Philip Kerr - January Window

‘Scott.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry. I know you were fond of him.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t fond of him at all, Maurice. But I did love that man.’

I rang off, wiped the tears from my eyes, washed my face and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I knew what the guy who was looking back at me was thinking, because he looked angry; he was thinking — Drenno came to you for help but you were too dumb to see that; too dumb or just too lazy. You thought you were being such a fucking hero volunteering to take him to the Priory and offering to pay for his first week of treatment, didn’t you? Christ, that was generous of you, Scott. The man needed a friend. Somewhere to stay for a couple of days until he was ready to face the music. He must have known he was going to be arrested for the assault on Tiffany; he’d been cautioned for that before. And you let him down. When you needed a friend, Drenno was there for you — when no one else would give you the time of day; but when he needed someone, where the fuck were you? Christ, he even visited you when you were in the nick. Anne didn’t. Your own wife. In the eighteen months you were inside, Drenno was the only one who visited you, apart from your parents and the lawyers. That’s the kind of friend he was. He came to visit you when everyone in the club told him to stay away.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said to the guy in the mirror, wishing it was Drenno. ‘I am so, so sorry.’

Being sorry won’t bring him back, you bastard. One of the finest, most naturally skilled midfielders this country has ever produced — certainly the best you ever played with — and now he’s gone, aged just thirty-eight years old. What a fucking waste.

‘I’m sorry, Matt,’ I said and started crying again.

‘What’s wrong?’

I turned to see Sonja standing in the doorway. She was naked. In the bathroom mirror she looked as perfect as a woman can look and if I’d had a golden apple I’d certainly have given it to her. I felt like Caliban standing next to Miranda. Or something callous and ugly, anyway.

‘It’s Matt,’ I said. ‘He’s hanged himself.’

‘Oh, my God, Scott. I’m so sorry.’

She hugged me for a second and then sat down on the toilet.

‘That’s awful.’

‘He was just thirty-eight,’ I said, as if somehow that made it worse.

‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ she said.

‘But I do blame myself. He needed help. That’s obviously why he came here the other night. Because — because he had nowhere else to go.’

‘Yes, he did need help but the help he needed was the professional kind. Frankly, I’ve been expecting this for a while. He was ill. He should have been in a hospital. His family should have had him sectioned a long time ago. And you know, I think we’ll find out that it wasn’t just depression that he couldn’t play football any more that caused him to kill himself. I’m sure there was something deeper that lay at the bottom of all his psychological issues. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we find that Matt’s childhood was marked by instability and tragedy. Perhaps even the suicide of someone who was close to him.’

‘Thanks.’ I nodded. ‘And you’re right, actually. His brother killed himself — threw himself in front of a train when he was fifteen. And there was some other stuff, too, that he didn’t like speaking about. Like when his best friend and drinking buddy, Mackie, cleared off and joined the army; Drenno was always rather lost without Mackie there to share his exploits. He’s been fucked up all his life, one way or the other.’

‘Come back to bed,’ she said. ‘And let me take care of you.’

‘I will in a while.’

She kept hold of me for a minute. ‘You’re a good man,’ she said. ‘A decent man. That’s why Drenno came here. Because you’re the kind of decent man a man like him needed to cling onto.’

‘I still find that hard to believe. I mean, after everything that’s happened in my life.’

‘Believe it,’ she said. ‘Because it’s true.’

I nodded. ‘Yeah, well if it is, it’s mostly down to you, Sonja. You make me a better person.’

I went into my study, turned on my computer and then switched my phone to mute when it started ringing again: someone from the Sun I didn’t want to speak to. Then I logged on and spent an hour writing something kind but probably anodyne about Matt on Twitter — how could you describe a great character like Drenno in 140 characters? — and composing an email to the Arsenal press office with a quote for the Gunners website. A few minutes later I got a text from Maurice with the name and number of the police officer dealing with the inquiry into Drennan’s death: Detective Inspector Louise Considine LLB from Brent Police, 020 8733 3709. On the BBC News website there was a famous picture of Drenno celebrating after scoring a goal for Arsenal against Aston Villa in 1998, but the sole fact beyond what I already knew was that when he’d hanged himself he’d been wearing his white number eight England shirt — probably the only one he hadn’t yet sold on eBay.

Sonja was right, of course; it was less of a surprise that Drennan had killed himself than that players like Gary Speed or Robert Enke should have done it, but I’d always hoped and believed that my old team mate might turn his life around. After all, I was living proof that you could come back to football after a disaster. Wasn’t I?

I sat in an armchair with my iPad and spent another hour watching a selection of Drenno’s best goals on YouTube. These were some of the sweetest strikes I’d ever seen and a few of them had had an assist from me, which was nice, but the accompanying music — Pink Floyd’s ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’ — while wholly appropriate for a man like Drenno, did nothing for my spirits. And I started to weep once again.

I was about to go back to bed when I noticed another text from Maurice, asking me to call him urgently. So I did.

‘What now?’ I asked.

‘Sorry to call you again, and so late, but I’m at the Crown of Thorns,’ he said. ‘And I think you ought to get down here as soon as. Something’s happened. Something unpleasant.’

‘Like what?’

‘Not on the phone, eh? Just in case. Walls have ears.’

‘They wouldn’t dare. Not after paying me all those damages for hacking my phone.’

‘They might, you know.’

‘It’s two thirty in the morning, Maurice. I just lost a good friend. And we’ve got a training session at ten.’

‘So let someone else take it.’

‘You really think I need to come to Silvertown Dock? Tonight?’

‘I wouldn’t have called otherwise.’

‘No one’s dead, are they?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘What the fuck does that mean?’

‘Look, Scott, I can’t handle this on my own. I can’t get hold of João Zarco, Sarah Crompton, and Philip Hobday is away on Sokolnikov’s yacht.’

Philip Hobday was the London City chairman and Sarah Crompton was the club’s public relations officer.

‘I really don’t know what the fuck to say here,’ he continued. ‘And I’m going to need to say something. You’ll understand why when you get to Silvertown Dock.’

‘Say something to who?’

‘The fucking press, of course. They were here before the police. It looks as if some fucker from Royal Hill tipped them off.’

‘Royal Hill? What’s that?’

‘Greenwich Police Station. Look, trust me, it’s important you get here and as soon as possible. Seriously, Scott, this is a situation that is going to require some delicate handling.’

‘I’m not sure I’m the right man for that job. Especially with the press. Where they’re concerned I feel like I’m wearing boxing gloves when I speak to them. But I take your point. You’re right, you’re right. If it’s serious, you need me the same way I need you.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I’ll be there within the hour.’