I sat in an armchair with my iPad and spent another hour watching a selection of Drenno’s best goals on YouTube. These were some of the sweetest strikes I’d ever seen and a few of them had had an assist from me, which was nice, but the accompanying music — Pink Floyd’s ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’ — while wholly appropriate for a man like Drenno, did nothing for my spirits. And I started to weep once again.
I was about to go back to bed when I noticed another text from Maurice, asking me to call him urgently. So I did.
‘What now?’ I asked.
‘Sorry to call you again, and so late, but I’m at the Crown of Thorns,’ he said. ‘And I think you ought to get down here as soon as. Something’s happened. Something unpleasant.’
‘Like what?’
‘Not on the phone, eh? Just in case. Walls have ears.’
‘They wouldn’t dare. Not after paying me all those damages for hacking my phone.’
‘They might, you know.’
‘It’s two thirty in the morning, Maurice. I just lost a good friend. And we’ve got a training session at ten.’
‘So let someone else take it.’
‘You really think I need to come to Silvertown Dock? Tonight?’
‘I wouldn’t have called otherwise.’
‘No one’s dead, are they?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘Look, Scott, I can’t handle this on my own. I can’t get hold of João Zarco, Sarah Crompton, and Philip Hobday is away on Sokolnikov’s yacht.’
Philip Hobday was the London City chairman and Sarah Crompton was the club’s public relations officer.
‘I really don’t know what the fuck to say here,’ he continued. ‘And I’m going to need to say something. You’ll understand why when you get to Silvertown Dock.’
‘Say something to who?’
‘The fucking press, of course. They were here before the police. It looks as if some fucker from Royal Hill tipped them off.’
‘Royal Hill? What’s that?’
‘Greenwich Police Station. Look, trust me, it’s important you get here and as soon as possible. Seriously, Scott, this is a situation that is going to require some delicate handling.’
‘I’m not sure I’m the right man for that job. Especially with the press. Where they’re concerned I feel like I’m wearing boxing gloves when I speak to them. But I take your point. You’re right, you’re right. If it’s serious, you need me the same way I need you.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I’ll be there within the hour.’
6
In the event it took only half an hour to drive the ten-mile journey from my flat off the King’s Road to the East End. There aren’t many people on the road at that time of the morning but the press were there in force when I arrived. As I approached the gates of the club car park they surged towards the Range Rover to see who I was. At the same time I wondered what was so interesting at Silvertown Dock that it could have diverted them from going to Wembley Way; I didn’t know it at the time but Wembley Way was equally popular with journalists that night. There are more newspapers and television stations in England looking for a good story than you might think. Especially when it’s a story about football.
I drove up to the gates of the club car park and waited for our security men to let me in. It was raining heavily now and while I was waiting I switched off the windscreen wipers just to deny the many waiting photographers a better shot of my tired and probably miserable face. The floodlights were on inside the stadium, which was very strange at nearly three in the morning.
‘Scott! Scott! Scott!’
Since I had no idea of what to expect when I got inside the stadium I thought it best not to say anything. That suited me just fine as I don’t like talking to the papers any more than I like talking to the police. Sarah Crompton was always trying to persuade me to be a bit friendlier to the press but old habits die hard; whenever I get doorstepped by reporters or papped by some monkey with a Canon I feel half inclined to hand out a taste of what Zinedine Zidane gave to Marco Materazzi in the 2006 World Cup Final. Now that’s what I call a headline.
I found Maurice McShane waiting impatiently for me at the players’ entrance, next to the riverside and the special private marina where Viktor Sokolnikov sometimes arrived at the stadium aboard a thirty-five-metre Sunseeker sport yacht. Maurice was a big fair-haired man with a beard and a voice like someone shovelling grit. To my surprise he was with the head groundsman, Colin Evans, who Sokolnikov had enticed away from the Bernabeu at great expense: Colin Evans was generally held to be the best groundsman in Europe and the City pitch always won all sorts of awards for its excellent condition.
‘The fuck’s going on?’ I said. ‘What are you doing here at this time of night, Colin?’
Colin shook his head, growled, clearly speechless with anger and led the way out through the players’ tunnel and onto the pitch. He was fit-looking and young for a groundsman — no more than thirty-five — and wearing the same kind of City tracksuit I was wearing, he could easily have passed for a player.
‘You’ll see soon enough,’ said Maurice.
‘Sounds ominous.’
The stadium always looked fantastic for an evening fixture when all the floodlights were on. They made the orange seating look a very appetising and Christmassy shade of tangerine, while the grass seemed to shine like a rare emerald; and for our sixty thousand seated supporters that’s exactly what it was: something very precious, hallowed even. Small wonder that every so often we had requests from fans who wanted to have a relation’s ashes scattered on the pitch. Colin would never have allowed such a thing, of course; apparently it’s very bad for the grass but not so bad for the flowers. Colin’s roses always won prizes.
He led us along the halfway line, through the centre circle to the spot where several policemen were standing as if about to kick off a game. Normally I could never make that walk without a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I was about to play a match; on this occasion, however, I felt as empty as the stadium itself. Drenno’s death was still very much at the front of my mind. For a moment I thought I was about to see a dead body. But I certainly wasn’t expecting to find what I saw now.
‘What the hell?’ I put a hand to my mouth and rocked back on my heels for a moment.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ said Maurice.
A hole had been dug in the centre of the pitch. I say a hole, but it was obviously a grave, about six feet long and at least two or three feet deep.
A stranger wearing a fawn-coloured duffel coat came towards me; he was holding a police identification card in front of him.
‘I wonder if I might have a word with you now, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘My name is Neville, Detective Inspector Neville, from Royal Hill.’
‘Give us a minute here, will you, Inspector?’ I asked. ‘Please.’
I led Maurice and Colin a few paces away so that the detective wouldn’t hear our conversation.
‘When did this happen?’ I asked.
‘I came out here just after midnight,’ said Colin. Originally from the Mumbles, in Swansea, he spoke with a strong Welsh accent. ‘We recently had some electric fox-proof fences fitted to stop them crapping on the pitch at night. The lads hate it if they slip in that shit; it’s much worse than dog shit — the smell stays with you for days afterwards. Anyway, I was out to check that they were working properly and I noticed that someone had left some tools scattered across the pitch: a couple of spades and a fork. That’s when I found it.’