‘Aye, but he’s got the best eye for the ball of any centre back I’ve seen. Not to mention shin bones like a couple of crowbars. Gary could take the legs off a bloody dining table.’
‘He’s certainly a fearsome-looking figure. Especially with his plate out. He always gives a new meaning to the phrase “man marking”.’
For a moment we were silent as we watched the players.
‘Prometheus is probably the most gifted player on the park right now,’ said Simon. ‘Everything he does comes naturally.’
‘Including being a cunt.’
‘True. Although he’s not been nearly so arrogant of late. Maybe it was Bekim’s death. Or maybe it’s just this place.’ Simon took a deep euphoric breath of air and nodded. ‘Smashing here, isn’t it?’
‘Apparently this training ground is named after a Greek poet.’
‘Aye, well, that’s easy to understand. If I had to look at that view every day I might write a poem myself.’
‘I think I’d like to read a poem by you,’ I said, wondering how many rhymes you could get for ‘fuck’ and ‘cunt’ which were, after all, the most frequent words in Simon’s Yorkshire vocabulary. ‘What’s the mood like without Bekim?’
‘Aye, well, that’s a question.’
He went back on the pitch for a minute, organised another exercise and then came back.
‘Now that we’ve lost our team Jesus,’ I said, ‘the other disciples are going to need inspiration.’
‘You what, boss?’
‘All teams need their own Jesus. Someone who can turn water into fucking wine, cure lepers and the blind, and raise the team from the dead when we’re having a mare. Bekim was ours. So, who’s the new team Jesus? That’s the real question, Simon. Gary is a good captain, but he’s not an inspiring figure. He’s a discipline. And as last lines of defence go, he’s the best. But he’s not someone who can look you in the eye and persuade you that he’s the answer to your prayers.’
Simon hummed and hawed an answer but in truth I already knew the answer to my own question. Before the pre-season window closed on 31 August I was going to have to persuade Vik to pay top money for the Hertha team captain, Hörst Daxenberger. With his long blond hair, blue eyes and beard, Daxenberger was the nearest thing to Jesus I’d seen outside a crappy Hollywood movie. But to get him to come to City we were going to have to beat Olympiacos and qualify for Champions League; if we could do that, it’d be the one thing we could offer him that Hertha couldn’t.
After the session was over I gathered the team and the playing staff around me in the warm sunshine and spoke to them.
‘I know you all miss your families so let me say right away that Vik’s lawyers haven’t given up trying to persuade the police to change their minds about keeping us here in Athens. But unless a miracle happens it looks like we’re remaining here for now. And let’s face it, things could be a lot worse. The lads from Panathinaikos couldn’t be more helpful and let’s make sure they always know how grateful we are to them. Meanwhile, the sun’s shining, the food is good and there’s a nice beach at the hotel. I suggest you get a nice tan, download a book, use the gym and lay off the duty-free because we have the small matter of a Champions League match next week. Not to mention a three-goal deficit.
‘So, I’ll tell you what we know and then I’d like to invite anyone who can shed some light on any aspect of this sad affair to speak up — without fear of discipline or me grassing them up to the local filth. I promise you there will be no fines and no bollockings for anyone who can add to the store of what we know. Because I believe our best chance of getting out of here is to approach this like a team. To pool any information that we might have. I know the cops have already asked you about this and I don’t know what you’ve told them, but I imagine it’s not much. Bekim was your team mate and you’re still looking out for him. I respect that. So am I. But this is me asking the questions now, not the cops. I want some answers.’
‘Are you planning to play the amateur sleuth again, boss?’ asked Gary. ‘Like at Silvertown Dock when you helped find out who killed Zarco?’
‘That’s one idea. The cops are still trying to find their arseholes right now, so why not? It can’t do any harm, can it? Now, as I’m sure you all know, Bekim rented girls like other people rent Boris bikes. Against team orders he had a girl back to his bungalow on Monday night, before the match. He fucked her six ways to Sunday, and the next day she was found at the bottom of the harbour with a kettlebell roped to her ankles. That’s why we’re being held here. The cops still don’t know who she was. The question is, do any of you? Did he offer to spit-roast her with you? Did you hear anything? Did you see anything? As far as I can see she was a blonde, with a blue dress, and a tattoo of a labyrinth on her shoulder. Russian probably. Liked footballers, fuck knows why.’
‘He told me he had a girl coming over to his bungalow,’ said Xavier Pepe. ‘And that she was something special. That she was Attica’s best-kept secret and the most beautiful woman in Athens.’
‘He actually used that phrase?’
Xavier nodded.
It was how Bekim had described Valentina before I had gone to Athens to see Hertha play Olympiacos.
‘Can you remember what time it was when he said this?’
‘It was after dinner,’ said Xavier. ‘About nine thirty.’
I took out my notebook and wrote this down, calculating that Bekim might actually have been expecting Valentina right up until the very moment when the other girl showed up — according to Chief Inspector Varouxis — at eleven o’clock.
‘I think I might even have reminded him that his bungalow was next to yours, boss. And that he’d better be careful or you’d have his bollocks for breakfast.’
‘And I would have done. So be warned. Anyone who thinks he might like a bit of local legover while we’re here had better think again. Local cunt is definitely off menu until this thing is resolved.’ I paused. ‘Is that it, Xavi?’
He nodded.
‘Anyone else?’ I paused. ‘What about this amulet that was found around his neck? Does anyone know anything about that? The detective I spoke to called it a hamsa. Apparently it resembles an open right hand. I’m pretty sure I never saw Bekim ever wear such a thing in England. And in spite of his attitude to my orders I’m quite sure he wouldn’t have taken lightly the risk of falling foul of a UEFA official in Greece. They’ve handed out yellow cards for less.’
‘I gave it to him.’ It was Denis Abayev, the team’s nutritionist — the man who had tried to lead everyone in prayer on the flight to St Petersburg when the plane had made an emergency landing.
‘But you’re the one Bekim accused of being a Muslim jihadi.’
‘Only because he was scared,’ explained Denis. ‘Besides, he apologised for what he said almost immediately, didn’t he? The hamsa is a good luck sign in the Middle East. It’s also supposed to provide protection against the evil eye. I’ve been meaning to mention it to you before but I didn’t like to, because you told me not to do anything religious near the players.’
‘So why did you?’
‘I gave him the hamsa to make him feel better. He might not have believed in God, but Bekim was superstitious. He told me he thought someone was trying to put the hex on him.’
‘What the fuck do you mean, “the hex”?’
Denis held up a little blue pendant that looked like a glass eye and handed it to me. ‘He found this hanging on the handle of the French windows outside his bungalow, the night we arrived.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a mati,’ said Denis. ‘An evil eye. They’re very common here; you can buy them on any street corner in Athens. As an evil eye against the evil eye. Or just to mess with someone’s head. And it did. Bekim was upset by it.’