Philip Kerr - January Window

‘Having said all that, I’d have thought that there are not one but two very good reasons to support a compelling justification argument such as I’ve just described. And I haven’t even mentioned the special relationship that existed between the late Mr Zarco and Mr Bündchen. You see, it was Mr Zarco who brought young Christoph from Augsburg in Germany, and who gave him his big chance just the other night against Leeds United. Mr Bündchen is very upset. Perhaps more upset than any of the other players, I hardly like to mention this to you now — however, you leave me no choice. Earlier on, one of the police officers informed me that Christoph Bündchen wept when he was questioned about Zarco’s death. If I’m honest, I’m not in the least bit surprised that he’s forgotten that he was supposed to take a drugs test. It might save us all a lot of time and embarrassment if you were to take that into account.’

I’d said enough. In my mind I was already phoning Ronnie Leishmann and instructing him to start preparing the club’s legal case for the FA hearing — whenever that might be. I was thinking of Rio Ferdinand in 2003, and the eight-month ban he’d undergone for missing a drugs test, not to mention a fifty grand fine. Everyone in the game knew Rio was as straight as an arrow, but the farts on the FA still went ahead and busted him, making him ineligible for the 2004 European Championship in Portugal. Which the Greeks ended up winning. How did that happen?

‘I’ll be outside if you need me.’

In the corridor outside the drug-testing station I found Simon speaking agitatedly on the phone.

‘Where the fuck are you?’ Simon caught my eye and then handed me his phone. ‘It’s Christoph,’ he said. ‘Daft bugger says he’s at a fucking football match.’

‘Where the fuck are you?’ I yelled into the phone. I was speaking German now, in case I was overheard. When there are UKAD people about it’s best to be a little close-lipped. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages.’

‘I’m at Craven Cottage,’ said Christoph.

‘What the fuck are you doing there?’

‘I came to see Fulham play Norwich City, with a friend. It’s my local team.’

‘Don’t you ever answer your phone?’

‘I honestly didn’t hear it until half time.’

‘At Fulham? Don’t make me laugh. There’s never that much noise at Craven Cottage. The neighbours wouldn’t allow it.’

‘It’s true, boss. They’re four goals up.’

‘You must be on fucking drugs, son. Look, you know you’ve missed giving a urine test. That’s bloody serious, Christoph. You could be facing a ban.’

‘Yes, I know. And I’m really sorry, boss.’

‘The guys from UKAD are still here, debating your fate. In five minutes you might have a lot more time to watch football than you could ever have imagined.’

The door to the drug-testing station opened and the two officials from UKAD emerged.

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I think we’re about to learn if they’re going to cite you for a breach of the code, or not.’

I lowered the phone and waited, my heart in my mouth.

Mr Hastings looked at me and nodded what looked like his acquiescence. ‘Under these exceptional circumstances it’s been decided that no further action will be taken.’

I let out a sigh of relief and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thanks for being so reasonable, gentlemen.’

As the two UKAD officials left I almost punched the air and cheered; and so did Simon.

‘Blimey. What did you do, boss? Put a gun to his head? I felt sure that boy was fucked.’

It probably wouldn’t be the first time, I thought.

In German I said to Christoph: ‘Did you hear all that?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Did you forget about the UK doping people or are you just an idiot?’

‘I guess I’m just an idiot, boss.’

I frowned. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean? You mean you didn’t forget?’

‘I went to a friend’s birthday party in Soho on Thursday night, you see. A gay party. And by accident I took some tina. Someone slipped it into my drink, I think. For a laugh. At least, that’s what they told me. I mean, I really didn’t know until it was too late.’

‘What?’

So Christoph Bündchen hadn’t forgotten about the UKAD officials at all; he’d panicked and taken off because he knew he was guilty. I now realised just how close we’d been to an even bigger, Adrian Mutu-sized disaster; I hadn’t a clue what tina was but I assumed it must be a drug of some description and not the kind you could ever have argued was a cold remedy.

‘It was a soft drink, I swear. An orange juice.’

‘Oh, I guess that’s all right then.’

‘I’ve never taken that stuff before. It just happened. And when those two UKAD guys showed up at the dock this morning I freaked out, I guess. I promise it won’t happen again.’

‘You’re bloody right it won’t. And don’t tell me any more. Not another bloody word. But you are so fucking busted. See me in my office at Hangman’s Wood tomorrow morning after training and we’ll discuss your punishment. But I can tell you this: don’t expect to go home with any bollocks in your Y-fronts.’

I handed Simon back his phone.

‘What’s he got to say for himself?’ he asked.

Simon didn’t need to know. A trouble shared is never a trouble halved. Not in football and certainly not with a man like Simon who, in spite of his tall, handsome, silver-fox, appearance was possessed of a hard, gloomy, northern disposition. He wasn’t called Foggy for nothing. He had only one expression and that was stoic. Even his smile looked like ice forming on a line of gravestones. Born in Barnsley, he’d played football for Sheffield Wednesday, Middlesbrough, Barnsley and Rotherham United — hence what was truly surprising about him was that he should ever have left Yorkshire. This was entirely due to his much younger Venezuelan wife, Elke, whom he’d met on a trip to Spain where he had a holiday home — it was said that she’d refused to marry him unless he lived in London. I certainly couldn’t blame her for that. But Simon hated the south of England almost as much as he hated southerners, and to say he was one of football’s hard men was like describing the SAS as butch.

‘He said, “ Entschuldigung ”,’ I replied. ‘That’s just German for “I was a stupid cunt”.’

‘That’s what I thought it meant.’

I went back to my office where I found Maurice glued to the television set.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said.

I glanced at the screen. It was the weather report.

‘After what I just experienced I think I could believe anything,’ I said. ‘Even a warm sunny day in January.’

‘No. Wait a minute and the news will be on again. This is just priceless. The law’s only gone and arrested Ronan Reilly.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘I kid you not.’

‘For murder? No way.’

‘Dunno. They’re not saying. Apparently they went to Reilly’s house to interview him and he legged it out of the window. He was doing an O.J. down the drive when they nicked him.’

‘Maybe it was to do with something else.’

‘Let’s hope not, eh? And then we can get back to normal.’

A few moments later Reilly was on screen, being led to a police car in handcuffs. He’d looked better, even on the BBC; he was wearing a wife-beater and had a black eye. The famous scar on his forehead that was the result of a juvenile gang fight was even more pronounced than usual. He did at least seem like a murderer. There were guys in Wandsworth Prison who looked less obviously criminal than Ronan Reilly did.

Maurice laughed. ‘I never liked that cunt,’ he said.