Philip Kerr - January Window

‘Scott? I think you should prepare yourself for a shock. João Zarco was found dead at Silvertown Dock about half an hour ago.’

‘Jesus Christ’s arsehole. What was it? A heart attack?’

‘It’s rather hard to say exactly what killed him. But definitely not a heart attack, I’ll say that much. He looked like he’d been pretty badly beaten up.’

‘You’ve seen the body?’

‘Oh yes. His head was bashed in and — it was awful. Anyway he’s dead.’

‘Where was he found?’

‘One of our own security men discovered the body in a sort of maintenance yard inside the outer steel structure — the actual crown of thorns part of the stadium. It’s pretty out of the way, which is why we didn’t find him sooner. The uniformed police were here already, of course, but a scene of crimes unit and some detectives are on their way here as well. It’s now a murder inquiry.’

‘Does Toyah know?’

‘Yes. And I just called Viktor at home. He was pretty shocked about it, I can tell you.’

‘I’ll bet. Jesus Christ. So am I.’

‘Scott, I’d like you to tell the players, if you would. And I think it would be best if all of them stayed home tonight as a mark of respect to João. The press have got wind that something serious has happened here and I don’t want any of our lads out on the piss and getting himself in the Daily Mail .’

‘Of course. I’ll tell them and read them the riot act.’

‘And they’d better cancel whatever plans they may have had for tomorrow as well. I know it’s a Sunday but I’m sure the police will want to question everyone who spoke to Zarco today.’

I thought for a moment.

‘Phil, there’s something I need to tell you. Look, perhaps I’d better come into Silvertown Dock and do it.’

‘Tell me now and let me decide that. There’s no point in you being here unless you have to be.’

I told Phil about the photograph of Zarco we’d found in the grave, and how Zarco had asked Colin and me to keep it quiet.

‘How come the police didn’t see it when they were here?’

‘Because the police are the police. Their hands are usually dirty enough without getting mud on them, too.’

‘You’re right, Scott,’ said Phil. ‘I think you’d better come in and tell the police about this yourself. Under the circumstances I think perhaps Ronnie Leishmann should be here as well.’

Ronnie Leishmann was the London City Football Club lawyer.

‘What circumstances are those?’

‘You, of course. And you saying things like what you just said about policemen with dirty hands. I think it would be best if you could learn to moderate your dislike of the police while they’re investigating what happened to Zarco.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘By the way, where is the picture now?’ asked Phil.

‘In Colin’s office. João told him he could keep it as a souvenir.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can, Phil.’

As I ended my call with the club chairman I got a message from Didier Cassell’s wife: our French goalkeeper had recovered consciousness at last. This was good to know but it wasn’t enough to sugarcoat a bitter pill like the one I was about to give the team. Nothing was going to be enough for that.

I had gathered everyone who was at Hangman’s Wood in the players’ bar. I suppose one or two of them had seen into my eyes, watched my Adam’s apple, and already understood the worst.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I said. ‘In any other circumstance but the one in which I am standing here now, the news that Didier Cassell, our team mate and friend, has recovered consciousness and is likely to make a full recovery would be cause for great celebration. But Didier would be the first to tell you that there are no celebrations tonight. Not for him. Not for me. Not for us. Not at this club. And not for anyone who loves the great game of football. Because what I have to tell you now is that João Gonzales Zarco is dead.’

There was a very audible gasp and one or two of the players sat down on the floor.

‘I can’t tell you very much about what happened. Not yet. Suffice to say that the police will want to speak to every one of us here, tomorrow. But what I can say now is this. A grief ago, when I lost my friend Matt Drennan, I thought I knew exactly what the acute pain of bereavement felt like. But I was wrong. For much as I loved Drenno, I find now he’s gone that I loved João Zarco even more. João wasn’t just my boss, he was also my friend; and not only that but my mentor, my inspiration and my example, the only true philosopher I ever knew, and the greatest football manager that ever lived.

‘I look around this room now and I’m very proud to see Englishmen, Scotsmen, Irishmen, Welshmen, Frenchmen, Brazilians, Spaniards, Germans, Italians, Ghanaians, Ukrainians, Russians, Jews and Gentiles, whites, blacks — all of us playing as one man for the same team. But that isn’t what João Zarco saw. Not at all. Zarco didn’t see different races, or different creeds; he didn’t hear different languages. He didn’t even see a great team when he looked at you people. When he was with us what he saw and heard was something very different. Something inspiring. What João Zarco saw when he looked at you all was the true family of football, his family and mine. And what he heard was only ever this: that we all speak the same language — a language spoken all over the world, in every country, and under every god; a language that unites us; it is the language of love for this beautiful game.

‘Right now we are also united in this terrible, unsupportable loss. United in mourning. United in our remembrance of our footballing family’s true father. This is a special day, ladies and gentlemen. Remember it always, as I will. For this was the day, not when Zarco died, but when his family wiped the floor with a great team. He can’t be with us to acknowledge that victory. But I promise you he sees it and he honours it, as I know you will honour him. And I ask you not to go out tonight but to stay at home and remember him in your prayers; and to remember all of us who have suffered the loss of this man we loved, this beautiful man from Portugal.’

I didn’t say anything else; in truth I couldn’t say anything at all, not any more. So without another word I went out to the car park and got into my car. For a moment I just sat in the snug silence of the Range Rover’s wood and leather interior, and then I wept.

And when I had finished weeping I drove west, to Silvertown Dock.

East London. A Saturday night. Horrible January weather. The air full of sleet and snow as if the city were witnessing a returning ice age; the black River Thames a huge slimy anaconda and as cold as death itself. Wet, dirty cars jostling for space and the kinder sentiments of Christmas and New Year all disappeared now, crushed underfoot by the costly imperatives of living in the most expensive city on earth, or just thrown out like a dead Christmas tree. People hurrying into pubs and off-licences to drink as much as possible before diving into evil-looking nightclubs. The smell of beer and cigarettes and exhaust fumes mixed up into one thick, yellow, all-pervading fog. Ugly buildings dark and derelict and unfeasibly old, as if any one of them might have known the feet of Dickens or even the hand of Shakespeare. And then the unmistakable silhouette of Silvertown Dock. The Crown of Thorns was well-named; sharp, intricately plaited, cruel and jagged, the outer shell of steel looked vaguely holy in the dark, as if the bleeding and battered head of our Lord might appear within it at any moment, looking perhaps more than a little like João Zarco.

The police were in force at Silvertown Dock and so were the TV cameras and newsmen. It looked like a repeat performance of the night Drenno had hanged himself, and I wondered why they didn’t just use the same pictures of me arriving at our ground that they’d taken then. I must have looked just as miserable that evening as my rear-view mirror told me I did now.