Philip Kerr - Hand of God

‘Good progress. I think I’m on the verge of a real breakthrough. Yesterday afternoon I discovered that the girl who was found in the harbour at Marina Zea was called Nataliya Matviyenko,’ I said. ‘She lived in Piraeus, with her boyfriend, or maybe her husband — a guy called Boutzikos. And she was an escort, a high-class call girl who was originally from Kiev.’

‘Excellent,’ said Vik. ‘But how did you find this out?’

‘It’s probably best you don’t know,’ I said. ‘For now.’

‘I see.’

‘After all, it’s only the team and the playing staff who are forbidden to leave Greece right now. You and Phil can clear off whenever you wish. Not forgetting your new technical director of football. Probably best we keep it that way.’

‘Yes, perhaps you’re right.’

‘Hopefully I’ll know a lot more about Nataliya and possibly even who killed her when I’ve had a chance to translate her last email. A message that was stuck in the Outbox of her phone. For some reason it didn’t send.’

‘You have her phone?’ said Vik.

‘Not just her phone, but the contents of her handbag.’

‘You have been busy,’ said Vik.

‘Look, I think you should both prepare yourself for a shock. I’m sorry to be the one who tells you but the fact is I’m almost certain that Bekim was murdered. In Nataliya’s handbag were some EpiPens, auto-injectors containing a single dose of epinephrine for people who are severely allergic to something which leaves them at constant risk of anaphylaxis. People like Bekim . These EpiPens had been prescribed for him. For some reason this girl, Nataliya, took them when she went to Bekim’s bungalow at the Astir Palace on the night before he died. It’s my guess she was paid to steal them, by someone who got to Bekim on the day of the match and nobbled him. Probably the same person who put a hefty bet on the outcome of the match, or some in-play feature of the match. I’ve yet to find out what that was. Someone in Russia, it looks like. That’s what my contact in the Gambling Commission has told me, anyway.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Vik. ‘Are you saying Bekim died from... from an allergic response? Not a heart attack at all?’

‘No, what I’m saying is that a heart attack was most likely the result of anaphylactic shock. Which might have been avoided if his condition had been known.’

‘But I knew Bekim for several years,’ said Vik. ‘He never mentioned any of this to me. What was he allergic to?’

‘Chickpeas.’

‘Chickpeas? You’re joking. Are you sure?’

‘Positive. And it was no joke. I’m not sure an allergy like that would have counted as much of a problem in England. But here in Greece — well, chickpeas are a menu staple. It beats me why he decided to have a holiday home here of all places, where he was at greater risk.’ I shrugged. ‘But that was Bekim.’

‘It would probably explain why he would never come for a curry,’ said Phil. ‘They use them in Indian food, too. Remember? At the end of last season we booked the Red Fort for an end of season dinner? In Soho? And he declined to come?’

‘I’d forgotten that,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’m not sure how much of this the autopsy will reveal. An allergy produces symptoms that could easily be mistaken for something as ordinary as a heart attack. All the same I’m damned sure this is what killed him. Someone tainted his food with chickpeas. Perhaps as little as a couple of grams of the stuff. I’m afraid that for a man like Bekim this was every bit as lethal as if they’d poisoned his food with polonium.’

Vik shuddered. ‘That’s a word no Russian living abroad ever likes to hear,’ he said.

I smiled to myself; my news had shaken them more than I might have imagined.

‘Why didn’t our own team doctors find this out?’ said Phil. ‘Did they fuck up, or what?’

‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘It’s not really something they’d test for. More like a question they’d have asked him during the medical. What I do think is that someone at Dynamo St Petersburg covered it up to make sure Bekim’s transfer to London City went through all right when we bought him back in January. And that it was almost certainly done with the player’s own connivance.’

‘I can guess who that was,’ said Vik. ‘The club’s part owner. Semion Mikhailov.’

I was glad I didn’t have to say this myself; no one likes to tell his Russian billionaire boss that he has been sold a pig in a poke.

‘Of course,’ said Phil. ‘That slippery bastard owed you money, didn’t he? And you took Bekim as a player in part payment of that debt.’

Vik nodded sombrely. ‘Which also makes him suspect number one for nobbling him, too. Semion Mikhailov is a big gambler. But like a lot of big gamblers he prefers a sure thing. Who better than him to take advantage of our having a Champions League match here in Athens? The girl’s phone. Do you have it with you, Scott?’

I found the email I’d received from Prometheus on my own iPhone and handed it to Vik. ‘No, but I have the email she sent. From the address bar it looks like there were several people it was meant for.’

‘Would I be right in thinking that the police don’t have any of this information either?’ he asked.

‘That’s right, but only until tomorrow.’ I glanced at my watch; it was almost 2 a.m. ‘Or to be more accurate, today. I’ll have to hand Nataliya’s handbag and its contents over to Chief Inspector Varouxis later on this morning. Given that this is already a murder investigation, our lawyer, Dr Christodoulou, thinks it would be ill-advised to hold back evidence from the police for much longer.’

‘And she’d be right,’ murmured Phil. ‘You could go to prison for something like that. We all could. This is serious, Scott. By rights we should call the police right now. Don’t read that, Vik. If you do you’ll become complicit in whatever law-breaking has already occurred.’

But Vik was already reading the email.

‘Look, Phil,’ I said. ‘I’m aiming to put a bomb underneath the Greek police and I’m hoping that this email will do that. After that I really need to concentrate all my attention on Wednesday’s game. I want to walk into police headquarters this morning with enough evidence to put this whole investigation into the fast lane. Maybe even the name of the person that put her up to nicking his pens. Perhaps even the identity of the guys who dropped her in the harbour wearing a cast iron ankle bracelet. And he’ll have to listen to me because I’ve also got evidence that perhaps connects this case with a series of older murders. It turns out that this isn’t the first time that a local call girl got dumped in the marina. Back in 2008 they had something similar happen. The guy they nabbed for those had an accomplice who was never arrested. And I know who he is. With any luck his name is on that email.’

‘Jesus,’ said Phil.

‘How about it, Vik? Have we got a result?’

‘Yes and no,’ said Vik. ‘This email she tried to send — it appears to be a suicide note.’

‘So what did you talk about?’ asked Louise. She was wearing a little black nightdress now that resembled the twilight of some erotic goddess and was leaning on one elbow examining my face carefully for clues. ‘With Phil and Vik. It wasn’t just football, I’ll bet.’

I moved my head on the pillow.

‘He didn’t fire you, did he?’

‘No, he didn’t. But it’s almost as bad.’

I explained that Kojo Ironsi was now the club’s technical director.

‘What does that mean?’

‘For one thing I think we’re going to have a lot more African footballers in the team. But I suspect it also means that Vik wants to make all the real footballing decisions himself. He probably thinks Kojo will be more inclined to do what he’s told than I am. At least when it comes to buying and selling players.’