Philip Kerr - January Window

‘No one’s asking you to be like that, Sonja.’

‘Maybe you’re not. But the imperatives of your job certainly are. And have you ever wondered why the WAGs are the way they are? Why they occupy themselves with shopping and fashion and hair extensions and manicures and boob jobs? Of course you haven’t. But I have. Those women are desperately trying to make their stupid boyfriends and husbands pay some attention to them, that’s why. They’re trying in vain to compete with the most jealous mistress or wife of them all, which is football itself. Well, I won’t be a part of that. I have my own life, my own interests, my own ambitions — and they don’t include a good run in the FA Cup. We’ll both have some bad nights for a while but we’re both grown-up enough to know that will pass.’

Some fucking Sherlock I was, I told myself. What chance did I have of spotting Zarco’s killer when I hadn’t even been able to spot the disappointments felt by the woman I loved.

‘Jesus, baby, it sounds like you’ve been saving this up for a while.’

‘Maybe I have. Maybe I was just waiting for the best time to say it. The best time for me, that is. You see, I met someone in Paris. He’s just a businessman. Don’t worry, nothing happened between us. I wouldn’t ever do that to you. But I will be seeing him again. Maybe nothing will come of it. Who knows? But on Saturday he goes to the theatre and on Sunday he likes going to Tate Britain. And he’s never been to a football match in his life.’

‘So he’s the guy.’

‘Make a joke of it, if it makes you feel better.’

‘It doesn’t. But I thought it was worth a shot. I would try to persuade you to change your mind, Sonja, but after a speech like that I can see it would be pointless. You’ve thought this out. Which is more than I have. Perhaps I should have done. So, I’m sorry.’

‘You’ll be fine, Scott. You’re strong. Very strong.’

‘Am I?’ I took a last puff of my cigarette and then stubbed it out. ‘Right now I don’t feel very strong.’

‘Of course you are. Just look at the way you smoke. Two or three puffs off one cigarette a week. Your strength astonishes me, sometimes. You know, if it was anyone else but you I wouldn’t be leaving you right now; not after the twenty-four hours you’ve just had.’

I smiled. ‘You noticed that.’

‘I read the newspapers.’

‘Do you now?’ I pulled a face.

‘At least I do when you’re not around to look disapproving. Is there a law against reading the Mail on Sunday ?’

‘No, but perhaps there ought to be. There’s a law against everything else that’s unwholesome in this country.’

After a miserable night I was up early to visit Silvertown Dock before driving on to Hangman’s Wood. It was a very cold morning and I was a little worried about Terence Shelley who we’d locked up in the maintenance area, the same one where Zarco had been found dead. Even in a policeman’s coat and uniform he would have spent a very uncomfortable Sunday night in the open air, handcuffed to a twenty-kilogram kettlebell. But if he had I doubt he could have felt as bad as I did after the events of the previous night. I hadn’t felt as bad as this since my first night in the nick.

On the way I listened to the news on the car radio. Ronan Reilly had been released on bail, which was the clearest indication yet that the police did not suspect him of murder. It seemed that plain-clothes police had arrived at his house in Highgate hoping to question the MOTD pundit about Zarco’s death and found a party in progress; mistaking the police for other guests, an unnamed female had admitted them to the house. Apparently it was Reilly’s birthday, which might have been why he’d decided to celebrate with several prostitutes and a quantity of cocaine; this was probably also the reason why he’d decided to climb over the wall of the back garden and run away, in the hope of denying any knowledge of what was happening in his house. I felt almost sorry for Reilly because if there’s one thing the BBC doesn’t like — even on grown-up programmes like MOTD — it’s pundits who use prostitutes and cocaine. Does anyone remember Frank Bough? I rest my case. But I still smiled as I tried to imagine how Zarco would have greeted the morning news. Zarco would have loved it.

Toyah called and left a message for me to call her back; she sounded like she still hadn’t been to bed. Death is like that. It stops you from sleeping, which, even when everything is rosy, can seem a little too close for comfort to being dead. I was feeling too sour to speak to her; too sour and more than a bit sorry for myself. But I was trying to get over my troubles; just about the last thing Zarco had said to me before I left my flat that morning was to pull myself together.

‘Come on, Scott,’ he said as I’d stared at Jonathan Yeo’s uncanny portrait of the Portuguese manager now hanging on the wall of my study. I’d been online to look at some of the other portraits Yeo had painted and thought the one of Zarco was as good if not better than the picture he’d done of a rather haunted-looking Tony Blair. ‘You’ll get over it, just like Sonja said you will. You had some good times, you and her. That’s the way to look at it. And don’t hold it against her. What she said was right. Football is football and nothing else matters very much; not to guys like you and me. That’s why we’re in the game, right? If we cared about anything else we’d be lawyers and bankers and fuck knows what. Me, I should have your troubles. Don’t you think I’d like to be around to have a nice girl like that dump me? Sure I would. And we both know you’ll get another soon enough. Handsome guy like you. Fact is you probably already know the girl you’re going to sleep with next. That’s how it works. Never forget, always replace — that’s what my father used to tell me when a girl gave me the sack. It’s good advice. Sure you loved her and maybe she loved you, like she said, but in six weeks you’ll wonder why the hell you ever cared. Besides, you’ve got other fish to fry right now. Find out who killed me and why, Scott. Find my killer. I didn’t deserve what happened to me, no more than you deserved to be dumped by Sonja. So, please take control of the game yourself and don’t just leave it to other people, like the police. For them this is just another job. Please, Scott, for me and for Toyah, you must discover who killed me, okay? Really, I won’t have any peace until you do this for me.’

When I arrived at the dock there was a police boat parked by the marina and several divers bobbing up and down in the Thames. I didn’t envy them but I did wonder what they were looking for.

Maurice had already released our burglar and brought him back to my office where, still handcuffed, he was warming up with a cup of tea. Steam was emerging from the cauldron of his manacled hands, which were still trembling with cold, and he seemed to be as grateful for the heat from the mug as he was for the hot drink inside him. Secretly I was relieved that the man looked none the worse for wear but, for the sake of appearances, I decided to play the hard guy. I’d seen enough real hard men in Wandsworth to carry this off without any self-consciousness.

‘So, you didn’t freeze to death after all,’ I said. ‘Maybe now you’ll talk to us, you stupid cunt.’

He sipped his mug of tea and nodded his alacrity. Cold had turned his nose the shape and colour of a tomato and had it not been for the gun he’d been carrying I might have felt sorry for him. In Wandsworth some of the old lags had always said that you should never carry a gun unless you’re prepared to use it.

‘Because if you don’t start talking you can spend the rest of the fucking day where you already spent the night. Freezing your nuts off outside.’