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With fifteen minutes still to go many of the Leeds supporters were making for the exits as if they were passengers on the Titanic, only the lifeboats were gone, and when Leeds conceded a stupid free kick, it’s unlikely that any of them were that surprised when Bündchen stepped up to take it and promptly scored again, blasting the ball cleverly underneath the feet of the players’ wall, which jumped as one to try to head it clear.

We were still celebrating that one in the dugout when Christoph scored the last goal of the match. In truth it was comedy gold: Paddy Kenny cleared his line only to gift the ball to Dominguin, who volleyed it to Bündchen as if recognising a player who was on the form of his life. The German wünderkind proceeded to run straight at the goalkeeper with the ball balanced on his head until, just as the keeper reached him, he dropped the ball onto his toe and tapped it in.

It’s generally held that the FA Cup is not what it used to be, that the bonus money in the Premier League means that no one much cares about the FA Cup any more, but that’s not how it seemed to us. A cold January evening in Yorkshire never felt as good as it did to me that night in Leeds. We took the ball with us when we boarded the coach to take us to Leeds Bradford International Airport and awarded it to Christoph, who — showing a sense of diplomacy far beyond his years — promptly gave it to the club’s absurdly grateful Ukrainian proprietor. As we drove away it seemed to me that Billy Bremner was shaking both his fists at the sky and the capricious gods of football.

On the coach I was already having to deal with a list of injuries as long as the faces of the Leeds supporters we’d seen outside the ground. The worst of these was our centre back, Gary Ferguson, whose ankle had locked up again.

‘There’s no diffuse idiopathic skeletal hyperstosis,’ explained Nick Scott, the team doctor. ‘He’s just knackered. So that’s all right.’

‘Fucking hell,’ I said, knowing full well that Ferguson, who was a Scouser, was sitting right behind me. ‘The only part of that I understand is him being an idiot.’

‘He’s probably got some osteophytes floating around in the joint which are causing his ankle to seize up.’

‘That explains why his passing was so shit,’ I said.

‘Thanks a lot,’ said Ferguson. ‘I was trying me best.’

‘I know, that’s what made it so fucking painful to watch.’

‘We should get it X-rayed this time,’ the doctor told me. ‘I think we’ve reached the end of being able to treat this with anti-inflammatories.’

‘Or we could just shoot the poor bastard,’ I said. ‘Might be kinder. Cheaper, too.’

Osteophytes. We used to call these bone spurs, or parrot beaks, but whatever you call them the effect is the same: they severely limit joint movement and cause extreme pain. I knew what that was like as my own ankles were none too good after a decade playing the game; sometimes I count myself lucky that I went to prison and I didn’t play on into my thirties with the help of corticosteroids injected into my ageing joints. As it is I hobble through my flat in the morning like I’m looking for my Zimmer frame. A few years ago I saw Tommy Smith giving a speech at a dinner; I was shocked that Liverpool’s hardest ever club captain now needs sticks or a wheelchair to get around. It’s a hard truth but even today being an athlete can fuck you up.

‘Talk about a Pyrrhic victory,’ I said to the doc. ‘It’s the curse of Billy Bremner.’

‘Who’s Billy Bremner?’ asked Ferguson.

‘Black bloke, used to play for Leeds,’ I answered patiently.

‘And what’s a Pyrrhic victory?’

I saw no point in giving a history lesson to someone who thought that Napoleon was a type of brandy and that Nelson was a fucking wrestler. It’s true I have a university degree, though it’s a 2:2 from Birmingham, not a First from Oxbridge, but while I reckon I possess an above average intelligence, next to some of the lads on our team I’m Richard fucking Dawkins.

‘It means a win that’s so bloody good it gives you a hard-on,’ I told him.

Even before we reached the airport the weather suddenly changed for the worse. The team coach felt like our own little snow globe.

10

We were late getting back from Leeds. The flight was delayed by the snow. As usual my mind was buzzing after the match and it was almost 2 a.m. when I finally went to bed. I took the bed in the spare room so as not to wake Sonja, who sleeps like a cat. When I woke up the following morning it was with the knowledge that she’d already gone to work — she has a practice in Knightsbridge shrink-wrapping people who have eating disorders: people who are fat, or anorexic — and that there was someone ringing my doorbell.

I slid out of bed, hobbled to the entryphone and found a woman staring up at the camera. For a moment I thought it must be one of Sonja’s patients except that she was neither thin nor fat; in fact, she was just right.

‘Mr Manson?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. But we did make an appointment for ten o’clock this morning. My name is Detective Inspector Louise Considine, from the police station at Brent. I’m investigating the death of Matt Drennan.’

‘Right. I’m sorry. Had a late night. You’d better come up.’

I buzzed her in, threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater, and poured some bottled mineral water into my one-touch, bean-to-cup coffee machine. At nearly four grand it was the pride and joy of my kitchen. I couldn’t cook very much, but I could make a delicious caffé latte.

She was better-looking than most coppers I’d seen, and believe me, I’ve seen a lot. Wholesome-looking and frankly a bit fairy-like, she had long fair hair, big blue eyes and a nose that was sort of pointy. She was wearing a short grey coat and leather gloves.

‘Did you forget? That we had a meeting? Oh dear, I’m sorry. You certainly look like you forgot.’

‘We had a match yesterday. And the flight back was delayed by snow. Please. Take off your coat and have a seat.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Want some coffee?’

‘Yes, please, if you’re making it. Milk and no sugar.’

I nodded and flicked a switch on the machine.

‘That looks impressive,’ she said. She sounded posh — too posh to be a copper.

‘It does everything except wash the cup afterwards.’

She shrugged off her coat and went to inspect some of the paintings on my walls.

‘This is good,’ she said, examining a largish picture of a thuggish-looking man with a shaven head and raised fists. He looked like a bare-knuckle fighter. ‘He’s rather frightening, isn’t he?’

‘That one’s by Peter Howson,’ I said. ‘Scottish artist. I bought that painting to remind myself of what it was like to be in prison. There were several times when I found myself sharing a cell with blokes just like him. People who were always ready to put a fist down your throat for no good reason. Every time I look at it I tell myself how incredibly lucky I am. Lucky that I was able to put all that behind me. Unlike nearly everyone else who comes out of the nick.’

‘It’s a nice place you’ve got here, Mr Manson. You have very good taste.’

‘You mean for someone in football.’

‘You must be rich to live round here.’

‘I only work in football,’ I said. ‘I make money from something else that doesn’t require me to do anything at all.’

‘Yes, you’re a director of Pedila Shoes.’ She smiled. ‘I Googled you. It was easier than tapping your phone or having you followed twenty hours a day. These days police work is mostly done with the aid of web-crawlers and hyperlinks, html and meta-tags.’