ve got a better idea, sir. Why don’t you go to sleep, sir. I’ll keep watch. Remember, I’m Greek. I have fourteen eyes.’

I wasn’t exactly sure what this meant; but I settled back in the seat of the Range Rover and closed my eyes as instructed, and let my mind turn to thoughts of a perfect football world in which the future was always better than the past. I dreamed of Bekim Develi scoring audacious goals that were composed of absolute sorcery, and then celebrating in his primal, triumphant way — not that thumb-sucking tribute to his son, but, like the great god Zeus that sometimes he seemed to be, about to hurl a well-deserved thunderbolt at visiting fans.

At Southampton, Hristos Trikoupis and myself had both played in defence, first for Glenn Hoddle and then wee Gordon Strachan. I don’t know why Glenn isn’t managing a club these days. Glenn kept the Saints in the Premier League against all odds; he bought me from Palace, and more controversially he bought Hristos Trikoupis from Olympiacos. Controversially because Hristos had led a player revolt against the manager of the Greek national team before Euro 2000. By all accounts he made Roy Keane and Nicolas Anelka look like teacher’s pets. We played well together; I won’t say we were Steve Bould and Tony Adams but we were pretty solid. Hristos was everything you’d want from a right back: tall, with a head like a hammer, and the unquestioning and ruffianly air of a professional hit man. I was always surprised that it should have been me who went to Arsenal and not him. Maybe that’s what’s driving how he feels about me now; I don’t know. I went to Arsenal; he went to Wolves. I never asked how he felt about me going to the Gunners. And after I left the Saints I didn’t speak to him again until the night Bekim died.

He was better groomed now; he’d let his fair hair grow and put on a little bit of weight which looked good on him. He walked out the restaurant, wearing a navy blue suit and a crisp white shirt open to his hairy navel; the woman with him was very thin with long brown hair and wore a layer-effect dress that made her look like Victoria Beckham. I recognised her: Nana Trikoupis, singer and former Eurovision contestant. She came sixteenth with a song called ‘Play a Different Love Song’ which Terry Wogan had amusingly renamed, ‘Sing a Different Song, Love.’

They got into the black Maserati and drove off.

‘That’s him,’ said Charlie, starting the car. ‘And that’s her, too. Queen Sophia. It’s what the Greek newspapers call his bitch of a wife. Because she’s such a terrible snob.’

‘We’ve met. I went to their wedding. She threw a glass of champagne over the best man when he’d finished his speech.’ I grinned. ‘I guess back in 2002 WAG wasn’t such a common term. Apparently she thought he’d called her a wog.’

We followed them east, down the main highway, and hugged the coast south, towards Vouliagmeni and the Astir Palace Hotel where all of the City players were staying. About halfway there he turned onto Alimou, and then right.

‘It looks like he’s heading towards Glyfada,’ announced Charlie. ‘The Beverly Hills of Athens. It’s where you live if you’re a millionaire. Everyone from Christos Dantis to Constantine Mitsotakis.’

I assumed these were some famous Greeks although I’d never heard of them.

‘Every Greek dreams of winning the lottery and moving to Glyfada. You won’t see any graffiti, the streets are clean, there are no empty shops and the cars are all new. I can never understand why, when there’s a big demo and people want to have a riot, that they do it in Syntagma Square and not in Glyfada. If they burnt a few houses down here the government would soon pay attention.’

The Maserati pulled up in front of a set of electronic gates close to the Glyfada Golf Club and then disappeared up a short drive.

‘This is as good as it gets in Athens,’ said Charlie. ‘A house on Miaouli. I’ll bet he’s even got a private entrance to the golf course.’

I nodded, remembering the house Hristos had once owned in Romsey, on the outskirts of Southampton — a nice six-bedroomed family home in Gardener’s Lane; this house was something else. Even through the gates it looked like the dog’s bollocks.

At the gate I got out of the car, pressed the intercom button on the gatepost and waited for the security camera to focus on my smiling mug and thumbs up. Then an electronic voice — quite obviously Trikoupis himself — asked me to state my business, in Greek.

‘I want to see Hristos Trikoupis.’

‘He’s not here.’

‘Come on, Trik. I know it’s you.’

‘Look, I don’t want any trouble. If this is about what happened the other night after the game then I already told the newspapers that I was sorry. I got a bit carried away.’

I knew very well that no apology had been offered by Trikoupis for showing me four fingers for the four goals they’d put past us; instead he’d uttered some bullshit about how touchline confrontations were the inevitable result of having the technical areas too close together; and while this might have been true I also knew that Trikoupis had called me a ‘black Nazi’, a ‘sore loser’ and a ‘cry baby’ — as if the death of my player was already irrelevant to the way I’d handled myself that night.

‘Hey, forget about it,’ I said, coolly. ‘Look, I was in the area and I thought I’d drop by. To clear the air between us without all the football press there to watch us.’

‘I appreciate that you did this. But the thing is, Scott, it’s not very convenient right now. We’re just about to have a late lunch.’

‘That’s all right, Trik. I understand, perfectly. But can I ask you one question?’

‘Of course, Scott.’

‘Are you alone? By the intercom? I mean, can anyone hear you at this present moment?’

‘No, no one can hear me.’

‘That’s good. You see, I’m here because I wanted to speak to you about a mutual friend of ours. A Russian lovely named Valentina.’

‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’

‘Apparently she knew that poor girl who was found at the bottom of Marina Zea the other night with a weight around her ankles. And I don’t mean boots by Jimmy Choo. In fact, I think it was Valentina who sent her along to Bekim in her place. Which makes it very important I speak to her.’