Philip Kerr 16 страница

‘I know Russians much better than I know football, ’ said Svetlana. ‘They certainly wouldn’t allow the small matter of medical disclosure to affect a big payday. Not just his previous club, but Bekim, too. He was really delighted to go and play for a big London club. Russians love London. ’

‘So they must have colluded in the deception, ’ I said. ‘Him and Dynamo. ’

‘Why not? ’ said Svetlana. ‘Your own doctor probably just asked him a simple question. Are you allergic to anything? And all he had to do was answer was a simple “no”. ’

I took a long hit on the cigarette and then put it out; the flavour brought back strong memories of prison when a single fag can taste as good as a slap‑ up meal in a good restaurant. I said: ‘The more important question now is what Bekim’s EpiPens were doing in Nataliya’s handbag? ’

Svetlana didn’t answer. She lit another cigarette. We both did. There was much to think about and all of it unpleasant.

‘This is serious, isn’t it? ’ she said after a while.

‘I’m afraid so. If Nataliya took his pens it must have been because she was paid to do it. ’

‘By who? ’

‘I don’t know. But forty‑ eight hours ago this guy from the Sports Betting Intelligence Unit – part of the Gambling Commission back in England – asked me if Bekim could have been nobbled. In spite of what I told him, it’s beginning to look as though he might have been. ’

‘Nobbled? What does it mean? ’

‘It means fixed. Interfered with. Doped, like a horse. Poisoned. ’

I tried to remember the late lunch we’d all had at the hotel, prepared by our own chefs according to the guidelines laid down by Denis Abayev, the team nutritionist: grilled chicken with lots of green vegetables and sweet potato, followed by baked apple and Greek yoghurt. Nothing to worry about there. Not even for someone with an allergy to chickpeas. Unless someone had deliberately introduced some chickpeas into Bekim’s meal.

‘He must have eaten something with chickpeas in it before the match, ’ I said. ‘There’s no other explanation. ’

‘Okay, let’s work this out. How long before the match did you have lunch?

‘Three or four hours. ’

‘Then that can’t have been it. When you have an allergy it’s almost instantaneous. He’d have gone into anaphylaxis the minute he ate the stuff. On planes they’ll sometimes tell you that they’re not serving nuts just in case a person who suffers from an allergy should inhale a tiny piece. ’

‘Yes, you’re right. Which makes you realise that for someone who has got an allergy a nut or a chickpea can be as powerful as a dose of hemlock. ’

‘And anyway, ’ she asked, ‘why would someone do such a thing? ’

‘Simple. Because on the night that Bekim died, someone in Russia took out a very big in‑ play bet on the match we played. These days, people will bet on anything that happens during a match: ten‑ minute events, the time of the first corner, the next goal scorer, the first player to come off – anything at all. It means that someone from Olympiacos, or someone from Russia, must have nobbled Bekim somehow. A ten‑ minute event like Bekim scoring and then being taken off. That must be it. ’

‘Nobbled. Yes, I understand. ’

I looked at my iPhone but as before there was no signal. ‘Shit, ’ I muttered. ‘I really need to make some calls. ’

‘You can’t, ’ she said. ‘Not up here. But I could drive you into Naoussa where there’s a pretty good signal at the Hotel Aliprantis. I have a friend there who’ll let us use the internet, as well. If you think it’s necessary. ’

‘I’m afraid I do. Svetlana, if I’m right, it wasn’t just Nataliya who was murdered, it was Bekim, too. ’

Naoussa was a very typical little Greek town by the sea, with lots of winding, cobbled streets, low white buildings, and plenty of tourists, most of them English. The air was humid and thick with the smell of cooked lamb and wood smoke from many open kitchen‑ fires. Jaunty bouzouki music emptied out of small bars and restaurants and in spite of the English voices you would not have been surprised to have seen an unshaven Anthony Quinn step‑ dancing his way around the next corner. A line of Greek pennants connected one side of the little main square to the other and behind a couple of ancient olive trees was a taverna belonging to the Hotel Aliprantis.

The minute we entered the place I got a five bar signal on my iPhone and the texts and emails started to arrive like the scores on a pinball machine; before long there was a little red 21 on my Messages app, a 6 on my Mail app but, mercifully, fewer voicemails. As Svetlana led me through the restaurant and into the little hotel’s tiny lobby I uttered a groan as life began to catch up with me again. But worse still, I’d been recognised by four yobs drinking beer and all looking as pink as an old map of the British Empire. It wasn’t long before the innocent holiday atmosphere of the Aliprantis was spoiled as they struck up with a typically English sporting refrain:

He’s red,

He’s dead,

He’s lying in a shed,

Develi, Develi.

and, just as offensive, although I’d heard half of this one before:

Scott, Scott, you rapist prick,

You should be locked up in the nick,

And we don’t give a fuck about Bekim Develi,

That red Russian cunt with HIV.

Svetlana spoke Greek to the hotel manager, a big swarthy man with a beard like a toilet brush, and then introduced me to him. We shook hands and as he led us both up to his office where I could make some calls in private and send some emails I was already apologising for what I could very clearly hear through the floorboards. Somehow, in the frustrating week I’d spent in Greece, I’d forgotten that when they wanted to be, a few English supporters could be every bit as unpleasant as the worst from Olympiacos or Panathinaikos. That’s football.

‘I’m sorry about that, ’ I said.

‘No, sir, it is me who is sorry that you and your team should have had such poor hospitality while you are in Greece. Bekim Develi would often have a drink in here. And any friend of Bekim Develi’s is friend of mine. ’

‘I ought to have realised I might be recognised. I should go. Before there’s any trouble. ’

‘No, sir, I tell them to leave. You stay here, make your telephone calls, get your emails, I fix those bastards. ’

‘All right, ’ I said. ‘But on one condition. That I pay for their meal. ’ I laid a hundred euro note on the desk in the office. ‘That way, when you tell them to leave, they’ll think they had a free meal and just clear off without any trouble. ’

‘Is not necessary. ’

‘Please, ’ I said. ‘Take it from me. This really is the best way. ’

‘Okay, boss. But I bring you something to drink, yes? ’

‘Greek coffee, ’ I said.

The manager glanced at Svetlana who asked for some ouzo.

I picked up the iPhone and started to read my texts.

Downstairs, the singing in the restaurant had stopped and moved outside where it continued for a while longer. I went to the window and looked out on the square and watched the four culprits as they sat on the edge of a fountain in front of the Blue Star Ferries office, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. One of them was wearing a T‑ shirt with a Keep Calm and Carry On slogan; another was wearing one that I’d seen almost as many times: Lookin’ to Score BRAZIL. They stayed there for a while and then, to everyone’s relief, left.

I picked up the iPhone and started to listen to my voicemails but these were just some of the same people and messages – more or less – as the ones who’d texted me already. There wasn’t enough bandwidth to download the document that Prometheus had attached to his email; the rest were unimportant. I called my dad to reassure myself that he really was okay; then I called Louise.

‘Hey, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you arrived, ’ I said. ‘I should have met you at the airport. ’

‘That’s all right. Where are you? I was getting worried. ’

‘On the island of Paros. ’

‘Paros? What are you doing there? ’

‘I came to Bekim Develi’s house to check out a few things. I’m glad I did because things are a lot clearer to me than they were before. ’

‘So are you finished down there, Sherlock? ’

‘Yes, but I’m sorry, baby, I’m not going to be able to get back to Athens until tomorrow morning. There just isn’t a flight. ’

I heard some laughter in the background.

‘Where are you anyway? ’ I asked.

‘On Viktor Sokolnikov’s yacht, ’ she said. ‘He invited me for dinner. Wait a minute. He wants to speak to you. ’

There was a longish pause and then Viktor came on the line.

‘Scott? What are you doing on Paros? You should be here with your girlfriend. ’

I told him what I’d just told Louise.

‘Paros is only half an hour away from here, ’ he said. ‘I’ll send the helicopter for you right now. Drive to the Hotel Astir on the north coast where I happen to know there’s a helipad we can use. I’ll have it come and pick you up. You can be here within the hour. ’

‘There’s no need to go to all that trouble. ’ I was keen to see Louise again but somewhat mortified that I’d forgotten that she was coming to Athens; I was also nervous about the idea of taking a night‑ time flight in a helicopter. ‘I can catch the plane back to Athens tomorrow. ’

At the same time I knew it was wiser to return to the mainland as soon as possible. I could hardly delay telling the police what I knew for much longer. Not only that but the Wi‑ Fi on The Lady Ruslana was as quick as any on the mainland and I was keen to read the email from Nataliya’s outbox. I had a feeling it would be a key piece of evidence in identifying her murderer.

‘Nonsense, ’ said Vik, ‘it’s no trouble at all. ’

‘Are you sure? ’

‘Of course, I’m sure. Look, you can both spend the night here on the yacht. And the tender will take you back to shore in the morning. Okay? Besides, I want to talk about this German guy, Hö rst Daxenberger. And Kojo’s goalkeeper, Mandingo. And then you can tell me everything you’ve discovered since you put on your deerstalker hat and lit your favourite Meerschaum. ’

We got back into Svetlana’s car and drove slowly out of the town of Naoussa, west around the bay, towards Kolymbithres and the Astir Hotel’s helipad. There was plenty of time. The hotel was less than five miles away and the only thing causing traffic on the road were the geckos.

‘I know the guy from Loukis Rent‑ a‑ Car, ’ she said. ‘I’ll drive over there in the morning and tell him to come and fetch the car from my place. Zoi will lock up, of course. She’s very reliable. ’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t have the guts to tell her that Bekim is dead. ’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell her. What’s going to happen, do you think? To the house? ’

‘I’ve really no idea, ’ I said. ‘I’m sorry I have to leave so suddenly. I haven’t been here for very long, but I can easily see why you are. It’s a beautiful island. And look, I promise to do everything I can to keep your name from the police, Svetlana. But to do that I may need to speak to you again. So, tomorrow and for the next few days, will you make sure you go back to the Aliprantis, or somewhere that you can collect your texts and emails? ’

‘Okay. I promise. ’

I squeezed her hand on the gear stick.

We had driven about two miles from Naoussa when I recognised two men on the road, trying to hitch a lift. I glanced at the big Hublot on my wrist; it told me there was just enough time for a bit of payback.

‘Pull up, ’ I told her. ‘I know those two guys. ’

‘They’re the hooligans from the town? ’

‘Two of them, anyway. ’

‘Please, Scott, I don’t think this is a good idea. ’

‘Actually, it’s an excellent idea, ’ I said. ‘All the same, stay in the car and if they come after you, don’t wait for me, just drive away. Okay? ’

Svetlana said nothing.

‘I mean it. Just drive off. Don’t think twice about it. ’

I took off my watch, laid it carefully on the dashboard, buttoned my shirt to the neck and got out of the car; the road was empty and there was no one about, which suited my purpose. In the distance I could just make out the blue glow of what was likely the Hotel Astir’s floodlit swimming pool. And somewhere far away – possibly the same place – there was music: it sounded like Pharrell Williams. The two men were already running to where we were parked under a twisted olive tree thinking that they’d landed a ride home. But they stopped when they realised exactly who and what they were hurrying to.

I walked towards them in the moonlight, clapping my hands and singing a song to the tune of ‘Cwm Rhondda’; a joyous, taunting song you could hear at every football ground, on any match day in the season.

‘You’re not singing any more. You’re not singing any more. ’

The one wearing the Lookin’ to Score BRAZIL T‑ shirt was about six feet tall, heavy‑ set, with a gold chain around his pink neck and so much golden stubble on his mug it looked like a newly harvested wheat field. The other one – the one wearing the Keep Calm and Carry On T‑ shirt was taller and thinner, his mouth as thin as a slash in a potato, his forehead curled up into a knuckle of irritation and concern. He tossed away his cigarette without a thought for the forest fires that often ravage that part of the world; he deserved a smack just for that. The best and the brightest they weren’t; but they looked tough enough.

‘We’re not looking for any trouble, mate, ’ he said.

‘No? ’

‘No. We’re not. ’

‘You should have thought of that when you were back in the town, ’ I said. ‘I didn’t like what you were singing. It’s fuckers like you that give English football a bad name. Who spoil it for decent people. But I’m not here for me. I’m here for my friend, Bekim Develi. My friend didn’t like your singing either. ’

‘Listen, Manson, get back in your fucking car and drive on, you stupid black cunt. ’

I grinned; any doubts I’d had about what I was going to do were now removed.

‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do. ’ All this time I kept walking towards the pair. ‘Just as soon as this black cunt has sorted you out. ’

The one thing I learned in the nick was how to fight like you mean it; that’s the only way you can fight when you’re in the nick. It’s not the kind of fighting that you see hooligans getting up to in the street, if that can even be called fighting at all. That’s the same way chimpanzees fight and most of it is just for show; they run at each other, shove a bit and shout and then stop, take a few steps back and then run at each other again, egging everyone else on, looking to see who’s really up for it, where the weaknesses are and, as a corollary, where to attack first. But in the nick you go in fast – before a screw has a chance to interfere and put a stop to it – and hard – hard enough to inflict real pain; and you don’t fucking care if you get hurt because there’s no time to think about that. Once you’re committed to it, you have to stay committed no matter what. The other thing you learn about violence in the nick is to keep your feet firmly on the ground and use your head and your elbows to aim at something small, because there’s not a lot of room in a cell or on a landing when you’re handing it out to another con. And there’s nothing smaller or more effective to aim at than another bloke’s nose.

Without a moment’s hesitation I launched a battering ram of a head‑ butt at the centre of the taller man’s face, and I felt something give like the sound of an egg breaking and heard him utter a loud cry of pain; it meant the fight was already half over because he collapsed onto the road and lay there holding his face. Les Ferdinand would have been proud of me; it was a great header.

One down, one to go.

Now the other man came at me and threw a big right hand which, if it had connected, would certainly have caused some damage; but he was tired, and probably drunker than I was, and the punch seemed to come all the way from Luton, on an EasyJet Airbus; delayed, of course. I had plenty of time to block it with my left forearm, which left me ample opportunity to bring a right elbow hard through my centre line against the left side of his face. Probably I didn’t have to hit him again, but I did – a hammer blow on the side of his nose that felled him like a pile of cardboard boxes, intended to render him every bit as ugly as he’d sounded in the Hotel Aliprantis. In spite of what I’d told these two guys, I hadn’t just struck a blow for Bekim: I’d also hit them for every banana ever thrown at me and for every racist epithet or obscene taunt yelled my way during a game. I kid you not, there isn’t a guy in the Barclays Premier League who wouldn’t like to hand out some grief to a bunch of fans now and again. Just ask Eric Cantona.

It was all over in less than sixty seconds; neither of them showed any intention of getting up and carrying on. I thought about kicking them both when they were on the ground and immediately rejected the idea. Knowing when to stop is as important as knowing when to start. I didn’t even say anything. I’d said all there needed to be said. I figured it would be a while before they sang anything again, least of all some crap about a man’s death.

I got back into the car, unbuttoned my shirt collar, calmly put on my watch again and then checked my appearance in her rear‑ view mirror; I wasn’t injured. I didn’t even have a headache.

‘Drive, ’ I told her.

‘Feel better now you’ve done that? ’

The wind took hold of the distant music and hurried it to our ears. Pharrell Williams.

‘I feel... ’ I grinned. ‘I feel happy. ’

And the truth is I felt great. Like I’d scored a winning goal in an important match. Even the local cicadas seemed to be cheering.

As the helicopter rose into the air above the Hotel Astir I took off my shoes and socks, tightened the belt on my cream leather seat and pushed my bare feet into the thick pile carpet in a futile effort to relax. On the flat‑ screen TV above a polished walnut cabinet I could see a map of Paros, and an altitude and speed indicator. In a few minutes the island itself had disappeared into the sky’s thick, purple blanket and we were flying just below the aircraft’s fifteen thousand foot ceiling and heading northwest at a speed of 150 mph. Cocooned in a four‑ million‑ dollar helicopter equipped with every conceivable luxury, I ought to have felt more comfortable; instead I was as nervous as a white rat in a laboratory. Already I was opening the drinks cabinet and generously helping myself from a bottle of cognac. After a few moments studying our progress on the map I picked up the remote control and found a BBC channel with a football match to watch instead; Burnley playing someone or other. I didn’t really care; it was a very good cognac.

About forty minutes later the Explorer’s skids were on the deck of The Lady Ruslana, although these were probably not as big as the ones in my underpants. I stepped gingerly out of the helicopter and onto the deck which felt reassuringly solid. Inside the ship I was met by one of Vik’s crew and she ushered me down to a lower deck where I had a quiet moment alone in a luxuriously furnished state room with Louise.

‘I’ve missed you so much, ’ she said.

I folded her in my arms and kissed the nape of her neck and then her mouth.

‘You seem tense, ’ she observed. ‘Preoccupied. ’

I shook my head but this was true, of course. Some of my mind was still up in the air with my stomach, but mostly it was on my iPhone: before I answered the text from Chief Inspector Varouxis I was keen to read the email from Nataliya’s phone that Prometheus had forwarded to me.

‘And I know what it is, ’ she added. ‘I see that face almost every day. It’s a cop’s face. It tells me you have a dark secret you really wish you didn’t know, or an important question you’re struggling to answer. If you were more interested in me you might have seen the same thing in my own face, sometimes. That’s all right. It’s my fault, actually. I should have realised before I came to Athens that your head would be somewhere else. ’

‘I should have known you’d be able to see what’s inside my head. ’

‘I’m a detective, remember? ’

I kissed her again. ‘I’m very glad you’re here. But I have to pee. ’

But the first thing I did when I went to the bathroom was not to pee but to take a quick look to see if I could open Nataliya’s email now that I was near a better Wi‑ Fi signal. Irritatingly, I found the email was written in Russian and I realised that if I wanted it translated there were only two people on the boat who could do that: Vik or Phil. I hardly wanted to bother Vik and decided I would ask Phil to send me a translation of the email before breakfast the following morning when I would have to contact the Hellenic police again.

I came out of the bathroom and kissed Louise again, only this time like I meant it.

‘That’s better, ’ she said.

‘Sorry. ’

‘Come on, ’ she said, taking me by the arm. ‘Let’s go and join the others. But I’m tired. I’ve been travelling all day. And the flight was delayed. So if you don’t mind, I won’t stay long. Besides, I’m just dying to go to bed in this room. ’

Arranged around a horseshoe of cream‑ coloured sofas, enjoying the evening sea air and a magnum bottle of Domaine Ott rosé wine under the stars, were Gustave Haak, Cooper Lybrand, Phil Hobday, Kojo Ironsi, the two Greek businessmen I’d seen before and several rented girlfriends who were so young and fit they looked like they were crew members on their night off. Vik introduced me to the two Greek guys. Five minutes later I’d already forgotten their names. In view of the cognac I’d consumed earlier I asked for a bottle of water; I thought it best I try to clear my head a little. A lot of what I was going to say to Vik and Phil when we were in private wasn’t going to be easy to hear and I certainly had no wish to spoil the evening for the others; so, for a while, I was happy to submit myself to being teased about the rumour that I was set to become the new manager of Malaga FC.

‘You’ll like the Costa del Sol, ’ said Phil. ‘It has probably the warmest winter of anywhere in Europe. My boat is moored near there. In Puerto Banú s. It’s about the one part of Spain where you don’t see any unemployment. Which is probably why I like it so much. ’

‘Forget the weather, ’ said Vik, ‘what’s the team there like? ’

Phil shrugged. ‘Arab‑ owned, I believe. Kojo? What’s your opinion of them? ’

‘Malaga? ’ Kojo pulled a face. ‘Underperforming. The Qataris bought the club in 2010 and Manuel Pellegrini was manager. He was doing well there and got them to fourth place in La Liga. He even managed to help them qualify for the Champions League for the first time in their history. But clearly something must have been wrong otherwise he wouldn’t have gone to Manchester City. ’

‘It sounds as if they really do have need of Scott, ’ said Gustave Haak.

‘He’s a man of many parts, ’ said Vik.

‘So I believe, ’ said Haak. ‘The last time we spoke he was investigating the death of a prostitute in the harbour. ’ He left off playing with the hair of one of his girlfriends for a moment. ‘That is true, isn’t it, Scott? And near my boat, too, I believe. ’

I thought it best to keep off that subject; I had the strangest idea that the idea of high‑ end call girls being found at the bottom of the harbour might have been the cause of some distress to at least two of his companions. Politely, I steered the conversation back to Malaga.

‘I’ve no idea where this rumour has come from, ’ I said patiently. ‘Paolo Gentile, probably. You know how it is with agents and narrative IEDs. ’

‘What’s a narrative IED? ’ asked Louise.

‘I was wondering that myself, ’ admitted Lybrand.

‘That’s the new buzzword phrase for a communications weapon: a rumour that’s designed to disrupt the efforts of your competitors. Football is full of them. In a way they’re almost as destructive as the ones in Afghanistan. The quickest way to get someone to join club A is to start a rumour that he’s leaving club B and headed for club C. Unsettling football players is easier than waking a baby. All you have to do is gently rustle some money. ’

‘Equally, the best way to get a good price for a player is to say he’s not for sale under any circumstances, ’ said Vik. ‘Isn’t that right, Kojo? ’

Kojo nodded. ‘If you’re going to do something in business it’s always best never to say that you can do it until you’ve done it. And sometimes not even then. ’

‘You know, Scott, we’re very happy with the way you’ve handled this football club, ’ said Phil. ‘You enjoy our total confidence. Doesn’t he, Vik? ’

Vik laughed and lit a cigar. ‘Now you’ve really worried him. ’

‘I know. That’s why I said it. ’

‘You’ll have to excuse us, Louise, ’ said Vik. ‘When Scott is tired and at our mercy like this we tend to take advantage. It’s rare we get a chance to get a word in edgeways. We’re rather more used to the sound of him talking up our team’s chances or playing down their inadequacies. ’

‘More often the latter, ’ said Phil, sourly.

Louise took my hand, squeezed it fondly and then kissed my fingertips.

‘Well, I’m kind of tired myself so, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day. ’

‘I’ll be along in a short while, ’ I said.

Louise gave me a look and then grinned.

‘No, really, ’ I said.

Politely, the men were standing up.

‘You’re going to talk about football, ’ she said.

‘No, we’re not. ’

‘Sure, ’ said Louise. ‘See you later. ’

But this was also the cue for Haak, Lybrand, the two Greeks and most of the ladies to take Vik’s launch and go ashore or aboard Haak’s own yacht, the Monsieur Croesus. And when the rest of the girls had also retired to wherever it was on The Lady Ruslana they had been detailed to spend the night, I was left alone with Vik, Phil and Kojo.

There was a long silence.

‘Perhaps, ’ said Kojo, ‘someone might like to tell me this: if we’re not going to talk about football, what the hell are we going to talk about? ’

The cognac was wearing off. Or maybe the sea air was clearing my head; it certainly needed a bit of housekeeping. My mind felt like it was playing keepy‑ uppy with a golf ball.

From the boat the Greek shoreline looked like another galaxy; and for those in Vik’s sphere of influence it might as well have been. Unemployment, financial crisis, striking workers – these were much further away from The Lady Ruslana than the mile or two of inky black sea that separated us from the mainland. But in spite of everything, I’d come to like the Greeks and I almost felt guilty just being aboard Vik’s floating palace.

I was getting my second wind now and for a while we discussed the forthcoming game against Olympiacos and how I intended to approach this.

‘I distrust tactics, even at the best of times, ’ I said. ‘Football matches have a regular habit of making a nonsense of them. Remember the much‑ vaunted trivote? The high‑ pressure triangle that Mourinho used at the Bernabeu? It never really worked. Jorge Valdano, the Madrid sporting director, use to call it shit on a stick, didn’t he? But I do have a strategy for the game. It’s an idea I’ve used before. I don’t have a fancy name for it – like Mou – but if I did I’d call it Football Darwinism. I’ve been looking at some of the Reds’ recent games and I’ve picked out the weakest player, their midfielder, Mariliza Mouratidis. He’s younger than the rest. And his mother’s in hospital. A Greek hospital. So I think his mind is elsewhere. I know mine would be if my mother was in a Greek hospital. ’

I paused for a moment as I remembered my dad was in hospital, too; and then carried on speaking.

‘But there’s something else, I think. Most footballers want the ball. Mouratidis can’t wait to get rid of it. It’s like he doesn’t want the responsibility. So what we’re going to do is that when Mouratidis has the ball we’re going to make the tackles twice as hard and twice as quick and, if possible, from more than one of our lads. In short we’re going to gang up on him like a bunch of playground bullies and try to break him. You can see chickens doing it sometimes; they gather around the weakest chicken and peck it to death. My guess is that he’ll either cave under the pressure or, more likely, hit back. With any luck he’ll be sent off. After the first leg, we’ve got nothing to lose. ’