‘João Gonzales Zarco was without question the best football manager of his generation,’ I said, carefully. ‘And one of the most truly remarkable men I ever met. It was my privilege to call him a friend and colleague, and the whole game of football is the poorer for his untimely death. He was generous, a gentleman, a lovely man and I will always miss him. I’d like to extend my sympathies to his wife and family and to thank all of the fans who’ve already paid tribute to Zarco. You might say that I’m about to do the same. As you can see this is a portrait of Zarco, by Jonathan Yeo, and I am going in now to hang it on my wall. Thank you. I have no further comments to make at this time.’
Of course, all of the reporters wanted to know how Zarco had died and if I was going to take over as London City manager, but I thought it advisable to avoid answering any of their many permutations of the same two questions; in spite of that it took several more minutes and the help of the porter to get me and the painting safely through the front door.
When I was finally in my flat I remembered Sonja was away at a conference in Paris and before doing anything I called her, just to feel grounded again. Just to hear her voice felt like the best kind of therapy and it was easy to understand why she was so good at her job — although I have to question how it is that you need a psychiatrist to persuade you not to eat that second doughnut.
Then I called my dad, who was predictably shaken by the news; he and Zarco had been on many a golfing holiday on the Portuguese Algarve, where both of them still had homes.
After I’d spoken with him I set about hanging Zarco’s picture in my own study where I keep all my football memorabilia, including a twenty-two-carat FA Cup winner’s medal from 1888 — West Bromwich Albion, in case you were wondering — and the shirt George Best was wearing when he scored six against Northampton Town in the FA Cup fourth round in February 1970. When the painting was up on the wall to my satisfaction I sat and looked at it for a while; I kept hearing Viktor’s impersonation of Zarco in my head. Now that’s what I call psychology.
I called Maurice at home.
‘You were right. Mr Sokolnikov offered me the manager’s job.’
‘Congratulations. You deserve it, my son.’
‘Although only as caretaker. Until I fuck up.’
‘No pressure, then.’
‘It all seems a bit premature to me. I mean, Zarco’s not even in the ground yet.’
‘Then again,’ said Maurice, ‘we do have the second leg of the Capital One Cup game against West Ham at home on Tuesday night.’
‘Which I suppose we’ll have to play. Unless we hear anything from the FA to say we can postpone as a mark of respect.’
‘Thrash the arse off the bastards. That’s the only kind of respect that Zarco would have wanted from City. ’Sides, it’s on the telly, so you might as well forget it now.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Look, there was something you said this afternoon, when we were searching Silvertown Dock. You said that Sean Barry had found out Claire was shagging Zarco.’
‘S’right.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘Sarah Crompton told me.’
‘And how did she know?’
‘Because she and Claire are best mates.’
‘So why did Sarah tell you?’
‘Because... let’s just say that I’m good friends with Sarah. All right?’
‘Am I the only bloke at Silvertown Dock who’s not getting his leg over someone else who works there?’
‘No. There’s you and there’s the German lad, Christoph Bündchen.’
‘What about him?’ I asked innocently.
‘Some of the lads think he’s not that interested in girls.’
‘Some of the lads are a bit excitable, jumping to conclusions like that.’
‘Maybe. But he had a hard-on in the shower, the other day. Now that’s what I call fucking excitable.’
‘Did Sarah tell you that, too?’
‘No. Kwame did. It’s not the sort of thing you’d miss, is it?’
‘I dunno. I haven’t seen it. His hard-on, I mean.’
‘Fucking huge, according to Kwame. And he should know.’
‘Really.’ Changing the subject, I said, ‘Sean Barry. He’s a bit excitable, too, right?’
‘Oh, yeah. Very.’
‘So maybe he killed Zarco. Jealous husband ’n’ all that.’
Maurice shrugged. ‘Maybe, yeah. On the other hand I saw him right after the game and he seemed okay. Chuffed about the result, he was. I mean, he didn’t look like he’d beaten the shit out of anyone. Or told someone else to do it, for that matter. What I mean is, he didn’t look guilty. But then you never know with a bloke like Sean.’
‘You also said there were a few unfriendly faces in the ground when you were doing your Where’s Wally this afternoon. Some right bastards, I think you called them. Who did you mean, exactly?’
‘I did, didn’t I? Let’s see now. There was Denis Kampfner — he was none too pleased when Zarco got Paolo Gentile to be the agent on the Kenny Traynor transfer. Missed out big time on a million quid’s worth of commission. Spitting tacks about that, he was. Ronan Reilly. You’ll remember the run-in he and Zarco had at the BBC SPOTY.’
‘Of course I remember it. It was the only interesting thing that happened all evening. Those things are a pain in the arse.’
‘It was a proper scrap they had that night, you know. And I certainly wouldn’t have put it past those two to mix it again.’
‘True. They’re none too fond.’
‘Then there was that referee Zarco slagged off: Lionel Sharp.’
‘I hope you didn’t see him, Maurice, or I’ll start to worry about you. He’s dead.’
‘No, but his son was at the game today. Jimmy, I think his name is. He’s in the navy. Marines, I think. Who else? Oh, yeah. Some Qatari lads. Not so much Where’s Wally as Where’s Ali. Dodgy lot, if you ask me. Connected to some of the powers that be in Qatar, where Zarco’s name is shit. They’ve got one of the executive boxes. Come to think of it, they’ve got three or four boxes. I’ve heard they like some coke at half time, and I don’t mean the stuff that comes out of a can. Coke and Lamborghinis and enough money to put a ceramic brake on your mouth.’
‘Christ, Maurice, you’ve got more possible suspects there than the Orient Express.’
‘And I haven’t even mentioned Semion Mikhailov.’
‘Who the fuck’s he?’
‘Ukrainian business rival of Viktor’s, apparently. Huge bloke. Head like a fucking bowling ball.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Only that people are afraid of the guy. One of the security guards who operates the Mobicam — a Russian bloke called Oleg — he spotted him sitting in the crowd. Oleg said he was surprised that the Home Office let someone like that into the country. He’s top Mafia, apparently.’
‘I wonder if Viktor knows he was there.’
‘There’s not much Viktor doesn’t know.’
‘Sounds like we’re spoilt for choice.’ I laughed. ‘Is there anyone we left out? Al Qaeda? Lee Harvey Oswald? Fucking hell.’
‘It’s a funny old game,’ said Maurice.