‘I’m not. When did you last see Valentina?’
‘Not for a while.’ She shrugged. ‘There are so many girls doing this kind of thing in Greece since the recession that it’s hard to keep track of anyone. People drop out of the business all the time. But there’s no shortage of girls to take their place.’
‘One last question. Valentina’s clients. Did you ever see her with one?’
‘Maybe. But it’s not the kind of thing you talk about.’
‘Come on, Jasmine. It’s important.’
‘All right. I saw her with two clients. One was at a restaurant here in Athens called Spondi, with that footballer who died the other night: Bekim Develi. The other time she was getting into a man’s car. Outside here, as it happens. A nice car. A new black Maserati.’
‘Expensive.’
She shrugged. ‘Believe me, this guy — he can afford it.’
‘You recognised him? The client?’
Jasmine hesitated. Her eyes were on the money. ‘If I tell you who it was, you won’t say it was me who told you.’
I placed another fifty on the table. ‘Not a word.’
‘It was Hristos Trikoupis,’ she said.
‘The Olympiacos manager?’
She nodded.
‘Are you sure it was Hristos Trikoupis?’
‘Yes,’ she sneered. ‘It was him all right.’
‘You’re not a fan then?’
‘Of Olympiacos? No.’
‘Why? Because you support Panathinaikos?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘My boyfriend supports PAOK. He’s from Thessaloniki. Believe me, they hate Olympiacos just as much as those bastards from Panathinaikos.’
‘Football,’ I said. ‘Ninety minutes of sport and a Trajan’s Column of hatred and resentment.’
‘Is it any different in England?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.’
‘No, you’ve helped me a lot. Really, you have. You can take your money and go if you like.’
She gathered up the money and left.
27
The next morning I was outside the hotel at seven o’clock to find several journalists and TV crews waiting for me on what was left of the hotel’s marble steps. These looked as if someone had attacked them with a hammer.
‘What happened here?’ I asked the doorman.
‘Some people decided to throw some rocks at parliament last night,’ he explained. ‘So they used bits of our steps.’
‘You’re never getting the Elgin Marbles back. All right?’
I pushed my way through the scrum of microphones and cameras to where Charilaos was parked in the black Range Rover Sport, without giving any of the comments that first sprang into my mind.
‘Morning, Charilaos,’ I said. ‘It looks like the press have tracked me down again.’
‘Where are we going?’ he asked as I closed the door.
‘Apilion,’ I said. ‘Training session. Then Laiko General Hospital. Then back here at twelve for a meeting with Chief Inspector Varouxis.’
‘Okay, sir. And call me Charlie. Everyone does.’
We drove off. In the back seat were some of the Greek newspapers and on most of the front pages was a likeness of the dead girl as drawn by a police artist. He or she had managed to make her look like the princess from a Disney cartoon and it was hard to imagine that a member of the public seeing this sketch would be prompted to call the police — except to recommend another artist.
I tossed the Greek papers aside and, for a while, read The Times I’d downloaded onto my iPad. There were plenty of column inches about City’s plight in Athens. And now that UEFA had agreed for us to play our home match against Olympiacos at the ground of Panathinaikos, the story held even more interest that it had before.
‘Will you need me this afternoon, sir?’ asked Charlie.
‘I’m afraid so. I thought I’d go and see my opposite number. Hristos Trikoupis. To discuss next week’s match. I don’t suppose you’d know where I could find him this afternoon.’
‘You could always ring him up and ask,’ suggested Charlie.
‘I’d prefer him not to know I was coming.’
‘Olympiacos have a match on Sunday evening. Against Aris. Right now he’s probably at their training centre, in Rentis. You’ll find it’s very different from Apilion. Those red bastards have much more money.’
‘You’re not a fan, then, of Olympiacos.’
‘No, sir. I’ve been always been Panathinaikos. Ever since I was a kid.’
‘I envy you that, Charlie. You lose that devotion to just one team when you enter the world of professional football. Once you start playing for money you’re a gun for hire and it’s never the same again. Sometimes I think it would be nice just to follow a team; to be able to go and watch a game and be like everyone else, you know?’
‘Right now it looks like it’s us being followed, sir.’
I turned around in my seat.
‘That silver Skoda Octavia,’ he said. ‘It was parked outside the hotel when I arrived this morning. And I’ve been around the block twice just to make sure.’
‘Fucking journalists,’ I said. ‘When there’s a piece of shit around there’s always one of them there to peck at it.’
‘More like cops,’ said Charlie.
I turned around again.
‘How do you work that out?’
‘Because no one else in Athens wants to drive the same shitty car as the Hellenic Police. And because there are just two of them.’
‘If they’re cops, why the fuck are they following me?’
‘Without wanting to alarm you, it’s probably for your protection, sir. Now that it’s been announced in the newspapers that you’re playing the next leg against those red malakes in our stadium, there will be plenty of them who think you’ve made common cause with their most mortal enemies: the Greens. You might actually be in danger of being attacked yourself.’
‘That’s a comforting thought.’
Ten or fifteen minutes later we saw Mount Hymettus. The only clouds in the otherwise blue sky were collected on the undulating summit as if to shield the gods from the importunate eyes of men. I could have wished for such privacy; the press were also in full force outside the training ground and Charlie was obliged to slow the car to a crawl as we approached the gate.
The training session was already in progress; and Simon Page’s voice carried across the playing fields like a Yorkshire zephyr. No matter how many times I heard him explaining the purpose of a particular training exercise he always made me smile; this was no exception:
‘It was Edson Arantes do Nascimento, more usefully known to us as Pelé, who first described football as the beautiful game. Now in Brazilian football the sole of the foot is used to control the ball much more often than in England. Like this. Left to right. To left, to right. If it feels odd to you that’s good; that’s why we’re practising this. You can pass with the sole, you can dribble with the sole, you can check the ball with the sole. Most of what you see from Cristiano Ronaldo involves the sole of the boot. That boy can do more with the underneath of his foot than a fucking chimpanzee. So what I want to see now is you passing the ball from one sole to another, left to right to left. Slowly at first with one leg planted on the floor, and then, running on the spot, left to right to left. Nice and wide. Okay. Off you go. Don’t look at the fucking ball, Gary. Keep your heads up. If this was a fucking game you’d be looking for someone to pass to. Even a greedy bugger like you, Jimmy.’
Seeing me, Simon walked over to the touchline and with arms folded watched our players as they continued with their technical training.
‘If you can get Gary Ferguson to play like a Brazilian I’ll eat your England cap,’ I said. ‘He’s got the ball skills of Douglas fucking Bader.’