January Window

28

Sometimes, modern buildings function in ugly, hidden ways never quite conceived by the men and women who design them. They have their own inbuilt wastelands — leftover spaces which go unseen by the public and which often end up having minor, unplanned, alternative uses. The place at Silvertown Dock where Zarco’s body had been found was such a space — a forgotten area that existed in the bird-shit gap separating one independent structure from another — a no-man’s-land space between the seating bowl and the outer steel frame. In an attempt to hide this particular space — or perhaps to protect it from illicit use — a crude, triangular gunmetal grey door with a weather-tough Abus padlock had been installed; and stepping through it now I found myself in a similarly triangular concrete spot that was dominated by a long, sloping, polished steel column that reached up through the uppermost branches of the distinctively jagged support structure and into the afternoon sky.

I closed the steel door behind me, sat down on my haunches and looked up and around, trying to picture the dreadful fate that had befallen Zarco. As Jane Byrne had observed, with no windows in sight there was nowhere he could have fallen from — unless he’d jumped off the very top of the building — and it was just the kind of secluded, fag-end place where a savage beating could have been handed out to Zarco without any fear of disturbance. It seemed a lonely, awful place for a convivial man like him to have ended his life. I had hoped in some vague way to connect the scene of the crime with the texts on Zarco’s ‘something else’ phone. Could this be the ‘123’ where Paolo Gentile was supposed to have brought fifty grand in cash?

The key to the door had a plastic tag on the end which read ‘SD Outer Ground 28/1’, which was a long way from ‘123’. And since there was no roof, it was hard to imagine that Gentile would have left fifty grand exposed to the elements, even if the money had been inside one of those ‘overboard’ waterproof hold alls that yachtsmen use. Suppose someone from building maintenance had come in here and found it? There were a few brushes and brooms stacked in the corner which seemed to suggest that might have been a possibility. The keys to the door’s padlock — two of them — had been easily located; they were still in the dock caretaker’s key-safe. Had there ever been three keys? No one was quite sure, but other such padlocks had been supplied with three.

If I’d hoped to have some great detective moment and somehow ‘see’ the crime in my mind’s eye, it didn’t happen. Right then the only insight I had was that I was entirely unsuited to any of the tasks my new employer had given me. I felt cold and more than a little bewildered, especially after Louise Considine’s unwelcome news. Things were moving much too quickly for me right now. It was all I could do to remember where I had parked my car. Which was when I remembered that Maurice had done it for me.

I stood up and went outside again, locking the door carefully behind me. I was halfway back to my office when I saw Simon Page striding towards me with a face like a calamity was about to befall us.

‘Disaster,’ he said. ‘Bloody disaster.’

‘What is?’

‘That stupid fucking German poof has only gone home, that’s what’s fucking happened.’

‘You mean Christoph Bündchen? For Christ’s sake, Simon, keep your voice down. If one of these coppers hears you using words like that they’ll nick you for whatever it is they nick you for now when you call someone a poof. Hate crime or something.’

‘I’m sorry, boss, but I’m at my wit’s end trying to find him, that’s all.’

‘Look, what’s the problem? The police said they could go home after they’d been interviewed.’

‘Maybe the police did, boss, but UKAD certainly didn’t; he was one of the four players drawn at random to give a urine test.’

‘Oh fuck, I’d forgotten all about them.’

‘That’s right. After his interview with the police this morning it seems that Chris buggered off in a taxi back to Hangman’s Wood, like everyone else when their interview was over. I told him before he left the room with that WPC to come straight back, but the daft bastard must have forgotten. At least I hope he just forgot. Anyway, the drug testers are about to go home. Unless we can find him in the next fifteen minutes he’ll be in breach of the strict liability rule on dope tests and charged with failure or refusal to take the test.’

‘You’ve tried his mobile? And Hangman’s Wood?’

‘I’ve tried his mobile, his landline. I’ve rung Hangman’s Wood. I’ve done everything but send a fucking carrier pigeon to his mum and dad in Germany, so unless he’s remembered and is already on his way back here to take the test, he’s buggered and so are we without a fucking striker. Because you mark my words that’s exactly what’s going to happen if that stupid Kraut doesn’t take that fucking test. They’ll slap a ban on him for sure.’

‘We’ve still got a striker. I had a conversation with Ayrton Taylor an hour or so ago and took him off the transfer list.’

‘Thank fuck for that.’

‘But you’re right, this is serious. Look, I’ll come and speak to the doping people now.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up, boss. These people can be right bastards when they’ve a mind.’

We went down to the doping control station near the dressing room; all the big clubs have them now. It’s just a suite of antiseptic-looking rooms, including a lavatory, some chairs, a table covered in a black cloth, a sink, a box of sample collection bottles, a chiller cabinet containing plenty of bottled water — sometimes you have to drink a lot of water before you can pee — and, on that particular afternoon, an air of crisis. On the wall was a poster that read:

Seated under the poster were two men wearing shirts and ties and blue blazers and faces as long as two streaks of dope-free piss. They got to their feet as we came through the door.

‘Scott Manson,’ I said. ‘Acting club manager.’

‘Hello,’ said a man holding a clipboard. He showed me a plastic identity card on a red ribbon around his neck and then shook my hand. ‘My name is Trevor Hastings and I’m the doping control officer with UK Anti-Doping. And this is the Football Association Supervising Officer.’

‘Pleased to meet you, gentlemen.’

‘Is Christoph Bündchen available to take the test?’ he asked politely.

‘I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding,’ I said. ‘You’ll be aware that João Zarco was murdered here yesterday afternoon, and that the police are here now. They’ve been interviewing the players and playing staff, and it’s beginning to look as if Mr Bündchen — who is German and doesn’t speak the best English — has confused the meeting he was supposed to have with you, to give a urine sample, with the meeting he had with police officers earlier on today. As far as we can determine he’s gone home. We’ve called him and left messages instructing him to return here as soon as possible. But so far without success.’

The DCO looked at his watch. ‘I understand what you’re saying, Mr Manson, but I have to inform you that the player was informed he would be subject to a drugs test today, and he has already signed a consent form; so unless the player presents himself for a test within the next ten minutes, he will be in breach of Part 1, Section 5A of the FA’s anti-doping regulations, and the penalties set out in Regulation 46 will apply to this violation.’

Simon opened a copy of the FA’s procedural guidelines that was lying on the station table and started to look for the relevant section.

‘I understand that,’ I said. ‘But it seems to me that some people might think it a little unreasonable not to cut someone a bit of slack under these extraordinary circumstances. It’s been a while since I read the regulations but I do think you ought to reconsider your position here.’

‘I’m afraid a breach is a breach. It’s for an FA disciplinary commission to decide on whether or not that breach is justified. At a formal hearing.’

‘I see.’

‘Fucking hell,’ said Simon, who always got more Yorkshire when he was angry and upset. ‘Have you seen the penalties in Regulation 46, boss? It’s a minimum one-year suspension for a first violation. One bloody year. Christ, that could end the German lad’s career. And all because of a silly misunderstanding. Listen here, Mr Hastings, you’ve got to be joking.’

‘I don’t think Mr Hastings is joking, Simon. He’s just doing his job, aren’t you, Mr Hastings?’

‘Yes, I am. I’m glad you see it that way, Mr Manson.’

‘And I think we all recognise the gravity of what might happen here.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Those regulations are there to uphold and preserve the ethics of sport, and to safeguard the physical health and mental integrity of players. Isn’t that right, Mr Hastings?’

‘That’s correct.’

I gestured towards the regulations in Simon’s hand. ‘May I?’

Simon sighed a sigh that sounded like there was a large dog in the room and passed them to me.

‘Aye, maybe so. All of that times ten with a cherry on top. But it’s still bloody unfair to the lad. And I say that as someone who’s hated the Krauts all his life.’

‘Why don’t you go and get us all some tea?’ I said to the big Yorkshireman.

‘Aye, perhaps I will.’

‘Sorry about that, Mr Hastings,’ I said, after Simon had gone. ‘He’s feeling a bit emotional right now. We all are.’

‘That’s quite understandable.’

‘I’m glad you said that.’

‘How long have we got before we’re in breach?’ I asked the DCO.

‘Seven minutes,’ he said.

I found the relevant section of the guidelines and considered it very carefully; I knew that Christoph’s whole career depended on what I said next.

‘“The failure or refusal by a Player without compelling justification to submit to drug testing after notification is prohibited,”’ I said, reading out the guidelines. ‘“The expression ‘compelling justification’ shall embrace, and shall only embrace, circumstances where it would be wholly unreasonable to expect a Player to submit to drug testing in the circumstances pertaining at the time, bearing in mind the limited commitment that this entails.”’

‘That’s right,’ said the DCO.

‘You know, Mr Hastings, I’m not a lawyer. But I’ve had considerable experience of the law, not all of it welcome, and I wonder if you’ve ever heard of the rules of natural justice.’

Hastings shook his head.

‘It’s a technical term for the rule against bias and the right to a fair hearing. And it does seem to me that the duty — your duty — to act fairly, trumps everything that the FA have written down here. I suggest that any court of law would think it more than a little unfair of you to come here today of all days, a day when we’re in mourning for our late manager, and a day when the police are conducting an inquiry which, with all due respect, would seem to take precedence over anything that the FA could fairly ask of us.

‘Having said all that, I’d have thought that there are not one but two very good reasons to support a compelling justification argument such as I’ve just described. And I haven’t even mentioned the special relationship that existed between the late Mr Zarco and Mr Bündchen. You see, it was Mr Zarco who brought young Christoph from Augsburg in Germany, and who gave him his big chance just the other night against Leeds United. Mr Bündchen is very upset. Perhaps more upset than any of the other players, I hardly like to mention this to you now — however, you leave me no choice. Earlier on, one of the police officers informed me that Christoph Bündchen wept when he was questioned about Zarco’s death. If I’m honest, I’m not in the least bit surprised that he’s forgotten that he was supposed to take a drugs test. It might save us all a lot of time and embarrassment if you were to take that into account.’

I’d said enough. In my mind I was already phoning Ronnie Leishmann and instructing him to start preparing the club’s legal case for the FA hearing — whenever that might be. I was thinking of Rio Ferdinand in 2003, and the eight-month ban he’d undergone for missing a drugs test, not to mention a fifty grand fine. Everyone in the game knew Rio was as straight as an arrow, but the farts on the FA still went ahead and busted him, making him ineligible for the 2004 European Championship in Portugal. Which the Greeks ended up winning. How did that happen?

‘I’ll be outside if you need me.’