January Window by Philip Kerr Read Free Book Online Page B

it aside.
    ‘How the fuck did they get in here?’ I said. ‘It’s supposed to be ticket only.’
    Colin shrugged. ‘They probably slipped in during the day, when the doors are open to the building contractors, and hid in the stadium.’
    ‘Building contractors? What are they doing?’
    ‘We’re having one of the bars refurbished,’ explained Maurice.
    I grunted. I could hear the internet joke now: thieves broke into Silvertown Dock to raid the trophy cabinet, but left empty-handed.
    ‘What kind of a bastard would do this, Scott?’ complained Colin.
    ‘Colin,’ I said. ‘How long have you been in the game? You know what some of these bastards are like. A rival team’s supporters could have done this. But with the results we’ve had since Christmas it could just as easily be our own fans – for fuck’s sake, our own lot aren’t exactly nice. Have you heard the kind of verbal poison that gets yelled from these terraces?’
    ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t a fox,’ observed Maurice. ‘I mean, I know foxes are cunning ’n’ all but I never saw one who could dig a nice rectangle like that. Not without a ruler.’
    ‘And as for you,’ I told Maurice, ‘sure it’s serious and a pain in the arse, but it could have waited until the morning, couldn’t it? I mean, it’s just a fucking hole in the ground.’
    Maurice McShane was a former solicitor who’d been disbarred for professional misconduct after it was found he’d used an anonymous account to tweet some insults about another barrister. He’d also been a successful amateur boxer, almost winning a bronze medal in the light heavyweight division at the 1990 Commonwealth Games in Auckland. Maurice was a good man to have around when someone was in a difficult spot, and as able to sort things with his fists as he was with a wad of cash. He said nothing; instead he took out his mobile phone and showed me a text he’d received from a reporter on the Sun :
    Mozza. Would you care to comment on the suggestion being made that the grave in the middle of your pitch is a Sicilian-style message for your prop, Viktor Sokolnikov, whose former partner, Natan Fisanovich, turned up in a shallow grave in 1996, having been buried alive? At least that’s what it said on Panorama . Gordon.
    There was a similar text from the Daily Mail ; and I dare say if I’d bothered to look at the texts arriving every minute on my own mobile phone I’d have found something along the same lines.
    ‘Would I like to comment?’ Maurice uttered a nervous laugh. ‘No, I fucking wouldn’t. Not particularly. Nor is it a conversation I’d feel comfortable about having with Viktor Sokolnikov. Especially as he’s suing the BBC because of what was said on Panorama . Isn’t that right?’
    ‘That’s what he told me.’
    I put a couple of pieces of Orbit in my mouth and started chewing fiercely as if I were about to do my imitation of Sir Alex Ferguson, which had become a very popular turn of mine on the team bus.
    ‘But I do think Viktor should know about this as soon as possible,’ said Maurice. ‘So he can respond to it in whatever way he thinks appropriate. You know him better than I do, Scott. And I’d prefer it if you or Zarco were to tell him what’s happened here. This is well above my pay-grade.’
    ‘Yes, I see your point.’ I glanced back at Detective Inspector Neville. ‘By the way, who brought him along and said he and his size fucking twelves could come here and walk on our grass?’
    ‘I’m afraid that was me,’ admitted Colin. ‘Sorry, Scott. I was so upset when I saw that hole. But it is criminal damage, so I thought I should tell them. I mean, we do want to catch the bastards who did this, right?’
    ‘Never ever bring the filth into this club without speaking to me, to Zarco, or to Phil Hobday first. Got that, Colin? Once you involve the filth in this club’s affairs it’s as good as sending an email to Fleet Street. Undoubtedly it was a copper who texted a