Free January Window by Philip Kerr Page B

late Christmas present from me, will you?’
    I sighed. ‘I’ll never forget Drenno’s Christmas present to me when we were playing at Arsenal. A bottle of sun-tan lotion.’
    We were still laughing as we reached the tunnel. But the laughter faded a little as we heard a shout and Colin came running after us, holding a square object in his hands.
    ‘You were right, Scott. There was something in that grave. This.’
    ‘It’s not a grave,’ I said. ‘It’s a hole. Just remember that.’
    He handed me a framed photograph. The glass was smeared with earth and mud but the person in the picture was clearly identifiable. It was a photograph of João Gonzales Zarco, the one that was on the cover of his autobiography: No Games, Just Football .
    Zarco took the framed photograph from my hands and nodded. ‘This was in the hole?’
    Colin nodded. ‘Last night’s rain must have brought some earth down on top of it. That’s why we didn’t see it then. We might never have found this. It’s lucky you suggested digging down a bit, Scott.’
    ‘Isn’t it?’ I said, doubtfully.
    ‘It’s a good picture,’ observed Zarco. ‘Mario Testino took this shot. I look like Bruce Willis, yes?’
    I said nothing.
    ‘Don’t look so worried, Scott,’ said Zarco. ‘I’m not in the least bit concerned by this kind of thing. I told you: there are times when football supporters are like savages. At the Nou Camp, we had a pig’s head thrown on the pitch when Luis Figo was taking a corner. And you should see those crazy bastards at Galatasaray, Coritiba and River Plate. They probably get this kind of thing all the time. But it’s England where I work and where I make my living, not a country where a man who plays football sometimes goes in fear of his life. The values of this country are good ones. And the people who did this are the exception. What worries me more is Leeds, tomorrow. They’re always a good cup side. Manchester United 1972. Arsenal in 2011. Tottenham in 2013. And the best FA Cup Final I ever saw was a recording of Chelsea versus Leeds in 1970. Now that was a fucking football match.’
    Colin nodded. ‘2–2 draw. Which Chelsea won in the replay. First one since 1912.’
    Zarco grinned. ‘You see? He does read.’ He handed the picture back to Colin. ‘You hang onto this. A keepsake. Hang it above your desk and use it to frighten the rest of the ground staff.’
    ‘Shouldn’t we tell the police about this?’ said Colin. ‘Finding your picture in the hole, I mean.’
    ‘No,’ said Zarco. ‘Don’t tell anyone about this or the press will be all over it. It’s bad enough that they know I’ve been asked to go on Strictly Come Dancing without them knowing about this, too. And don’t for Christ’s sake tell Mario Testino. He’ll have a fit.’
    ‘My wife loves that programme,’ confessed Colin. ‘You should go on it, boss.’
    ‘With all due respect to your wife, Colin, I’m a football manager not a fucking bandido burro .’
    He checked his phone once more. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘My builder – again. I swear that man calls me more than my wife.’
    Zarco had bought a house in Pimlico and was having extensive building work done, including a new façade designed by Tony Owen Partners from Sydney, Australia. The façade included an ultra-modern-looking Möbius window that had proved less than popular with Zarco’s neighbours and, of course, the Daily Mail . From the artist’s impression I’d seen in the newspaper the new façade looked to me like the J. P. Morgan Media Centre at Lord’s Cricket Ground.
    ‘That’s because your wife is at my house,’ I said. ‘To get some peace and quiet, not to mention some good sex. And to get away from you. She hates you just like everyone else.’
    ‘This architect was Toyah’s idea, not mine,’ said Zarco. ‘I tell her, you want a house that looks Australian then go and live in Australia. This is London. This is where I live, this is where I make my living.