Philip Kerr - January Window

‘It was my own player,’ I said. ‘Besides, I wasn’t swearing at him. I was congratulating him.’

‘Tonight of all nights I’d have thought that you might moderate your language,’ said Paedo. ‘Out of respect for Zarco’s memory.’

‘I’m not going to take any lectures from you about Zarco’s memory. Nobody has more respect for his memory than I have. So don’t even think about sending me off.’

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ said Paedo. ‘I deem your behaviour inappropriate, Mr Manson. And I’m sending you out of your technical area. Go. Now.’ He pointed to the stands behind me and then wrote my name on his yellow card. Then he turned and walked back to the penalty spot to restart the match.

I turned to the fourth official. ‘You know something? He’s a cunt and so are you.’

Meanwhile the crowd started to jeer and then to chant, ‘Pae-do, Pae-do, Pae-do, Pae-do.’

One of the stewards pointed to an empty seat behind our players’ bench and feeling rather aggrieved, I sat down next to our technical staff. But this seat wasn’t far enough away to suit the fourth official and, to my amazement, he followed me and ordered me out of this seat, too. Much to my irritation I was obliged to get up a second time and to sit down alongside the real fans.

‘Did it hurt when you pulled that card out of your arse?’ one fan shouted after Paedo.

‘Great game,’ said another, shaking my hand. ‘Well done, mate.’

‘Fucking marvellous,’ said another.

‘Don’t worry. That’s just Paedo being a Paedo.’

I glanced at my watch. Normal time was now over. I looked anxiously at the fourth official to see how much added time there would be. If I’d not been looking at him I suppose I would have seen our fourth goal. And until I watched the replay on the big screen at the river side I had no idea who scored. West Ham had one last strike at goal by Bruno Haider saved brilliantly by Kenny Traynor, who cleared his lines with a huge kick and sent Soltani Boumediene sprinting for their goal. If West Ham hadn’t been lying so deep the Arab lad would have been offside; as it was he checked his run just before the penalty box, looked as if he was going to shoot, which sent the hapless keeper to one side, and then tapped the ball gently straight into the net. 4–3. The crowd was in ecstasy and I found myself being hugged by nearly everyone around me.

‘You’re a fucking genius, Manson,’ said one fan. ‘What a team you picked.’

I nodded. For a young team lacking experience, it was hard to imagine that a team composed entirely of all our first-choice players could have done any better. Our midfield looked every bit as good as Arsenal’s; perhaps even better. I had every reason to feel pleased.

Meanwhile the fourth official lifted his electronic board to reveal that we would play four minutes of extra time.

But this was the moment I had been dreading. In memory of João Zarco the crowd began to sing another favourite City anthem — ‘Auf Wiedersehen Sweetheart’, as sung by Vera Lynn, which seemed especially appropriate on that particular night. No fans are as sentimental as football fans, which is another reason I love it — because I’m a sentimental bastard myself.

Of course it’s one thing promising as the song says, not to let the teardrops start; it’s quite another to deliver on that when sixty thousand fans start singing a song like this one. Which is how I missed the fifth goal as well. I was crying my eyes out when the crowd around me jumped up as one; and again I had to wait for the replay on the big screen to see the goal.

Having scored a superb goal himself, Zénobe now had a wonderful assist, running the length of the pitch, drawing two defenders onto himself and, leaving them both for dead, hitting a fantastic cross to the opposite side of the penalty box to find Iñárritu arriving like Bond’s Aston Martin at the end of Casino Royale . To say the Mexican boy struck the ball hard on the volley hardly describes what happened; he belted it — so hard that the ball turned in the air like a living thing, as if it was actually trying to avoid the keeper’s hands.

5–3 and West Ham’s rout was complete. The match restarted with the crowd chanting for six.

A minute later the referee blew full time and the dock erupted. It felt like the proudest moment of my life. As a fitting tribute to João Zarco it could not have been bettered.

And this feeling was only enhanced by the realisation that I had almost certainly guessed the identity of Zarco’s murderer.

‘Whatever happened to dinner?’ asked Louise Considine as we drove swiftly away from the dock in my Range Rover. The fans were still celebrating loudly and would be for the next few hours. There would be some sore heads at work tomorrow, I thought.

‘I’m afraid there’s not going to be any time for dinner,’ I said. ‘We’ve got something much more important to do right now.’

‘Like what? I’m hungry. What could be more important than feeding me?’

‘You’ll see.’

‘You really don’t mess around, do you?’ she said.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, let’s see now; we’re driving west,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit too late to go to a restaurant in the West End. And since I’m supposed to be a detective I would surmise that we’re going back to your flat in Chelsea. Where I imagine you’re planning not to feed me but to take me to bed.’

I didn’t answer. It was a nice idea and for a moment I let my imagination run free with it. She was a nice girl; bright, funny, and very pretty, and whenever I was with her I found it hard to believe she was in the police. And even harder to believe how much I liked her in spite of that. Taking Louise Considine to bed was a very attractive idea, and one that would probably keep me awake for the rest of the night. Especially now that she had led me to form the impression she was not averse to the idea.

‘I suppose you’re much too excited to eat after a match like that,’ she added. ‘I suppose you want to make the most of all that excitement. At your age I imagine you have to strike while the iron’s hot.’

I grinned. ‘The Viagra of football? Yes, there might be something in that, I suppose. I’m not sure my heart could stand too much of it. But I do feel pretty high after what happened tonight. And at my age that doesn’t happen very often.’

‘Don’t get me wrong. I rather like the idea of you all sweaty and excited and keen to score.’

I laughed. ‘Is that what you think?’

‘Of course. I assumed that’s why you rushed us away from the ground when everyone else who was there seemed keen to celebrate. But I’m glad. As a matter of fact I’m rather keen to score myself. And after a match like that, I’m up for anything. Even extra time.’

‘How would that work?’

‘I was thinking that you might want me to stay for breakfast.’

‘You really do like my coffee, don’t you?’

‘Sure. Although I imagine the coffee’s only the second best thing I can put in my mouth while I’m there.’

I laughed again; she really was a hell of a girl.

‘How old are you, anyway?’ she asked.

‘Forty. That’s not so old.’

‘It is for me. I’ve never slept with anyone over thirty. However, I do have a question, first.’

‘Fire away.’

‘I was under the impression that you already had a girlfriend, Mr Manson.’

‘I did have one. Sonja gave me the sack on Sunday night.’

‘Did she give you a reason?’

‘She said that when she finishes work on a Friday she wants a proper weekend.’

‘Yes, I know what that’s like myself. I mean, I’ve had boyfriends who didn’t like the unsocial hours I keep.’