Philip Kerr - January Window

‘I must check that out on DVD.’

‘I could give you my own copy. But to be honest, I wouldn’t bother. It really is very old and not at all relevant.’

‘Have you any ideas as to who might have killed Mr Zarco?’

‘None at all.’

‘Are you being serious?’

‘Yes. Look, this is football, not organised crime.’

‘Really? Come on, Mr Manson. From what I’ve read and heard João Zarco was a man who’d made a lot of enemies.’

‘Who doesn’t make enemies in football? Look, I’m not going to sit here and say who they were. Zarco was a man of strong opinions. Sometimes his passion for the game of football upset people. But enemies who might have killed him?’ I shook my head. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Enemies like who, for instance?’

‘Please. I just lost a very close friend. And this on top of the suicide, not so very long ago, of another man I was also fond of. Matt Drennan. Perhaps you’ll ask me again when I’m thinking straight. But at this particular moment in time I’m not really in the mood to provide you with a list of possible suspects. Perhaps in the morning.’

‘Don’t you want us to find out who killed him?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Then the sooner you feel inclined to help the sooner we’ll catch whoever killed him.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

‘Ah.’

‘What?’

‘Now we’re getting to it,’ she said. ‘To the real reason you don’t want to help us with our inquiry, perhaps.’

‘With all due respect, and under the circumstances, I think Mr Manson has been more than helpful so far,’ observed Ronnie Leishmann.

‘That’s your opinion,’ said the Detective Chief Inspector. ‘Mr Manson’s hostility to the police is a matter of public record.’

‘As is the hostility of the police towards me,’ I said. ‘I believe the same public record will show that the police consistently lied about me in court and conspired to have me falsely imprisoned. And by the way, just in case you feel like you want to wrap this case up very quickly, I have an alibi for the whole of today. There were more than sixty thousand people out there who were watching me all afternoon. Not to mention two and a half million people on telly. When they weren’t watching my every move I was in the dressing room with the team. I like to get naked with other men, if you were wondering.’

She seemed about to say something, and then smiled.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You’re perfectly right, of course. And I apologise. If I’d been through what you’ve been through then I suppose I might very well feel the same way about the police as you do. It’s perfectly shameful what happened to you, Mr Manson. Really it is. Look, let’s start again, shall we?’ She stood up and held out her hand. ‘Jane Byrne. Will you accept my word that I’m not here to protect the reputation of the Met but to apprehend Mr Zarco’s killer? And may I offer my sincere condolences on the death of Mr Zarco?’

I took her hand. ‘You know, you’re the second police officer I’ve met who seems like a nice person.’

‘You mean there are two of us? Christ, who’s the other?’

‘Detective Inspector Louise Considine, from the police station at Brent.’

‘Maybe you just prefer police officers who are women.’

‘There might be something in that. Anyway, she’s the officer investigating Matt Drennan’s suicide.’

‘Well, that’s a sort of crime, I suppose.’ She frowned. ‘At least it used to be. By the way, how well did you know Zarco?’

‘Zarco? As well as anyone, I suppose. I’ve known him since I was a boy. Back in the nineties, when he was playing for Celtic towards the end of his career, Zarco was the first footballer to endorse a pair of Pedila boots. Pedila is a sports shoe company owned by my father.’

‘And how did you come to work with him?’

‘I got my UEFA certificates in 2010 and accepted a trainee coaching role with Pep Guardiola at Barcelona. Then, in 2011 I became the first team trainee coach at Bayern where I was working with Jupp Heynckes, who was another old friend of my dad. Then, when Zarco came back here in the summer, I agreed to be his assistant manager.’

‘How do you mean, “came back here”?’

I smiled. ‘I’ll let Mr Hobday explain that, I think.’

‘Oh, Zarco was manager at this football club before,’ explained Phil. ‘Seven years ago. Before we were in the Premier League. He managed it very successfully, too. It was João who helped get us promoted. And then he left.’

‘Why?’

‘Um, he was sacked, by Mr Sokolnikov. They had very different ideas as to how to run this club. As you might expect, they’re both very strong personalities, which meant that they didn’t really get on that well. Not back then. We had a series of managers after that. But none of them worked out as well as Zarco and the fans kept on demanding his return. So that’s what happened. Second time around they got on famously. Wouldn’t you agree, Scott?’

I nodded. ‘Both of them got older and richer,’ I said. ‘Became a little wiser, perhaps.’

‘I shall want to speak to Mr Sokolnikov,’ said Jane Byrne. ‘Tomorrow, I think.’

‘Of course,’ said Phil, ‘just tell me when and I’ll arrange it.’

‘By the way,’ I said. ‘Zarco’s wife, Toyah.’ I shook my head. ‘Don’t ask her to formally identify the body. She’s rather highly strung. I’ll do it.’

She nodded. ‘If you like. Since you say you knew him so well.’

‘Tomorrow I’ll answer all of your questions,’ I said. ‘Anything you like. And so will the players. Well, you’ve already heard what I told them, on your iPad. I’ll assemble the players and playing staff at Hangman’s Wood and then bring them here on the team coach.’

‘Thank you. Shall we say ten o’clock?’

I looked at Phil, who nodded.

‘Until then,’ I said, ‘I have one request. I’d like to see where it happened.’

She was quiet for a moment, thinking about it.

‘I don’t want to leave any flowers or a teddy bear,’ I said, ‘I just want to see the spot where he died and then say a short prayer for him.’

She nodded. ‘All right. But give me a few minutes to sort that out with the CSU.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘There’s something I want to get from my office anyway. I’ll come back here and find you. All right?’

Jane Byrne glanced at her watch. ‘Nine o’clock, okay?’

‘Yes.’

Before going to my office I went into the men’s toilet to splash my face. Drinking those two cognacs had been a mistake.

When I came out again I saw Jane Byrne in the corridor. She had her back to me; she was on her mobile and ducked into the ladies’ toilet so that she could hold a private conversation. I paused outside the door for a moment and then pushed it gently open. There was a wall that ran halfway between the door and the cubicles. I could hear her on the other side, walking up and down while she was speaking; on the tiled floor her high heels sounded higher than I remembered them. Quietly, I stepped through the door and listened to what she was saying. Where the police are concerned it’s always a good idea to know what they’re up to. And since Jane Byrne was at that moment the only woman in the building, I felt sure I wouldn’t be discovered.

The Detective Chief Inspector’s accent had changed. There was more south London in it now, and rather more malice in what she was saying than perhaps even I had expected:

‘...beat the shit out of him, apparently. That’s what it looks like, anyway. Zarco’s head was pretty badly swollen... Yes, even more than normal... The CSU says it looks so badly fractured that even if he had survived, chances are he’d have suffered some sort of brain damage... Where was he? That’s rather hard to describe. The trouble with modern architecture is that it creates lots of forgotten little places and that’s what this looks like. It’s a cross between a shaft and an alcove. Concrete floor, steel girders, wire fence but open to the elements and covered in bird shit. The security guy I spoke to said it’s a maintenance area but if it is I don’t know what they can be maintaining — other than the steel girders that make up the actual crown of thorns. There was a door at ground level... That’s right... Yes, an ideal place to rough someone up but then again, whoever did it must have had access to the key because the door was locked... I imagine Zarco did. He must have gone there willingly with whoever it was that worked him over... No, a fall doesn’t make sense; there’s nowhere I can see that he could have fallen from... Yes... I’m with them now... Well, you know, they’re bloody footballers — with most of them there’s a peculiar combination of stupidity and ego... I’m dealing with a club chairman who’s as slippery as a fucking eel and a team coach who’s Derek Bentley channelling the Guildford Four. Yeah, Scott Manson. And I haven’t even seen the Russian oligarch who owns this place yet. I’d love to read the Ukrainian police file on that bastard. I bet it’s as thick as a fucking toilet roll. That reminds me, Clive — I want all the files on Manson. I want his life story on my desk when I get back to the Yard. Oh, and Clive, I need this bastard softened up a bit to ensure his more-than-willing cooperation. DI Neville — the copper who came here to investigate that grave in the pitch — he said Manson was an awkward bastard. Right now I’m having to lick his balls just to get him to name a few potential suspects. So, get a local patrol car to do a tug on his motor and give him an alco test. He’s had two large ones since he’s been here. I’ll get one of my officers to text over the index in a few minutes. And Clive? See if you can draft a DI Louise Considine from Brent Police onto my team. And Neville, too, if his guvnor will stand it...’