‘I suppose I should congratulate you,’ she said, ‘on your new job.’
I hesitated. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got a feeling that in about five minutes congratulations are going to seem like the wrong word. I’m looking at you, baby, and I can tell that I’m about to see a card come out of your pocket. So say what’s on your mind, eh? Before you lose your nerve for whatever this is about.’
‘Okay, I will.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now that you’ve been given this job, Scott, I’ve got a feeling that we’re going to see even less of each other than we do already. And, well, the fact is, I want a bit more than that during the weekend. The fact is, I want a lot more than that.’
‘Such as?’
‘You remember that Nike ad we saw in the cinema? With all the famous footballers and the Elvis Presley song?’
‘A little less conversation, a little more action?’
She nodded. ‘That’s the very opposite of what I want in life. And what I need from a man. My man.’
‘I see. At least I think I do.’
‘And it has to be said that in the bedroom things aren’t very good, either. At least not for me. You’re always tired, Scott.’
I nodded. ‘I can’t deny that.’
I went to my cigar humidor and took out a cigarette. Once a week — usually it was a Sunday night — I smoked a single cigarette, which always felt like a real pleasure. Used like that — just a couple of puffs, the way South American Indians had smoked the stuff — tobacco seemed to have almost medicinal qualities. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ I asked, lighting up. ‘But, under the circumstances...’ I let out a sigh that was one third smoke and two thirds disappointment. ‘You know how to pick your moments, Sonja, I’ll say that for you.’
‘Don’t feel sorry for yourself, Scott. It really doesn’t suit you. You’re not the type.’
‘No, you’re right. I’m just tired, that’s all. As per usual. But actually, to be honest I don’t understand, Sonja. Really, I don’t. I thought we made a pretty good couple. At least I did when I looked at you. I even managed to like myself when I was with you, which, believe me, takes some doing.’
But what I was actually thinking was this: I couldn’t believe I was never again going to see her naked, or get the chance to marry her, even, and that seemed too much to bear.
‘Listen, this won’t help at all, but I’ll try to explain it to you, Scott. I owe you that much. I love you, and maybe you love me, but I can’t ever be part of the most important thing in your life, which of course is football. I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried my best to like it, but a while ago I realised it just wasn’t going to happen, no matter how hard I tried. The fact is I can’t be interested in the very thing that’s about to take even more of your time than it does already, if such a thing were possible. You do see that, don’t you? I used to think it was just a game but it’s not, it’s much more than that, with you and with a lot of other men like you. It’s a way of thinking about the world. A philosophy of a kind. And why not? It seems to work for a lot of people. It’s no accident that the Premier League is like a mini-FTSE of successful companies. It’s pure capitalism. The strong survive and the weak get relegated.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You make it sound almost Darwinist.’
‘Oh, but it is. You’re just a kind of selfish gene, that’s all. Yours is a football-centred view of evolution. Because football is what everything comes down to with you, Scott; results, the team, the next match, the January window, a good cup run, the closed season, the top four, relegation, three points, a penalty not given, a red card that should have been. It’s never ending and unrelenting and I can’t take part in it because I feel nothing at all for it except the wish that the last match really could be the last match. And if what I’ve said doesn’t make any sense to you, then forget it and we’ll make it just this: even though a large part of me wants to stay with you, Scott, I can’t stay because I won’t be a football widow like the rest of those women you call the WAGs.’
‘No one’s asking you to be like that, Sonja.’
‘Maybe you’re not. But the imperatives of your job certainly are. And have you ever wondered why the WAGs are the way they are? Why they occupy themselves with shopping and fashion and hair extensions and manicures and boob jobs? Of course you haven’t. But I have. Those women are desperately trying to make their stupid boyfriends and husbands pay some attention to them, that’s why. They’re trying in vain to compete with the most jealous mistress or wife of them all, which is football itself. Well, I won’t be a part of that. I have my own life, my own interests, my own ambitions — and they don’t include a good run in the FA Cup. We’ll both have some bad nights for a while but we’re both grown-up enough to know that will pass.’
Some fucking Sherlock I was, I told myself. What chance did I have of spotting Zarco’s killer when I hadn’t even been able to spot the disappointments felt by the woman I loved.
‘Jesus, baby, it sounds like you’ve been saving this up for a while.’
‘Maybe I have. Maybe I was just waiting for the best time to say it. The best time for me, that is. You see, I met someone in Paris. He’s just a businessman. Don’t worry, nothing happened between us. I wouldn’t ever do that to you. But I will be seeing him again. Maybe nothing will come of it. Who knows? But on Saturday he goes to the theatre and on Sunday he likes going to Tate Britain. And he’s never been to a football match in his life.’
‘So he’s the guy.’
‘Make a joke of it, if it makes you feel better.’
‘It doesn’t. But I thought it was worth a shot. I would try to persuade you to change your mind, Sonja, but after a speech like that I can see it would be pointless. You’ve thought this out. Which is more than I have. Perhaps I should have done. So, I’m sorry.’
‘You’ll be fine, Scott. You’re strong. Very strong.’
‘Am I?’ I took a last puff of my cigarette and then stubbed it out. ‘Right now I don’t feel very strong.’
‘Of course you are. Just look at the way you smoke. Two or three puffs off one cigarette a week. Your strength astonishes me, sometimes. You know, if it was anyone else but you I wouldn’t be leaving you right now; not after the twenty-four hours you’ve just had.’
I smiled. ‘You noticed that.’
‘I read the newspapers.’
‘Do you now?’ I pulled a face.
‘At least I do when you’re not around to look disapproving. Is there a law against reading the Mail on Sunday?’
‘No, but perhaps there ought to be. There’s a law against everything else that’s unwholesome in this country.’
34
After a miserable night I was up early to visit Silvertown Dock before driving on to Hangman’s Wood. It was a very cold morning and I was a little worried about Terence Shelley who we’d locked up in the maintenance area, the same one where Zarco had been found dead. Even in a policeman’s coat and uniform he would have spent a very uncomfortable Sunday night in the open air, handcuffed to a twenty-kilogram kettlebell. But if he had I doubt he could have felt as bad as I did after the events of the previous night. I hadn’t felt as bad as this since my first night in the nick.
On the way I listened to the news on the car radio. Ronan Reilly had been released on bail, which was the clearest indication yet that the police did not suspect him of murder. It seemed that plain-clothes police had arrived at his house in Highgate hoping to question the MOTD pundit about Zarco’s death and found a party in progress; mistaking the police for other guests, an unnamed female had admitted them to the house. Apparently it was Reilly’s birthday, which might have been why he’d decided to celebrate with several prostitutes and a quantity of cocaine; this was probably also the reason why he’d decided to climb over the wall of the back garden and run away, in the hope of denying any knowledge of what was happening in his house. I felt almost sorry for Reilly because if there’s one thing the BBC doesn’t like — even on grown-up programmes like MOTD — it’s pundits who use prostitutes and cocaine. Does anyone remember Frank Bough? I rest my case. But I still smiled as I tried to imagine how Zarco would have greeted the morning news. Zarco would have loved it.