January Window

18

I turned and gave my name to the gorilla in the gatehouse. He checked me off on his clipboard and then waved me through. I didn’t have to ring the bell; another security man was already opening the polished black door. A butler materialised in a marble hallway that was dominated by a life-size Giacometti sculpture of a walking man as thin as a pipe cleaner and who always reminded me of Peter Crouch. I’d shared this observation with Viktor before and I reminded myself not to offer it again; when you own a famous work of art I expect your sense of humour about who or what it looks like is limited by how much you paid for it — which, in the case of the Giacometti, was a hundred million dollars, so you do the maths. Clearly Sotheby’s or Christie’s had a more developed sense of humour than anyone.

Anyway, I wasn’t really in the mood for jokes. I wasn’t in the mood for anything very much except putting my head under a pillow and going to sleep for about twelve hours.

The butler ushered me into a room that was in keeping with the Giacometti, which is to say that it was one of those ‘less is more’ modern rooms that looks like you’re in the new money wing of a national museum; it was only the huge cream sofas that persuaded me I didn’t need a ticket and an audio-visual aid. The big black log resting on the fire dogs looked as if it had landed on Hiroshima a split second ago and even the smoke rising discreetly up the enormous chimney smelled reassuringly exclusive — like being in an expensive ski-chalet.

Viktor dropped a copy of the Financial Times and came around the sofa, which took a while, and gave ample time for me to admire the Lucien Freud above the fireplace. Although admire is probably the wrong word; appreciate is probably more accurate. I’m not sure I could have enjoyed the sight of a reclining nude man with his legs apart every time I glanced up from my newspaper. I see enough of that kind of thing in the showers at Silvertown Dock.

We embraced, Russian style, without a word. The butler was still hanging around like a cold and Viktor asked me if I wanted a drink.

‘Just a glass of water.’

The butler vanished.

I sat down, stretched a smile onto my face, just to be polite, and told him everything I’d learned about what had happened. This wasn’t much, but still, it seemed more than enough.

Viktor Sokolnikov was in his forties, I suppose, with a receding silvery hairline that was more than compensated for by the amount of hair growing between his eyebrows and on his habitually unshaven cheeks. His eyes were keen and dark and they were the shrewdest I’d ever seen. A little overweight, he had a jowly sort of cheeks with a near permanent smile; and after all he had much to smile about. There’s nothing like having several billion dollars in the bank to put you in a good mood. Not that he always was: right now it was difficult to connect this urbane, smiling man with the guy who’d nutted his fellow oligarch, Alisher Aksyonov, live on Russian television after the two got into an argument. I’d watched the clip on YouTube and, not understanding Russian, it was difficult to know what the argument had been about. But there was no doubt that Viktor had effectively given the other, bigger man a Glasgow kiss — good enough to put him down on the deck. I couldn’t have done it better myself.

‘I was fond of João,’ said Viktor. ‘We didn’t always see eye to eye, as you know. But it was never dull with him. I shall miss this man very much. João was a very special guy. Unique, in my experience. And a great manager. It was a good result today; he’d have been proud. Today of all days I’m glad we won.’

The butler came back with a glass of water, which I drank almost immediately. Viktor asked me if I wanted another. I shook my head, glanced at the huge cock above me and told myself I knew where to get a refill if I needed one. After two large cognacs I was feeling just a little crude.

We talked some more about Zarco, the plans he and Viktor had made for London City, and some of the more outspoken, even outrageous remarks that the Portuguese had uttered, which soon had us laughing.

‘Remind me,’ said Viktor, ‘what was it he said to the guy on Sky Sports when the FA Chairman publicly disinvited him from the England team commission?’

I grinned. ‘He called the commission a “knocking shop”; of course he meant to say “talking shop”. At least that’s what everyone supposed he meant. But that was no mistake. He knew very well what he was saying. Even before Jeff Stelling corrected him.’

‘You think so?’

‘I’m certain of it. Sometimes he pretended his English wasn’t as good as it really was.’

‘That’s true,’ admitted Viktor. ‘It was a useful trick. I do it myself sometimes.’

‘Anyway, a commission might as well be a knocking shop for all the good that it’s going to do English football. Some of us thought it might actually be the FA’s job to look into the declining number of Englishmen playing in the Premier League. It’s difficult to imagine what the hell else those fat fucks could be useful for. None of the cunts on the FA board of directors has ever played the game professionally, which says all you need to know; quite frankly those self-satisfied bastards haven’t done anything to help the English game since they codified the laws of the game at The Freemason’s Tavern in 1863. And it doesn’t require the establishment of an England team commission to tell you that the biggest problem with English football is the Football Association itself. The FA by name and FA by nature, right?’

Viktor grinned. ‘I think maybe you can be quite outspoken yourself, Scott.’

I shook my head. ‘Sorry, Viktor. I was starting to rant. Upset, I guess. Pissed, a bit, too. I had two large cognacs at Silvertown Dock. Spirits always make me a bit fightable. That’s the Scot in me, I suppose.’

‘In that respect at least you are like a Ukrainian or a Russian,’ said Viktor. ‘But there’s no need to apologise. I like a man with strong opinions. Especially when those opinions happen to coincide with my own. That’s not a prerequisite for being the manager of London City, although the press would have you think something else. Yes, we had our differences, me and Zarco. But one thing he and I always agreed about was that if ever we fell out again, you were the best candidate to take over as manager.’

‘That’s very kind of you. And of him.’

‘The players respect you and Phil Hobday speaks very highly of you, as did Zarco. You’re well qualified — a university degree, all your coaching certificates, you’re the most obvious candidate. I only wish I didn’t have to do this tonight. But I’m flying to Moscow tomorrow, and I won’t be back for several days. We’ve bought a player. From Dynamo St Petersburg.’

‘I didn’t know we were in the market for anyone.’

‘Not just anyone.’

‘You haven’t bought the red devil?’

Viktor nodded and I felt my jaw drop. Bekim Develi was generally held to be the best midfielder in Europe; a Turkish-born Russian, he’d been playing for PSG until seventy-five per cent French tax had driven him back to his home town of St Petersburg. Viktor had always been keen to have Develi come to London City — they were old friends, for one thing. But Zarco had rejected the idea — it wasn’t like we lacked options in midfield — and as far as I knew Viktor had been obliged to accept the decision of his recently reinstated manager.

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Yes. I am going to finalise the deal this week. Dynamo owes me money. Rather a lot of money, as it happens, so instead of taking what they owe in cash, I’m taking Develi. But I wanted to talk with you in private before I went. To reach an understanding. Man to man.’

I nodded.

‘I’m offering you the job of City manager — at least until the end of the season. Let’s see how we get on. You keep us in the Premier League, then that’s one reason to keep you on full time. An FA Cup and a top-four finish so that we can qualify for the Champion’s League would count for something, too.’

‘I would certainly hope so,’ I said.

Viktor paused and lit a cigar; it wasn’t anything fancy like a Cohiba, just a little Villiger that you could buy at almost any London newsagent.

‘But to be absolutely honest with you, none of that is a priority for me.’

‘It isn’t?’

Viktor shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Then I’d say that for someone who’s the owner of a Premier League football club, you’re a very unusual man.’

‘Yesterday I might have told you something else. But today I tell you frankly, Scott, I don’t give a fuck about cups or titles. There’s something at stake here that’s much more important to me than anything.’

‘I hate to disagree with you, Viktor. For me there’s nothing more important than those.’

‘I want the people who work for me to be passionate about what they do, certainly. And of course this is why I’m offering you the job. But with some strings attached. It’s those strings I’m trying to explain here. You see the one thing I’m really passionate about — more passionate about than football — is my privacy. Nothing is more important to me than this.

‘I don’t ever give interviews. I avoid the light like I was a vampire. Everyone thinks that the panel glass I sit behind at Silvertown Dock is bulletproof. It’s not; it’s camera-lens neutralising. It’s also part of the London City contract with Sky that they don’t do cutaway shots to my seat. I don’t go to film premieres or parties very much. But it’s not always so easy to keep out of the public eye. Especially with the media you have in this country. And the police you have, too. You of all people know to your cost that the media and the police here have an uncomfortably close relationship. If the police want to arrest someone at six o’clock in the morning, they like to tell the newspapers. But this is not a public service. Someone in the police gets paid for the tip-off. For other stories, also.’

I nodded. ‘Where is this going, Viktor?’

‘We have a saying in my country: if you send a man out to shoot a fox, don’t be surprised if he hits a rabbit. In a murder inquiry the police can go where they want and look where they want. Almost anywhere. So the police won’t just be looking for Zarco’s murderer. The police will use Zarco’s murder as a fishing trip to investigate all of my affairs. Any information they get they’ll share with the media. With Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. With the Financial Services Authority. With the security services — MI5 and MI6.’

‘With all due respect, sir, this country is a little different from yours. I know our police can behave disgracefully. But what you’re suggesting—’

‘Has already happened, Scott. I’m sorry to disappoint you but you see, in the name of national security, this country is much more like Russia and Ukraine than you might imagine. I have my sources in the British government who keep me informed of things that might affect me. I pay very well for this information and it comes from the highest level, so believe me, it can be trusted. Your Detective Chief Inspector’s boss is a man called Commander Clive Talbot OBE, and at this very moment he’s having a meeting with some shady people in the Home Office.’

‘I see. So the quicker Zarco’s murder is solved the better.’

‘Precisely.’

‘I understand.’ I frowned. ‘Actually, no, I don’t. You say you want Zarco’s murder solved quickly. Surely that implies we ought to cooperate with the police. I mean, how else are they to find out who killed him unless we help them? I don’t see how we can let them hunt for our fox in any other way. If I can borrow your metaphor for a moment, surely the risk to our rabbit is the price we have to pay in order to shoot the fox.’

‘Then let me explain. I want you to hunt for our fox, Scott.’

‘Me?’

Viktor nodded.

‘You want me to play detective?’

‘I pride myself on knowing the people who work for me and I think that you would also prefer to have things handled as discreetly as possible, out of your loyalty to the club and to Zarco. Am I right?’

I thought of the two mobile phones I’d already taken away from Silvertown Dock and which were now in the bag at my feet. You had to hand it to Viktor Sokolnikov: he had me sussed all right.

‘Yes. You are.’

‘We both know that Zarco pulled quite a few strokes in his time as City manager. It certainly wouldn’t help him and it probably wouldn’t help me if some of those strokes were laid bare in the media.’

‘Agreed.’

‘You’re not afraid of the police, Scott. That makes you a very unusual man. That makes you ideally suited to steer your own course in this investigation. To risk their collective displeasure. You understand?’

‘Yes. I think I do.’

‘I also have the impression that it would give you some pleasure to embarrass the police a little. Am I right?’

‘Of course. But look, Viktor, I’m not a policeman.’

‘In Ukraine we say that a policeman is just a thief with no manners. In truth, Scott, have you ever really met a policeman you thought was well qualified for the job? No, of course not. Motorists are the only criminals in this country who are regularly caught and prosecuted. Why? Because they have registration numbers. The police will arrest someone for making a racist tweet, or an NHS manager who’s fucked up, but try asking them to catch a burglar and they wouldn’t know how to begin going about it. We live in a country where it is quicker to order in sushi than to summon the police.’

‘It’s true I don’t like the police any more than I trust them. But detectives have their ways. Investigative techniques. Forensic reports. Informers.’

‘I have several reasons for thinking that you can catch Zarco’s murderer quicker than the police can, Scott. You are intelligent, well educated, you speak several languages, you’re resourceful, you knew Zarco as well as anyone, you know the club, you know Silvertown Dock, you know Hangman’s Wood, and you know football. That woman from the Yard — Detective Chief Inspector Jane Byrne: in the days it would take just to bring her up to speed with what you know, I’m certain this case could be solved.’

I nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Forensic reports? I’ll get those for you. Believe me, News International aren’t the only ones who can pay the police for information. I guarantee to have a copy of the pathologist’s report delivered to you before that cop even knows it’s finished. As for informers — well, you know the same people the police do. People who’ve been in prison. Our own club fixer, Maurice McShane, is just such a person. Yes? Perhaps information can be obtained from this world, also. The criminal world.’

‘You could be right about that, Viktor. As a matter of fact Maurice has already suggested that Zarco’s death was an accident. A beating that went too far.’

I explained what Maurice had said in the car.

Viktor nodded. ‘You know, I have a little experience of this myself. Back in Ukraine, in the last days of communism and the beginning of the new republic, there was no company law, no law of contract, no commercial law, so we handled things ourselves. No Mafia, just businessmen. To be honest, Scott, sometimes things went a little too far there as well, you know? So it strikes me that Maurice is probably quite right.’

I nodded.

‘I’m glad you agree,’ said Viktor. ‘But before you say yes, Scott, let me tell you that in addition to everything I’ve told you, you’ll also have two very important incentives to find Zarco’s killer that Detective Chief Inspector Jane Byrne and the police won’t have.’

‘Like what?’

‘The manager’s job, for one thing. You find out who killed Zarco, and soon — you get the police out of our hair for good — and the City job is yours, permanently. A five-year contract. On the same salary as Zarco. Same bonuses. Same everything.’

‘That’s very generous, Viktor. And the other incentive?’

‘I know you like pictures, Scott.’ Viktor glanced up at the painting of the naked man. ‘You like this portrait?’

‘I hadn’t noticed the face very much.’

‘My wife, Elizabeth, doesn’t like it. She’s English, as you know, and she’s not what you might call comfortable with the human body. When I first met her she used to wear a swimming costume in the banya.’

Banya was what Russians called the sauna.

‘Anyway, I paid ten million dollars for this painting, back in 2008. It’s worth twice that now Freud’s dead. Perhaps more.’ Viktor stood up. ‘Come with me. There’s another portrait I want to show you.’

We walked through the house into his study where, above a Hitler-sized desk, there was a large and very striking portrait of João Zarco. I’d read about the portrait in the London Evening Standard at the time of its commission. It was painted by Jonathan Yeo, one of Britain’s most collectible young artists.

‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

‘Very much,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you owned it, Viktor.’

‘It was a gift from Zarco. I suppose his idea of a joke — to give me a picture of himself. But it’s very fine, don’t you think? It was having his photograph taken by Mario Testino — yes, that photograph — which gave him the idea to commission a portrait from a painter.’

I nodded. ‘I won’t say it’s an excellent likeness. That much is obvious. But there is something very lifelike about it. And I like the way that the clothes don’t matter all that much — the way they fade away. It seems to make him seem altogether more himself. He’s not smiling but there’s a real twinkle in his eye, as if he’s about to say something else that would get him into trouble.’

‘You say more than you know, Scott. When Jonathan Yeo showed the portrait to Zarco he said he didn’t like it. Said it made him look too ugly and too grumpy. That’s why he gave it to me. But I think it’s excellent. I think that in a few years a painting by Jonathan Yeo is going to be every bit as sought after as one by Lucien Freud. Anyway, I want you to have it, Scott. That’s the other incentive I was talking about.’

‘You’re joking. Really?’

Viktor lifted the picture down from the wall; the fact that it was covered in glass made it heavy, so I helped him.

‘I’m perfectly serious, Scott. This picture is yours, now, to take home with you tonight. I want you to have this so that every time you look at it, you’ll hear João Zarco saying what I’m going to say to you now:

‘“Find out who killed me and why, Scott. Find my killer. I didn’t deserve what happened to me today. Not ever. So, take control of the game yourself and don’t just leave it to other people, like the police. Please, Scott, for me and for my wife, Toyah, you must discover who killed me, okay? Next time you look in my eyes I want to know that you’re doing your best to get them. Really, I won’t have any peace until you do this for me.”’

Viktor could always do a wicked impersonation of Zarco’s dry monotone of a voice and, just for a second, this seemed more than mere mimicry.

‘That’s what he seems to be saying,’ said Viktor. ‘Don’t you agree?’

I stared at the picture now leaning against Viktor’s desk. The man depicted was looking right into my eyes, as if he too was asking the same question as Victor Sokolnikov.

‘Yes, I do.’

It wasn’t quite the ghost of Hamlet’s father, but I’ll say one thing for Viktor Sokolnikov; he always knew how to get exactly what he wanted.