January Window

17

‘Bloody hell,’ said Maurice. ‘Look at that lot, will you?’ He nodded. ‘They’re going to do him proud.’

‘Looks like it.’

We were in my Range Rover, leaving London City Football Club for KPG. It was dark and bitterly cold and the air was full of sleet, but hundreds of fans had gathered to pay their tributes to João Zarco, and there were so many orange scarves tied to the gates of Silvertown Dock that it already looked like a sort of Hindu shrine. Some of the fans were singing the club songs — including what else but The Clash?

London calling to the faraway towns, now war is declared — and battle come down...

A few even managed Joe Strummer’s werewolf howl at the end of the lyric.

I was silent for a while as the song and the howls stayed in my head, giving me gooseflesh.

‘That’s the great thing about football,’ said Maurice. ‘When you go, people like to show their respect. Who else gets that these days?’

‘Michael Jackson?’ I suggested. ‘That hotel we stayed at in Munich. The Bayerischer Hof. They’ve still got a shrine going outside the front door.’

Maurice winced. ‘That’s just the fucking Germans.’

‘Hey, careful what you say about the Germans. I’m half German, remember?’

‘Well then answer me this, Fritz. How come they do that — make a shrine to him — when everyone knows he was a kiddy fiddler? Doesn’t make sense.’

‘In some ways the Germans — Bavarians especially — they’d prefer not to know about that sort of thing.’

‘Yeah, well, they’ve got a form for it, haven’t they?’ growled Maurice. ‘Preferring not to know about someone’s past.’

‘I wish he could have seen that,’ I said, ignoring the history lesson. ‘Zarco, I mean. Not the plastic guy.’

‘Did you actually see his body?’ asked Maurice.

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘His legs, I guess. Where the body was — it wasn’t a very large space. There were three or four CSU officers around him, plus all their gear — spotlights, tripods, cameras and laptops. These days a murder scene looks more like they’re shooting a commercial.’

‘What a thing to happen to a guy like João,’ said Maurice. ‘How old was he anyway?’

‘Forty-nine.’

‘Christ. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ He pursed his lips. ‘Tragic, that’s what it is. Without question. But it ain’t a fucking murder.’

‘Listen to him: Inspector Morse.’

‘At least not a murder in the old sense, that is, with intent. Yeah, it’s reasonably foreseeable that if you’re handing out some GBH you might kill a bloke. But I don’t see any intent here, according to how most blokes round our way would look at this.’

‘Keep talking.’

‘You remember how it was in the nick. Nine times out of ten, if someone wanted to kill a bloke, they didn’t do it with a beating. They used a blade. Or they strangled him. And if it was on the outside they’d shoot him or have him shot. But they didn’t kick the shit out of him. If a bloke dies after a beating then that’s a beating that went wrong or simply got out of hand. More like an accident. Manslaughter. No, if you ask me, someone wanted Zarco hurt, but not dead. This was revenge, or a warning, but it wasn’t supposed to be goodnight Vienna.’

‘I’m no Rumpole but the law says different, I think.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s the law, isn’t it? There’s not much common sense in the law these days. If there was we wouldn’t be in the EU, would we? We wouldn’t have the Human Rights Act and all that shit. Abu Hamza. Cunts like that make a monkey out of the courts in this fucking country.’ Maurice paused as some blue light spilled into the Range Rover. ‘Talking of monkeys,’ he said, ‘we’ve got some law on our tail.’

I checked the side mirror and nodded.

‘Let me handle it, okay?’

‘Be my guest.’

We pulled up and I lowered the tinted window a few inches.

A traffic policeman presented himself at the side of the Range Rover; he was already holding a breathalyser unit in one hand and adjusting his peaked hat with the other.

‘Would you step out of the car, please, sir?’

‘Certainly.’

I got out of the car and closed the door behind me.

‘Is this your vehicle, sir?’

‘Yes it is.’ I handed him my plastic licence. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

He glanced at the licence. ‘You were driving erratically, sir. And you were doing thirty-five miles per hour in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone.’

‘If you say so,’ I said. ‘I really didn’t notice the speed.’

‘Have you consumed alcohol this evening, sir?’

‘A couple of brandies. I’m afraid I had some bad news.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. However, I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to take a breath test.’

‘All right. But you’re making a mistake. If you’ll allow me to explain...’

‘Are you refusing to provide a sample of breath, sir?’

‘Not at all. But I was just trying to tell you that—’

‘Sir, I’m asking you to take a breath test. Now, either you comply or I will arrest you.’

‘Very well. If you insist. Here, give it to me.’ I took the little grey unit, meekly followed his instructions on what to do and then handed it back.

We waited a few seconds.

‘I’m afraid the light has turned red, sir. The sample of breath you’ve provided has more than thirty-five millimetres of alcohol per one hundred millimetres of blood. Which means you’re under arrest. If you’ll please follow me to the police car.’

I smiled. ‘For what?’

‘You just failed the breath test, sir,’ said the policeman. ‘That’s what.’

‘Yes, but as I tried to tell you before, I wasn’t driving. My friend was.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The car is left-hand drive, you see?’

There was a long silence and I tried not to smile.

The traffic policeman marched around to the left-hand side of the vehicle and opened the door. Maurice grinned at him.

‘Evening, constable,’ he said, cheerily. ‘I’m teetotal. Diabetic, see? So you’d be wasting your time.’

‘Incidentally,’ I said, ‘this is an Overfinch Range Rover; as well as being left-hand drive it’s fitted with Roadhawk — a black box camera system that films what’s happening at the front, the rear and both sides of the car. In case of accident, you understand.’

The policeman pocketed his breathalyser unit. His face was the colour of the night sky in that part of London: an artificial shade of dark mauve. He slammed the door shut on Maurice’s grin.

‘Does it record sound as well as pictures, sir?’

‘No, sadly not.’

He nodded grimly and then leaned towards me until he was near enough for me to smell the coffee on his breath.

‘Cunt.’

Then he turned and walked away.

‘Good night to you too, officer,’ I said and got back into the Range Rover.

Maurice was laughing. ‘That was fucking priceless,’ he wheezed. ‘I can’t wait to see that again. You have got to put that up on YouTube.’

‘I think I’ve been on YouTube enough for one night,’ I said.

‘No, really. Or else nobody will fucking believe it. That rozzer was so keen to nick you he didn’t even notice that this was a left hooker. Straight up. That was comedy gold.’

‘Might be better to keep it in reserve. Another time I might not be so lucky.’

‘In the circumstances you’re probably right. I thought you were joking about that bitch back at the Crown of Thorns. But it looks like she’s got it in for you, old son.’

‘So what’s new?’

We drove to the north entrance of KPG on Notting Hill Gate; the south entrance — on Kensington High Street — is reserved for the inhabitants of the royal palace. Not that any of the other houses on KPG looked to be anything less than palaces. I’d say it’s the most exclusive road in London but for the fact that anyone can live there, as long as they can afford to pay between fifty and a hundred million pounds for a house, and it’s only the presence of the grey and very grim-looking Russian embassy at the north end that lowers the tone a little.

Viktor’s house was three storeys of Portland stone with four square corner turrets and had everything except a moat, a flag and an honour guard. You can live in a bigger house in London but only if you’re the Queen.

I got out of the Range Rover and leaned through the open window.

‘You take the car,’ I told Maurice. ‘I’ll get a cab home. It’s not far from here.’

‘Want me to pick you up in the morning?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ll get a cab company to take me in.’

‘Call me when you get home, will you? Let me know if he offers you the job.’

‘You really think he will?’

‘What else could it be?’