‘Yes, I didn’t understand that part myself. Until tonight, when I was in the tunnel before the match and I saw Mrs Boerescu. It turns out that she’s employed by Olympiacos to look after the kids before the match. You know? The ones who walk onto the pitch with the teams. I spoke to her just now. Nice woman. According to her it was Kojo who paid for the tea tonight. And who generously paid for the tea last week – on the night Bekim Develi died. Normally those kids don’t have any tea. On account of how everyone in Greece is short of money. But Kojo thought that was too bad and decided to take on the cost himself.’
Kojo was silent now. Painfully, he picked himself off the floor and sat down on a chair. He looked at me with tired, bloodshot eyes, and then dropped them again like I was on the way to the truth.
‘But he didn’t just pay for it. He actually provided it. Again, according to Mrs Boerescu, he phoned up a restaurant in Piraeus and ordered the food personally. Wasn’t that kind of him? Apparently he’s even thanked for his generosity in the match programme. In Greek, of course, so none of us would have noticed it. And nothing fancy, you understand. Just the sort of stuff all Greek kids like. Lots of fizzy drink, of course, but with just one dish on the menu: crisps and pitta bread and hummus. That’s right, hummus. It’s made of chickpeas. So that when the kids joined our lads in the players’ tunnel their hands were sticky with the stuff. I ask you: getting children to effectively poison a guy, how cynical is that? And when he scored a goal in the first five minutes of the game – that one all-important away goal – Bekim celebrated in the way he’d started doing only very recently: he sucked his thumb. In celebration of the birth of his baby boy, Peter. But even if he hadn’t sucked his thumb just touching his mouth and his nose would have caused him to go into hypoallergenic shock. How am I doing, Kojo? Does any of this ring a bell?’
‘Is this true, Kojo?’ asked Vik.
Kojo said nothing.
‘Maybe I should ring some more bells for you?’ I kicked him hard on the thigh. ‘How about it, Kojo?’
‘All right, all right,’ he yelled. ‘Take it easy, will you? Look, nobody intended the guy to die. It was an accident. It certainly wasn’t murder, like Scott says it was. Bekim Develi was only supposed to be unable to continue the game. If he hadn’t sucked his thumb, if this country wasn’t in such a shit state he would still be alive, and none the worse for wear. And that stupid girl wasn’t told to steal all his pens; just one. So I could verify that Semion was right about Bekim’s allergy. But even if she did steal them all it’s not like he could have taken any of those pens onto the pitch, is it? Taking the pens was just us making sure of the facts regarding his condition. Drowning herself – that was a complete overreaction. No one could have foreseen such a thing. But for that you’d all have been back in London and Bekim’s death would have been just another footballing tragedy. Another Fabrice Muamba.’
‘Except that Muamba’s still alive,’ I said.
‘Is that it?’ asked Vik.
I shrugged. ‘Jesus, what else would you like?’
Vik took a deep breath, drained his glass and went to the window of the box where he took a money clip out of his pocket. I’d seen it before and for a moment I thought he was going to pay someone off. Instead he slipped it off the wad of notes he was carrying and began to rub the piece of gold in his fingers.
‘I don’t have many friends,’ he said quietly. ‘When you’re as rich as I am friendship is something that always comes with its cap in its hand, head bowed, touching its forelock, soliciting a loan or a favour or a business deal. But Bekim Develi was my true friend, and from way back – Scott’s right about that. He never wanted anything. In fact, he was the only guy who never let me pay for anything; who even bought me presents. It was Bekim bought me this money clip. I don’t know how he got hold of this little object. It’s eighteen carat gold, Cartier, and it was a gift from President Nixon to Leonid Brezhnev in 1973 when the two leaders met in Washington. Bekim knew I loved little things like this one, objects with history in their DNA.
‘He was very thoughtful in that way. He really seemed to like me for myself, you know? That’s a rare thing for me, gentlemen. Unheard of today. And it really upsets me to hear that this is how he died and why. Not to mention what’s happened to Alex as a result. Semion Mikhailov, I can deal with that bastard in my own way. The question is, what are we going to do about you, Kojo?’
‘We hand this cunt over to the police, that’s what we’re going to do about it,’ I said. ‘It’s true, most of the evidence is must-haves, could-haves and probablies; but with his confession in front of three witnesses I don’t doubt for a minute that I can make a pretty convincing case to that copper when next I see him.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ said Kojo. ‘But the minute you do that, of course, I’ll have my lawyer release a very detailed statement about the plans Vik and that guy Gustav Haak have put into motion in this country. You think I won’t do it, Vik? Oh, I will. I can promise you that.’
Vik said nothing; he exchanged a look with Phil and then let out a sigh.
‘But let me explain what they would prefer you not to know, Scott,’ said Kojo. ‘Let me tell you about the Erytheian Islands. Your boss and Gustav Haak, they just bought a chain of islands from the Greek government, for one euro. Those were the Greek guys on the boat the other night. I know that one euro doesn’t sound like a lot of money and it isn’t, but you see Haak and Sokolnikov represent a group of international investors who already own the whole country. Quite literally. They’ve been buying up Greek sovereign national debt since 2012 and they own most of it which means they do own the country, in all but name. If they dumped all their bonds now Greece would go down the toilet. So the Greek government are just going to do what they’re told out of fear that Vik and his friends flush this country away. And what they’ve been told is this: that the Erytheian Islands, somewhere just north of Corfu, are going to be run as a tax-free zone for your boss and his friends. Eventually it will be like a Greek version of Monaco, I suppose. These things are all the rage these days. In China they call this a Freeport. In Cuba it’s a Special Economic Zone. Imagine it, Scott. You’re worth twelve billion quid, like Vik. Or twenty billion, like Haak; and you don’t pay any tax, anywhere at all. Wouldn’t that be nice? Not only that but if they have their way no one will ever know a damn thing about it until it’s all up and running. Except you and me, of course. We’ll know about it.’
Vik said nothing.
Outside there was a roar as the match ended; Panathinaikos fans were cheering the humiliation of their hated rivals. There was another very loud explosion, the sound of several air horns and in the distance a police siren. Phil glanced anxiously out of the window as something bounced off it.
‘It would seem that London City just qualified for the next round,’ he said.
That hardly seemed important now; at least not to me; not any more.
‘Tell me you’re not going to sweep this shit off the beach, Vik,’ I said.
Kojo grinned; he could read the runes of what was about to happen even if I couldn’t. ‘Yes, Vik, go on,’ he said. ‘Tell him that friendship means more to you than dollars and cents.’
‘Maybe Kojo didn’t mean to kill Bekim, Vik,’ I said, ‘but in my book this bastard did something almost as bad: he helped to bring about the death of your best friend, for profit. A man I knew and admired a great deal. He should be punished. Justice needs to run its course with him.’
Vik turned away from the window and grimaced.
‘Don’t be a fool, Scott,’ he said. ‘Frankly I’m a little surprised to hear you of all people talk about justice. There’s only the law and we both know what that’s worth in Greece today. It takes authority to make law and I’m afraid that authority – real authority – has ceased to have any meaning in this country. Take a look out of that window. The Olympiacos fans are now attacking the riot police with Molotov cocktails. But is anyone surprised? When even the courts and the lawyers
are on strike there’s certain to be disorder and chaos and anarchy in plentiful supply. You can read it painted on the walls. You can smell it burning in the air. And you can see it washing your windscreen at the traffic lights. Why argue about that? We both know I’m right.
‘So. Here’s what’s going to happen. Kojo, you and I still have a contract of employment and a watertight non-disclosure agreement. You’ll continue to be paid by me, but I don’t ever expect to see you again. And certainly not at my football club, or any other club for that matter. I expect you to disappear, Kojo. Go somewhere you can really use that fly-whisk – somewhere in Africa would be good, I think – and draw your salary. But don’t ever think of working in football again. And always remember this: my arm is long; but my memory is even longer.’
Kojo stood up. ‘What about my things on the boat? My laptop? My clothes?’
‘I’ll have my ship’s captain bring your luggage to shore at the Astir Palace tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Now get out.’
Kojo Ironsi picked up his fly-whisk and smiled. ‘Congratulations, Scott,’ he said. ‘You won tonight. Then again, maybe you didn’t win anything. Like the man once said, a game is not won until it’s lost.’
After Kojo had gone there was a longish silence, mostly from me since I didn’t know what to say although I now knew exactly what I had to do.
‘Four–nil,’ said Phil, eventually. ‘Incredible.’
He looked at me and then at Vik. ‘What about Scott?’ he asked. ‘I believe he has the same kind of non-disclosure agreement in his own contract, if he bothers to read it.’
‘Scott Manson?’ Vik spoke my name as if he was trying it out to see how loyal it still sounded in that room. ‘I don’t know, Phil. It’s really up to him, isn’t it? He’s been very clever. Maybe he’s too clever for football. Perhaps that’s his problem as a manager. But really, there’s not much hard evidence here. If you ask me, that cop Varouxis will be satisfied with the suicide of the girl and the name of that other guy. The one who murdered those hookers back in 2008, or whenever Scott said it was.’
‘The Hannibal murders,’ supplied Phil.
‘Precisely. Him. And that’s a good collar, I’d have thought – solving an unsolved crime that no one even knew was unsolved. Every policeman dreams of doing something like that. Yes, he’ll have to make do with that. Because I certainly didn’t hear any confession from Kojo. Did you?’
Phil shook his head. ‘No. Nothing at all.’
Vik thought for a moment and then wagged a finger at me. ‘Everything else we’ve heard here tonight is just speculation,’ he continued. ‘The girl – Nataliya – committed suicide; we knew that already from that unsent email we found on her iPhone. And now that the police know that they can hardly keep us here any longer. But we’ll probably never discover who poisoned Bekim Develi. You might almost say it was the hand of God. That’s how the insurance companies describe these things, isn’t it?’
‘I think that’s called an act of God,’ said Phil.
‘Yes,’ admitted Vik, ‘you’re right. It’s slightly different in Russian, of course. But better the hand of God than the hand of an innocent child, don’t you think? After all, I’m sure Scott here wouldn’t like it to become known that it was a little child’s hand that was used by unscrupulous, greedy men as a murder weapon in this case. Imagine what it would be like to be that child; to go through life knowing that you were the person who killed Bekim Develi. No, that’s not a cross that any child should ever have to bear. Wouldn’t you agree, Scott?’
I sighed a deep sigh and unzipped my tracksuit top; I was feeling hot from all my exertions; and not just those, perhaps. I was maybe a little sick, too, only this had nothing to do with heat, or smacking Kojo around the room. Having just qualified for the next round I should have been feeling on top of the world. Instead I wanted to find a hole and crawl into it.
I picked up the bottle of Krug, drank from the bottle for a second in a way I calculated was insulting to them both, burped loudly and then shook my head. ‘The trouble with rich people...’
Vik groaned as if he’d heard this lecture before; and very likely he had.
‘Be careful,’ he said, ‘you’re not exactly poor, Scott.’
‘No, I’m not. And you are quite right to remind me of that fact, Vik. I guess that’s the difference between your kind of money and mine. You see, I’ve never really had to deal with the idea that, under the right circumstances, there might be absolutely nothing I wouldn’t do and nobody whose face I wouldn’t step on to keep a hold of that money, or to accumulate even more. Does that make any sense to either of you? No, I didn’t think it would somehow.’
I nodded at them both.
‘You’ll have my written resignation in the morning, gentlemen. But right now I’m going to say goodbye to my team before spending the rest of the evening with my girlfriend.’
60
Even when you’re winning and on top you never know when the whistle may blow. Just ask Roberto Di Matteo, the caretaker manager of Chelsea who steered the club to a memorable double in 2012, and was promptly sacked following a mildly shaky start to the 2012–13 season. Or Vincent Del Bosque who got the bullet from Real Madrid just forty-eight hours after they won La Liga in 2003. Now that was harsh. Success in football rarely breeds more success, merely great expectations; and like the story goes, great expectations are often disappointed.
Already I had a few grey hairs on my head where none had existed before and that was after just seven months in charge – one less than Di Matteo. The fact is, after a week of combining football management with amateur detective work I was knackered and looking forward to a good rest.
Of course, most football managers get the sack or leave because another club makes them an offer they can’t refuse; but it’s perhaps rare for a manager to walk away from a club having just secured qualification for the next round of Champions League football, and the English press were all over the story like a colony of ants when Louise and I flew back to Heathrow’s Terminal Five without the rest of the team. And not just that story, either.
To my girlfriend’s credit she hadn’t ever repeated what she’d told me on Vik’s boat when I seemed to be on the verge of finding out exactly what had happened to Bekim Develi: nothing in this world gets solved the way you think it should – the way it ought to be solved. But she was right. It doesn’t. I felt absolutely no satisfaction in having discovered how Bekim Develi had been killed and who had been behind it; and I could never have predicted that solving the case could feel so utterly pointless. Most of the time I wondered why I’d ever bothered. She got that right, too.
As for me I could have said a lot about what happened in Athens to the mass of reporters at Heathrow but I hardly cared to spend any more time involving myself in the murky financial affairs that had prompted my resignation from London City. That was all behind me now and I felt as if a great weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Instead I chose to confine all of my remarks to football, which suited me a lot better. That’s the nice thing about football. There are moments in life when only football seems important. When everything else seems trivial and inconsequential and sometimes you think it’s probably the only reason why fields are flat, why grass is cut short and why gravity was invented. Besides, I honestly wouldn’t have known how to explain Greek sovereign national debt.
‘I didn’t resign to go and manage another football club,’ I told the waiting reptiles. ‘I didn’t resign because I wanted more money or more power to buy the players I wanted. I didn’t resign because of the Leicester City result or because we lost the first leg to Olympiacos in Athens. I didn’t even resign because the police chose to detain our whole team in Greece for no good reason. Contrary to the suggestions of some papers, I resigned because I had a profound difference of opinion with the owner of the club as to how it should be run but, with no disrespect to Mr Sokolnikov, that shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone who loves the game. After all, footbal
l is something about which a lot of men and women feel very passionately and sometimes that passion means that people find they can no longer work with each other. It’s as simple as that. It’s just the way the balls come out of the bag, right?
‘I wish everyone at Silvertown Dock every success. They richly deserved the result in Athens. On the whole, it was a privilege and a pleasure to work with all those guys and I like to think that many of them were also my friends. Still are, I hope. But most of all I’ll miss the fans. It’s them who are in my mind most of all. After the death of João Zarco they took me to their hearts and gave me their unqualified support. For which I humbly thank them.’
‘Scott?’ asked one of the reporters, ‘did your resignation have anything to do with the death of Bekim Develi?’
‘Yes, it did but only to the extent that it has made me re-examine my priorities. Bekim Develi was a man I liked and admired enormously. I think everyone did. As a result of that tragedy I’ve decided to focus on what’s important in my own life and what I want to achieve. I think that’s normal. I don’t think anyone should be surprised when someone chooses to make some life changes as a result of something awful like that. I’ve always been able to look after myself and really that’s just what this is now; me looking after myself.’
‘Since you mention looking after yourself,’ said another reporter, ‘perhaps you’d like to comment on the story in the Sun that you beat up two Englishmen on the Greek island of Paros. It’s rumoured they’re going to sue you. Did your resignation have anything to do with that?’
‘Was it only two geezers? I forget. Listen, I had a small falling out with some yobs who thought Bekim Develi’s death was a proper subject for comedy. At least that’s what the songs they were singing seemed to suggest. Maybe I don’t have a very good sense of humour, I don’t know, but if you ask me they both needed a bloody good hiding.’
‘What does the future hold for you, Scott?’