‘Then it must be true.’
‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not being straight with me, Miss Considine?’
‘One: you don’t like the police — you said so yourself, Mr Manson. And two: I’m not being straight with you because I’m here to ask questions, not to provide you with answers. Sorry. This is a police inquiry into a man’s death. Even if it looks for all the world like a suicide, there are still rules of evidence I have to observe. As a police officer I operate to a different standard than the Daily Mail. Look, all I’m trying to do is build a picture of Matt Drennan’s last few hours so that there’s no room for any doubt that he killed himself. And in case that seems a rather laborious matter of dotting the “i”s and crossing the “t”s, it is; however, we live in an age of conspiracies and it won’t be long before someone who read a book called Who Killed Kurt Cobain? Or Who Killed Princess Diana? Or Who Killed Michael Jackson? is tempted to write a book called Who Really Killed Matt Drennan? That’s what I’m hoping to avoid. For his sake. For the sake of his family and friends.’
‘Fair enough. And I appreciate you saying so.’
‘I’m glad you think so. I certainly wouldn’t like you to sue the Met again because of my incompetence or dishonesty.’
I nodded. ‘I’m beginning to see why they sent you to see me.’
‘Oh, good. Then we’re making progress.’
‘You are. I’m not sure about the Met.’
‘Do you mind if I ask you a question you might find a little insensitive?’
‘You mean the comments about Drenno being a waste of space weren’t?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
I shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’
‘Thank you. Well then, it’s this. I’m puzzled. You have a university degree. You speak several languages. You live in a fifteen-million-pound apartment in Chelsea. Why would someone as obviously successful as you, Mr Manson, still have a friend who was as big a loser as Matt Drennan?’
‘That’s not insensitive. It’s just a little ignorant of what football is about, Miss Considine. You see football is an international club, a fraternity — a bit like the Freemasons. Wherever you go it’s almost inevitable that you’ll run into someone you once played with, or against. Matt Drennan was my team mate. What’s more, he was the only team mate who came to see me when I was in prison. He came even though he’d been advised by the people who were trying to manage his image not to come. At that time it was me who was the loser, not him. I was scum. A rapist. That picture by Peter Howson. That’s what people thought of when they thought of me. Everyone but Drenno. Not many people know it, but Drenno lost a sponsorship deal with a pharmaceutical company because he came to see me in the nick. So, for all his faults, he had a good heart and I loved him for it.’
She nodded and placed her coffee cup on the low table in front of her.
‘Thanks for your help,’ she said. ‘And thanks for the excellent coffee. By the way, did you win yesterday?’
‘Yes. We won. 8–0.’ I smiled. ‘That’s good, by the way. Very good. In case you were wondering.’
11
In the week leading up to the Newcastle match, Kenny Traynor arrived at the club and gave his first interview on the Press Bureau TV Sports Channel. Our new goalkeeper was a big fair-haired lad with an easy smile and an accent that was as thick as the head on a pint of heavy. When he spoke it was like listening to Spud in Trainspotting. As a result Zarco insisted on my appearing with them in front of the invited newsmen, to translate, which added a usefully comic touch to these dull proceedings. Otherwise it was the usual bullshit about how Traynor was ‘really looking forward to the challenge of the Premier League and working with a world-class manager like João Zarco’. Asked why he had decided to join City instead of another club like MUFC, Traynor made no mention of fifty thousand quid a week, but instead talked about the quality of the squad and the attractions of living in a great city like London. Asked what he thought he could achieve at a club like London City — which is more or less the same question, when you think about it — Traynor declared he wanted to keep a clean sheet for as long as possible and to help City to win the Premier League. Champions League... FA Cup... Zzzzz.
Traynor and Zarco were also filmed in the doorway of Hangman’s Wood holding up Traynor’s new silver goalkeeping shirt with his name on the back. That’s the thing I hate most about footbalclass="underline" the clichés. You can’t blame the players for that — they’re just kids, most of them; Traynor’s only twenty-three and he doesn’t know any better. No, I blame the fucking reporters for asking the same old tired and predictable questions that produce these clichéd answers.
Things got a little more interesting when Bill Fleming, an old warhorse of a reporter from STV in Glasgow, suggested that it was extremely insulting to Scots viewers to have what Kenny Traynor was saying ‘translated into English’, as if they were ignorant of the language. Zarco paused for a short moment and then asked me to translate what Fleming had said, which got a big laugh. I think he understood perfectly well, but Zarco’s comic timing was always excellent. He waited for me to repeat Fleming’s complaint and then smiled.
‘I don’t mean to be insulting,’ said Zarco. ‘But I have been told that it’s not just the Portuguese who have a problem understanding Scottish people. It’s English people, too. So where is the insult in having a translation? That is something I don’t understand. Scott Manson is from Scotland and I understand everything that he says. You, Mr Fleming, you are from Scotland but I don’t understand anything of what you say. You say you speak English, and I will take your word for it, but this is not how it sounds to me. Maybe the problem is not with me but with you, my friend. Maybe you should learn to speak better English, like Scott here. Perhaps this is something Kenny will also achieve while he is playing at London City. I don’t know. I hope so, for his sake. To make yourself understood in a foreign country is not so difficult, I think. Everyone here seems to understand me all right. But I’m no Professor Henry Higgins and I don’t care about the rain in Spain. For sure I can help to make Kenny a better goalkeeper, but I’m the wrong person to offer him speech elocution on how he can make himself understood. Maybe if he opens his mouth a little when he speaks it will be better, I don’t know. You should try that yourself, Bill.’
To his credit Kenny Traynor kept on smiling good-naturedly while his new boss was speaking. Lots of people were laughing but they did not include Bill Fleming.
Later that day I found myself translating again, this time from German. Our new star striker, Christoph Bündchen, came to see me in my office at Hangman’s Wood. He spoke good English but told me that he preferred to speak in German, in case anyone overheard our conversation.
‘Is something the matter, Christoph?’
‘No, not at all,’ he said. ‘But I wanted to have your advice about something.’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘First of all I want you to know how much I love this club, and how much I like living in London.’
My stomach lurched a little; Christoph Bündchen was quite likely a star striker in the making, and one we had bought cheaply, but where was this going? What was he going to tell me? That he was a compulsive gambler like ‘Fergie Fledgling’ Keith Gillespie? A secret boozer like Tony Adams? A compulsive gambler and a secret boozer like Paul Merson? Or had he already been tapped up by Chelsea — who had form for this, of course — or one of the other big clubs? Not that I had much time for the FA’s farcical rule against tapping up: good players were always going to be tapped up. Tapping up — approaching a player contracted to another club without its permission — has always been part of the game. I smiled thinly and tried to contain my jangling nerves.