Philip Kerr - January Window

On my release I decided I needed to get away from England. For a while I went to live with my grandparents in Germany, and then I went to study at the Johan Cruyff Institute in Barcelona, which opened in 2002. I’d done a BA in Modern Languages at Birmingham University so I spoke a bit of Spanish, and in Barcelona — my favourite European city — I did a one-year course in Sports Management and then an eight-month postgrad in Football Management. In 2010 I obtained my UEFA certificates and accepted a trainee coaching role with Pep Guardiola at FC Barca. In 2011, I became the first team trainee coach at Bayern Munich and worked with Jupp Heynckes, who was an old friend of my dad. He was part of the West German squad in 1974 although, like Dad, Jupp was injured and spent most of the tournament on the bench.

I’ve thought about poor Mrs Fehmiu a lot, however; the only time I ever saw her was in court and I felt her pain. A couple of years ago I got involved with another charity called Rape Crisis; I help to fund a Rape Crisis Centre in Camden, because the way I see it I was a victim of Mrs Fehmiu’s rapist too. Of her rapist, of the newspapers, and of the Metropolitan Police.

I try not to be bitter about what happened. I tell myself that to some extent it was my own fault. And yet I still feel a sense of grievance. I know I should get over it and put it all behind me and perhaps, in time, I will. Of course it’s one thing giving good advice to others in such matters, it’s something else when you try to take that advice yourself. But here’s one truth I have learned that I try to pass on to all my players: when the worst has already happened, nothing can hurt you. That’s as true on the football pitch as it is in life. Because there is always a next time.

I am not a philosopher of football like João Zarco, you understand. To me, managing a football team is just common sense with a scarf on.

The next day I went back to Silvertown Dock and took another look at the hole with Colin Evans and João Zarco. It was cold and the sky above the stadium was a dispiriting shade of January grey. The rain and the police had gone but not the picket of reporters, who’d already gone to town on Drenno’s death and the Sicilian message that had surely been sent to Viktor Sokolnikov. Fortunately I hadn’t had to tell him about it because he’d read the story online and told me he thought the idea of such messages to be preposterous.

‘Where I come from, if you want a man dead you don’t warn him by sending him a message,’ he’d said. ‘And certainly not one as theatrical as this. It’s like something from the pages of a book by Mario Puzo. I appreciate you calling, Scott, and your concern for my reputation. But don’t worry about me. I can assure you, I am very well protected.’

This was true; Sokolnikov never moved without at least four bodyguards. One of them was a former Russian boxer, covered in tats, who looked like Vinnie Jones’ ugly big brother.

Now, Zarco stared into the hole and shook his head.

‘Football,’ he said. ‘It’s tribal, of course. And this kind of thing is what tribes do, isn’t it? It took billions of years for man to evolve from being a beast and a savage, but it only takes ninety minutes on a Saturday afternoon for all of that to come undone.’ He looked at Colin. ‘Can you fix this little divot, Colin? Before the Newcastle match?’

‘It won’t be easy,’ said Colin, ‘but I can fix it, yes. It takes seven to ten days for a new pitch or a bit of turf to bed in. But what about the police, boss? I reckon I could get myself into trouble here. This is a crime scene, isn’t it? Suppose that bloody Inspector Neville finds that I’ve filled in his hole? Suppose he comes back here this morning?’

Zarco pulled a face. Sometimes his face was as rubbery as a comedian’s.

‘To look at the hole again?’ he said. ‘It’s just a bloody hole in the ground, isn’t it? Besides, it’s not his hole, it’s our hole. And it doesn’t belong in the middle of a football pitch.’

‘Listen to him,’ I told Colin. ‘He sounds just like Bernard Cribbins.’

Colin knew I’d made a joke although he didn’t understand it. I make a lot of jokes like that, which nobody understands. That’s what happens when you get older. Zarco didn’t understand it either, but then he was Portuguese.

‘Fill it in and repair it,’ I told Colin. ‘I’ll take full responsibility. You can tell him that. But before you do fill it in maybe you should dig down a little. It could be that when you disturbed the people who excavated this, they were actually filling the hole in again.’

‘I don’t follow you, Scott.’

‘Humour me, will you, Colin? Usually when people dig a grave it’s because they want to bury something in it. Something, or someone.’

‘You don’t mean...?’ The Welshman glanced at the grave in horror.

‘I do mean, Colin. I do mean.’

Zarco grinned. ‘Perhaps Scott is expecting you to find Yorick in this grave,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘Terry Yorick,’ I said. ‘Defensive midfielder for Leeds United. His daughter Gabby used to do the football on the telly. Nice-looking bird. Great pins. I don’t watch it nearly so much now she’s gone.’

Zarco laughed at Colin’s continuing incomprehension and walked back towards the players’ entrance. I followed him closely.

‘Alas, poor Terry Yorick,’ I said. ‘He was Welsh, too. Poor bastard.’

‘To be or not to be. You know, with an attitude like that I think maybe Hamlet followed a football team.’

‘FC Copenhagen, probably.’

‘So, Scott. Today’s fitness and injury reports? You got them?’

‘On your desk, boss.’

‘Good.’ Zarco’s phone bleeped. He checked the screen and nodded: ‘Paolo Gentile. Excellent. Looks like we’ve now got ourselves a Scottish goalkeeper. Let’s hope he’s as good as you said he was. Now all we need is a translator. I couldn’t understand one fucking word he said. Except that one. Fucking.’

‘I’ll translate. I speak good Scottish.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘I thought Denis Kampfner was handling the transfer.’

‘Viktor doesn’t trust him, so he brought his own agent in. Paolo Gentile.’

‘He’s your agent, too, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. What of it?’ Zarco’s phone bleeped again. ‘Now who’s this? The BBC. Strictly Come Dancing . They want me for the new series. I keep saying no and they keep offering more money. As if.’

‘I bet you’re quite the twinkle-toes.’

‘I hate that shit. I hate all those stupid shows. Me, I’d rather read a book.’

I glanced back over my shoulder and saw that Colin was already in the hole and digging.

‘Poor Colin,’ I said. ‘Get him on the subject of grass seed and he’ll talk for fucking hours, but I don’t think he’s read a book in his life.’

‘He reads. He has a book in his office toilet.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Mind you, it’s a pretty crappy book. I think maybe when he runs out of toilet paper... It’s your book. Foul Play. ’

I grinned. ‘At least I wrote mine, boss.’

Zarco laughed. ‘Fuck you, Scott.’

‘You know, it’s a pity I didn’t think of it before,’ I said. ‘But I kind of wish I’d persuaded one of the lads to get in that grave before we looked at it with Colin just now. We could have chucked a bit of earth on top of someone and given that Welshman the fright of his bloody life.’

‘After what happened to Drenno last night? I worry about you, Scott. Really I do.’

‘Drenno would have been the first to see the funny side of a joke like that. That’s why I loved him.’

‘You have a very sick sense of humour.’