False Nine

  I wasn’t going to do that, although he was right, of course. I was merely playing at what he was doing professionally, 365 days a year. He did it because he had to do it, in order to make a living. He knew it and I now I knew it; and, as I was leaving his office, I reflected how polite he’d been. I might easily have laughed if Winchester White had turned up in my office posing as a football manager, and yet here he was, listening patiently while I asked my very obvious questions. I felt appalled at myself and decided then and there that this was going to be the last time I was ever persuaded to play the joke role of amateur detective.

  I thanked him for his time and walked out the door. In a little waiting area outside his office was an attractive, well-dressed woman in her early thirties who, seeing Winchester White, stood up, politely. A black Burberry briefcase sat on the floor by her polished black shoes. In spite of the heat her white blouse looked as clean and fresh as the tablecloth I’d had on my table at breakfast time.

  As she smiled at me I realised she must have heard every word I’d said to the police inspector.

  Not that there are many secrets on an island the size of Antigua.

  17

  I went back to the hotel and found myself sitting by the phone.

  It wasn’t because I was awaiting a call from Inspector Winchester White – I wasn’t holding my breath for that – but because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Ordinarily, in a place like Jumby Bay, I’d have swum in my private pool, sat in the sun, ordered a cocktail and read a book, probably. But that didn’t sit right with me while I was taking money from the club. Especially as they weren’t having the best season. And things had only been made worse by the departures of goalkeeper Andoni Zubizarreta and the club captain, defender Carles Puyol. Meanwhile there was a lot of talk on the sports pages that Chelsea would make a move for Lionel Messi in the summer. There were few who doubted that Roman Abramovich had the money and the balls to afford the £156.7 million buyout on the Argentine’s contract (not including image rights and salary). Not that UEFA FFP restrictions would have permitted such a transfer. Probably. But it came as a surprise to me that Viktor Sokolnikov was also talking about trying to bring Messi to the Crown of Thorns. And the thought that I’d walked away from a great football club where I might have had a chance to manage a player who was probably the best footballer in the world left me feeling a little blue.

  So when the phone did ring I thought it might be someone from Barcelona, PSG, or even a Qatari calling to enquire how things were going and if I’d yet discovered anything useful. I wouldn’t have known what to say. To my relief it was just Everton – the Jumby Bay boatman.

  ‘Hey, boss, I looked you up on the internet. You is famous. You played for Arsenal. And you managed London City. I was thinking, while you’re here maybe you could come down to take a look at a youth side I work with. They call theirselves the Yepton Beach Cane Cutters. Give they a few tips.’

  ‘Maybe. Perhaps later when I’ve done what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m a little busy right now. The Catalans they’re anxious to have Jérôme Dumas back in Barcelona before el clásico. I take it you know what that is?’

  ‘For sure. It’s like the most important match in Spain, right? Listen, boss, I flashed some of your money around St John’s but so far come up with nuthin’. I reckon anyone who knows anything about what happened to Jérôme Dumas is going to want a lot more than just a hundred bucks.’

  For a moment I remembered the inspector’s words about the effect of money on people who didn’t have very much and how they might start to invent stories they thought I might like to hear. I hate it when cops are proved right.

  ‘I think that I should be there if that happens.’

  ‘Sure, boss. Maybe we can meet this afternoon. There’s a bar on Nevis Street called Joe’s. I finish work at four today. Shall we meet then?’

  Minutes later, the telephone rang again.

  ‘Mr Manson? My name is Grace Doughty and I’m a lawyer at Dice & Company. We almost met today at the police station in St John’s.’

  ‘I remember. You’re the lady with the Burberry briefcase and the nice shoes.’

  ‘You noticed that.’

  ‘I pay a lot of attention to someone’s feet. Always have.’

  ‘I couldn’t help but overhear what you were saying to Inspector White. I hope you won’t think this presumptuous of me, but I wanted to offer you my firm’s help in finding Mr Dumas.’

  ‘That all depends on what kind of help you had in mind.’

  ‘Perhaps I could come and see you at your hotel?’

  I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t like I had anything else to do. If nothing else you’ll get a better feel for how things are here, I told myself. Besides, it always helps to have a lawyer handy when you’re nosing around in foreign countries.

  ‘No need. I’m going to be in St John’s this afternoon. Besides, if you’re going to help me I’d like to see what kind of front you put up.’

  ‘Shall we say three o’clock? I’m at twenty Nevis Street.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  The quaint colonial buildings that made up Nevis Street in St John’s were Creole-style cottages with wooden pillars, small verandas and shingle roofs. As I approached the wooden steps that led up to the front door of number twenty I half expected to see a swinging seat or a rocking chair. Some of these buildings were red, some were green, a few were pink or yellow and none was higher than a lamp-post; all of them were quite dwarfed by an enormous cruise liner, several storeys high, that was moored to the pier at the end of the street, and which towered over them like a Westfield shopping centre that had come adrift from its inner-city foundations and lost its way before washing up here in Antigua. Dice & Co was located in a pink building with yellow shutters and an orange roof from which a spaghetti tangle of cables and wires led across the street to a telephone cable in front of a Seventh Day Adventist Church that looked more like a police station than the police station.

  I went inside and found myself in a near-perfect facsimile of a Dickensian lawyer’s office, right down to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with the All England Law Reports. There was a big leather chesterfield in the waiting room, a landscape picture of King John signing the Magna Carta and several portraits of geriatric English judges wearing full-bottomed wigs. All the place lacked for an English legal atmosphere was a freezing fog rubbing on the window panes.

  The receptionist ushered me straight into her employer’s office where the tone of the decor changed a little. There were two photographs on the wall of Grace Doughty wearing a karate suit; she seemed to hold a black belt which must have helped to persuade some of her clients to behave themselves – at least when they were with her. I expect they needed reminding, too, as Miss Doughty was a real looker. She was black but I figured she was also what is sometimes described as high yellow in that she must have had a large proportion of white ancestry. She wore a navy-blue jacket and skirt, a crisp white blouse and was as voluptuous as a Mexican bass guitar. I knew there had been another reason why I’d wanted to see her in person, and this was it.

  ‘Miss Doughty, this is Mr Scott Manson,’ said the receptionist.

  Miss Doughty got up and came around her desk with brown eyes that were already sizing me up. She had the look of a woman who was destined for higher things, at least in Antigua.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.

  I was just about to shake her outstretched hand when the giant cruise ship sounded its massive horn which, on that small quiet island street, sounded like the final trumpet blown at the day of judgement or, at the very least, an irate mastodon.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I said, shrinking into the collar of my polo shirt. ‘Do they do that very often?’

  She laughed. ‘Only every day. You get used to it.’

  The horn sounded again and seemed to linger in the air long afterwards.

  ‘I don’t think I would. I bet the young mothers of St John’s just
love that.’

  ‘This is a sleepy little place. It helps to keep us awake.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘I’ve just been reading about you, as you can see.’ She pointed at her leather-topped partner’s desk where, on a laptop, I saw my Wikipedia entry displayed on screen. ‘It seems that you and I went to the same university.’

  ‘On an island as small as this that makes us practically related,’ I said.

  She laughed again. ‘I think so. And I think we must have overlapped by a year.’

  ‘I’d like to say I remember something like that, but I don’t.’

  What was wrong with the men on Antigua? To let a woman as fine as this one go unclaimed. She wasn’t even wearing an engagement ring.

  ‘Please. Sit down. Would you like some tea?’

  ‘English tea?’

  ‘What else would I offer someone who went to Birmingham University?’ she said.

  ‘You make it sound like the Old Vicarage, Grantchester.’

  ‘It was for a girl like me. I loved every minute.’

  Mrs Doughty looked at the secretary still hovering in the doorway. ‘Tracy, would you bring us all some tea and biscuits please?’

  ‘Is that where you got your LLB? At Birmingham?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You didn’t ever want to stay on in England and practise there?’

  ‘Too cold,’ she said. ‘And too wet.’

  ‘You got that right.’ I smiled, liking her own smile which matched the string of white pearls around her neck and trying to keep my eyes off the Grand Canyon-deep fissure of cleavage that lay close to it.

  ‘And the interest in karate? Where did that come from?’

  ‘Oh that. At Birmingham, too. I was into a lot of sports there. I even played a bit of women’s football. And supported Aston Villa.’

  ‘Someone’s got to, I suppose.’

  ‘Hey, just a few years before I started my LLB they finished sixth in the table. If they hadn’t sold Dwight Yorke to Manchester United they might have finished even higher. Somehow the purchase of Paul Merson never quite made up for that. He was good but never as good as Yorkie.’

  I made a quick Question of Sport guess. ‘That must be the 1998–99 season you’re talking about.’

  She nodded.

  ‘At one point – Christmas – we were top of the Premier League. They’ll come good again, I feel sure of it,’ she said.

  We chatted like this until the tea arrived but as soon as it was served I tried to bring her to the point of me being there.

  ‘So, Miss Doughty, what makes you think you can help me find Jérôme Dumas?’

  ‘Just so as we’re clear here. You are looking for him?’

  ‘It would seem pointless denying it after you heard everything I said to Inspector White.’

  ‘And that you’re acting in the interests of FC Barcelona.’

  ‘Not just them. Paris Saint-Germain, too. Strictly speaking, he’s still their player, on loan to FCB.’

  ‘Last of all, is it your intention when you’ve found Jérôme Dumas to take him straight back to Europe?’

  ‘Yes. It is. The season is well under way and he’s needed to bolster their chances of winning the league. There’s an important match coming up against Madrid and they’d like him back well before that so that he’s truly match-fit.’

  ‘Then I’m certain I can help you to find him.’

  ‘That’s great. But before I say “you’re hired” can I ask if your certainty is based on something better than just the same kind of optimism that says Aston Villa will come good again?’

  ‘It is. I can’t be too specific at this stage but I can tell you that the help I’m offering isn’t just from me. It comes from a reliable source. My client. Who wishes to remain anonymous at this stage.’

  ‘Is this someone who’s looking for a generous payday? Because I should warn you I’m only authorised to pay any kind of reward when Mr Dumas is safely back in Barcelona.’

  ‘On the contrary. My client asks for no money at all.’

  ‘I like him already. Do you know where he is? Mr Dumas?’

  ‘No. I don’t. And nor does my client. But he does know where he might be. To that extent you will still have to go and look for him. But at least now you’ll know that you’re looking in the right place.’

  ‘I thought I was in the right place.’

  ‘Not yet, you aren’t. Look, I’m sorry to be so cryptic, Mr Manson. But you really will have to trust me on this.’

  ‘Perhaps if I knew some more about your client…’

  ‘And if I gave you a name, how would that help you? In fact, I can promise you that it wouldn’t help you at all. It would only slow you down. And we don’t want that, do we? My understanding is that you want to return to Europe with Jérôme Dumas as quickly as possible and with a minimum of publicity. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I think you have no option but to put your faith in me and my firm.’

  Tracy, the receptionist, arrived back in the office with a tray bearing a teapot and china plates and saucers. Grace Doughty poured and I took a cup from her unringed hand.

  ‘The tea is good,’ I said. ‘Just like home.’

  ‘I’m pleased you like it.’

  ‘Suppose I take your advice and don’t find Jérôme Dumas. I’ll have wasted my time here. Which is limited. Suppose what your client really wants is to sell me a dummy. To put me off the scent. Then where will I be?’

  ‘But if there was any scent to be found in this case, as you put it, you wouldn’t be sitting in my office drinking tea, would you?’

  ‘Not yet, perhaps. But I’ve a good nose. And I can generally find my way around.’

  ‘Oh, I can readily believe that. Thanks to the English tabloids you’ve made quite a name for yourself as something of an amateur detective. The sleuth of Silvertown Dock. Isn’t that what the Daily Express called you? This time last year, wasn’t it? But we both know that isn’t going to work here.’

  ‘Since you studied law in England then you’ll know that the tabloids have a habit of exaggerating almost everything, Miss Doughty. They almost never allow the facts to obscure a good story. You’re right. I’m not a detective. Nor have I ever been. It was more sheer luck than Sherlock that enabled me to solve the murder of João Zarco.’

  ‘Nevertheless, someone else thought enough of those talents to send you all the way down here to look for a missing person, didn’t they?’

  ‘I wouldn’t read too much into that, if were you, Miss Doughty. They had to do something. For form’s sake. Not to mention for the sake of Mr Dumas. They’re worried something might have happened to him. Everyone is. That’s why I’m here. To make sure everything possible is being done. But no one is expecting me to work a miracle.’ I paused and sipped my tea. ‘Can you at least assure me that he’s still alive?’

  ‘He’s alive. I’m certain of that much, anyway.’

  ‘I see. Well, that’s the best news I’ve had since I came here.’

  ‘Look, why don’t you give it twenty-four hours? See what happens. If after that you’ve not found Jérôme Dumas you can go back to trusting your own nose. But I don’t think my client will mind me mentioning that his interests are also served by the swift return of Jérôme Dumas to Barcelona.’

  ‘Now I really am intrigued about your client.’ I knew there were a few famous footballers who had a house on the island – Andriy Shevchenko, for one – but I could see no earthly reason why any of them would have been interested in sheltering Jérôme Dumas. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I agree. So what happens now?’

  ‘Go back to your hotel and await a phone call.’

  ‘You sound like Winchester White. I don’t think he liked me.’ I felt my eyes narrow as I looked at her. ‘You two aren’t in cahoots, are you?’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Because he might have left the door of his office open deliberately? So tha
t you could eavesdrop on our conversation? Because he didn’t strike me as the careless type.’

  ‘My, you are suspicious. No, he and I are not in cahoots. If you remember I wasn’t actually there when you arrived. I got there after you. And I was there to discuss a quite different matter. In my experience, Inspector White always leaves his door open. Not least because it’s hot and he doesn’t have any air conditioning like my own office. But since you have mentioned him I should also add that my client has not shared any information with him regarding the whereabouts of Jérôme Dumas. This is an exclusive arrangement which hurts no one since Mr Dumas hasn’t committed a crime on the island. So you’re not likely to get into trouble either, if that’s what you were worried about.’

  ‘It wasn’t. And I don’t mind a certain amount of trouble.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘I was referring to the kind of trouble that comes with being a football manager. When you’re in charge of a squad of twenty-four overpaid, oversexed, overexcited young men, shit happens. That’s the real reason PSG and FCB sent me down here. Because I’ve been a young footballer myself. I know the game. And I know the pressures of the game. I think they thought that if I did manage to find Jérôme Dumas, I could speak his language and persuade him to come home.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. Okay. That’s it. For now. I’ll be in touch just as soon as I’ve spoken again to my client.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘Soon. I’ll call you tonight. Will you be at your hotel?’

  I nodded.

  Everton was seated on the wooden steps of the bar where we’d agreed to meet, smoking a roll-up and awaiting my arrival. Seeing me, he quickly stubbed out the cigarette, dropped it into the pocket of his white shorts for later, stood up and enveloped my hand in his own leathery paw as if we’d been ghetto buddies at a barbecue.

  I told him about Miss Doughty.

  ‘What kind of a lawyer is she anyway?’ he asked.