January Window

22

Several of the older players were waiting patiently inside the entrance and fell silent as I walked in the door. They all looked suitably sombre. A few were already wearing black or sporting black armbands. Simon Page tossed aside the Mail on Sunday and jumped up off the waiting area sofa to greet me; Maurice, too. But I couldn’t have felt less like the real manager of London City if I’d been carrying a lacrosse stick. I don’t think there was anyone who wasn’t aware of the fact that the last time we had done this as a team Zarco had still been alive.

It was then that I noticed a Roman Catholic priest was standing beside Ken Okri.

‘Is everyone here?’ I asked, one eye on the priest.

‘Yes, boss,’ said Simon.

As soon as I had everyone’s attention I told them what they all probably knew, which was that I had accepted Viktor’s offer of the manager’s job.

‘That’s really all I have to say for now,’ I told them. ‘You’ll hear plenty from me soon enough. Which reminds me: if you must tweet, then keep it sweet. Right then, let’s get everyone on the bus. The quicker we get there the quicker we can go home. And by the way, no headphones or Skullcandy, please. This is the saddest day in the club’s history so please, let’s make sure that when we get to the dock we look like we recognise that fact.’

‘Boss,’ said Ken, ‘this is Father Armfield from St John’s Church in Woolwich. Before we get on the bus, if it’s all right with you, the lads would like him to say a short prayer for Mr Zarco. It is a Sunday, you know.’

‘Of course,’ I replied and bowed my head in prayer, wishing I’d had the nous to think of inviting a priest along that morning. Zarco had been a staunch Roman Catholic, and so was I. It was being a Catholic that helped get me through prison. At least that’s what I told myself. The priest was a welcome surprise. But there was more to come when we got on the bus: to my surprise all the lads started to sing the FA Cup hymn, ‘Abide with Me’. I was surprised that they knew the words — many of them were foreigners, after all — only until I saw that they had downloaded the words onto their smartphones. I might have joined in myself but couldn’t because I was so choked with emotion and, for a moment, I was transported to Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium in 2003 and the only FA Cup Final I ever played in. I was hugely impressed with this show of loyalty to Zarco and wished only that Matt Drennan could have been here to hear it, as no one loved the hymn more than he had.

The bus route west along the B1335 through Aveley and Wennington was pretty well known to the residents of east London, and to our surprise — London City was a new club, after all — many had lined the route to pay their respects. Twenty minutes later we were driving through the gates at Silvertown Dock, slowly, so as not to crush the hundreds of fans gathered there, or the many bouquets of flowers that had been laid there as a mark of respect to Zarco. The gates themselves were almost invisible, hidden under a mass of orange scarves. Candles had been lit and the whole area now resembled the scene of some national disaster — a rail crash or royal death.

‘Is the chairman joining us?’ I asked Maurice.

‘Yes.’

‘What about Viktor?’

‘He’s coming later on with Ronnie. He decided it was better to meet them here rather than have them over to KPG.’

‘When we get inside you’d better put the lads in the video analysis room,’ I told Simon. ‘They can watch the Tottenham match while they’re waiting for their turn with Chief Inspector Byrne.’

‘Right, boss.’

‘Maurice? I’ll want you with me in my office. We’ve got a lot to talk about.’

‘Too right we have.’

We trooped inside the door of the south entrance where, on a black easel with a black laurel wreath, there was a framed photograph of Zarco — a larger version of the same Mario Testino picture that we had found in the grave.

Uniformed officers and men from the Essex Constabulary were already there, of course. Probably they’d been there all night. The corridor leading down to the crime scene was cordoned off with tape.

Simon led the players along to the video analysis suite, while Maurice and I went upstairs to the executive dining room where I found Chief Inspector Byrne and the members of her team, only now she was also accompanied by the two detective inspectors she had drafted onto her inquiry: Denis Neville, who had investigated the hole in the pitch, and Louise Considine, who was — as far as I knew — still investigating the suicide of Matt Drennan. Both of these events already seemed a long time ago.

I wished Jane Byrne a good morning, trying my best to conceal my loathing; she had conspired to have me nicked for drunk driving, after all. She smiled thinly, no doubt wondering if I was going to mention it. So was I.

‘You’ll remember Detective Inspector Neville and Detective Inspector Considine,’ she said.

‘Yes, of course,’ I replied. ‘Thank you for giving up your Sundays to be here. We’re grateful. Detective Inspector Neville?’

‘Sir?’

‘I’d like to apologise for not being more cooperative when you were here the last time. Perhaps if we’d taken things a little more seriously then you wouldn’t be here again now.’

Neville smiled a wry-looking smile as if he didn’t quite believe me.

‘No, I mean it. But with regard to the picture we found in that grave, it wasn’t my call. It was Mr Zarco’s.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘Are you being looked after all right?’ I asked DCI Byrne, politely. ‘Getting everything you need? Something to drink, perhaps? Tea, and coffee?’

‘Miles Carroll and his staff are being very helpful,’ she said. Miles Carroll was the club secretary. ‘They’ve opened up the staff canteen for us.’

‘Good. And please order anything at all. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. It’s on the club.’

‘Just to let you know, we’ve asked everyone who was in the executive dining room yesterday to come back here today. We’re going to be interviewing Mr Sokolnikov, Mr Hobday and all of the club’s guests from the council. At the same time we’re going to be interviewing the players and playing staff in alphabetical order.’

‘So I could be in for a wait, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Actually, no, I was hoping you might sit down with me right now and do what you said you’d do last night.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Help me identify who disliked him enough to kill him, perhaps. After all, you knew him as well as anyone here.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Was he always such a big mouth?’

I winced a little at that, but left it alone.

‘Zarco was someone who called a spade a spade.’

‘I certainly hope not,’ she said. ‘That would make my job even more difficult than it is already.’

I frowned, wondering exactly what she meant by that remark. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I mean he does seem to have gone out of his way to irritate people, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Playing mind games with other teams and other managers was just part of his style. Everyone does it. But Zarco being Zarco, people just paid more attention to it. He was quite a charismatic figure. Good-looking, articulate, well dressed. A breath of fresh air after all the dour Scots managers who used to dominate the game: Busby, Shankly, Ferguson et al.’

‘If you say so. But this was more than just mind games, I think. I’m sure you’ll agree that pre-match wind-ups are one thing, but this must have been something much more serious. With that in mind, Mr Manson, I was hoping you and I could arrive at a definitive list of his enemies.’

‘Sure, why not? It will save you the effort of having to look them up on Google, I suppose.’

‘Oh, I’ve already done that.’ On her iPad she showed me a dozen names I recognised. ‘Here.’

I nodded. ‘The usual suspects. Okay. Now all you have to do is round them up. Like Captain Renault in Casablanca.’

‘Actually, I was hoping you might help me to shorten the list.’ She shrugged. ‘Or perhaps add a name or two that isn’t there already. That’s what I meant by definitive.’

‘All right.’

‘Please. Come and sit down. Talk to me, Mr Manson.’

I followed her to the far end of the room. Out of the irregularly shaped window you could see the equally irregular steel structure that constituted the exterior of the stadium. The rain had turned to snow; I felt sorry for the fans still out there. I sat down on a leather sofa and reread the list on her iPad. Our knees were just touching, which is more than could be said of our respective characters. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman, just a cunt.

‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.

‘About this list? You know, if you were writing a piece for a newspaper about who disliked João Zarco, then you’ve already covered the bases with most of these names. But there’s a healthy difference between disliking someone enough to bad-mouth them, and hating them to the extent that you actively want them dead. Some of these men are highly respected figures in football. This is a game that inspires strong feelings, after all. Always has done. I remember my father taking me to an Old Firm match on New Year’s Day. That’s Rangers versus Celtic, by the way. This was long before the laughably named Offensive Behaviour at Football and Threatening Communications Act, which sounds like an oxymoron. The ferocity of the historic and religious rivalry between those two sets of supporters was truly something to behold. And it’s fair to say that murders have been committed because a man was wearing the wrong colours in the wrong part of town. Having said all that—’

‘Is this where you start to talk about the beautiful game?’

‘I wasn’t going to mention it. But if you’re asking me if I believe any of the men on this list could have killed João Zarco then the answer has to be a definite no.’ I handed back the iPad. ‘If you want my honest opinion, this will turn out to be fans. Newcastle thugs bent on handing out a beating to the opposition team manager. Not these men.’

‘I hear what you say,’ she said. ‘And yet. It would seem that some of the men on my list are given to violence. For example: Ronan Reilly.’

She touched the iPad and opened a file to reveal a photograph of Ronan Reilly. He was pictured with Charlie Nicholas, Jeff Stelling, Matt le Tissier and Phil Thompson; he looked like he was sitting in for Paul Merson on Gillette Soccer Saturday.

‘Nice suit. Not sure about the earring. What about him?’

‘Reilly and Zarco actually came to blows at the BBC Sports Personality of the Year party last year, didn’t they?’

‘So? Reilly’s a hard man with strong opinions. I respect that.’

‘He’s certainly a quick-tempered one. I’ve been reading up: in 1992, in the first year of the Premier League’s existence, he received more red cards than any other player.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. But look, that was more than twenty years ago. And I dare say he took most of those for the team. Professional fouls and that kind of thing. The last I heard even the Met wasn’t prosecuting people for getting sent off. But time will tell; it’s an easy nick.’

‘And yet it seems that even when he’s off the park Reilly has form for this sort of behaviour. He’s handy with his fists, is Mr Reilly. When he played for Liverpool there was an incident at a nightclub where chairs were thrown and another man was assaulted. Reilly was charged with affray.’

‘He went to trial and was acquitted.’

‘Yes, the trial was in Liverpool,’ added DCI Byrne. ‘Where he was a very popular man with the red half of the city.’

‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘The outcome might have been different with more toffees on the jury. Or if a few bent coppers had testified against him. That always helps with the local clear-up rate.’

She ignored that one.

‘And then, before he was on television, he was manager at Stoke City, wasn’t he? Where he punched a player in the dressing room and broke his jaw, by all accounts, for which he was almost sacked.’ She smiled. ‘Honestly, how anyone can call this the beautiful game escapes me.’

‘Like I say. Passions run high sometimes. Besides, I think I’m right in saying that the player — who was no saint himself — withdrew the complaint.’

‘Reilly was here yesterday. At Silvertown Dock. Did you know that, Mr Manson?’

‘Yes, and I’m not surprised. It was a big game. Pretty good one, too, for us.’ I shook my head. ‘Look, you asked my opinion. And that’s all it is. My opinion. I know Ronan Reilly. He’s not a bad man. Just one with a short fuse. That fight at the SPOTY — it was just handbags.’

‘It looked a bit more than that to me. I’ve seen the fight on YouTube. Blood was spilled. I could show it to you, if you like. Refresh your memory.’

‘No, thanks. I’ve seen enough YouTube videos for one weekend. So maybe they expected people would pull them apart sooner than they did. Besides, they’d both had a drink. Several, probably. I know I had.’

‘And that makes it all right, I suppose, Mr Manson.’

‘No. But it makes it easier to understand.’

‘Would it surprise you to learn that Reilly was absent from his seat for fifteen minutes during yesterday’s match?’

‘Have you tried to buy a drink here at half time? It can take a while.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t then. It was during the first half. You see, Sky Sports has made all their footage available to us, from all of their cameras, so we can time his absence precisely. And he’s clearly missing from his seat for a full fifteen minutes at about the same time that people were beginning to realise João Zarco was missing. I could show you that, too, if you like.’

‘Fifteen minutes of looking at what, an empty seat? I’ve got better things to do with my time.’

‘Come now, Mr Manson. What could be more important than finding your friend’s killer?’

‘Look, have you asked Reilly where he was?’

‘Not yet. But I intend to ask him this afternoon. I just wanted to get your input first.’

‘On what? Reilly’s mind? His criminal credentials? Look, I’m just the caretaker manager here.’

‘You appear to be taking rather a lot of care right now, Mr Manson.’

‘It seems I have to, with coppers like you around, Miss Byrne.’

‘By the way, congratulations.’

‘On what? Not getting nicked last night? Or landing this job?’

She smiled. ‘The job, of course. But beating an alco test, that’s a cause for celebration, too. And hey, unlike so many other people in football, you didn’t even have to call Mr Loophole.’

‘You’ve got a nerve,’ I said.

‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Manson.’

‘Trying to set me up like that. Don’t bother denying it. I know you were behind that little stunt. You and your friend Commander Clive Talbot OBE thought you could soften me up, did you? Make me more cooperative? Next time you use the ladies’ loo in this place, you’d best make sure you’re the only lady in there. Using the word in its loosest possible sense.’

She frowned as if she was trying to remember if she’d bothered to check all of the cubicles and then coloured a little. ‘I see.’

‘I’m sorry not to have been more help to you,’ I said. ‘I don’t remember anyone who I think might have killed Zarco. But I have remembered why I don’t like the police.’

‘As if you’d forgotten.’

‘Are we done here? Is that all?’

‘Not quite. Mrs Zarco says her husband was having an affair with the club acupuncturist,’ said DCI Byrne. ‘She’s Mrs Claire Barry, isn’t she?’

‘That’s her name.’

‘Her husband, Sean, runs a private security company called Cautela Limited. According to Google they just landed a big contract to look after some of the teams for the World Cup in Russia and Qatar. Zarco wasn’t very complimentary about the Qataris, was he? Many of the people Cautela employs are ex-MI5, MI6. They could be out of a job if it doesn’t go ahead. For that reason they might have been pissed off at him. On both counts. Business and personal. Maybe enough to work him over.’

‘You tell me, Miss Byrne. You’re the one with all the Home Office connections.’ I stood up. ‘Just so as you know, João Gonzales Zarco was my friend. But I really don’t care all that much if you manage to find his killer. It certainly won’t bring him back. The only things I care about are this football club, its fans, and the match on Tuesday night.’

‘You’ve made yourself very clear, Mr Manson. That being the case, let me be equally clear. I hate football. Always have. I think it is the greatest curse of modern life. Until yesterday the only time I’d been in a football ground was in May 2002 when, as a young WPC, I went to help police a game at The Den. Millwall lost a play-off game to Birmingham City and I was just one of forty-seven police officers who was injured trying to contain the violence that resulted — to say nothing of twenty-four police horses. What kind of person would stab a horse with a broken bottle? Or, for that matter, a young WPC? Namely me. So, I have nothing but contempt for people who go to football. And nothing but contempt for the overpaid adolescents who play the game — not to mention the egomaniacs who manage these so-called clubs. I will find Mr Zarco’s killer. I promise you that. But if, while I do it, I can also bring disgrace upon the game and this place, then so much the better.’

‘You can do your worst,’ I said. ‘But I’ve a feeling it won’t be anything to compare with the disgrace the police managed to bring on themselves at Hillsborough.’