‘Not that particular bus, sir. But another quite like it. That’s why the girls got on in the first place. They thought it was a regular city bus.’
‘And the other thing?’
‘You have to remember about Panathinaikos and Olympiacos — they are the eternal enemies. This is a typical story for Athens and Piraeus since the Peloponnesian War, in four hundred BC. So then. On the Reds’ website, they have a fan forum called the Shoutbox. And many Reds fans say the same thing: that the Athens police protected someone who was also involved in these murders because they support the Greens. That Hannibal’s accomplice was allowed to go free.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘Of course, that’s a load of crap. Varouxis would never have done such a thing. I know this man. He is honest. Very honest.’
A few minutes later we pulled up outside a fairly unremarkable if large restaurant a stone’s throw from the Karaiskakis Stadium in Piraeus. Several cars were parked outside, including a black Maserati Quattroporte, which, I presumed, belonged to Hristos Trikoupis.
‘Is that it?’
‘That is Dourambeis,’ said Charlie. ‘So, what now?’
I told him what Jasmine had told me about the Maserati.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Wait here, sir. I go and take a look.’
He got out of the Range Rover, walked across the road to the restaurant and then went inside. A minute or so later he came outside again, bent down to look through the windows of the Maserati, and then trotted back to the passenger window of the car.
‘I couldn’t see him in the restaurant,’ he said through the open window. ‘But there are lots of private rooms in that place so he could be in one of them. There’s a pass for the car park at Agios Ioannis Rentis on the windscreen. And a copy of Sir Alex Ferguson’s autobiography on the front seat. It must belong to Trikoupis.’
‘All right. Now we wait.’
Charlie lit a cigarette and made a phone call after which he told me that the English woman who had been attacked by Hannibal Leventis was called Sara Gill, and that she was from a place called Little Tew in Oxfordshire. This prompted me to make a phone call of my own.
To Louise.
‘It’s me. Can you talk?’
‘Yes. But not for long. I miss you, Scott.’
‘I miss you, too, angel.’
‘You’re in all the English newspapers.’
‘Me, or just the team?’
‘Mainly the team. And Bekim. Some people have said some very nice things about him. It almost makes me believe what you say, Scott: that it’s more than just a game; that it’s a way for people to come together.’
Except in Greece, I thought. And perhaps Glasgow.
‘But you look tired in the photographs.’
‘I could be worse. How’s Bekim’s girlfriend?’
‘In a coma, probably brain-damaged. The cocaine stopped her heart and her brain was starved of oxygen for at least half an hour.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I’m glad you’ve called. I was just about to text you. I’ve got a friend — an ex-copper called Bill Wakeman — who works for the Sports Betting Intelligence Unit. It’s part of the Gambling Commission. He’s asked me for your number. Can I give it to him, Scott? He’s a good man and you can rely on him.’
‘If you say so.’
‘He reckons they’re investigating a series of big bets on your match against Olympiacos. A big punter in Russia won an awful lot of money betting against you the other night.’
‘What’s that got to do with the Gambling Commission if it happened in Russia?’
‘Some of the bookmakers who might be affected are based here in the UK.’
‘So what does he want from me?’
‘To talk. Pick your brains. I imagine he wants to know if the match could have been fixed.’
‘Not by me. But look, given what happened, is that the same thing as asking me if Bekim Develi could have been murdered?’
‘I don’t know. Is it?’
‘I watched him die in front of me, Louise. It was a heart attack. The same thing happened to Fabrice Muamba when he was playing for Bolton against Spurs, in March 2012. I don’t know how you can bet on something like that.’
‘Just speak to him, will you? For me?’
‘All right. Look there’s something you can do for me, as it happens. I want you to find a woman called Sara Gill. Last known to be living in Little Tew in Oxfordshire. It seems that about four or five years ago she was attacked here in Athens by a fellow named Thanos Leventis. He’s now doing life on three counts of murder. I’d like to know everything she can remember about what happened that night. And in particular if anyone else was involved.’
She tutted loudly. ‘You’re not playing detective again, are you?’
‘Why do people always call it “playing”? I’m not playing at anything. It’s a serious business, detective work.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘Besides, the sooner I find out what happened here the sooner I can come home to you, baby.’
‘Just as long as you do. I’ll see what I can do.’
I finished my call with a sigh and chucked the phone onto the seat.
‘You can put the radio on, if you like, Charlie.’
‘I’ve got a better idea, sir. Why don’t you go to sleep, sir. I’ll keep watch. Remember, I’m Greek. I have fourteen eyes.’
I wasn’t exactly sure what this meant; but I settled back in the seat of the Range Rover and closed my eyes as instructed, and let my mind turn to thoughts of a perfect football world in which the future was always better than the past. I dreamed of Bekim Develi scoring audacious goals that were composed of absolute sorcery, and then celebrating in his primal, triumphant way — not that thumb-sucking tribute to his son, but, like the great god Zeus that sometimes he seemed to be, about to hurl a well-deserved thunderbolt at visiting fans.
31
At Southampton, Hristos Trikoupis and myself had both played in defence, first for Glenn Hoddle and then wee Gordon Strachan. I don’t know why Glenn isn’t managing a club these days. Glenn kept the Saints in the Premier League against all odds; he bought me from Palace, and more controversially he bought Hristos Trikoupis from Olympiacos. Controversially because Hristos had led a player revolt against the manager of the Greek national team before Euro 2000. By all accounts he made Roy Keane and Nicolas Anelka look like teacher’s pets. We played well together; I won’t say we were Steve Bould and Tony Adams but we were pretty solid. Hristos was everything you’d want from a right back: tall, with a head like a hammer, and the unquestioning and ruffianly air of a professional hit man. I was always surprised that it should have been me who went to Arsenal and not him. Maybe that’s what’s driving how he feels about me now; I don’t know. I went to Arsenal; he went to Wolves. I never asked how he felt about me going to the Gunners. And after I left the Saints I didn’t speak to him again until the night Bekim died.
He was better groomed now; he’d let his fair hair grow and put on a little bit of weight which looked good on him. He walked out the restaurant, wearing a navy blue suit and a crisp white shirt open to his hairy navel; the woman with him was very thin with long brown hair and wore a layer-effect dress that made her look like Victoria Beckham. I recognised her: Nana Trikoupis, singer and former Eurovision contestant. She came sixteenth with a song called ‘Play a Different Love Song’ which Terry Wogan had amusingly renamed, ‘Sing a Different Song, Love.’
They got into the black Maserati and drove off.
‘That’s him,’ said Charlie, starting the car. ‘And that’s her, too. Queen Sophia. It’s what the Greek newspapers call his bitch of a wife. Because she’s such a terrible snob.’
‘We’ve met. I went to their wedding. She threw a glass of champagne over the best man when he’d finished his speech.’ I grinned. ‘I guess back in 2002 WAG wasn’t such a common term. Apparently she thought he’d called her a wog.’