‘You just failed the breath test, sir,’ said the policeman. ‘That’s what.’
‘Yes, but as I tried to tell you before, I wasn’t driving. My friend was.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The car is left-hand drive, you see?’
There was a long silence and I tried not to smile.
The traffic policeman marched around to the left-hand side of the vehicle and opened the door. Maurice grinned at him.
‘Evening, constable,’ he said, cheerily. ‘I’m teetotal. Diabetic, see? So you’d be wasting your time.’
‘Incidentally,’ I said, ‘this is an Overfinch Range Rover; as well as being left-hand drive it’s fitted with Roadhawk — a black box camera system that films what’s happening at the front, the rear and both sides of the car. In case of accident, you understand.’
The policeman pocketed his breathalyser unit. His face was the colour of the night sky in that part of London: an artificial shade of dark mauve. He slammed the door shut on Maurice’s grin.
‘Does it record sound as well as pictures, sir?’
‘No, sadly not.’
He nodded grimly and then leaned towards me until he was near enough for me to smell the coffee on his breath.
‘Cunt.’
Then he turned and walked away.
‘Good night to you too, officer,’ I said and got back into the Range Rover.
Maurice was laughing. ‘That was fucking priceless,’ he wheezed. ‘I can’t wait to see that again. You have got to put that up on YouTube.’
‘I think I’ve been on YouTube enough for one night,’ I said.
‘No, really. Or else nobody will fucking believe it. That rozzer was so keen to nick you he didn’t even notice that this was a left hooker. Straight up. That was comedy gold.’
‘Might be better to keep it in reserve. Another time I might not be so lucky.’
‘In the circumstances you’re probably right. I thought you were joking about that bitch back at the Crown of Thorns. But it looks like she’s got it in for you, old son.’
‘So what’s new?’
We drove to the north entrance of KPG on Notting Hill Gate; the south entrance — on Kensington High Street — is reserved for the inhabitants of the royal palace. Not that any of the other houses on KPG looked to be anything less than palaces. I’d say it’s the most exclusive road in London but for the fact that anyone can live there, as long as they can afford to pay between fifty and a hundred million pounds for a house, and it’s only the presence of the grey and very grim-looking Russian embassy at the north end that lowers the tone a little.
Viktor’s house was three storeys of Portland stone with four square corner turrets and had everything except a moat, a flag and an honour guard. You can live in a bigger house in London but only if you’re the Queen.
I got out of the Range Rover and leaned through the open window.
‘You take the car,’ I told Maurice. ‘I’ll get a cab home. It’s not far from here.’
‘Want me to pick you up in the morning?’
I shook my head. ‘I’ll get a cab company to take me in.’
‘Call me when you get home, will you? Let me know if he offers you the job.’
‘You really think he will?’
‘What else could it be?’
18
I turned and gave my name to the gorilla in the gatehouse. He checked me off on his clipboard and then waved me through. I didn’t have to ring the bell; another security man was already opening the polished black door. A butler materialised in a marble hallway that was dominated by a life-size Giacometti sculpture of a walking man as thin as a pipe cleaner and who always reminded me of Peter Crouch. I’d shared this observation with Viktor before and I reminded myself not to offer it again; when you own a famous work of art I expect your sense of humour about who or what it looks like is limited by how much you paid for it — which, in the case of the Giacometti, was a hundred million dollars, so you do the maths. Clearly Sotheby’s or Christie’s had a more developed sense of humour than anyone.
Anyway, I wasn’t really in the mood for jokes. I wasn’t in the mood for anything very much except putting my head under a pillow and going to sleep for about twelve hours.
The butler ushered me into a room that was in keeping with the Giacometti, which is to say that it was one of those ‘less is more’ modern rooms that looks like you’re in the new money wing of a national museum; it was only the huge cream sofas that persuaded me I didn’t need a ticket and an audio-visual aid. The big black log resting on the fire dogs looked as if it had landed on Hiroshima a split second ago and even the smoke rising discreetly up the enormous chimney smelled reassuringly exclusive — like being in an expensive ski-chalet.
Viktor dropped a copy of the Financial Times and came around the sofa, which took a while, and gave ample time for me to admire the Lucien Freud above the fireplace. Although admire is probably the wrong word; appreciate is probably more accurate. I’m not sure I could have enjoyed the sight of a reclining nude man with his legs apart every time I glanced up from my newspaper. I see enough of that kind of thing in the showers at Silvertown Dock.
We embraced, Russian style, without a word. The butler was still hanging around like a cold and Viktor asked me if I wanted a drink.
‘Just a glass of water.’
The butler vanished.
I sat down, stretched a smile onto my face, just to be polite, and told him everything I’d learned about what had happened. This wasn’t much, but still, it seemed more than enough.
Viktor Sokolnikov was in his forties, I suppose, with a receding silvery hairline that was more than compensated for by the amount of hair growing between his eyebrows and on his habitually unshaven cheeks. His eyes were keen and dark and they were the shrewdest I’d ever seen. A little overweight, he had a jowly sort of cheeks with a near permanent smile; and after all he had much to smile about. There’s nothing like having several billion dollars in the bank to put you in a good mood. Not that he always was: right now it was difficult to connect this urbane, smiling man with the guy who’d nutted his fellow oligarch, Alisher Aksyonov, live on Russian television after the two got into an argument. I’d watched the clip on YouTube and, not understanding Russian, it was difficult to know what the argument had been about. But there was no doubt that Viktor had effectively given the other, bigger man a Glasgow kiss — good enough to put him down on the deck. I couldn’t have done it better myself.
‘I was fond of João,’ said Viktor. ‘We didn’t always see eye to eye, as you know. But it was never dull with him. I shall miss this man very much. João was a very special guy. Unique, in my experience. And a great manager. It was a good result today; he’d have been proud. Today of all days I’m glad we won.’
The butler came back with a glass of water, which I drank almost immediately. Viktor asked me if I wanted another. I shook my head, glanced at the huge cock above me and told myself I knew where to get a refill if I needed one. After two large cognacs I was feeling just a little crude.
We talked some more about Zarco, the plans he and Viktor had made for London City, and some of the more outspoken, even outrageous remarks that the Portuguese had uttered, which soon had us laughing.
‘Remind me,’ said Viktor, ‘what was it he said to the guy on Sky Sports when the FA Chairman publicly disinvited him from the England team commission?’
I grinned. ‘He called the commission a “knocking shop”; of course he meant to say “talking shop”. At least that’s what everyone supposed he meant. But that was no mistake. He knew very well what he was saying. Even before Jeff Stelling corrected him.’
‘You think so?’