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I handed Simon back his phone.

‘What’s he got to say for himself?’ he asked.

Simon didn’t need to know. A trouble shared is never a trouble halved. Not in football and certainly not with a man like Simon who, in spite of his tall, handsome, silver-fox, appearance was possessed of a hard, gloomy, northern disposition. He wasn’t called Foggy for nothing. He had only one expression and that was stoic. Even his smile looked like ice forming on a line of gravestones. Born in Barnsley, he’d played football for Sheffield Wednesday, Middlesbrough, Barnsley and Rotherham United — hence what was truly surprising about him was that he should ever have left Yorkshire. This was entirely due to his much younger Venezuelan wife, Elke, whom he’d met on a trip to Spain where he had a holiday home — it was said that she’d refused to marry him unless he lived in London. I certainly couldn’t blame her for that. But Simon hated the south of England almost as much as he hated southerners, and to say he was one of football’s hard men was like describing the SAS as butch.

‘He said, “Entschuldigung”,’ I replied. ‘That’s just German for “I was a stupid cunt”.’

‘That’s what I thought it meant.’

I went back to my office where I found Maurice glued to the television set.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said.

I glanced at the screen. It was the weather report.

‘After what I just experienced I think I could believe anything,’ I said. ‘Even a warm sunny day in January.’

‘No. Wait a minute and the news will be on again. This is just priceless. The law’s only gone and arrested Ronan Reilly.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘I kid you not.’

‘For murder? No way.’

‘Dunno. They’re not saying. Apparently they went to Reilly’s house to interview him and he legged it out of the window. He was doing an O.J. down the drive when they nicked him.’

‘Maybe it was to do with something else.’

‘Let’s hope not, eh? And then we can get back to normal.’

A few moments later Reilly was on screen, being led to a police car in handcuffs. He’d looked better, even on the BBC; he was wearing a wife-beater and had a black eye. The famous scar on his forehead that was the result of a juvenile gang fight was even more pronounced than usual. He did at least seem like a murderer. There were guys in Wandsworth Prison who looked less obviously criminal than Ronan Reilly did.

Maurice laughed. ‘I never liked that cunt,’ he said.

‘Yes, you’ve made that clear before.’

‘And with good reason. He’s never had a decent word to say about this football club. Not ever. You think I’m exaggerating, boss, but I’m not. He hates us. Even before Zarco came back here he hated us. Every time he was on MOTD he was giving us stick for this and bad-mouthing us for that. I’m surprised he’s got the nerve to show his face in this ground.’

And then Detective Inspector Neville could be seen leaving Reilly’s home in Coombe Lane without answering any of the reporters’ questions.

‘Hold up,’ said Maurice. ‘That’s the copper who was here earlier on today.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Detective Inspector Neville.’

‘Blimey, maybe it really was Reilly that topped Zarco,’ said Maurice. ‘I mean, why run away if you’re not guilty?’

‘I can think of a few damned good reasons.’

‘Christ. Who’d have thought? Ronan Reilly a murderer.’

‘We don’t know for sure that’s what it’s about.’

‘What else could it be? They don’t arrest you for nothing, boss.’

‘That’s certainly not been my own experience.’

We waited a moment and then the Sky reporter mentioned the fight Reilly had had with Zarco at the BBC SPOTY and started to speculate that Reilly’s arrest might have something to do with the Portuguese manager’s death.

‘See?’ said Maurice. ‘He thinks so, too.’

‘Believe me,’ I said, ‘I’ve been there. Where Reilly is now, I mean. People jumping to conclusions. No smoke without fire. Guilty until proved innocent.’

‘Talk about Super fucking Sunday.’

‘You don’t know the half of it.’ I told him about the UKAD officials and how Christoph had narrowly escaped being busted. ‘What is tina, anyway?’

‘Crystal meth. Methamphetamine. Popular with PnP boys having a chem session.’

‘PnP?’

‘Party and play. Crystal meth’s a gay drug, popular in the clubs.’

‘How long would that stuff stay in your urine?’

‘Up to five days, I reckon. Ninety days if they were to use a hair-follicle test to look for it. Which they can, of course. Provided you’ve got a bit of hair — unlike him.’

Maurice nodded at the TV and laughed cruelly as Sky re-showed the footage of a handcuffed Reilly being led to the police car. It couldn’t be denied: Ronan Reilly was a bit of a slaphead. It was hard to connect him with the mop-top and babe-magnet who’d once played for Everton and was married to a former Miss Singapore.

‘You just made picking the side for the game against the Hammers a lot easier.’ I picked up my phone and started to type a text to Simon. ‘If Christoph can test positive for drugs today then he could test positive on Tuesday night. Ayrton can play instead of the German lad.’

‘Ayrton? I thought he was on his bike, to Stoke.’

‘Not any more. I asked him to stay on.’

Maurice nodded. ‘That was smart. We need his experience. It’s the one thing that Mr Sokolnikov — for all his millions — can’t buy.’

30

I spent the remainder of the afternoon in my office avoiding the police, fielding calls and texts, drinking tea, and studying the previous Hammers match on my iPad. I’d always liked the Thames Ironworks, as we used to call them at Arsenal — that was their name back in 1895 when the team was formed. I’d nearly signed for them myself, once. You always had the feeling that the Premier League was never quite the same without West Ham, like in 2011. There were plenty of other sides who never looked right in the Premier League, but the Hammers weren’t one of them. It was always a tough game when we played West Ham and thanks to the likes of Harry Redknapp and Frank Lampard senior, they’d always had a pretty good Academy — one that had produced nine England internationals, including Bobby Moore — which meant that we were probably in for a few surprises on Tuesday night.

Just before five, when I was getting ready to go home, Viktor put his head around my office door. He was wearing a long brown Canali coat with a fur collar and in his hand was a beautiful Bottega Veneta briefcase.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘Viktor. What are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘I came to see that woman,’ he said. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Byrne. To tell her what happened at the lunch yesterday.’

‘And what did you tell her?’

‘That everything seemed normal. Zarco was his usual ebullient self. I had no sense that this was a man who thought that someone was going to beat him to death. He was in a good mood.’

‘You asked me to investigate his murder underneath that copper’s high heels. With respect, it might help if you were to afford me the same opportunity to question you a little. After all, you were one of the last people to see Zarco alive. Maybe I can learn something useful I didn’t know before. Something you overlooked when you talked to the police, perhaps.’

He glanced at his cheapo watch and nodded. ‘Sure. Good idea.’

That was Maurice’s cue to make himself scarce again. As he opened and closed the door I caught a glimpse of a couple of Hulk-sized bodyguards outside in the corridor. I thought it best to keep my questions very respectful indeed.