‘I hear what you say,’ she said. ‘And yet. It would seem that some of the men on my list are given to violence. For example: Ronan Reilly.’
She touched the iPad and opened a file to reveal a photograph of Ronan Reilly. He was pictured with Charlie Nicholas, Jeff Stelling, Matt le Tissier and Phil Thompson; he looked like he was sitting in for Paul Merson on Gillette Soccer Saturday.
‘Nice suit. Not sure about the earring. What about him?’
‘Reilly and Zarco actually came to blows at the BBC Sports Personality of the Year party last year, didn’t they?’
‘So? Reilly’s a hard man with strong opinions. I respect that.’
‘He’s certainly a quick-tempered one. I’ve been reading up: in 1992, in the first year of the Premier League’s existence, he received more red cards than any other player.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. But look, that was more than twenty years ago. And I dare say he took most of those for the team. Professional fouls and that kind of thing. The last I heard even the Met wasn’t prosecuting people for getting sent off. But time will tell; it’s an easy nick.’
‘And yet it seems that even when he’s off the park Reilly has form for this sort of behaviour. He’s handy with his fists, is Mr Reilly. When he played for Liverpool there was an incident at a nightclub where chairs were thrown and another man was assaulted. Reilly was charged with affray.’
‘He went to trial and was acquitted.’
‘Yes, the trial was in Liverpool,’ added DCI Byrne. ‘Where he was a very popular man with the red half of the city.’
‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘The outcome might have been different with more toffees on the jury. Or if a few bent coppers had testified against him. That always helps with the local clear-up rate.’
She ignored that one.
‘And then, before he was on television, he was manager at Stoke City, wasn’t he? Where he punched a player in the dressing room and broke his jaw, by all accounts, for which he was almost sacked.’ She smiled. ‘Honestly, how anyone can call this the beautiful game escapes me.’
‘Like I say. Passions run high sometimes. Besides, I think I’m right in saying that the player — who was no saint himself — withdrew the complaint.’
‘Reilly was here yesterday. At Silvertown Dock. Did you know that, Mr Manson?’
‘Yes, and I’m not surprised. It was a big game. Pretty good one, too, for us.’ I shook my head. ‘Look, you asked my opinion. And that’s all it is. My opinion. I know Ronan Reilly. He’s not a bad man. Just one with a short fuse. That fight at the SPOTY — it was just handbags.’
‘It looked a bit more than that to me. I’ve seen the fight on YouTube. Blood was spilled. I could show it to you, if you like. Refresh your memory.’
‘No, thanks. I’ve seen enough YouTube videos for one weekend. So maybe they expected people would pull them apart sooner than they did. Besides, they’d both had a drink. Several, probably. I know I had.’
‘And that makes it all right, I suppose, Mr Manson.’
‘No. But it makes it easier to understand.’
‘Would it surprise you to learn that Reilly was absent from his seat for fifteen minutes during yesterday’s match?’
‘Have you tried to buy a drink here at half time? It can take a while.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t then. It was during the first half. You see, Sky Sports has made all their footage available to us, from all of their cameras, so we can time his absence precisely. And he’s clearly missing from his seat for a full fifteen minutes at about the same time that people were beginning to realise João Zarco was missing. I could show you that, too, if you like.’
‘Fifteen minutes of looking at what, an empty seat? I’ve got better things to do with my time.’
‘Come now, Mr Manson. What could be more important than finding your friend’s killer?’
‘Look, have you asked Reilly where he was?’
‘Not yet. But I intend to ask him this afternoon. I just wanted to get your input first.’
‘On what? Reilly’s mind? His criminal credentials? Look, I’m just the caretaker manager here.’
‘You appear to be taking rather a lot of care right now, Mr Manson.’
‘It seems I have to, with coppers like you around, Miss Byrne.’
‘By the way, congratulations.’
‘On what? Not getting nicked last night? Or landing this job?’
She smiled. ‘The job, of course. But beating an alco test, that’s a cause for celebration, too. And hey, unlike so many other people in football, you didn’t even have to call Mr Loophole.’
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ I said.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Manson.’
‘Trying to set me up like that. Don’t bother denying it. I know you were behind that little stunt. You and your friend Commander Clive Talbot OBE thought you could soften me up, did you? Make me more cooperative? Next time you use the ladies’ loo in this place, you’d best make sure you’re the only lady in there. Using the word in its loosest possible sense.’
She frowned as if she was trying to remember if she’d bothered to check all of the cubicles and then coloured a little. ‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry not to have been more help to you,’ I said. ‘I don’t remember anyone who I think might have killed Zarco. But I have remembered why I don’t like the police.’
‘As if you’d forgotten.’
‘Are we done here? Is that all?’
‘Not quite. Mrs Zarco says her husband was having an affair with the club acupuncturist,’ said DCI Byrne. ‘She’s Mrs Claire Barry, isn’t she?’
‘That’s her name.’
‘Her husband, Sean, runs a private security company called Cautela Limited. According to Google they just landed a big contract to look after some of the teams for the World Cup in Russia and Qatar. Zarco wasn’t very complimentary about the Qataris, was he? Many of the people Cautela employs are ex-MI5, MI6. They could be out of a job if it doesn’t go ahead. For that reason they might have been pissed off at him. On both counts. Business and personal. Maybe enough to work him over.’
‘You tell me, Miss Byrne. You’re the one with all the Home Office connections.’ I stood up. ‘Just so as you know, João Gonzales Zarco was my friend. But I really don’t care all that much if you manage to find his killer. It certainly won’t bring him back. The only things I care about are this football club, its fans, and the match on Tuesday night.’
‘You’ve made yourself very clear, Mr Manson. That being the case, let me be equally clear. I hate football. Always have. I think it is the greatest curse of modern life. Until yesterday the only time I’d been in a football ground was in May 2002 when, as a young WPC, I went to help police a game at The Den. Millwall lost a play-off game to Birmingham City and I was just one of forty-seven police officers who was injured trying to contain the violence that resulted — to say nothing of twenty-four police horses. What kind of person would stab a horse with a broken bottle? Or, for that matter, a young WPC? Namely me. So, I have nothing but contempt for people who go to football. And nothing but contempt for the overpaid adolescents who play the game — not to mention the egomaniacs who manage these so-called clubs. I will find Mr Zarco’s killer. I promise you that. But if, while I do it, I can also bring disgrace upon the game and this place, then so much the better.’
‘You can do your worst,’ I said. ‘But I’ve a feeling it won’t be anything to compare with the disgrace the police managed to bring on themselves at Hillsborough.’