January Window (31 page)

‘Pleased to meet you, gentlemen.’

‘Is Christoph Bündchen available to take the test?’ he asked politely.

‘I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding,’ I said. ‘You’ll be aware that João Zarco was murdered here yesterday afternoon, and that the police are here now. They’ve been interviewing the players and playing staff, and it’s beginning to look as if Mr Bündchen – who is German and doesn’t speak the best English – has confused the meeting he was supposed to have with you, to give a urine sample, with the meeting he had with police officers earlier on today. As far as we can determine he’s gone home. We’ve called him and left messages instructing him to return here as soon as possible. But so far without success.’

The DCO looked at his watch. ‘I understand what you’re saying, Mr Manson, but I have to inform you that the player was informed he would be subject to a drugs test today, and he has already signed a consent form; so unless the player presents himself for a test within the next ten minutes, he will be in breach of Part 1, Section 5A of the FA’s anti-doping regulations, and the penalties set out in Regulation 46 will apply to this violation.’

Simon opened a copy of the FA’s procedural guidelines that was lying on the station table and started to look for the relevant section.

‘I understand that,’ I said. ‘But it seems to me that some people might think it a little unreasonable not to cut someone a bit of slack under these extraordinary circumstances. It’s been a while since I read the regulations but I do think you ought to reconsider your position here.’

‘I’m afraid a breach is a breach. It’s for an FA disciplinary commission to decide on whether or not that breach is justified. At a formal hearing.’

‘I see.’

‘Fucking hell,’ said Simon, who always got more Yorkshire when he was angry and upset. ‘Have you seen the penalties in Regulation 46, boss? It’s a minimum one-year suspension for a first violation. One bloody year. Christ, that could end the German lad’s career. And all because of a silly misunderstanding. Listen here, Mr Hastings, you’ve got to be joking.’

‘I don’t think Mr Hastings is joking, Simon. He’s just doing his job, aren’t you, Mr Hastings?’

‘Yes, I am. I’m glad you see it that way, Mr Manson.’

‘And I think we all recognise the gravity of what might happen here.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Those regulations are there to uphold and preserve the ethics of sport, and to safeguard the physical health and mental integrity of players. Isn’t that right, Mr Hastings?’

‘That’s correct.’

I gestured towards the regulations in Simon’s hand. ‘May I?’

Simon sighed a sigh that sounded like there was a large dog in the room and passed them to me.

‘Aye, maybe so. All of that times ten with a cherry on top. But it’s still bloody unfair to the lad. And I say that as someone who’s hated the Krauts all his life.’

‘Why don’t you go and get us all some tea?’ I said to the big Yorkshireman.

‘Aye, perhaps I will.’

‘Sorry about that, Mr Hastings,’ I said, after Simon had gone. ‘He’s feeling a bit emotional right now. We all are.’

‘That’s quite understandable.’

‘I’m glad you said that.’

‘How long have we got before we’re in breach?’ I asked the DCO.

‘Seven minutes,’ he said.

I found the relevant section of the guidelines and considered it very carefully; I knew that Christoph’s whole career depended on what I said next.

‘“The failure or refusal by a Player without compelling justification to submit to drug testing after notification is prohibited,”’ I said, reading out the guidelines. ‘“The expression ‘compelling justification’ shall embrace, and shall only embrace, circumstances where it would be wholly unreasonable to expect a Player to submit to drug testing in the circumstances pertaining at the time, bearing in mind the limited commitment that this entails.”’

‘That’s right,’ said the DCO.

‘You know, Mr Hastings, I’m not a lawyer. But I’ve had considerable experience of the law, not all of it welcome, and I wonder if you’ve ever heard of the rules of natural justice.’

Hastings shook his head.

‘It’s a technical term for the rule against bias and the right to a fair hearing. And it does seem to me that the duty – your duty – to act fairly, trumps everything that the FA have written down here. I suggest that any court of law would think it more than a little unfair of you to come here today of all days, a day when we’re in mourning for our late manager, and a day when the police are conducting an inquiry which, with all due respect, would seem to take precedence over anything that the FA could fairly ask of us.

‘Having said all that, I’d have thought that there are not one but two very good reasons to support a compelling justification argument such as I’ve just described. And I haven’t even mentioned the special relationship that existed between the late Mr Zarco and Mr Bündchen. You see, it was Mr Zarco who brought young Christoph from Augsburg in Germany, and who gave him his big chance just the other night against Leeds United. Mr Bündchen is very upset. Perhaps more upset than any of the other players, I hardly like to mention this to you now – however, you leave me no choice. Earlier on, one of the police officers informed me that Christoph Bündchen wept when he was questioned about Zarco’s death. If I’m honest, I’m not in the least bit surprised that he’s forgotten that he was supposed to take a drugs test. It might save us all a lot of time and embarrassment if you were to take that into account.’

I’d said enough. In my mind I was already phoning Ronnie Leishmann and instructing him to start preparing the club’s legal case for the FA hearing – whenever that might be. I was thinking of Rio Ferdinand in 2003, and the eight-month ban he’d undergone for missing a drugs test, not to mention a fifty grand fine. Everyone in the game knew Rio was as straight as an arrow, but the farts on the FA still went ahead and busted him, making him ineligible for the 2004 European Championship in Portugal. Which the Greeks ended up winning. How did that happen?

‘I’ll be outside if you need me.’

In the corridor outside the drug-testing station I found Simon speaking agitatedly on the phone.

‘Where the fuck are you?’ Simon caught my eye and then handed me his phone. ‘It’s Christoph,’ he said. ‘Daft bugger says he’s at a fucking football match.’

‘Where the fuck are you?’ I yelled into the phone. I was speaking German now, in case I was overheard. When there are UKAD people about it’s best to be a little close-lipped. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages.’

‘I’m at Craven Cottage,’ said Christoph.

‘What the fuck are you doing there?’

‘I came to see Fulham play Norwich City, with a friend. It’s my local team.’

‘Don’t you ever answer your phone?’

‘I honestly didn’t hear it until half time.’

‘At Fulham? Don’t make me laugh. There’s never that much noise at Craven Cottage. The neighbours wouldn’t allow it.’

‘It’s true, boss. They’re four goals up.’

‘You must be on fucking drugs, son. Look, you know you’ve missed giving a urine test. That’s bloody serious, Christoph. You could be facing a ban.’

‘Yes, I know. And I’m really sorry, boss.’

‘The guys from UKAD are still here, debating your fate. In five minutes you might have a lot more time to watch football than you could ever have imagined.’

The door to the drug-testing station opened and the two officials from UKAD emerged.

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I think we’re about to learn if they’re going to cite you for a breach of the code, or not.’

I lowered the phone and waited, my heart in my mouth.

Mr Hastings looked at me and nodded what looked like his acquiescence. ‘Under these exceptional circumstances it’s been decided that no further action will be taken.’

I let out a sigh of relief and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thanks for being so reasonable, gentlemen.’

As the two UKAD officials left I almost punched the air and cheered; and so did Simon.

‘Blimey. What did you do, boss? Put a gun to his head? I felt sure that boy was fucked.’

It probably wouldn’t be the first time, I thought.

In German I said to Christoph: ‘Did you hear all that?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Did you forget about the UK doping people or are you just an idiot?’

‘I guess I’m just an idiot, boss.’

I frowned. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean? You mean you didn’t forget?’

‘I went to a friend’s birthday party in Soho on Thursday night, you see. A gay party. And by accident I took some tina. Someone slipped it into my drink, I think. For a laugh. At least, that’s what they told me. I mean, I really didn’t know until it was too late.’

‘What?’

So Christoph Bündchen hadn’t forgotten about the UKAD officials at all; he’d panicked and taken off because he knew he was guilty. I now realised just how close we’d been to an even bigger, Adrian Mutu-sized disaster; I hadn’t a clue what tina was but I assumed it must be a drug of some description and not the kind you could ever have argued was a cold remedy.

‘It was a soft drink, I swear. An orange juice.’

‘Oh, I guess that’s all right then.’

‘I’ve never taken that stuff before. It just happened. And when those two UKAD guys showed up at the dock this morning I freaked out, I guess. I promise it won’t happen again.’

‘You’re bloody right it won’t. And don’t tell me any more. Not another bloody word. But you are so fucking busted. See me in my office at Hangman’s Wood tomorrow morning after training and we’ll discuss your punishment. But I can tell you this: don’t expect to go home with any bollocks in your Y-fronts.’

I handed Simon back his phone.

‘What’s he got to say for himself?’ he asked.

Simon didn’t need to know. A trouble shared is never a trouble halved. Not in football and certainly not with a man like Simon who, in spite of his tall, handsome, silver-fox, appearance was possessed of a hard, gloomy, northern disposition. He wasn’t called Foggy for nothing. He had only one expression and that was stoic. Even his smile looked like ice forming on a line of gravestones. Born in Barnsley, he’d played football for Sheffield Wednesday, Middlesbrough, Barnsley and Rotherham United – hence what was truly surprising about him was that he should ever have left Yorkshire. This was entirely due to his much younger Venezuelan wife, Elke, whom he’d met on a trip to Spain where he had a holiday home – it was said that she’d refused to marry him unless he lived in London. I certainly couldn’t blame her for that. But Simon hated the south of England almost as much as he hated southerners, and to say he was one of football’s hard men was like describing the SAS as butch.

‘He said, “
Entschuldigung
”,’ I replied. ‘That’s just German for “I was a stupid cunt”.’

‘That’s what I thought it meant.’

I went back to my office where I found Maurice glued to the television set.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said.

I glanced at the screen. It was the weather report.

‘After what I just experienced I think I could believe anything,’ I said. ‘Even a warm sunny day in January.’

‘No. Wait a minute and the news will be on again. This is just priceless. The law’s only gone and arrested Ronan Reilly.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘I kid you not.’

‘For murder? No way.’

‘Dunno. They’re not saying. Apparently they went to Reilly’s house to interview him and he legged it out of the window. He was doing an O.J. down the drive when they nicked him.’

‘Maybe it was to do with something else.’

‘Let’s hope not, eh? And then we can get back to normal.’

A few moments later Reilly was on screen, being led to a police car in handcuffs. He’d looked better, even on the BBC; he was wearing a wife-beater and had a black eye. The famous scar on his forehead that was the result of a juvenile gang fight was even more pronounced than usual. He did at least seem like a murderer. There were guys in Wandsworth Prison who looked less obviously criminal than Ronan Reilly did.

Maurice laughed. ‘I never liked that cunt,’ he said.

‘Yes, you’ve made that clear before.’

‘And with good reason. He’s never had a decent word to say about this football club. Not ever. You think I’m exaggerating, boss, but I’m not. He hates us. Even before Zarco came back here he hated us. Every time he was on
MOTD
he was giving us stick for this and bad-mouthing us for that. I’m surprised he’s got the nerve to show his face in this ground.’

And then Detective Inspector Neville could be seen leaving Reilly’s home in Coombe Lane without answering any of the reporters’ questions.

‘Hold up,’ said Maurice. ‘That’s the copper who was here earlier on today.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Detective Inspector Neville.’

‘Blimey, maybe it really was Reilly that topped Zarco,’ said Maurice. ‘I mean, why run away if you’re not guilty?’

‘I can think of a few damned good reasons.’

‘Christ. Who’d have thought? Ronan Reilly a murderer.’

‘We don’t know for sure that’s what it’s about.’

‘What else could it be? They don’t arrest you for nothing, boss.’

‘That’s certainly not been my own experience.’

We waited a moment and then the Sky reporter mentioned the fight Reilly had had with Zarco at the BBC SPOTY and started to speculate that Reilly’s arrest might have something to do with the Portuguese manager’s death.

‘See?’ said Maurice. ‘He thinks so, too.’

‘Believe me,’ I said, ‘I’ve been there. Where Reilly is now, I mean. People jumping to conclusions. No smoke without fire. Guilty until proved innocent.’

‘Talk about Super fucking Sunday.’

‘You don’t know the half of it.’ I told him about the UKAD officials and how Christoph had narrowly escaped being busted. ‘What is tina, anyway?’

‘Crystal meth. Methamphetamine. Popular with PnP boys having a chem session.’

‘PnP?’

‘Party and play. Crystal meth’s a gay drug, popular in the clubs.’

‘How long would that stuff stay in your urine?’

‘Up to five days, I reckon. Ninety days if they were to use a hair-follicle test to look for it. Which they can, of course. Provided you’ve got a bit of hair – unlike him.’