He listened quietly, and then nodded. ‘You’re right, Scott. You were quite right to tell me. And thanks. I’d no idea this was well known at the club. I appreciate it, my friend. And I’ll certainly do as you say. I’ll tell her it’s got to stop.’
Of course, Zarco completely ignored me. How do I know that? I don’t for sure. But a couple of days before the Newcastle game I noticed he had a packet of single-use, sterile acupuncture needles on his desk. He saw me pick them up and offered an explanation before I could even mention it.
‘Claire’s been showing me how to treat my own knee,’ he said, taking the needles out of my hand.
‘In here?’
‘Yes, in here.’
‘You mean you sit in here and stick needles in your own knee?’
‘Yes. Of course. What else would I be doing with these needles?’
‘I don’t know.’
Like a lot of ex-players Zarco suffered from painful knees and acupuncture was able to provide a more effective and safer form of pain relief than drugs and creams. That wasn’t what was suspicious. It was him dropping the needles in the bin while he was talking that made the explanation sound so lame it needed crutches. It looked like someone getting rid of evidence and frankly, given the number of strokes he pulled, he ought to have been a bit better at it. For example, I knew he had three mobile phones: one for work, one for play and one for something else. The play phone and the one for something else he kept in a drawer in one of the filing cabinets in my office and took them out when he needed them; we both knew without him having to ask that this was fine with me. This was just one of his funny little ways and something you had to put up with if you were ever going to be a trusted friend of Zarco’s. You’ve heard of mate’s rates; well this was mate’s traits.
‘You should get her to show you how to do it,’ he said. ‘Maybe you could treat your ankle in the same way. There’s no need to be squeamish about needles, you know. It’s just one prick.’
For a brief irresponsible moment I considered telling him that he was the only prick I knew about before I thought better of it; he was the boss, after all, and if he was still shagging Claire Barry, it was none of my business.
Nor was it any of my business when, one afternoon, I dropped into a BP service station near Hangman’s Wood to put petrol in my Range Rover. Now the club had an account at the nearest Shell garage and Viktor Sokolnikov always picked up the tab for everyone’s fuel, a perk the taxman knew nothing about and which was worth several hundred pounds a week, especially when you were driving a Ferrari or an Aston Martin, as most of the players did at City. Consequently, no one ever went to the BP garage about three miles further on where they had to pay for petrol. No one except me, that is, for I had always been scrupulously honest in all my dealings with the Inland Revenue and I always paid for my own fuel. Untaxed perks were definitely not my thing. When you’ve been to prison you never want to go back there.
Zarco was sitting in his left-hand drive Overfinch Range Rover — identical to my own — which was parked next to a white Ferrari. He was having an animated discussion with the owner of the Ferrari, who I recognised immediately. It was Paolo Gentile, the agent who had handled Kenny Traynor’s transfer. Now when you’re a coach you see a lot in and around a football club that turns out to be not your business, and sometimes, if you want to keep your job, you learn to keep your fucking mouth shut. I learned that in the nick.
So I drove away again without even stopping.
12
‘You’re a bloody little genius,’ I told Colin Evans.
Colin blushed. He and I and Zarco and Viktor Sokolnikov were standing on the centre spot at Silvertown Dock. I’d brought a ball and had already bounced it several times just to see how it moved on top of the newly repaired surface. Then I tossed the ball in the air and began to play keepy-uppy, all the time trying to test what the spot felt like underneath my feet. I couldn’t tell that anything was different.
‘Yup,’ I said. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Zarco and clapped the Welshman on the back. ‘You’ve done a great job, Colin. I’m really very appreciative.’
‘We aim to please,’ said Colin.
Viktor was comparing the picture that I’d emailed to his iPhone with the ground we were standing on. ‘Incredible,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t know there had ever been anything wrong here.’ He chuckled. ‘You know, the next time I have a dead body to bury quickly and without a trace, remind me to contact Colin. We can do it right here.’
I almost gasped. That was typical of Viktor Sokolnikov: making a joke out of a rumour that would have been acutely embarrassing to anyone else. Then again he was in a very good mood about something that wasn’t anything to do with the pitch. His face was tanned and he was wearing an enormous Canada Goose coat that would not have looked out of place worn by Sir Ranulph Fiennes at the South Pole. In spite of the bitter January cold he was smiling broadly.
‘Come to think of it,’ he added, ‘I wouldn’t mind being buried here myself. As mausoleums go, I think the Crown of Thorns would be perfect.’
‘Why not?’ said Zarco. ‘You paid for it, Viktor.’
‘But I’d have to do it in secret,’ said Viktor. ‘The local council would never give me planning permission to get buried here. Not without a great deal of arm-twisting. And bribery, of course. You always need that. Even in this country.’
‘We’ll bury you in secret, if that’s what you want. Won’t we, guys? Just like Genghis Khan.’
Colin and I nodded. ‘Sure. Whatever you want, Mr Sokolnikov.’
Viktor chuckled. ‘Hey, take your time there. Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I’m in no hurry to be under the ground. Let’s think about burying Newcastle here tomorrow before it’s my turn.’
‘After the Leeds match?’ said Zarco. ‘We’re unstoppable. Xavier Pepe’s goal was probably the best goal I’ve ever seen in all my years as a manager. And Christoph Bündchen already looks like a star. The team is riding high, right now. Those Newcastle boys will be crapping themselves.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Viktor. ‘But we mustn’t be overconfident, eh? We have a saying in Ukraine. The devil always takes back his gifts. I hear that Aaron Abimbole is going to be fit.’
Before signing for Newcastle in the summer, Aaron Abimbole had played for London City, and Manchester United, and AC Milan. In fact he collected clubs like some people collect air miles. The Nigerian was one of the highest-paid players in the Premier League and generally held to be one of the most temperamental, too; when he was good he was very, very good but when he was bad he was total crap. Abimbole’s leaving London City — during Zarco’s first tenure at the club — had been acrimonious, and prior to his departure relations with the Portuguese manager, who had bought him from the French club Lens, had become so bad that Abimbole had set fire to Zarco’s brand new Bentley in the club car park.
‘So what?’ said Zarco. ‘This particular Aaron doesn’t have a brother called Moses, so I don’t think we have anything to worry about.’
‘He’s already scored twenty goals for Newcastle this season,’ said Viktor. ‘That’s twice as many as he scored for us when he was here. Maybe we should worry about that.’
‘He’s lazy,’ insisted Zarco. ‘I never saw a lazier player, which is why clubs don’t keep him. He only scores when it’s up his back to do so but he never tracks back. Not like Rooney. You have Rooney, you have a great striker and a dogged defender. When you have Abimbole all you have is a lazy cunt.’