‘Fill it in and repair it,’ I told Colin. ‘I’ll take full responsibility. You can tell him that. But before you do fill it in maybe you should dig down a little. It could be that when you disturbed the people who excavated this, they were actually filling the hole in again.’
‘I don’t follow you, Scott.’
‘Humour me, will you, Colin? Usually when people dig a grave it’s because they want to bury something in it. Something, or someone.’
‘You don’t mean...?’ The Welshman glanced at the grave in horror.
‘I do mean, Colin. I do mean.’
Zarco grinned. ‘Perhaps Scott is expecting you to find Yorick in this grave,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Terry Yorick,’ I said. ‘Defensive midfielder for Leeds United. His daughter Gabby used to do the football on the telly. Nice-looking bird. Great pins. I don’t watch it nearly so much now she’s gone.’
Zarco laughed at Colin’s continuing incomprehension and walked back towards the players’ entrance. I followed him closely.
‘Alas, poor Terry Yorick,’ I said. ‘He was Welsh, too. Poor bastard.’
‘To be or not to be. You know, with an attitude like that I think maybe Hamlet followed a football team.’
‘FC Copenhagen, probably.’
‘So, Scott. Today’s fitness and injury reports? You got them?’
‘On your desk, boss.’
‘Good.’ Zarco’s phone bleeped. He checked the screen and nodded: ‘Paolo Gentile. Excellent. Looks like we’ve now got ourselves a Scottish goalkeeper. Let’s hope he’s as good as you said he was. Now all we need is a translator. I couldn’t understand one fucking word he said. Except that one. Fucking.’
‘I’ll translate. I speak good Scottish.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘I thought Denis Kampfner was handling the transfer.’
‘Viktor doesn’t trust him, so he brought his own agent in. Paolo Gentile.’
‘He’s your agent, too, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. What of it?’ Zarco’s phone bleeped again. ‘Now who’s this? The BBC. Strictly Come Dancing. They want me for the new series. I keep saying no and they keep offering more money. As if.’
‘I bet you’re quite the twinkle-toes.’
‘I hate that shit. I hate all those stupid shows. Me, I’d rather read a book.’
I glanced back over my shoulder and saw that Colin was already in the hole and digging.
‘Poor Colin,’ I said. ‘Get him on the subject of grass seed and he’ll talk for fucking hours, but I don’t think he’s read a book in his life.’
‘He reads. He has a book in his office toilet.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Mind you, it’s a pretty crappy book. I think maybe when he runs out of toilet paper... It’s your book. Foul Play.’
I grinned. ‘At least I wrote mine, boss.’
Zarco laughed. ‘Fuck you, Scott.’
‘You know, it’s a pity I didn’t think of it before,’ I said. ‘But I kind of wish I’d persuaded one of the lads to get in that grave before we looked at it with Colin just now. We could have chucked a bit of earth on top of someone and given that Welshman the fright of his bloody life.’
‘After what happened to Drenno last night? I worry about you, Scott. Really I do.’
‘Drenno would have been the first to see the funny side of a joke like that. That’s why I loved him.’
‘You have a very sick sense of humour.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m your team coach, boss. A sick sense of humour is absolutely bloody essential when you’re training a squad of overpaid young cunts. Fucking with them keeps their feet on the ground.’
‘True enough. Look, I’m very sorry about Drenno. I know you two were friends. He was a great footballer.’
‘Just not very sensible.’ I shrugged. ‘Sonja thinks it was inevitable that something like this would happen eventually. In fact, she almost predicted it.’
‘See if she can predict the result on Sunday. I could use a little help from the spirits.’
‘She already did. We’re going to win 4–0.’
‘Good. Buy her a late Christmas present from me, will you?’
I sighed. ‘I’ll never forget Drenno’s Christmas present to me when we were playing at Arsenal. A bottle of sun-tan lotion.’
We were still laughing as we reached the tunnel. But the laughter faded a little as we heard a shout and Colin came running after us, holding a square object in his hands.
‘You were right, Scott. There was something in that grave. This.’
‘It’s not a grave,’ I said. ‘It’s a hole. Just remember that.’
He handed me a framed photograph. The glass was smeared with earth and mud but the person in the picture was clearly identifiable. It was a photograph of João Gonzales Zarco, the one that was on the cover of his autobiography: No Games, Just Football.
Zarco took the framed photograph from my hands and nodded. ‘This was in the hole?’
Colin nodded. ‘Last night’s rain must have brought some earth down on top of it. That’s why we didn’t see it then. We might never have found this. It’s lucky you suggested digging down a bit, Scott.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I said, doubtfully.
‘It’s a good picture,’ observed Zarco. ‘Mario Testino took this shot. I look like Bruce Willis, yes?’
I said nothing.
‘Don’t look so worried, Scott,’ said Zarco. ‘I’m not in the least bit concerned by this kind of thing. I told you: there are times when football supporters are like savages. At the Nou Camp, we had a pig’s head thrown on the pitch when Luis Figo was taking a corner. And you should see those crazy bastards at Galatasaray, Coritiba and River Plate. They probably get this kind of thing all the time. But it’s England where I work and where I make my living, not a country where a man who plays football sometimes goes in fear of his life. The values of this country are good ones. And the people who did this are the exception. What worries me more is Leeds, tomorrow. They’re always a good cup side. Manchester United 1972. Arsenal in 2011. Tottenham in 2013. And the best FA Cup Final I ever saw was a recording of Chelsea versus Leeds in 1970. Now that was a fucking football match.’
Colin nodded. ‘2–2 draw. Which Chelsea won in the replay. First one since 1912.’
Zarco grinned. ‘You see? He does read.’ He handed the picture back to Colin. ‘You hang onto this. A keepsake. Hang it above your desk and use it to frighten the rest of the ground staff.’
‘Shouldn’t we tell the police about this?’ said Colin. ‘Finding your picture in the hole, I mean.’
‘No,’ said Zarco. ‘Don’t tell anyone about this or the press will be all over it. It’s bad enough that they know I’ve been asked to go on Strictly Come Dancing without them knowing about this, too. And don’t for Christ’s sake tell Mario Testino. He’ll have a fit.’
‘My wife loves that programme,’ confessed Colin. ‘You should go on it, boss.’
‘With all due respect to your wife, Colin, I’m a football manager not a fucking bandido burro.’
He checked his phone once more. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘My builder — again. I swear that man calls me more than my wife.’
Zarco had bought a house in Pimlico and was having extensive building work done, including a new façade designed by Tony Owen Partners from Sydney, Australia. The façade included an ultra-modern-looking Möbius window that had proved less than popular with Zarco’s neighbours and, of course, the Daily Mail. From the artist’s impression I’d seen in the newspaper the new façade looked to me like the J. P. Morgan Media Centre at Lord’s Cricket Ground.
‘That’s because your wife is at my house,’ I said. ‘To get some peace and quiet, not to mention some good sex. And to get away from you. She hates you just like everyone else.’