THE front door of the flat was like a Panamanian defence. It looked big and imposing but I picked it open in seconds.
As soon as I opened the door the smell was everywhere. Acrid. It hit the back of my throat like a desperate German clearance into a match-weary South Korean groin.
I stepped into the stuffy entrance hall and closed the front door behind me. The smell intensified as I stood there listening for any movement. It was as quiet as a Berlin fan park at the end of the group stage, and just as threatening.
Carefully I began to walk through the flat. The remains of a takeaway and a six Jamaican lager beers for five pounds deal was on the coffee table in the lounge along with some curious-looking DVDs, but other than the flat looked as untouched as the Spain quarter final hotel booking.
As I approached what I guessed was the bedroom the pungent smell grew stronger. I turned the knob and as the door creaked open I had to cover my face with my arm.
There were flies everywhere. Big, blue and green blow flies that buzzed like a Balkan midfield during a useful spell of possession. At the centre of the black mass of insects lying on the bed was the shape of what used to be a living being, naked except for the flies, a pair of pants around its ankles and a brown leather belt around its neck.
Even in the midst of the city’s heatwave, where the clothes on broads became as minimal as their patience for men watching three games a day, there was no way this level of decomposition could happen this early in the tournament. It must have been here since just after he first round of group stage matches.
These days there were stiffs turning up all over the city. It was normally the work of the manager experiences department. Those Chekist bullies had people squibbed off for nothing more than bad table manners.
But this didn’t look like the work of a manager experiences button man. The place was too tidy, the drawers weren’t overturned and the corpse was still in one piece.
My hand over my mouth I moved in for a closer inspection. The flies continued to foam around the dark opening of the mouth. The eyes were sunk back into the skull, deeper than Belgian wingbacks in the opposition half, and just as shifty looking.
The expression on the face when he’d faced the big one was still there. It looked like a blunted Argentine attack, not sure whether it was just about coming into form or never finding it again.
I returned to the entrance hall and dialled Kenna HQ.
“Put me through to the vice chairman’s office. Tell him it’s urgent,” I barked at the secretary, the smell had stripped me of my politer conversation. By now she recognised my voice.
The phone clicked and the vice chairman was there.
“What have you got?” he said. He didn’t sound in a good mood, like a Colombian after losing a penalty shootout.
“I’ve found him,” I told the vice chairman.
“You’re sure?” he perked up.
“Yes, and he’s been dead for sometime.”
“Was it manager experiences? I knew the chairman would be behind this,” he began to jabber, but I interrupted him before he could lay out his whole, whacky conspiracy theory.
“He wasn’t blipped off by anyone else. It looks like he choked himself off while he choked himself off, if you get my meaning. There’s some pretty wild smut in the lounge. And he’s been dead for some time.”
The vice chairman breathed heavily at the end of the phone before saying: “Alright, collect your pay next time you’re here.”
I hung up. Before I left the flat I took one last look at the poor sucker in the bedroom I’d been hunting down for the last two weeks.
It was the remains of the vice chairman’s Kharine title hopes.
Kharine table – after the round of last 16
Full scores available from The Rub.
