January Window

29

In the corridor outside the drug-testing station I found Simon speaking agitatedly on the phone.

‘Where the fuck are you?’ Simon caught my eye and then handed me his phone. ‘It’s Christoph,’ he said. ‘Daft bugger says he’s at a fucking football match.’

‘Where the fuck are you?’ I yelled into the phone. I was speaking German now, in case I was overheard. When there are UKAD people about it’s best to be a little close-lipped. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages.’

‘I’m at Craven Cottage,’ said Christoph.

‘What the fuck are you doing there?’

‘I came to see Fulham play Norwich City, with a friend. It’s my local team.’

‘Don’t you ever answer your phone?’

‘I honestly didn’t hear it until half time.’

‘At Fulham? Don’t make me laugh. There’s never that much noise at Craven Cottage. The neighbours wouldn’t allow it.’

‘It’s true, boss. They’re four goals up.’

‘You must be on fucking drugs, son. Look, you know you’ve missed giving a urine test. That’s bloody serious, Christoph. You could be facing a ban.’

‘Yes, I know. And I’m really sorry, boss.’

‘The guys from UKAD are still here, debating your fate. In five minutes you might have a lot more time to watch football than you could ever have imagined.’

The door to the drug-testing station opened and the two officials from UKAD emerged.

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I think we’re about to learn if they’re going to cite you for a breach of the code, or not.’

I lowered the phone and waited, my heart in my mouth.

Mr Hastings looked at me and nodded what looked like his acquiescence. ‘Under these exceptional circumstances it’s been decided that no further action will be taken.’

I let out a sigh of relief and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thanks for being so reasonable, gentlemen.’

As the two UKAD officials left I almost punched the air and cheered; and so did Simon.

‘Blimey. What did you do, boss? Put a gun to his head? I felt sure that boy was fucked.’

It probably wouldn’t be the first time, I thought.

In German I said to Christoph: ‘Did you hear all that?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Did you forget about the UK doping people or are you just an idiot?’

‘I guess I’m just an idiot, boss.’

I frowned. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean? You mean you didn’t forget?’

‘I went to a friend’s birthday party in Soho on Thursday night, you see. A gay party. And by accident I took some tina. Someone slipped it into my drink, I think. For a laugh. At least, that’s what they told me. I mean, I really didn’t know until it was too late.’

‘What?’

So Christoph Bündchen hadn’t forgotten about the UKAD officials at all; he’d panicked and taken off because he knew he was guilty. I now realised just how close we’d been to an even bigger, Adrian Mutu-sized disaster; I hadn’t a clue what tina was but I assumed it must be a drug of some description and not the kind you could ever have argued was a cold remedy.

‘It was a soft drink, I swear. An orange juice.’

‘Oh, I guess that’s all right then.’

‘I’ve never taken that stuff before. It just happened. And when those two UKAD guys showed up at the dock this morning I freaked out, I guess. I promise it won’t happen again.’

‘You’re bloody right it won’t. And don’t tell me any more. Not another bloody word. But you are so fucking busted. See me in my office at Hangman’s Wood tomorrow morning after training and we’ll discuss your punishment. But I can tell you this: don’t expect to go home with any bollocks in your Y-fronts.’

I handed Simon back his phone.

‘What’s he got to say for himself?’ he asked.

Simon didn’t need to know. A trouble shared is never a trouble halved. Not in football and certainly not with a man like Simon who, in spite of his tall, handsome, silver-fox, appearance was possessed of a hard, gloomy, northern disposition. He wasn’t called Foggy for nothing. He had only one expression and that was stoic. Even his smile looked like ice forming on a line of gravestones. Born in Barnsley, he’d played football for Sheffield Wednesday, Middlesbrough, Barnsley and Rotherham United — hence what was truly surprising about him was that he should ever have left Yorkshire. This was entirely due to his much younger Venezuelan wife, Elke, whom he’d met on a trip to Spain where he had a holiday home — it was said that she’d refused to marry him unless he lived in London. I certainly couldn’t blame her for that. But Simon hated the south of England almost as much as he hated southerners, and to say he was one of football’s hard men was like describing the SAS as butch.

‘He said, “Entschuldigung”,’ I replied. ‘That’s just German for “I was a stupid cunt”.’

‘That’s what I thought it meant.’

I went back to my office where I found Maurice glued to the television set.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said.

I glanced at the screen. It was the weather report.

‘After what I just experienced I think I could believe anything,’ I said. ‘Even a warm sunny day in January.’

‘No. Wait a minute and the news will be on again. This is just priceless. The law’s only gone and arrested Ronan Reilly.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘I kid you not.’

‘For murder? No way.’

‘Dunno. They’re not saying. Apparently they went to Reilly’s house to interview him and he legged it out of the window. He was doing an O.J. down the drive when they nicked him.’

‘Maybe it was to do with something else.’

‘Let’s hope not, eh? And then we can get back to normal.’

A few moments later Reilly was on screen, being led to a police car in handcuffs. He’d looked better, even on the BBC; he was wearing a wife-beater and had a black eye. The famous scar on his forehead that was the result of a juvenile gang fight was even more pronounced than usual. He did at least seem like a murderer. There were guys in Wandsworth Prison who looked less obviously criminal than Ronan Reilly did.

Maurice laughed. ‘I never liked that cunt,’ he said.

‘Yes, you’ve made that clear before.’

‘And with good reason. He’s never had a decent word to say about this football club. Not ever. You think I’m exaggerating, boss, but I’m not. He hates us. Even before Zarco came back here he hated us. Every time he was on MOTD he was giving us stick for this and bad-mouthing us for that. I’m surprised he’s got the nerve to show his face in this ground.’

And then Detective Inspector Neville could be seen leaving Reilly’s home in Coombe Lane without answering any of the reporters’ questions.

‘Hold up,’ said Maurice. ‘That’s the copper who was here earlier on today.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Detective Inspector Neville.’

‘Blimey, maybe it really was Reilly that topped Zarco,’ said Maurice. ‘I mean, why run away if you’re not guilty?’

‘I can think of a few damned good reasons.’

‘Christ. Who’d have thought? Ronan Reilly a murderer.’

‘We don’t know for sure that’s what it’s about.’

‘What else could it be? They don’t arrest you for nothing, boss.’

‘That’s certainly not been my own experience.’

We waited a moment and then the Sky reporter mentioned the fight Reilly had had with Zarco at the BBC SPOTY and started to speculate that Reilly’s arrest might have something to do with the Portuguese manager’s death.

‘See?’ said Maurice. ‘He thinks so, too.’

‘Believe me,’ I said, ‘I’ve been there. Where Reilly is now, I mean. People jumping to conclusions. No smoke without fire. Guilty until proved innocent.’

‘Talk about Super fucking Sunday.’

‘You don’t know the half of it.’ I told him about the UKAD officials and how Christoph had narrowly escaped being busted. ‘What is tina, anyway?’

‘Crystal meth. Methamphetamine. Popular with PnP boys having a chem session.’

‘PnP?’

‘Party and play. Crystal meth’s a gay drug, popular in the clubs.’

‘How long would that stuff stay in your urine?’

‘Up to five days, I reckon. Ninety days if they were to use a hair-follicle test to look for it. Which they can, of course. Provided you’ve got a bit of hair — unlike him.’

Maurice nodded at the TV and laughed cruelly as Sky re-showed the footage of a handcuffed Reilly being led to the police car. It couldn’t be denied: Ronan Reilly was a bit of a slaphead. It was hard to connect him with the mop-top and babe-magnet who’d once played for Everton and was married to a former Miss Singapore.

‘You just made picking the side for the game against the Hammers a lot easier.’ I picked up my phone and started to type a text to Simon. ‘If Christoph can test positive for drugs today then he could test positive on Tuesday night. Ayrton can play instead of the German lad.’

‘Ayrton? I thought he was on his bike, to Stoke.’

‘Not any more. I asked him to stay on.’

Maurice nodded. ‘That was smart. We need his experience. It’s the one thing that Mr Sokolnikov — for all his millions — can’t buy.’