Hand of God (26 page)

‘Where have you been?’ asked Eva Pyromaglou. ‘I’ve been calling you for the last hour.’

I was back at the Astir Palace, back in my bungalow, with an hour to kill before I went on the team bus to see the Panathinaikos game, answering emails and examining the contents of Bekim Develi’s Louis Vuitton Keepall. I don’t know why I should have found it shocking that Bekim had worn Frigo No. 1 underwear, but I did; actually, I know perfectly well why I found this shocking: Frigo No. 1s are a hundred quid a pair.

‘I was on a boat,’ I said.

‘Me, I’ve spent the whole morning in the lab on this when I should have been looking after my son.’

I didn’t answer; I was getting used to Greeks complaining about one thing or another. If you let them they’ll even complain about the Romans and how they nicked everything from Greece – and that was two thousand years ago.

‘What have you got for me, doctor?’

‘You mentioned a bonus, Mr Manson?’

I laughed. ‘You should play football.’

‘Like I told you, I have a son who needs expensive medication.’

‘Actually, you didn’t tell me that, but what the hell. I said another five hundred if you found something. Did you find something?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll send the money round by courier. This morning. All right?’

I was beginning to see the problems you might have if you lived in Greece. Everything in the country had a barcode and the only unexpected item in the bagging area was something for nothing.

‘That would be quite satisfactory,’ she said, briskly. ‘So then; I have a name for you. Nataliya Matviyenko, aged twenty-six, bra size 32AA. Her implants were done at a clinic in Thessaloniki about two years ago. She paid cash.’ Eva sighed. ‘About five thousand euros.’

‘Did you find an address?’ I said.

‘Yes. It’s in Piraeus, at an apartment building on Dimitrakopoulou. That’s less than a kilometre from where her body was found in Marina Zea. There was seawater in her lungs consistent with drowning, also some diesel. Again that’s consistent with where she was found. I found traces of a lubricant in her anus – but no semen – and cocaine in her blood. If there had been any traces of semen in her mouth or her vagina the seawater would almost certainly have destroyed it; saltwater has a radical pH and is a highly effective antibiotic. I also found traces of epinephrine. My guess – and it’s just a guess – is that she was probably on antidepressants. Lots of these girls are. Although why I don’t know; they should try working in a Greek hospital.’

‘Anything else?’

‘About her? No, that’s it, I’m afraid. I’m emailing you all this right now. My address is on this email, so please remember what I said. I don’t want the cops having sight of any of my findings.’

‘If only you knew how much I disliked the police, you wouldn’t worry about that, love.’

I glanced at my Mac as an email with a Greek suffix appeared in my Inbox.

A moment later I heard a knock at the door of my bungalow.

‘I’ve got to go. Thanks a lot, doc. I’ll send your money right away. But call me if you think of anything else that might help.’

I tapped the call off and opened the door, half expecting the maid, but instead it was Simon Page with his training report and a list of possible injuries. His eyes were as bright as marble in his tanned face.

‘There’s a slim possibility that Ayrton Taylor will be fit again for Wednesday. I fucking hope so because the Nigerian lad, Prometheus – he just doesn’t seem interested in playing football right now. I’ve tried putting a rocket up his arse, but he just gives me such a look of dumb insolence that it makes me want to smack him in the mouth. At least I think it’s dumb insolence. I’ve got a terrible feeling that he’s just dumb. Seriously, I watched him trying to pull his fucking jeans on this morning and he managed to get his feet caught in all those bloody chains on his belt and fall flat on his arse like a right spaz. If he struggles with getting his kegs on, how’s he going to understand the difference between 4-4-2 and 4-3-3? He’ll think they’re both fucking ten and leave it that.’

‘Don’t worry about him,’ I said. ‘We’ve had a very constructive talk about everything, he and I. I talked, and he listened. I could be wrong, Simon – and I sometimes am – but I think everything will be fine with that lad now. At least it will be when he finds out which fucking pocket I put his bollocks in. Anyway, he’s not as dumb as you think he is. I think he might actually be quite smart.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said the big Yorkshireman.

My phone rang again. I didn’t recognise the number, but I answered it anyway. In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t; Simon heard every word.

‘Mr Manson?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Francisco Carmona. From Orientafute.’

Orientafute – or Representação Sports e Agência de Orientação – was the largest agent-servicing company for footballers and football managers in Europe; and Francisco Carmona was its rapacious Brazilian founder. He’d made deals with all the big clubs and was rumoured to have made a twelve million euro fee on the summer transfer of Getúlio to Real Madrid for 125 million euros – the largest fee ever pocketed by a football agent.

‘I was very sorry to hear about Bekim Develi. He was a great player. A good man.’

‘Yes he was.’

‘Look, I’m going to be in Athens on Monday and if you’re still there I was wondering if we might meet up and have a talk.’

‘Mr Carmona. I don’t know how you got this number but I have no interest in speaking to you now or at any time in the future. I have an agent already, thank you.’

‘No problem. But if you change your mind, I’ll be staying at the Astir Palace hotel.’ I ended the call and shook my head.

‘Fucking Frank Carmona. I’ll bet he’s here to try and tap up some of our lads.’

‘Aye, there’s nothing players like more than someone telling them how much they could earn at another club.’

I could tell Simon thought that this might include football managers as well, but for once he was too diplomatic to say so.

‘Nothing we can do about it,’ I said. ‘The transfer window doesn’t close for another week.’

‘Did you speak to Vik about replacing Bekim?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Christ, I’m fed up of being here,’ said Simon. ‘I never thought I’d say this, but I wish we were back in London.’

‘I’m working on that.’

‘With all due respect to you, boss, that doesn’t exactly fill me with fucking optimism. Finding Zarco’s killer back home was one thing, but this is Greece. They do things differently here.’

‘Just as often they don’t do them at all, Simon. That’s really the point of what I’ve been up to these past few days. Or maybe you thought I was just seeing the sights. Checking out the Acropolis and the Parthenon. Setting up a secret meeting with Francisco Carmona, perhaps.’

‘It’s none of my fucking business what you do in your spare time, boss.’

‘Well, I’m not. Really. I’ve never spoken to that shite hawk before.’

‘I believe you. Listen, boss. There’s something I have to tell you. Last night I was chatting with this English bloke at the hotel who’s got a mate who has a local radio show. Fellow called George Hajidakis. I think it’s the Greek equivalent of TalkSport. Anyway this bloke – Kevin, his name is – he told me that Hajidakis had said that Olympiacos aren’t taking any chances next Wednesday. He reckons they’ve already bought the referee. He’s Irish.’

‘Look, Simon, the Greeks are always calling foul. About the only thing they can agree on is that someone else’s club are a bunch of cheats.’

‘Yes, but this bloke told me that George Hajidakis was going to mention the bent Irish ref on the show till he had the shit beaten out of him by two heavies with brass knuckles. He’s in hospital now.’

‘Saying it and knowing it are two things. But proving it to the satisfaction of UEFA is something else. Christ, those bastards fined José Mourinho more than fifty thousand euros when he was at Madrid just for suggesting that you’ve got no chance of a fair match against Barcelona. So you’ll excuse me if I keep my fucking mouth shut, Simon. If your friend
is
right and they have bought the ref then we’ll just have to play around that, like a dog turd in the goal mouth.’ I shook my head. ‘Forget it. I don’t need this right now.’

‘You’re a cool bastard, Scott Manson, and no mistake. I tell you the referee has probably been bought and you just shrug it off like a cheap raincoat. So you’re saying we just ignore it, or what?’

‘Seriously, Simon, we’ve got enough grief in Greece without adding to it. In case you’d forgotten we’re not allowed to leave the country. The team is effectively under open arrest with one of our number suspected of having had a hand in a girl’s murder.’

‘The tart. Right.’

‘Now keep this to yourself but I managed to find out her name. I’m going to call that lawyer now and tell her.’

‘I see. Want me to leave?’

‘No. I’d rather you didn’t. If something happens to me then it’s best there’s someone else who knows her name, too. Someone English.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Only that I don’t really know what the fuck I’m doing, or what the fuck I’m getting myself into here. It could be that this is more dangerous than I thought it was.’

I called Dr Christodoulou on speakerphone so Simon could hear our conversation, and told her the name of the girl; but I didn’t tell her what I had in my mind to do next.

‘How did you find this out?’ she asked.

‘Never mind.’

‘You know that it’s a crime to withhold information in a murder inquiry,’ she said. ‘Even in Greece. By rights I should really inform Chief Inspector Varouxis. I could be disbarred.’

‘Just hold off for a little while,’ I told her. ‘At least until I’ve had a chance to follow up on this.’

‘All right. But only until Monday, right?’

‘Sure. How is it going with your own enquiries? Did you manage to find out anything about Svetlana Yaroshinskaya?’

‘Not yet. Like you said, it’s the weekend. Most Greeks don’t work on a Saturday.’

I was half inclined to ask her on which particular day they did work but thought it would have sounded rude.

‘All right. Give me a call when you have something.’

I hung up and looked at Simon.

‘That gives me less than forty-eight hours.’

He frowned.

‘To find out who killed her and why.’

‘Maybe you should leave this alone,’ he said. ‘We don’t need you getting yourself murdered, boss. Right now you seem to be the only one who’s in with a shout of getting us all home. Just be careful, okay? I’ve already had one bugger die on me while we’ve been here. I don’t want another.’

Panathinaikos arranged for a coach to take us to their match against OFI at Leoforos, which was what the locals called the Apostolos Nikolaidis Stadium. As it pulled away from the Astir Palace hotel I walked to the back of the bus and peered out of the back window to see if there was a silver Skoda Octavia on our tail. When I saw that there was I smiled; it’s always nice to be proved right about something. Especially when it’s the cops.

I sat down and closed my eyes. It felt fantastic to be going to a football game, even one we weren’t actually playing. The only pity was that I wasn’t going to see the game itself. I had other plans that afternoon. The mood on the coach was boisterous to say the least, with Gary Ferguson leading not just the team these days but its sense of humour, too, even though his jokes were more obvious than any new hair on the front of his head.

‘Look at the state of this country,’ he complained as the coach roared north. ‘Shops boarded up. Roads left unrepaired. Squeegee guys everywhere. People say it’s the credit crunch, whatever the fuck that is. I’ve been watching the Bloomberg Channel every day in my room since I got here to find out what happened to this bloody place.’ The idea of Gary glued to Bloomberg got a laugh all of its own. ‘That’s the financial channel with all these wee numbers on the bottom of the screen. To be honest when I first saw them I thought they were the final scores but it turns out they’re stocks and shares, shite like that. Anyway, take it from me, lads, you won’t find any of the answers on Bloomberg as to why they’ve had such a bad recession here. You want to find out what went wrong take my advice and watch some Greek porn channels. They explain everything. Quite simply everyone in Greece is fucked.’

More laughter.

‘As a matter of fact, that’s why I feel so at home in this shithole. This country makes the coffee for fucking Germany in the same way that Scotland makes the tea for England. But I reckon the Greeks could teach the Scots a few things about doing fuck all for a living.’

I always loved listening to Gary riff about stuff. Maybe he did have a future career in television after all, as a comedian. But after a while, something else began to creep to the edge of my mind and crouch there like a guy in a high-viz jacket at the end of a match, as if he was expecting trouble, and, much as I would have preferred it, I could hardly ignore it. I got up and sat behind the coach driver. He was in his sixties, I thought; lots of white hair, big sunglasses, skin like leather, Nikos Galis T-shirt (Nikos Galis was a Greek basketball player), BO like the last towel in a sauna and tobacco-plantation breath.

At the next red light I put a slightly damp twenty on the dashboard in front of him.

‘I was wondering if you knew Thanos Leventis.’ I paused, and then added: ‘Hannibal Leventis?’

‘I knew him.’ He shook his head. ‘It was really terrible what he did. I’ll be honest with you, sir, I didn’t think he was the type. I mean, you have to be crazy to do what he did, right? But he wasn’t crazy at all. Not even bad. He was just ordinary.’

I stayed silent for a moment as he manoeuvred the coach around a difficult corner. Then I said: ‘There was some talk that Leventis didn’t act alone. That he had an accomplice.’

‘Yes, sir. That’s what one of the victims said. But the police judged her evidence to be unreliable, apparently. She was badly beaten up, of course. I suppose it’s why they didn’t think she could be relied on as a witness.’

I knew a bit about unreliable evidence myself.