Philip Kerr 18 страница

‘No signs at all, ’ said Varouxis. ‘At least none that we know of. But now that the doctor’s strike is over we shall at last be able to organise a proper autopsy for both Bekim Develi and Nataliya Matviyenko. Today, I hope. ’

‘Perhaps the whip was just a toy. All part of a sex game. ’

‘Beating someone doesn’t sound like much of a sex game to me, ’ said Louise. ‘Unless of course she used it to whip him. Now that’s something I can understand. A woman beating a man with a whip. There are several of my so‑ called superiors at Scotland Yard I’d like to take a whip to. ’

‘I hadn’t thought of that, ’ confessed Varouxis. ‘Perhaps he got whipped, not her. ’

‘That would explain why there were no weals on her body, ’ said Louise. ‘Which there certainly would be if she’d been whipped. It would seem impossible to participate in that sort of sexual activity without it leaving marks. Perhaps, Mr Manson, you should keep a lookout for the tell‑ tale marks the next time you see your team in the shower. Which will be on Wednesday night? ’

‘I’ll certainly bear that in mind, ’ I said.

‘There’s something else we need to tell you, Chief Inspector, ’ I said, carefully, ‘and well, it relates to an old case of yours. Well, perhaps not that old. The Thanos Leventis case. ’

Varouxis stiffened. ‘What about it? ’

‘I think there might be certain similarities between that particular case and the death of Nataliya Matviyenko. ’

‘Principally the fact that one of Leventis’s victims was thrown into the harbour at Marina Zea, ’ added Louise. ‘Namely Sara Gill. An English woman. ’

‘I spoke to Miss Gill, ’ I said. ‘About the attack on her in 2008. ’

‘You did? ’

‘We both did. ’ Louise spoke firmly. ‘In an effort to establish if there might be a connection with the death of Nataliya Matviyenko. ’

‘And what did you conclude? ’ asked Varouxis.

‘There isn’t any connection, ’ said Louise. ‘Nevertheless, I believe I am now in a position to make a formal request through the British Ambassador to your government that the Special Violent Crime Unit here in Athens reopens that case. ’

‘May I ask why? ’

‘From what Miss Gill has told me, ’ said Louise, ‘you came to the entirely understandable conclusion that because of the severity of her injuries she wasn’t likely to make much of a witness. She herself admits that she was confused. And that her story didn’t seem to make sense. ’

Varouxis nodded and lit another cigarette, calmly. ‘Actually, it wasn’t my decision not to pursue her story, ’ he said. ‘It was the decision of my police general. But please go on. ’

‘Things are very different now, ’ said Louise. ‘She’s much recovered and remembers a great deal more about what happened to her. In particular, we now believe that she’s in a position to identify the second attacker. ’

‘We? ’

‘During a Skype call I had with her on Saturday evening Miss Gill gave me a description of the man who attacked her, ’ I said. ‘A very detailed description. From what she’s said I’m more or less certain that I’ve met the other man who attacked her. ’

‘And who might that be? No. Wait a minute. Tsipras? ’

‘Yes, sir? ’

‘I think it’s best that you leave the room, ’ said Varouxis. ‘I think if Mr Manson here is going to utter a libel against someone it’s best he does it in front of only one witness. For the sake of diplomatic relations between our two countries. I wouldn’t like Mr Manson to get into any more trouble. ’

‘Very well, sir. ’ Tsipras stood up and left the room.

‘All right, ’ said Varouxis after his subordinate had left us alone. ‘Who do you have in mind? ’

‘His name is Antonis Venizelos, and he works for–’

‘I know who Antonis Venizelos works for. Everyone in this building knows Antonis Venizelos. He’s a very popular man. Venizelos supplies us with free tickets to all Panathinaikos matches. He’s in and out of police headquarters like it was an extension of that stadium across the road. ’ He nodded out of the window and sighed. ‘All right, tell me what makes you think that he’s the other man who attacked Miss Gill? ’

‘She told me the man was hairy. Very hairy. Like Venizelos. A man with very sweet breath. Venizelos eats a lot of cardamom seeds and smokes menthol cigarettes. She also described a man who was wearing a T‑ shirt with a sort of UN logo on it. She told me that it was sort of like a wreath made of olive branches? Except that it wasn’t a map of the world within the branches, but what looked more like a sort of labyrinth. I’m certain that what she was describing was a Golden Dawn T‑ shirt. A neo‑ Nazi organisation of which Venizelos is or used to be a member. At least that’s what he told my assistant manager. But most tellingly she described a man who appeared to have three eyebrows. This was the detail that at the outset makes her seem unreliable. However, Venizelos has a very defined scar through one of his eyebrows that leaves one with the distinct impression that he has not two eyebrows but three. Considering Thanos Leventis drove the coach for the Panathinaikos B team, there exists a strong possibility he knew Antonis Venizelos. Also I know from my own conversations with him that Venizelos holds some very misogynistic views. Frankly, I think he hates women as much as he hates Pakistanis and Roma gypsies. I can’t say that I am a hundred per cent certain it was him, Chief Inspector. And you have my word that I certainly haven’t spoken to Miss Gill about my suspicions. However, I do think there is a very good chance that she would be able to pick him out of a police line‑ up. ’

Varouxis lit another cigarette and thought for a minute.

‘But then I suspect you already knew the man I was going to name, ’ I said. ‘That’s why you asked Sergeant Tsipras to leave the room, isn’t it? ’

Varouxis remained silent.

‘If you’ll permit me to say something, ’ said Louise. ‘Surely it’s better that you should reopen the case yourself than at the behest of the British ambassador and your own Ministry of Justice. ’

‘In spite of what you say, the only way I could reopen this case would be if I had the kudos of solving the death of Miss Matviyenko, or the death of Bekim Develi. No one could argue with my decision to reopen Miss Gill’s case under such circumstances as those. ’

‘Might I ask why anyone would argue with it? ’ said Louise.

‘My superior, Police Lieutenant General Stelios Zouranis, is the cousin of this man Venizelos. He is also a member of Golden Dawn. I dislike both the man and the organisation, but my hands are tied, at least until I crack this particular case. The minister would have to listen to me then, you understand. He could not resist it. ’

Louise nodded. ‘We understand. ’

‘Antonis Venizelos has that scar through his eyebrow from an injury he sustained in a football match against Thessaloniki back in 2000, ’ said Varouxis. ‘Venizelos stamped on the ankle of another player, for which offence he was head‑ butted by a third player and received sixteen stitches in his head as a result. He was always a very dirty player. And I say that as a Panathinaikos supporter. Indeed, for a while after that incident his nickname was Minotaure. ’

He opened the window and waved some of the smoke out of the conference room.

‘I tell you frankly that I always suspected that he was involved. And I would dearly love to put this man in prison. And not just because he is a rapist and a murderer but because his kind represents the worst in our society. His kind of hatred and intolerance are not the true Greek way. We might have invented democracy but we are beginning to forget what it means. In order to convict him I will need to make my voice louder and solving this case will certainly do that. ’

‘Yes, I can see that. ’

‘I am impressed by what you’ve been able to discover, Mr Manson. Impressed but perhaps not that surprised after the way you were able to find out who killed Joã o Zarco. I should have realised that you were not the type of man to sit on his hands and do nothing. I give you my word that if you help me now that I will help you. ’

He held out his hand for me to shake; I took it. Then he shook hands with Louise.

‘Perhaps the three of us can bring things to a satisfactory conclusion, ’ he said. ‘In fact, I am quite sure of it. ’

After the pre‑ match chat with ITV – why do these guys always ask such stupid questions? – I went to find my players.

For the match against Olympiacos at the Apostolis Nikolaidis Stadium, across the road from the GADA, I chose to wear my own plain black tracksuit, matching T‑ shirt and a pair of black trainers. A Zegna linen suit, white shirt and silk tie hardly felt appropriate for what was certain to be a long and frenetic evening, and I wanted all of my players to fully understand what I had to say to them in the dressing room: that the game in front of us was going to require a die‑ in‑ the‑ ditch performance of real substance and very little style.

Not that there was much style on offer to us that night; the dressing room at Apostolis Nikolaidis was as shabby as the outside of the stadium had suggested it would be, and a sharp contrast to the shiny, brushed aluminium perfection of the facilities we enjoyed at home in Silvertown Dock. Some of the coat hooks on the walls were loose or non‑ existent and there were only wire hangers for shirts and jackets; the floor was uneven and it was strewn with spent matches, cigarette ends and bits of chewing gum. The chiller cabinet for water bottles wasn’t switched on but that hardly mattered since it was also empty. There was a strong whiff of drains in the air and mould growing in the corners of the dripping showers which were missing more tiles than an old Scrabble set. Nor was there any air‑ conditioning either, just a couple of industrial‑ sized fans that blew Simon Page’s player notes around the place and made me glad that I’d only brought my iPad.

‘Right, you noisy sods, ’ said Gary Ferguson throwing his man‑ bag onto the bench, ‘stop complaining and get your fucking kit on. Just remember, if this shithole is for the home team then imagine what the away team dressing room looks like. There’s probably a turd in the bath. In fact, I know there is because I left one floating there yesterday. ’

That got a big laugh.

‘Are you going to eat that banana? ’ said Zé nobe Schuermans.

‘Actually, I was thinking of throwing it into the crowd, ’ said Daryl Hemingway. ‘Just in case they run short during the game. ’

‘Count yourself lucky they just throw bananas here, ’ said Kenny Traynor. ‘When Hearts used to play Hibs the cabbage bastards threw fucking coins. ’

‘At Anfield they used throw toilet rolls, ’ said Soltani Boumediene.

‘I swear, ’ said Ayrton Taylor, ‘if someone throws a coin at me I’m going to throw it back. ’

‘Listen, son, ’ said Gary, ‘if someone throws a coin on the pitch at this place it’s more likely to be an offer to buy the fucking football club. ’

‘When are those illiterate Scouse fuckers going to realise that it’s “a field” not “an field”? asked Jimmy Ribbans.

All this was just nerves and I let them have a few more moments of levity before settling them down.

‘Right then, ’ I said. ‘Could I have your attention please, gentlemen? ’

I waited for a long minute and outlined my strategy – the one I’d described to Vik and Phil on The Lady Ruslana. Then I told them the hard truth about our chances. Like a lot of truths this one contained an important constituent that wasn’t required to make any sense. That’s a manager’s job; to remind players that football is one of those magical places where the truth is often stranger than fiction.

‘It’s no small thing to turn over a 4–1 deficit, ’ I told them. ‘This would seem difficult even on our own ground at Silvertown Dock. But here, in Athens, in this third‑ world slum that Panathinaikos call a stadium, in the dilapidated capital city of a shit‑ stormed country that’s going to the dogs but which still manages to bark very loudly indeed? ’

I paused for a moment so we could all hear the noise of the capacity crowd, which was mostly Greek; about fifty per cent Olympiacos, thirty per cent Panathinaikos hoping to see their old rivals beaten, ten per cent City fans, and ten per cent impartial tourists come to watch what they hoped might be a fascinating game of football.

‘You hear that? That’s the sound of those dogs barking now. All that barking means the same thing: no one expects us to win tonight. No one here in Greece. And no one back in England, either. Everyone has written us off. I just got a tweet from Maurice in London: on ITV Roy Keane has just said our chances of going through to the next round are less than they were for the blokes in The Guns of Navarone. Which is almost true; it certainly seems to me we’ve been through our own Greek tragedy, gentlemen. They used to give a goat to the Greek poet who could tell the best story. Well, you can keep the goat; this particular tragedy could have won you the fucking Booker prize.

‘For ten days we’ve had to endure being away from homes and our families; we’ve had whole armies of TV and press all over us like jock‑ rash; we’ve had the local filth asking us questions about hookers and drugs and all kinds of shit that were nothing to do with football. They’ve thrown bananas at us on the pitch and brickbats in the newspapers. Our champion, our Ajax is dead and yes, they think it’s all over. Would you believe that Proto Thema – the biggest selling Sunday newspaper in Greece – said that this match we’re about to play had been reduced to the status of a mere testimonial? That we were just turning up to give us something to do in Athens while we were under effective house arrest? To which I say, fuck off. We’re made of stronger stuff than that. This team doesn’t just “turn up”. We turn up to play. And when we play we play to win.

‘Certainly we can win tonight. I look around this room and I see faces that are serious about winning this game. Which is all that I would expect of the men I pick to defend the reputation of this team. So let’s forget the rumours about bent referees, shall we? Maybe we are playing twelve men plus the crowd but that isn’t going to stop us playing our game.

‘However, I don’t expect us to overcome a 4–1 score line. I’m not stupid. None of us are. The fact is that if we win overall on aggregate tonight it will be the biggest miracle in this part of the world since they found the lost treasure of Troy. A solid‑ silver fucking miracle. But since I happen to be talking about miracles let me also remind you of this, gentlemen: we are in the country of three hundred Spartans; where myths and legends, and yes, even bloody miracles, come to life. But you know, the day I went to see the statue of Zeus and the mask of Agamemnon in the National Archaeological Museum, the place was more or less empty of Greeks. Which made me think that maybe the Greeks have forgotten the power of their own myths, that maybe they don’t remember the stories of Perseus, Theseus, Jason and Orpheus.

‘Did anyone think Perseus stood even half a chance of slaying the Gorgon? Not the Greeks. Who thought that Theseus could go into the labyrinth and slay the Minotaur? Certainly not the Greeks. And Jason, remember him? Did any of the Greeks really think that he and his Argonauts stood even a snowball’s chance in hell of even finding let alone bringing back the Golden Fleece? No. Of course they didn’t. And what about Orpheus? When he descended to the underworld in an attempt to bring back his wife, Eurydice, the Greeks wrote him off, too, just like those other heroes. But against all expectations he came back from the dead. That’s why they’re called heroes. They were endowed with great courage and strength and did things against all the odds that is the stuff of legends. That is why they are remembered.

‘You know, The Guns of Navarone is one of my top ten favourite films. I can’t begin to tell you the number of bank holidays I’ve given up to watch it. But I rather think maybe Keano has forgotten that at the end of The Guns of Navarone, Gregory Peck, Anthony Quinn and David Niven actually manage to pull it off, after all. Against all the odds and on a warm Aegean night such as this, they manage to destroy those big, impregnable guns in an explosion of spectacular drama.

‘And I remembered something that Jensen, the guy who sends them on the mission – something he says at the very beginning of the movie that I want to share with you now: Anything can happen in a war. ’

‘Good luck. ’

Kojo Ironsi was standing immediately outside the dressing room door when I opened it. A large part of me wanted to tell him to go and fuck himself but I fixed a smile onto my face like a stupid false moustache and shook the big hand that was outstretched in front of me.

‘Thanks, ’ I said.

‘This game – it means a lot, doesn’t it? ’ he said.

‘No, right now it means everything. ’

‘Vik and Phil are up in a box with Gustave, ’ he explained. ‘I’m going to join them in a minute but given my new position as Technical Director I thought I’d come down and say hello. See if there’s anything I could do. ’

‘Kind of you. ’

‘I know you weren’t exactly thrilled about my appointment, Scott, but I sincerely hope we’ll be able to work together. ’

‘I’m sure we will. Just give me a little time to get used to the idea, okay? ’

‘Sure, anything you say. ’

Kojo’s big gold Rolex caught the light as he flicked the air with his fly‑ whisk. He was wearing a light brown linen Safari suit and open‑ toed sandals; all he needed was a leopard skin karakul hat and he’d have looked like a minor African dictator.

‘It’s pretty hot out there, ’ he said. ‘Almost sub‑ Saharan. And probably just as unpredictable. ’ He paused for a moment and then added, ‘You should make sure the players are all properly hydrated, don’t you think? ’

I bit my tongue and nodded. ‘Thanks for the useful advice, Kojo. I wouldn’t ever have thought of that myself. Not in a million years. But then what do I know? I’m just the fucking manager. ’

But Kojo didn’t hear this; he was already glad‑ handing both of his King Shark players: Prometheus, of course; and then Sé raphim Ntsimi who was the other, only he was playing for Olympiacos. Kojo also shook hands with another Olympiacos player, their saturninely handsome full back, Roman Boerescu.

I don’t know why but in spite of the animosity I was feeling towards him I was impressed to hear Kojo speaking Greek, and with some fluency too. Which was probably why, briefly, I pictured him and Sé raphim with Valentina and Nataliya at Roman’s place in Glyfada. Who had been with who? Kojo with Valentina? Or Kojo with Nataliya? Or both? The dirty bastard, I thought, at least until I remembered that, according to Valentina at any rate, Kojo hadn’t actually fucked either of the girls; which wasn’t something I could say myself.

For a minute both sides waited impatiently in the tunnel; and then a minute longer. It was so warm that Kenny Traynor was fanning his face with one of his gloves. The twenty‑ two child mascots holding hands with the players already looked almost as warm as him and thoroughly overawed by the whole occasion. I could hardly blame them for that. I hate the players’ tunnel before a match. Most of the time you have no idea who half of the people are or what they’re even doing there.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kojo speaking to the handsome‑ looking woman who a minute before I’d seen kissing the Romanian on the cheek, which struck me as odd: WAGs weren’t normally allowed in the tunnel. Then I saw that she was in charge of the child mascots, all of whom were now looking up to her for their cue, as if she’d been their mother. And perhaps in a way she was; from what I gathered she’d just given the kids their tea, or whatever Greek kids have when they’re in a Champions League football match. As I watched she smiled and reached across a small head and gently placed the hand of a shy little girl in one of Kenny Traynor’s enormous paws.

Kenny leaned towards me. ‘I wouldn’t mind, boss, ’ he said, ‘but her little hand is so sticky. ’

‘Put your gloves on, ’ I said.

‘It’s so hot in here, ’ he said.

‘I’ve heard everything now, ’ said Simon. ‘A goalkeeper complaining his hands are too sticky. Find out what the kid had for tea, son, and then rub some more on your gloves. Sticky fingers will make a change from your usual buttery ones. ’

Kenny thought that was very funny. And so did Gary; but for just a moment my sense of humour seemed to have deserted me.

‘What are we waiting for? ’ I heard myself say, impatiently.

Kojo repeated my question to the woman who answered him in Greek.

‘According to Mrs Boerescu they can’t find the CD with the classical music for the PA system, ’ said Kojo.

‘That’s his wife? ’

Kojo nodded. ‘Beethoven, or whatever it is. ’

I looked at Boerescu and then his wife. For a fleeting moment I considered going over to Roman Boerescu and saying, in earshot of his wife, ‘Valentina says hello. ’ I guess if I’d been Greek I would have done it.

‘It’s not Beethoven, ’ I told Kojo. ‘It’s Handel’s Zadok the Priest. ’

‘That doesn’t sound like it’s got much to do with sport, ’ said Kojo.

‘I think it’s just meant to be awe‑ inspiring, ’ I said. ‘The kind of music you’d want for the anointing of a king or a priest. Or the best team in Europe, I suppose. ’

‘What kind of priest was he? This Zadok. ’

I shrugged and shook my head. ‘Haven’t a clue. ’

‘I think maybe he was the first high priest of the new temple at Jerusalem, ’ said Soltani Boumediene who, despite being an Arab, had once played for Haifa in Israel and knew about stuff like that. ‘The one built by King Solomon back in the day, before the Romans turned up and sacked the place. ’

‘You surely don’t mean that this Zadok guy was a Jew? ’ said Kojo.

‘I suppose he must have been, ’ answered Soltani, ‘if he was in the Old Testament. ’ He laughed. ‘I mean, I doubt he was a bloody Scientologist. ’

Kojo pulled a face. ‘Better not tell the Muslims the guy was a Jew. ’

‘In which case, ’ I said to him, quietly, ‘better just shut the fuck up about it, eh? ’

‘If they had any idea that they were walking out onto that pitch to a piece of music about a Jewish rabbi, ’ said Kojo, ‘they’d have a fit. Seriously. Who knows what these guys are offended by these days. ’

‘So shut the fuck up, ’ I told him again.

‘I’m a Muslim, ’ replied Soltani, ‘and really, I don’t have any problem with it at all. It’s just a piece of music. ’

Mohamed Hachani, one of the Olympiacos players, said something to Soltani in Arabic but Soltani just shook his head and stared down at his own boots; so Hachani addressed what I assumed must be the same question, in Greek, to Kojo, who answered him just as the music finally started and the referee waved us forward. The players and the children started to shuffle towards the end of the tunnel. But Hachani stood still and spoke to Soltani in Arabic again; and again Soltani just shook his head as if he preferred not to answer which now drew an angry response from the other man. Hachani took hold of Soltani Boumediene’s shirtsleeve and shouted, this time in English.

‘What kind of a Muslim are you, anyway? ’ he demanded. ‘This bloody music is an insult to all Arabs. And you are a disgrace to Islam, my friend. If I had known that the Champions League music was really about a fucking Jew I would never have agreed to play in this competition. And you should feel the same way about it. ’

‘Get over it, ’ said Soltani. ‘And please, don’t swear or use racist language like that in front of the children. ’

Tugging Hachani’s hand from his sleeve, Soltani smiled kindly at the mascot whose hand he was still holding, and started towards the end of the tunnel again.

But Hachani was not so easily brushed off and, irritated that Soltani seemed to be making light of something he himself regarded as very serious, he started to shout in Arabic; but still ignored by our long‑ suffering player, it seemed that he could think of no other way to make his anger felt than to throw a water bottle at him. To my relief Soltani continued to ignore Hachani and, for a while, things between them seemed to simmer down; but in retrospect I should have anticipated that there might be more trouble between them and substituted Soltani right then and there.

I followed the players out of the tunnel and onto the pitch where the air was so thick and warm it felt like soup, but because of the many green and red flares burning in the stands it smelt and tasted like something else; civil disorder, most likely. There were so many flares my first thoughts were of another Bradford City disaster, when fifty‑ six fans were killed after the rubbish underneath a stand in what was probably better condition than the one at Apostolis Nikolaidis was set alight by a carelessly discarded cigarette end. That was another major difference between English stadia and those in Greece. Smoking was not permitted anywhere at Silvertown Dock – or for that matter at any other stadia in the English league – but in Greece, where everyone smokes, everyone smokes at football, too. And frankly it’s better when they do smoke; when they’re pulling on a fag they can’t shout racist abuse.

The players lined up patiently, and then trooped past each other, shaking hands like we were all gentlemen on the playing fields at Eton College. I myself made a point of shaking hands with Hristos Trikoupis, who even managed an apology for his previous behaviour when I told him that his secret was safe with me; but all of that was lost when it kicked off between Mohamed Hachani and Soltani Boumediene again.

Simon Page told me later on that when Soltani lifted his own hand to shake Hachani’s hand, the Olympiacos player spat on it. But I didn’t actually see what happened and unfortunately neither did anyone on TV or the dozy Irish referee. All he saw was Soltani’s fist make its probably well‑ deserved connection with Hachani’s hooked nose.

The referee didn’t hesitate. First he showed Soltani a yellow card; and then he showed him a red.

Mohamed Hachani was making a three‑ course meal of it with wine and coffee. He was still lying on the pitch with his hands pressed to his face as if he might never again get up, which might have been a more satisfactory outcome. Even his own team mates were smiling awkwardly as if they knew the play‑ acting was going on for too long; perhaps they were embarrassed and if not they ought to have been. After all, everyone but Hachani knew that the last time we’d seen a player prone for so long, he died. What he was doing now seemed disrespectful to the tragedy of what had happened to Bekim Develi.

The Irish referee, Blackard, was, of course, well within his rights to send Soltani Boumediene off, and all the protests in the world – that the boy had merely retaliated after being spat on – weren’t going to change his decision. Referees in the modern game take a dim view of retaliation as anyone who saw what happened to Beckham after he kicked that bloody Argie in the 1998 World Cup will no doubt remember; Diego Simeone went down from that tap on the calf as if he’d been shot with a rifle. Hard to believe he’s now the manager of Atletico Madrid. Besides, I agreed with the sending off. If players retaliated to every foul no one would ever kick a ball.

But that was one thing; what happened next was something else altogether. When we brought on Jimmy Ribbans as a substitute, Blackard ordered him to leave the pitch and then, when I asked why, he informed me that City could not substitute another player for the man he had sent off. The actual laws of the game, however, say differently and things quickly descended into farce as I ran after the referee like a blue‑ arsed fly as he moved towards the centre spot, trying to explain to him the meaning of rule five, and all of this under a storm of whistles and jeers from at least half the spectators in the ground.

‘You can’t do this, ’ I yelled at him.

‘I’ve sent the player off the field, ’ he said, ‘and that’s the end of the matter, Mr Manson. ’

‘I’m not disputing that, you idiot. ’

‘And I shall be reporting you to UEFA for your abusive language and behaviour. ’

‘And I shall be reporting you for not knowing the laws of the game. Take the pig shit out of your ears and listen to me. I’m trying to stop you from looking like a complete idiot in tomorrow’s newspapers. Which you will do unless you pay attention now. Since you hadn’t actually blown the whistle to start the game, the normal rule that applies to sendings off just doesn’t apply. Whether you like it or not, those are the rules of football. All your decision to send off Soltani Boumediene means is that we’re down to two substitutes instead of three. And that he can’t take any part in this game, or – if by some miracle we should qualify – the next one. ’