‘Do you know where João is, Scott?’
‘No. As a matter of fact I was just calling the dining room to tell him to get his arse down here.’
Hobday shook his head. ‘He was there until about an hour ago, when he took a call and left. When he didn’t return we thought he must have come down here. Viktor’s pretty angry that he just buggered off like that without saying goodbye to any of his guests. Even he’s gone to look for him.’
‘Well, Zarco’s not in here as you can see. Although I rather wish he was.’ I shrugged. ‘I take it you’ve called his mobile.’
‘Tried. Several times. But it’s pointless. The signal here on a match day is awful, as I’m sure you know.’
I nodded. ‘Sixty thousand people trying to get reception. You might just as well get a word from God.’
‘Is it possible he went to say hello to the Newcastle manager?’
‘That’s highly unlikely. There’s not much love lost between those two. Besides, it’s not considered appropriate to go into the other side’s dressing room before a match in case you hear anything you shouldn’t.’
‘Talking of which — look, you don’t think...’
Hobday beckoned me outside the dressing room for a moment.
‘You don’t think he’s with — with her?’
‘Who would that be, Phil?’
‘Come on, Scott. Stop trying to cover for him. You know exactly who I’m talking about: our lady of the needles — Claire Barry. I know she must be in the ground because I just saw her old man in one of the hospitality bars upstairs.’
‘Honestly? I’m sure he’s not with her. Look, nothing is more important to João Zarco before a match than the match itself. You know that. Not Greenwich Borough Council, not her, not a quick shag in a broom cupboard. If he’s not with you then this is where he would be.’ I frowned. ‘You are telling me everything, aren’t you, Phil?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s not had another row with Viktor and walked out? You know what he’s like. Sometimes he can be quite petulant.’
Phil shook his head. ‘No. Absolutely not. They were the best of friends, upstairs. Really.’
I shook my head. ‘Look, perhaps he got caught short, or something. Maybe he’s in the bog. I’m sure he’ll turn up. This is an important match. I’d look for him, only I’ve got to take charge of the warm-up. I’ll call Maurice and see if he can find him. If anyone can, he can.’
‘All right. Thanks, Scott.’
Phil went back to join Viktor’s important guests, who were probably tucking into their lunch. Hobday didn’t drink, himself, which was a pity as Viktor always served the best wines in the executive dining room. I could have used a large glass of Puligny-Montrachet myself.
I called Maurice on the landline and explained the situation.
‘I’ll get straight on it,’ he said.
‘And make sure you check the bogs, in case he’s had an accident.’
I think that was the first time it crossed my mind that something might have happened to Zarco. He was a strong, fit man but you read all kinds of things about managers having heart attacks — almost half the football managers in the English league have had significant heart problems: Gérard Houllier, Glenn Roeder, Dario Gradi, Alex Ferguson, Joe Kinnear, Barry Fry, Graham Souness. As high-pressure jobs go, football management is one of the worst. When you’re a player you can run that feeling off as soon as you go on the pitch; but a manager has to sit there and take it. Just look at Arsène Wenger’s face during a game at the Emirates and tell me that he’s a man who’s relaxed about watching his team; and Arsenal are doing well right now.
I took the lads outside for the warm-up and tried to concentrate on the game in hand; the music on the loudspeakers in the ground hardly helped: it was Puff Daddy’s ‘I’ll be Missing You’. By now I was certain that something must have happened to the Portuguese. Hadn’t I seen him rubbing his arm and his chest that same morning as if he was in pain? I also spent some time checking out the opposition, who were warming up in the other half. Aaron Abimbole was playing and always reminded me of Patrick Vieira, the way he dominated the midfield: tall, with quick feet, good technique, aggressive and very brave, he was everything you want in a player. Well, almost. He had two faults: he was a greedy cunt and he was fucking lazy; sometimes he just wasn’t in the mood, and that was why City had let him go. But that afternoon he already looked like he was itching to score against his old club, which left me starting to get a pain myself. This was some extra pressure I didn’t need.
After we’d warmed up I brought the lads back into the dressing room hoping to find Zarco there, but in the doorway I met Maurice, who was shaking his head.
‘Can’t find the cunt,’ he murmured.
‘Keep looking.’
Maurice nodded. ‘Tell you what, though. There are some right bastards out there if he has gone missing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Unfriendly faces. That is, unfriendly to Zarco. Sean Barry for one.’
‘He’s a City supporter. Why the fuck would he be unfriendly?’
‘Because he knows that Zarco’s been banging his missus. That’s why.’
‘Shit. Look, Maurice, I don’t have time for this. Call him at home. Call him at the fucking Ivy if you have to, just find him.’
I turned to face the dressing room.
‘Right,’ I said, ‘listen up. The boss is feeling a bit Uncle Dick so I’m going to do the talking today. That means I talk, and you listen. Got that?’ I repeated this in Spanish and then spoke in English again, doing the same all the way through my team talk:
‘All right, here’s the deal. Normally I’d be telling you that the number one threat out there this afternoon is going to be Aaron Abimbole, and to mark him like you were tied to him with a piece of red rope. But instead we’re going to fuck with his mind and here’s how. We’re going to neutralise him. And this goes especially for you, Kwame, and for you, John.’
They both nodded keenly.
‘The last time we played those Geordie boys I noticed you two were very friendly with Aaron, even though he wasn’t playing. That was fine. I get that. You’re friends. But this is a big game and this time it’s going to be different. The fact is that man still feels just a little bit guilty about the way he left this club for more money. I want to exploit that feeling. So, when we’re in the players’ tunnel waiting to go out onto the park I want you to blank him, like he was Idi Amin and Charles Taylor and Laurent Kabila and Jerry fucking Rawlings all rolled up into the one shithead. Kwame and John will tell the rest of you ignorant bastards who those guys are later. Don’t get me wrong. Aaron is a nice fellow. I never met a nicer one. But being in England has not been easy for him. He’s never settled and it’s my impression that he misses home a lot. Seeing you two African lads here today is a little touch of home that he appreciates. Only you’re going to disappoint him, okay? After the game you can be as friendly as you like with him. But when you see him outside in the tunnel I want you to treat him like herpes. This goes for all of you. You don’t shake his hand. You don’t smile at him. It won’t matter quite so much when he gets the cold shoulder from the white guys. But from Kwame and John it will fucking hurt. This is his old club, see? He thinks he can come back here with no hard feelings. Well, we have to make him think again about that. And just to rub it in I want you to treat the rest of those Toons like they were your best friends when you’re in the tunnel. All of them. It’s just Aaron I want singled out for special treatment. When he goes out on that park I want to see his bottom lip quivering like someone just stole his fucking train set.’