False Nine

21

The taxi took us to a gravel car park at the furthest end of the beach at Le Gosier and dropped us near the town hall, an improbably large, ultra-modern building that was out of all proportion to the rest of the sleepy little town: it was as if someone had commissioned Richard Rogers or Norman Foster to design a scout hut.

I paid the malodorous driver and we walked down a quiet road where an old man straight out of the pages of Hemingway was wrestling a big, dead barracuda into the boot of a Renault Clio while another, younger man was manhandling lobster pots out of a small boat. We stepped onto a white sandy beach where Grace kicked off her shoes and I did the same. The sand felt good under my toes and, for the first time since our arrival on the island of Guadeloupe, I started to relax.

Lots of lardy-looking French people were lying on the beach, or floating in the water like so much white plastic flotsam. The sea lapped energetically at the sand and but for the ugliness of the cheap swimwear that was on show you might have thought you were in paradise. That was me being a beauty fascist again. In my time as a football manager I’ve been called a lot of things — a cunt, mostly — but a beauty fascist certainly wasn’t one of them. It was true, of course. I tend to think fat people ought to keep it covered. That or go on a fucking diet. Not that it was easy to see how anyone could put on weight in Guadeloupe. The place seemed like an ideal place to begin a crash diet.

Fifty yards off the beach was a small desert island and on the island was a lighthouse, although it was hard to see the necessity for warning any shipping to keep away. A simple Google search could have persuaded you of the absolute necessity of never going anywhere near Guadeloupe at all.

We walked about thirty or forty yards until we came to a wooden door in a wall of rocks and banana leaves. We stepped carefully between some Frenchies who were enjoying a little shade and whose grumbles indicated their resentment at our disturbing them, and Grace pressed an intercom button on the doorpost. Eventually a man’s voice answered, in French.

‘Yes? Who is this?’

‘My name is Grace Doughty and with me is Scott Manson, from FC Barcelona. We’re looking for Jérôme Dumas.’

‘I’m Jérôme,’ said the voice. ‘Come on up,’ he added, and buzzed us in.

‘I don’t believe it,’ I said.

‘Why not?’

‘Jesus Christ,’ I said, as Grace pushed the door open and we walked through it into a nicely tended garden. ’

‘Ye of little faith,’ said Grace.

‘I used to play for Northampton Town, so that can’t be true.’

The door closed neatly behind us and we walked up a long, sloping lawn towards a modern two-storey house constructed of red concrete and glass with a metal terrace and a big picture window. What resembled a set of large canvas sails covered the flat roof like several sun umbrellas. It was very private in that almost none of this could be seen from the beach and the house was shrouded with royal palms and red bougainvillea. Music by Stromae — who is almost as good as Jacques Brel, and a recent and happy discovery of mine, thanks to Bella — was blaring out of an open window while emerging from a tinted glass door was a barefoot young man wearing a Barcelona team kit and whom I recognised immediately as Jérôme Dumas. Around his neck were a pair of PSG Beats; on his wrist was a large gold Rolex and, in his earlobes, were the diamond Panther studs that Bella told me he’d bought from Cartier in Paris. I felt my jaw drop for a second.

‘It’s him,’ I murmured. ‘I’m sure it’s him. I recognise the earrings.’

‘You can thank me later,’ she said as we neared the man in the Barca shirt.

‘Jérôme Dumas, I presume,’ I said, happily. ‘Scott Manson. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. In Paris, Antigua and now here in Guadeloupe. You’re a hard man to find, Jérôme.’

‘I guess so.’

There was a football on the lawn and seeing it, out of sheer exuberance that my mission now appeared to be over, I kicked it to him playfully.

‘Well, thank God for that, anyway,’ I said. ‘Although we do have a lot to talk about.’

‘If you say so.’

He trapped the football with his left foot, flicked it up, bounced it off his knee and onto his head, nodded it twice and then headed it back to me as if hoping to see what I was made of.

‘Your new employers are very anxious that you return with me to Barcelona as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘You’ve an important match coming up.’

I fielded the ball on my chest, and then up onto my head again, let it roll over my scalp, dropped it onto my knee and then my bare foot, and kept it up again a couple of times, before tapping it back to him. Between us it felt like a kind of language, a sporting Esperanto, and in a sense it is; where two or more men are kicking a football they’re in a dialogue.

‘Sure, and I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused,’ he said, grinning sheepishly. ‘I know you’ve come a long way to find me, Mr Manson.’

Jérôme had the ball in the small of his back now. After a second he shrugged it off and onto his own head and let it bounce five, six, seven, eight times before catching it on his instep and playing it back to me again with perhaps a little more venom than was necessary.

‘Scott,’ I said, controlling the ball with my head. ‘Call me Scott. I’m glad to see you’ve been keeping up your skills.’

I could feel the sweat breaking out on my head and chest as I tried to match his abilities with the ball, which were considerable and much superior to my own; even fifteen years ago I’d have been struggling to keep up with this guy. Now at the age of forty-one I was almost out of breath. I tucked my hands back against my wrists and concentrated hard to keep the ball just an inch or two in the air above one foot. I almost didn’t notice when someone inside the house turned the music off.

‘You’re not so bad yourself, Scott. Not bad at all. For an old guy.’

‘Thanks. And less of the old, if you don’t mind, sunshine.’

‘You were at Arsenal once, weren’t you?’ he said. ‘Before you went into management?’

‘That’s right. I was a centre back.’

‘I eat them for breakfast,’ said Jérôme.

‘Funnily enough, I’ve heard that one before. I think it was Paul Raury, from West Bromwich Albion, who said something similar to me just before I broke his ankle.’

‘When you two are quite finished showing off...’ said Grace.

I flicked the ball to Jérôme who played it off his knee, caught it in his big hands and tucked it possessively under his arm.

‘This is Grace Doughty,’ I said. ‘She’s a lawyer from Antigua. She’s been helping me to find you. Although to be more accurate it’s me who’s been helping her, I think. Given that she seems to know the island and speaks Creole.’

‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Dumas,’ said Grace. ‘Too much, really. He’s been obsessing that we were on a wild goose chase. I told him that you have to be patient with wild geese, but I don’t think he believed that until now.’

‘Can you blame me?’ I said.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Jérôme shook her hand and then mine. ‘Come inside and have something to drink. You’ve come a long way, I expect.’

‘Do you speak Creole?’ I asked Jérôme.

‘Yes. A bit. But when I answer the bell to the door on the beach I always speak French since it’s nearly always French people who are ringing it. Usually they want to know if there’s a toilet nearby. And I have to tell them, otherwise they piss on the wall.’

Inside, the air-conditioned house was very Architectural Digest — all open-plan with upper galleries of bookshelves and other rooms. A bank of white leather armchairs were arranged in front of a matching right-angle sofa, like so many sugar cubes. Lying by the sofa were several days-old copies of Antigua’s newspaper, the Daily Observer, and a copy of Guillem Balague’s excellent biography of Lionel Messi. On the wall was a big plasma television and on the screen was FIFA 15, with the sound turned down; Chelsea against Barcelona. In the middle of the room was a glass table and a couple of PS4 controllers, and everywhere there were vases of flowers and jugs of iced water, almost as if Jérôme had been expecting us. He poured us each a glass of water that was flavoured with elderflower cordial.

‘Nice place,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘I didn’t know it was possible to live as well as this on Guadeloupe.’

‘It belongs to a friend of mine,’ said Jérôme. ‘Gui-Jean-Baptiste Target.’

‘Why does that name ring a bell?’ I said.

‘He’s the centre forward for SM Caen. Used to play for AS Monaco.’

I nodded. ‘I remember. Wasn’t he involved in that match-fixing scandal involving Caen and Nîmes Olympique in November 2014?’

‘He was questioned, I think. But not really involved at all. No charges have been brought, anyway. He lets me borrow this place from time to time.’

‘Is he from Guadeloupe, too?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s quite a crowd of you,’ I said.

‘Not a crowd, my friend,’ said Jérôme. ‘A team. If only the French would remove their objections to our FIFA incorporation then we could compete in the World Cup. Perhaps not in Russia, but certainly in Qatar. And you know something else? We could win. Especially if we were playing France. In fact I think I could guarantee it.’

‘It’s the same in England. There’s nothing like sticking one to the mother country. Just ask the Scots, or the Irish. I think there’s no one they’d rather beat than England. I should know. I’m part Scots myself.’

Jérôme grinned. ‘Forgive me, but you don’t look much like a Scotsman.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Besides, people in Scotland have been saying that to me all my life. Which is one reason I live in England, I suppose. The English are a lot more tolerant of black people than the Scots. Anyone can look English, I think. But it takes a Scot to look like a Scot. And you know, whatever people say, the French aren’t so bad.’

‘I dunno. Some of them. Maybe.’

‘I saw your apartment in Paris. Met your ex-girlfriend. I’d say you’d enjoyed pretty much all that France has to offer. And then some. From what I’ve read in your file, you were making fifty thousand euros a week at Monaco when you were just sixteen.’

‘How is Bella?’

‘She’s well. Misses you, I think.’

‘I doubt that very much. I wasn’t very nice to her.’

‘Not too late to fix that, I’d have thought. If it was me I’d try to mend my fences with her. I’ve rarely seen a more beautiful girl.’

‘You think so?’

‘You and she made a very handsome couple. She showed me the pictures in Marie Claire and Elle.’

‘We did, didn’t we? But she made her choice. And now I’m alone.’

None of the pictures I’d seen on television or in the magazines did the man’s beauty justice. He was astonishingly handsome with a long nose, a full sensuous mouth and a shaven head. It was a strong, almost Egyptian head in that it reminded me of one of those huge granite carvings of the Pharaoh Rameses II that can be seen in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings. He was tall and wiry, with legs as long as a crane fly’s and when you saw him you realised that his was a perfect footballer’s physique — not small, like a Messi, or as tall as a Crouch — but more felicitously proportioned, and just to see him was to picture him running at speed with the ball, or curling an improbable shot into the back of the net. Equally, it was plain to see why magazines and Italian designers were falling over themselves to sign him up. Paolo Gentile had not exaggerated. Except for the fact that his body was unmarked by tattoos it was easy to imagine this young man as the next David Beckham and getting rich beyond the dreams of anyone’s avarice. But if I had an early criticism it was that he seemed a little sulky; like a spoiled child.

‘Are you alone here now?’ I asked.

‘Yes, there’s just me and the housekeeper — Charlotte — who comes in every day and cooks and cleans for me.’

‘On the strength of the lunch we just ate I’m not sure there’s a great deal of difference between cooking and cleaning on this island.’

‘Where did you eat?’

‘The Yacht Club in Pointe-à-Pitre,’ said Grace. ‘If you go, don’t have the Creole Plate.’

‘We’re staying along the beach,’ I said, ‘at the Auberge de la Vieille Tour. But neither of us is very optimistic that it’s going to be any better.’

Jérôme pulled a face. ‘It’s true. There’s nowhere good in Pointe-à-Pitre.’

‘This is quite a little hideaway you have here, my young friend. Very private. You could live in a place like this for months and no one would find you.’

Jérôme nodded. ‘I certainly believed so.’

‘I must say you don’t seem to be very surprised that we did.’

He smiled. ‘I heard that you were looking for me. I’ve been expecting you all day.’

‘Was it the guy in Le Gosier who told you we were here in Guadeloupe?’ I asked. ‘The one with half the gift shop from PSG and who looks like a length of ebony? Or Queen Creole from the hairdresser’s salon in Pointe-à-Pitre?’

‘Both. I’m happy to say I still have lots of good friends in Guadeloupe.’

‘Oh, I’m sure. And what about relations?’

‘Sadly, I’ve no family on the island now. Not any more.’

‘What about on Antigua?’ I asked. ‘Any family there?’

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason. Well, now that I’m here, I think it’s best we put our cards on the table.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as the company you’ve been keeping. If I’m going to be travelling with you, I’d like to know if there’s anything important I should know about. You see, I wouldn’t like to aid someone who’s wanted by the police. Especially when I’m in a foreign country. I’m cautious like that. So why don’t you tell me everything?’

‘Does it really matter?’ said Jérôme.

‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’

‘Look, Scott, I’ll gladly return to Barcelona whenever you like. Pay whatever fine they impose. You’ve accomplished what you set out to accomplish, haven’t you? So why don’t you just leave it be? Give them a call and tell them to send a jet to the airport at Pointe-à-Pitre and we can be back there in no time.’

‘All right. I’ll put it another way. I’m afraid there are some things I need to know, and know now. For example, and most importantly: why didn’t you get on that plane from Antigua to London and report for training at Joan Gamper in Barcelona, like you were supposed to do?’

He smiled, a little self-consciously. ‘Maybe I didn’t feel like it.’

‘You don’t want to talk? That’s fine by me. I can understand your reluctance to tell me about this. After all, it’s embarrassing to tell someone how you fucked up when you’ve only just met them. But what you’ve just told me so far won’t be good enough for the people at PSG or Barca who sent me here to find you. Not by a long chalk. If either of the two clubs get so much as a whiff of ill-discipline or someone with a bad attitude then they can fuck you up good, my son. You’re an investment and no one likes to see their investment just disappear without so much as an explanation. If Barca decided they didn’t want you after all — which yet they might — PSG could put you up for transfer and sell you to the highest bidder..‘

I sipped my elderflower water and waited for him to say something but all he did was stare at the game on the screen as if he wished he could just carry on playing.

‘Everything will be fine just as soon as I score my first goal for the Blaugrana,’ said Jérôme. ‘You’ll see. They all will.’

‘Sure it will. Just like it was after you’d scored your first goal at PSG. No, wait, you never scored a goal for PSG, did you? Correct me if I’m wrong but I thought that was why the French agreed to loan you to the Catalans. In the hope that you might do better in Barcelona than you’d done in Paris.’

Jérôme sighed loudly and, leaning back in his chair, shook his head.

‘I think you’re going to have to talk to me, son. Tell me, Grace, you’re a lawyer, would an employer be within their rights to dismiss an employee who didn’t turn up to work for the best part of a month, without an explanation? Not only that, but to sue him for breach of contract?’

‘He’s right, Jérôme,’ Grace told him. ‘You’re going to have to tell him something.’

‘It’s complicated,’ he said finally.

‘It always is.’

‘No, man, really fucking complicated.’

‘Look me up on the internet sometime. You’re looking at someone for whom complicated has been a pretty consistent career choice.’

‘Really?’

‘I don’t know a better way to explain how I’ve been to prison for something I didn’t do.’

‘You did?’

‘I served eighteen months for rape before I was acquitted. How’s that for complicated?’

‘I didn’t know. Christ. That’s really fucked up, man.’

‘Look, I can help you, kid. The fact is I’m not just here to fetch you home, I’m here to save you from yourself, if you need it. Which I happen to think you do. You see, I gave my word to Paolo Gentile that I’d do this. He seems to think your arse is worth saving, although frankly I remain to be convinced by that.’

‘Paolo. How is that old crook?’

‘Coin-operated. Same as ever. He has big plans for you. He’s convinced that he can make you the richest young man in football since Cristiano Ronaldo. Provided you’re willing to toe the corporate line, of course.’ I paused. ‘Is that one of the reasons why you funked it?’

‘A little, perhaps. But look, man, this is all very personal. It’s not easy to tell a complete stranger why I didn’t think I could go back.’

‘You know, I did quite a bit of digging around in your life before I flew over here. I’ve sat around in your lovely apartment with Mandel, and with Alice. She’s very loyal. I liked her. I’ve had dinner with Bella Macchina. I like her, too. I’ve been through your closets and your drawers. I’ve even been through your bathroom cabinet. I think I can safely say I know a lot more about you than you probably think I do. At the moment it’s just me who knows this shit. Not PSG and not Barcelona. If they did they’d run a mile, so you can thank me later.’

Jérôme gave a very Gallic shrug. He didn’t look very thankful. ‘What do you think you know?’

‘I know everything, from why Bella gave you the push, to your fondness for sex games with the Twin Towers, to your run-in with the Paris police. I know you’re on meds for depression. I know that you used to have a gambling problem. I know about your friends in Sevran-Beaudottes, that you used to go there to smoke a little weed and buy some blow, and how one of those hoods gave you a gun. You might be surprised to learn that’s the kind of thing that alarms a football club. And which can drive away a potential advertiser. Take it from one who’s already been there.’

‘Yes, but do you know why he gave me a gun?’

‘I think it may have been something to do with the death of Mathieu Soulié.’

Jérôme nodded, unhappily. ‘Those guys. They’re bastards. I used to go to the Alain Savary Sports Centre and give them clothes and money, trying to put something back in, you know? I figure I’ve been lucky and I want to do something for people who’ve not been as fortunate as me.’

‘That’s very laudable of you, Jérôme.’

‘Anyway, one day I gave them some stuff I’d been wearing on a shoot, with Bella. Some clothes from Dries Van Noten. There was this one T-shirt with a satin square and a letter D—’

‘The one they found in Mathieu Soulié’s dead hand.’

‘That’s right. Chouan — he’s the gang leader — he must have been wearing it when they killed him. Either Soulié tore it off or they deliberately put it there in his hand to incriminate me. Anyway, Chouan said that if I didn’t do what he told me he’d make sure the police got the T-shirt and a picture of me wearing it. I had nothing at all to do with his murder. I even had an alibi. But I don’t think the cops would be too interested in that. They’d still have me in for questioning on account of how I’ve pissed them off already with my politics and my big mouth. Just to give me a hard time.’

‘And the gun?’

‘That was what Chouan wanted. He told me to get rid of it. To throw it in the river. Said he thought the cops were watching him. I’m sure it was the gun that killed that guy.’

‘And did you?’

‘No. I kept it in the apartment for a while until I figured out what to do with it. Then I decided to hide it. I figured it was evidence that might actually help to clear me.’

‘Sensible boy. Where did you hide it?’

‘In a left luggage locker at Gare du Nord.’

‘But there’s an X-ray check on left luggage at all French stations.’

‘I put it in a bag full of old cameras I bought from a junk shop. It’s taped to the underside of an ancient Canon with a long lens. On the X-ray machine it just looks like it’s part of the camera. Besides, those guys at the station are more interested in talking to a PSG footballer than in checking through his bag. Especially when there’s an autograph to give.’

‘And the key is where?’

‘In my bag upstairs.’

‘You can give it to me later. We’ll have a lawyer in Paris sort this out when we’re back in Europe. I’m sure if you make a statement under oath this can be made to go away.’

‘You really think that’s possible?’

‘Sure. Leave it to me.’ I nodded. ‘And that’s it? The sole reason why you didn’t want to go back home? What this was all about?’

‘Yes,’ said Jérôme. ‘Maybe I lost my nerve for all that shit with Cesare da Varano, the designer, and then the Zaragoza Bank. It’s not who I want to be, you know? It’s not football, right?’

‘Thank you.’ I smiled. ‘And yes, I agree, it’s not football. But you’re a bloody liar.’

‘Why do you say so?’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt your story about the gun. However, I don’t think it’s why you didn’t go home. Not for a minute. Call me a suspicious bastard but I think it’s got more to do with something that happened here than something which had already happened back in Paris. You see, I think you were about to catch that flight back to London when something happened here to change your mind, or you found out that something happened. Something you read about in a newspaper at the airport, perhaps.’

‘Believe me, if possible I try to avoid the French newspapers.’

‘And so do I. So does anyone who’s in the newspapers’ line of fire. But if it isn’t possible to avoid them, then what do you do?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Sure you do. Let me tell you why. This morning, Grace and I flew from Antigua’s airport and while I was there I saw the local newspaper, the Daily Observer, prominently displayed at the newsagent.’ I picked one of the newspapers off the floor and tossed it onto the table. ‘This newspaper.’

‘What of it? It’s a rag. There’s nothing in it.’

‘The man who drives the boat from Jumby Bay and takes the guests back to the airport is named Everton. Everton told me that on the day you were supposed to go back to London you seemed fine until you got to the airport when something happened that appeared to change your mood. He says his last sight of you was at the newsagent reading a newspaper. Although he doesn’t remember which one, he told me you seemed to be upset.

‘I’ve already checked the editions of all the French newspapers they sell at the airport, Le Monde, Figaro, Libération and L’Equipe, from the same day that you were supposed to fly back. The ones you said you choose to avoid. And I believe you. And the fact is that I found there was nothing in any of those papers that would have caused you to change your plans so abruptly. Nothing at all. But the story on the front of that day’s edition of the Daily Observer just might have done. Why? Because it was something recent, something which had happened on the island the previous night, something wholly unexpected and something violent.’

‘Like what?’

‘I’m coming to that. The newspaper reported that following an altercation on a boat in Nelson’s Dockyard two men were found unconscious in one of the cabins. One of the men subsequently died and the other was under police guard in the Mount St John’s Medical Centre. Neither man was named but it was reported that the boat belonged to a local man known as DJ Jewel Movement.

‘I think when you saw this story in the newspaper you decided to delay your departure first, to find out exactly who was dead and who was still alive. Then, after later editions of the paper reported that DJ Jewel Movement had died and the other man was named as John Richardson and was being transferred to Her Majesty’s Prison in Antigua facing a possible murder charge, I think you decided to remain in the area indefinitely so that you could offer him legal assistance in the person of Miss Doughty here. My guess is that this John Richardson is someone you are related to. Or at the very least a good friend. Ever since then I think you’ve been following the case in the papers and with the help of Miss Doughty.’

I smiled at her. ‘I don’t blame you for lying to me, Grace. And please don’t be insulted. I know it’s what lawyers do when they’re being paid. Only they much prefer to call it client confidentiality.’

‘I’m not insulted,’ she said. ‘And in point of fact I haven’t actually lied to you, Scott. Not once. I’ve merely told you only what I’m able to tell you. I was just obeying my client’s instructions. But you think what you like.’

‘There’s no need to call her a liar,’ said Jérôme. ‘It’s not actually her fault. And she knows much less than she seems to know, perhaps.’

‘So, why don’t you tell me what’s what here? And then I can be the judge of that.’

‘How do I know I can trust you not to tell anyone else? I mean, you could spoil everything. My sponsorships. My deal with the bank—’

‘Yes, I thought that was bollocks.’

‘Everything.’

‘You don’t know that I won’t spoil it. But I’m sick and tired of all this. I just want to go home to London, to try to find a proper job, not play nursemaid to someone who doesn’t know how well off he really is. And frankly I can do without any more bullshit, too. The fact is I will certainly tell PSG and FCB what I do know if you hold out on me any longer. If you want to wreck your fucking career completely, that’s up to you, son, be my guest.’

He pulled a face.

‘I won’t say the truth is always best,’ I added. ‘Sometimes a lie is kinder. But this isn’t one of those times. I love the game. And I love the people who are good at the game. I saw the way you played against Barcelona back in September and I honestly thought you were the best player on the pitch.’

He nodded. ‘You’re right. That was the best I ever played for PSG. If only I’d scored that night things might have been different.’

‘Football is hard like that. Very hard, sometimes. Talk about survival of the fittest. Sometimes it seems positively Darwinian. As unforgiving as Nature itself. A career can end in just five minutes with an ill-timed tackle, like the one that finished Man United’s Ben Collett. On football’s scrapheap at the age of just eighteen. But you’re still in the game, son. Never forget that. And just because it doesn’t happen at one club doesn’t mean it won’t happen at another. People never seem to remember that when Thierry Henry left Monaco he didn’t go straight to Arsenal, he had a dismal eight months at Juventus.’

‘You’re right. He did, didn’t he? Christ, I’d forgotten that, too.’

‘The Italians played him on the wing but he was largely ineffective and I think he scored only three goals in sixteen appearances.’

‘It’s the same with me,’ insisted Jérôme. ‘PSG kept playing me on the wing when I’m a striker. In that game for Barcelona I was a nine, but a false nine. That’s my best position. Same as Messi.’

‘Barcelona clearly think the same way. That’s why they’re keen to have you playing for them ASAP. I want to help Barcelona because they were good to me when I was just out of the nick and I needed a coaching job. And you should know I’ll always put them first. But I want to help you, too, Jérôme, because I respect your ability. I genuinely think you can be one of the best players in the world.’

‘Thank you for that.’

I stood up, straightened the crease on my trousers and glanced around. ‘I’d like to use the toilet if I may. While I’m out of the room I suggest you make a decision one way or the other.’