January Window by Philip Kerr Read Free Book Online Page A

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.’
    I picked up a spade, glanced at the initials on the handle: LCC and then tossed