Authors: Philip Kerr
‘That’s a great result, Scott, and many congratulations on the win, but the bigger talking point today, I’m sure you’ll admit, is the absence of João Gonzales Zarco from the City dugout for the whole of the match. Can you end the speculation about exactly where your team manager was this afternoon, Scott? And perhaps where he is now?’
‘I’d love to, but I’m afraid I can’t, Geoff, as I have absolutely no idea myself. It’s a mystery. The fact is I haven’t seen him since eleven o’clock this morning.’
‘There’s a strong rumour going around the Crown of Thorns that he and Viktor Sokolnikov have had another major falling-out and that João has walked out of the club. Would you like to comment on that?’
‘I’d much prefer to comment on today’s win, Geoff; I’m delighted with the way we played today. From being a goal behind to 4–1 is a bigger story, if you’ll permit me to talk about that for a moment.’
‘But João Zarco is a mercurial, not to say controversial character. And it would be entirely typical for him to do something like that, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I disagree, it wouldn’t be typical at all. João Zarco has always been totally professional in the way he’s managed this club. Look, Geoff, I would dearly like to tell you where João is right now. The fact is that no one seems to know. Now, as far as I’m aware there has been no disagreement between João and Mr Sokolnikov. I’d go so far as to say that relations between them are excellent, right now. I think I should also say that we’re a little worried that something might have happened to João Zarco, which is why we’re conducting a search of the whole ground. So if anyone does have information about his whereabouts, we’d appreciate it if you could get in touch. And perhaps you’ll let me know if you hear anything, Geoff.’
‘Of course, Scott.’
Finally we managed to talk about the game, but my mind wasn’t on Kenny Traynor’s cock-up and the magnificent save with which the Scotsman had redeemed himself, the goals we’d scored, or the sending off; all the time I was thinking about Zarco and wondering if his disappearance might be connected with the photograph of him that Colin had found at the bottom of the grave dug in the pitch.
And I don’t mind admitting it, I was worried.
In spite of our 4–1 victory and the fact that London City had gone sixth in the table, the atmosphere in the dressing room was a little subdued after the match as the lads sensed that something bad was happening.
Either we’d lost a great manager or we were about to lose one – nobody was quite sure which it was.
But we still got back on the coach as usual and went back to Hangman’s Wood so the players could receive treatment on tired and injured limbs. Xavier Pepe had two enormous bruises on his calves from where Aaron Abimbole had tackled him, and Kwame Botchwey had a thigh strain that looked like it was going to keep him on the bench for a couple of weeks. As the bus drove away from Silvertown Dock I could see all these illuminated faces staring at their little smartphone screens like bees in a hive and I thought it best to issue a firm policy about Twitter.
‘Listen, there’s enough speculation as it is about where Zarco has got to without your bloody tweets. So how about giving your thumbs a rest tonight, eh, lads? We’ll know what’s happened to the gaffer soon enough. What we don’t need are any fucking conspiracy theories for tomorrow’s back pages.’
Back at Hangman’s Wood the club physio told Pepe, Botchwey and several others to soak in an ice bath. I’d read a new study which said that ice baths after exercise may not be effective in aiding recovery; all our own anecdotal evidence suggests that they are and until we receive proof that they don’t work our players will continue to take them, but they are hard-core and players taking ice baths need carefully monitoring as spending too long in one can cause a variety of health risks including anaphylactic shock and an abnormal heart rate.
I might not have had an ice bath at Hangman’s Wood but I did feel a profound sense of shock and experienced an uncomfortable sensation in my chest when Phil Hobday telephoned me on my mobile at about seven thirty that same evening with some really bad news.
‘Scott? I think you should prepare yourself for a shock. João Zarco was found dead at Silvertown Dock about half an hour ago.’
‘Jesus Christ’s arsehole. What was it? A heart attack?’
‘It’s rather hard to say exactly what killed him. But definitely not a heart attack, I’ll say that much. He looked like he’d been pretty badly beaten up.’
‘You’ve seen the body?’
‘Oh yes. His head was bashed in and – it was awful. Anyway he’s dead.’
‘Where was he found?’
‘One of our own security men discovered the body in a sort of maintenance yard inside the outer steel structure – the actual crown of thorns part of the stadium. It’s pretty out of the way, which is why we didn’t find him sooner. The uniformed police were here already, of course, but a scene of crimes unit and some detectives are on their way here as well. It’s now a murder inquiry.’
‘Does Toyah know?’
‘Yes. And I just called Viktor at home. He was pretty shocked about it, I can tell you.’
‘I’ll bet. Jesus Christ. So am I.’
‘Scott, I’d like you to tell the players, if you would. And I think it would be best if all of them stayed home tonight as a mark of respect to João. The press have got wind that something serious has happened here and I don’t want any of our lads out on the piss and getting himself in the
Daily Mail
.’
‘Of course. I’ll tell them and read them the riot act.’
‘And they’d better cancel whatever plans they may have had for tomorrow as well. I know it’s a Sunday but I’m sure the police will want to question everyone who spoke to Zarco today.’
I thought for a moment.
‘Phil, there’s something I need to tell you. Look, perhaps I’d better come into Silvertown Dock and do it.’
‘Tell me now and let me decide that. There’s no point in you being here unless you have to be.’
I told Phil about the photograph of Zarco we’d found in the grave, and how Zarco had asked Colin and me to keep it quiet.
‘How come the police didn’t see it when they were here?’
‘Because the police are the police. Their hands are usually dirty enough without getting mud on them, too.’
‘You’re right, Scott,’ said Phil. ‘I think you’d better come in and tell the police about this yourself. Under the circumstances I think perhaps Ronnie Leishmann should be here as well.’
Ronnie Leishmann was the London City Football Club lawyer.
‘What circumstances are those?’
‘You, of course. And you saying things like what you just said about policemen with dirty hands. I think it would be best if you could learn to moderate your dislike of the police while they’re investigating what happened to Zarco.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘By the way, where is the picture now?’ asked Phil.
‘In Colin’s office. João told him he could keep it as a souvenir.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can, Phil.’
As I ended my call with the club chairman I got a message from Didier Cassell’s wife: our French goalkeeper had recovered consciousness at last. This was good to know but it wasn’t enough to sugarcoat a bitter pill like the one I was about to give the team. Nothing was going to be enough for that.
I had gathered everyone who was at Hangman’s Wood in the players’ bar. I suppose one or two of them had seen into my eyes, watched my Adam’s apple, and already understood the worst.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I said. ‘In any other circumstance but the one in which I am standing here now, the news that Didier Cassell, our team mate and friend, has recovered consciousness and is likely to make a full recovery would be cause for great celebration. But Didier would be the first to tell you that there are no celebrations tonight. Not for him. Not for me. Not for us. Not at this club. And not for anyone who loves the great game of football. Because what I have to tell you now is that João Gonzales Zarco is dead.’
There was a very audible gasp and one or two of the players sat down on the floor.
‘I can’t tell you very much about what happened. Not yet. Suffice to say that the police will want to speak to every one of us here, tomorrow. But what I can say now is this. A grief ago, when I lost my friend Matt Drennan, I thought I knew exactly what the acute pain of bereavement felt like. But I was wrong. For much as I loved Drenno, I find now he’s gone that I loved João Zarco even more. João wasn’t just my boss, he was also my friend; and not only that but my mentor, my inspiration and my example, the only true philosopher I ever knew, and the greatest football manager that ever lived.
‘I look around this room now and I’m very proud to see Englishmen, Scotsmen, Irishmen, Welshmen, Frenchmen, Brazilians, Spaniards, Germans, Italians, Ghanaians, Ukrainians, Russians, Jews and Gentiles, whites, blacks – all of us playing as one man for the same team. But that isn’t what João Zarco saw. Not at all. Zarco didn’t see different races, or different creeds; he didn’t hear different languages. He didn’t even see a great team when he looked at you people. When he was with us what he saw and heard was something very different. Something inspiring. What João Zarco saw when he looked at you all was the true family of football, his family and mine. And what he heard was only ever this: that we all speak the same language – a language spoken all over the world, in every country, and under every god; a language that unites us; it is the language of love for this beautiful game.
‘Right now we are also united in this terrible, unsupportable loss. United in mourning. United in our remembrance of our footballing family’s true father. This is a special day, ladies and gentlemen. Remember it always, as I will. For this was the day, not when Zarco died, but when his family wiped the floor with a great team. He can’t be with us to acknowledge that victory. But I promise you he sees it and he honours it, as I know you will honour him. And I ask you not to go out tonight but to stay at home and remember him in your prayers; and to remember all of us who have suffered the loss of this man we loved, this beautiful man from Portugal.’
I didn’t say anything else; in truth I couldn’t say anything at all, not any more. So without another word I went out to the car park and got into my car. For a moment I just sat in the snug silence of the Range Rover’s wood and leather interior, and then I wept.
And when I had finished weeping I drove west, to Silvertown Dock.
East London. A Saturday night. Horrible January weather. The air full of sleet and snow as if the city were witnessing a returning ice age; the black River Thames a huge slimy anaconda and as cold as death itself. Wet, dirty cars jostling for space and the kinder sentiments of Christmas and New Year all disappeared now, crushed underfoot by the costly imperatives of living in the most expensive city on earth, or just thrown out like a dead Christmas tree. People hurrying into pubs and off-licences to drink as much as possible before diving into evil-looking nightclubs. The smell of beer and cigarettes and exhaust fumes mixed up into one thick, yellow, all-pervading fog. Ugly buildings dark and derelict and unfeasibly old, as if any one of them might have known the feet of Dickens or even the hand of Shakespeare. And then the unmistakable silhouette of Silvertown Dock. The Crown of Thorns was well-named; sharp, intricately plaited, cruel and jagged, the outer shell of steel looked vaguely holy in the dark, as if the bleeding and battered head of our Lord might appear within it at any moment, looking perhaps more than a little like João Zarco.
The police were in force at Silvertown Dock and so were the TV cameras and newsmen. It looked like a repeat performance of the night Drenno had hanged himself, and I wondered why they didn’t just use the same pictures of me arriving at our ground that they’d taken then. I must have looked just as miserable that evening as my rear-view mirror told me I did now.
I parked my car, walked into the stadium and thought of how the last time I was here, I hadn’t known that Zarco was dead. Instinctively I made for the executive dining room; it was the obvious place for the police to use as a base for their investigations. Along the corridor leading to the dining room there were pictures of Zarco looking at his most enigmatic and handsome. I still couldn’t believe that I wasn’t going to see him again, muffled against the cold in his trademark N.Peal zip-up and cashmere coat, his face unshaven but still handsome, his thick grey hair the same colour as the steel structure outside.
A security guard said something and I shook his hand, as if I were on automatic pilot.
‘Thanks,’ I muttered.
In the executive dining room Phil Hobday, Maurice McShane and Ronnie Leishmann greeted me in the doorway and then turned to face the several strangers who were seated around an Apple Mac on a large circular table: designed by the artist Lee J. Rowland, the surface of the table was made of leather and resembled a football – the old kind, with the laces in the middle. On an earlier occasion Phil Hobday had told me it cost a whopping fifty thousand pounds. Since its arrival in the executive dining room it had been signed by everyone who’d played or coached at London City Football Club, including Zarco and myself.
The photograph of Zarco that we’d found at the bottom of the grave in the pitch was wrapped in polythene and lying on the table with an evidence number stapled to the corner.
A carefully groomed, androgynous woman in her forties, with short, almost white hair and a strong but equally pale face stood up. Good-looking in a MILFish sort of way, she wore a violet dress and a dark blue tailored coat. She was holding an iPad, which made her seem efficient and modern.
‘This is Scott Manson, our team coach,’ said Phil Hobday.
‘Yes, I know,’ said the woman quietly.
‘Scott, this is Detective Chief Inspector Jane Byrne, from New Scotland Yard.’
‘I know you’re feeling very upset, Mr Manson. I know because we were all just watching your very moving speech on YouTube.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, it seems that someone recorded it on a mobile phone and uploaded it while you were driving here.’