Philip Kerr - January Window

I parked my car, walked into the stadium and thought of how the last time I was here, I hadn’t known that Zarco was dead. Instinctively I made for the executive dining room; it was the obvious place for the police to use as a base for their investigations. Along the corridor leading to the dining room there were pictures of Zarco looking at his most enigmatic and handsome. I still couldn’t believe that I wasn’t going to see him again, muffled against the cold in his trademark N.Peal zip-up and cashmere coat, his face unshaven but still handsome, his thick grey hair the same colour as the steel structure outside.

A security guard said something and I shook his hand, as if I were on automatic pilot.

‘Thanks,’ I muttered.

In the executive dining room Phil Hobday, Maurice McShane and Ronnie Leishmann greeted me in the doorway and then turned to face the several strangers who were seated around an Apple Mac on a large circular table: designed by the artist Lee J. Rowland, the surface of the table was made of leather and resembled a football — the old kind, with the laces in the middle. On an earlier occasion Phil Hobday had told me it cost a whopping fifty thousand pounds. Since its arrival in the executive dining room it had been signed by everyone who’d played or coached at London City Football Club, including Zarco and myself.

The photograph of Zarco that we’d found at the bottom of the grave in the pitch was wrapped in polythene and lying on the table with an evidence number stapled to the corner.

A carefully groomed, androgynous woman in her forties, with short, almost white hair and a strong but equally pale face stood up. Good-looking in a MILFish sort of way, she wore a violet dress and a dark blue tailored coat. She was holding an iPad, which made her seem efficient and modern.

‘This is Scott Manson, our team coach,’ said Phil Hobday.

‘Yes, I know,’ said the woman quietly.

‘Scott, this is Detective Chief Inspector Jane Byrne, from New Scotland Yard.’

‘I know you’re feeling very upset, Mr Manson. I know because we were all just watching your very moving speech on YouTube.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, it seems that someone recorded it on a mobile phone and uploaded it while you were driving here.’

‘That was supposed to be private,’ I murmured.

‘Bloody footballers,’ said Phil. ‘Some of them haven’t got the sense they were born with.’ He shook his head wearily and then pointed at a drinks trolley with so many bottles and glasses it looked like the city of London. ‘Would you like a drink, Scott? You look as if you need one.’

‘Thanks, I’ll have a large cognac, Phil.’

‘How about you, Chief Inspector?’

‘No, thank you, sir.’ She handed me her iPad. ‘Here. See for yourself.’

I looked at the iPad and saw a paused picture of myself near the end of my little eulogy about Zarco; the title tag was A Tribute to João Zarco: ‘The greatest football manager that ever lived’, by Scott Manson . Someone called Football Fan 69 had uploaded it.

‘It was a fine speech, Scott,’ said Ronnie. ‘You should be proud.’

‘Fifteen thousand views already,’ said Maurice. ‘And it’s been up there for less than an hour.’

‘It was supposed to be private,’ I repeated dumbly, handing her back the iPad and taking a large cognac from Phil Hobday’s outstretched hand.

‘Nothing about João Zarco is private now,’ said Jane Byrne. ‘At least not until his killer is caught.’

‘His killer?’

‘That’s certainly what it looks like,’ she said. ‘The body was quite badly beaten up.’

With a movement of her hand she invited me to sit down. She spoke very clearly and very deliberately as if she were speaking to someone who wasn’t very bright. Or perhaps she just realised that I was still feeling numb with shock.

‘I’m in charge of this investigation,’ she explained, and introduced some of the other policemen who were also present in the room — names that went in one ear and out the other.

She watched me carefully as I drained the glass and let Phil pour me another.

‘I know as little as you about what happened, so if you don’t mind, Mr Manson, I’ll ask the questions for the present.’

I nodded again as she hit an app on her iPhone that would record our conversation.

‘When and where did you last see Mr Zarco?’

‘This morning at about eleven o’clock. We were at the club’s training facility in Hangman’s Wood where, as usual on the day of a match, we picked the team; then he left to attend a lunch here, in this room. At least that’s where he told me he was going.’ I sighed as it began to hit me again. ‘Yes, that was the last time I saw him. And also the last time I spoke to him.’

‘What time did he arrive here?’ she asked Phil.

‘About eleven thirty.’

‘What was his mood when he left Hangman’s Wood?’

‘He seemed to be in an excellent mood,’ I said. ‘We had a good result against Leeds in the week and we both thought we were going to win this afternoon. Which we did.’

She glanced at Phil. ‘And when he got here? How was he then?’

‘Still in a good mood,’ Phil confirmed. ‘Never better.’

‘I shall want to interview everyone who was at that lunch,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ said Phil. ‘I’ll fix it.’

Jane Byrne looked at me. ‘Mr Hobday has told me about the grave that was found dug into the pitch about ten days ago. And I’ve read the police report of that incident. According to the investigating detective, Detective Inspector Neville, you weren’t very cooperative with that inquiry, Mr Manson. Why was that, please?’

‘It’s a long story. Let’s just say that I was more inclined than your detective to think it was just a hole that had been made by vandals and an inevitable corollary of the kind of fanatical support that clubs get in the modern game.’

‘It looks like you were wrong, doesn’t it? Especially in view of the fact that a photograph of Mr Zarco was found in the grave. This photograph.’

‘It looks like it.’

‘It looks like the photograph, or it looks like you were wrong?’

I shrugged. ‘Both.’

‘Why did you choose not to inform DI Neville about the discovery of this photograph?’

‘Like I say, the police missed it when they were here and it didn’t seem worth bringing them back again. I figured if they’d really been doing their job properly they’d have found it in the first place. Anyway, it really wasn’t my decision. After all, it wasn’t a photograph of me we’re talking about. Zarco was the boss around here. That’s what being a football manager means, Chief Inspector. He said jump, we said how high. Quite literally, sometimes. So it was very much down to him what we did when we were here. And he said we should forget all about it.’

‘So he didn’t seem alarmed by it?’

‘Not in the least. You have to remember this: that threats against football managers are an occupational hazard. Speak to Neil Lennon at Celtic, or Ally McCoist at Rangers — they’ll tell you.’

‘But they’re in Glasgow, aren’t they? This is London. Things are a little less tribal down here, surely?’

‘Perhaps. Which is probably why Zarco didn’t take it seriously when we found his picture in that grave. And why he chose not to report the matter to Detective Inspector Neville.’

‘But now he’s dead and here we are with a mystery.’

‘Yes. It would seem so. The Silvertown Dock Mystery.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing,’ I said.

‘No, say it.’

‘It’s just that there was a film made donkey’s years ago. A creaky old black and white movie called The Arsenal Stadium Mystery , in which a player gets murdered.’