‘Yes, I am. I’m glad you see it that way, Mr Manson.’
‘And I think we all recognise the gravity of what might happen here.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Those regulations are there to uphold and preserve the ethics of sport, and to safeguard the physical health and mental integrity of players. Isn’t that right, Mr Hastings?’
‘That’s correct.’
I gestured towards the regulations in Simon’s hand. ‘May I?’
Simon sighed a sigh that sounded like there was a large dog in the room and passed them to me.
‘Aye, maybe so. All of that times ten with a cherry on top. But it’s still bloody unfair to the lad. And I say that as someone who’s hated the Krauts all his life.’
‘Why don’t you go and get us all some tea?’ I said to the big Yorkshireman.
‘Aye, perhaps I will.’
‘Sorry about that, Mr Hastings,’ I said, after Simon had gone. ‘He’s feeling a bit emotional right now. We all are.’
‘That’s quite understandable.’
‘I’m glad you said that.’
‘How long have we got before we’re in breach?’ I asked the DCO.
‘Seven minutes,’ he said.
I found the relevant section of the guidelines and considered it very carefully; I knew that Christoph’s whole career depended on what I said next.
‘“The failure or refusal by a Player without compelling justification to submit to drug testing after notification is prohibited,”’ I said, reading out the guidelines. ‘“The expression ‘compelling justification’ shall embrace, and shall only embrace, circumstances where it would be wholly unreasonable to expect a Player to submit to drug testing in the circumstances pertaining at the time, bearing in mind the limited commitment that this entails.”’
‘That’s right,’ said the DCO.
‘You know, Mr Hastings, I’m not a lawyer. But I’ve had considerable experience of the law, not all of it welcome, and I wonder if you’ve ever heard of the rules of natural justice.’
Hastings shook his head.
‘It’s a technical term for the rule against bias and the right to a fair hearing. And it does seem to me that the duty — your duty — to act fairly, trumps everything that the FA have written down here. I suggest that any court of law would think it more than a little unfair of you to come here today of all days, a day when we’re in mourning for our late manager, and a day when the police are conducting an inquiry which, with all due respect, would seem to take precedence over anything that the FA could fairly ask of us.
‘Having said all that, I’d have thought that there are not one but two very good reasons to support a compelling justification argument such as I’ve just described. And I haven’t even mentioned the special relationship that existed between the late Mr Zarco and Mr Bündchen. You see, it was Mr Zarco who brought young Christoph from Augsburg in Germany, and who gave him his big chance just the other night against Leeds United. Mr Bündchen is very upset. Perhaps more upset than any of the other players, I hardly like to mention this to you now — however, you leave me no choice. Earlier on, one of the police officers informed me that Christoph Bündchen wept when he was questioned about Zarco’s death. If I’m honest, I’m not in the least bit surprised that he’s forgotten that he was supposed to take a drugs test. It might save us all a lot of time and embarrassment if you were to take that into account.’
I’d said enough. In my mind I was already phoning Ronnie Leishmann and instructing him to start preparing the club’s legal case for the FA hearing — whenever that might be. I was thinking of Rio Ferdinand in 2003, and the eight-month ban he’d undergone for missing a drugs test, not to mention a fifty grand fine. Everyone in the game knew Rio was as straight as an arrow, but the farts on the FA still went ahead and busted him, making him ineligible for the 2004 European Championship in Portugal. Which the Greeks ended up winning. How did that happen?
‘I’ll be outside if you need me.’
29
In the corridor outside the drug-testing station I found Simon speaking agitatedly on the phone.
‘Where the fuck are you?’ Simon caught my eye and then handed me his phone. ‘It’s Christoph,’ he said. ‘Daft bugger says he’s at a fucking football match.’
‘Where the fuck are you?’ I yelled into the phone. I was speaking German now, in case I was overheard. When there are UKAD people about it’s best to be a little close-lipped. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages.’
‘I’m at Craven Cottage,’ said Christoph.
‘What the fuck are you doing there?’
‘I came to see Fulham play Norwich City, with a friend. It’s my local team.’
‘Don’t you ever answer your phone?’
‘I honestly didn’t hear it until half time.’
‘At Fulham? Don’t make me laugh. There’s never that much noise at Craven Cottage. The neighbours wouldn’t allow it.’
‘It’s true, boss. They’re four goals up.’
‘You must be on fucking drugs, son. Look, you know you’ve missed giving a urine test. That’s bloody serious, Christoph. You could be facing a ban.’
‘Yes, I know. And I’m really sorry, boss.’
‘The guys from UKAD are still here, debating your fate. In five minutes you might have a lot more time to watch football than you could ever have imagined.’
The door to the drug-testing station opened and the two officials from UKAD emerged.
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I think we’re about to learn if they’re going to cite you for a breach of the code, or not.’
I lowered the phone and waited, my heart in my mouth.
Mr Hastings looked at me and nodded what looked like his acquiescence. ‘Under these exceptional circumstances it’s been decided that no further action will be taken.’
I let out a sigh of relief and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thanks for being so reasonable, gentlemen.’
As the two UKAD officials left I almost punched the air and cheered; and so did Simon.
‘Blimey. What did you do, boss? Put a gun to his head? I felt sure that boy was fucked.’
It probably wouldn’t be the first time, I thought.
In German I said to Christoph: ‘Did you hear all that?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Did you forget about the UK doping people or are you just an idiot?’
‘I guess I’m just an idiot, boss.’
I frowned. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean? You mean you didn’t forget?’
‘I went to a friend’s birthday party in Soho on Thursday night, you see. A gay party. And by accident I took some tina. Someone slipped it into my drink, I think. For a laugh. At least, that’s what they told me. I mean, I really didn’t know until it was too late.’
‘What?’
So Christoph Bündchen hadn’t forgotten about the UKAD officials at all; he’d panicked and taken off because he knew he was guilty. I now realised just how close we’d been to an even bigger, Adrian Mutu-sized disaster; I hadn’t a clue what tina was but I assumed it must be a drug of some description and not the kind you could ever have argued was a cold remedy.
‘It was a soft drink, I swear. An orange juice.’
‘Oh, I guess that’s all right then.’
‘I’ve never taken that stuff before. It just happened. And when those two UKAD guys showed up at the dock this morning I freaked out, I guess. I promise it won’t happen again.’
‘You’re bloody right it won’t. And don’t tell me any more. Not another bloody word. But you are so fucking busted. See me in my office at Hangman’s Wood tomorrow morning after training and we’ll discuss your punishment. But I can tell you this: don’t expect to go home with any bollocks in your Y-fronts.’