The I’s for investigator: There are no good guys

Among the many questions that have puzzled football scholars over the years, perhaps none is more important than this: why do so many Premier League managers look like detectives in various states of disgruntlement? This story doesn’t provide an answer to that question, but it does imagine a world in which Premier League managers are not Premier League managers at all, but detectives in various states of disgruntlement. This is The I’s for Investigator, the speculative noir crime periodical you almost certainly haven’t been waiting for.

Chapter one | Chapter two | Chapter three | Chapter four | Chapter five | Chapter six | Chapter seven | Chapter eight

Alan Pardew proved a hard man to find, not so much because he left no paper trail — indeed, his trail was all paper — as because he appeared never to spend more than thirty consecutive minutes in the same place. Two days passed before Slav tracked him down, to a small one-bedroom apartment on the east side of the city. Slav let himself in.

The apartment was befitting a single, middle-aged man who spent more time in his car than his home. Empty takeout boxes jostled for space on the kitchen table; the countertop and stove were covered with mugs, half-filled with tea or coffee; the tap dripped and the drips echoed around the sink; newspapers littered the place, as if, in lieu of decorating, he had simply taken a stack of papers and thrown it in the air. In between and under and around his judgments, Slav was aware of the similarities to his own apartment. There is a universal interior décor for single, middle-aged men of a certain income bracket, he thought, haphazard and sad.

Slav entered the bedroom, indistinguishable from the kitchen but for the fact the takeout boxes and newspapers concealed a bed instead of a table, a dresser instead of a stove. There were two picture frames on top of the dresser that had been turned sideways by the junk surrounding them so that they faced one another. The first was a portrait of a family — man, woman, kids, dog — that could not have been Pardew’s because he wasn’t in it. He was in the second, smiling on a beach, arm draped over the shoulder of an equally smiling woman. One did not have to be Sherlock Holmes, Slav noted with relief, to conclude this woman was no longer in the picture, so to speak.

As Slav looked at the photograph, he heard footsteps on the stairs. He walked back to the kitchen, took up what he thought would be a strong position should Pardew open the front door and, say, attack him. But Pardew did not do this. He pushed the door open as if he were in the rush he was presumably in, hurrying into the room, head down, riding some train of thought or another, and noticing Slav only when several seconds had already passed, at which point he stood completely still, stunned.

Slav, a little stunned himself at this reaction, took the opportunity to study Pardew’s face. This was a face made, it seemed, for the specific purpose of looking smug. Silver hair, closely cropped, smooth features, almost buffed, thin lips, slightly pursed, a little goatee that said, “it is time for something new, but this facial hair is all my imagination can muster,” and a glint in those blue-green eyes whose message, even in this home, surrounded by this junk, was simple, unmistakable: I love myself. And yet here this face was, locked at the very same time in a strange combination of confusion and fear. What a remarkable thing, thought Slav, to see face like this out of its natural element. Genuine, unfettered surprise.

“Alan,” said Slav, hands held palms out in front of his chest. “I have some questions.”

This had the desired effect. Pardew seemed to relax.

“Who are you?” he said, one foot slightly in front of the other, ready to move. “What do you want?”

“I read your story about Eric Dier,” said Slav.

“Yes,” Pardew pulled a chair out from the table, removed a newspaper from its seat and sat down.

“And?”

“Tell me about it.”

“Dier wasn’t at training. He wasn’t injured. The club released a statement. What’s there to tell?” Pardew lit a cigarette, using one of the half-filled mugs for an ashtray. “Who are you?”

“I’m interested in the whereabouts of Mr. Dier and Mr. Wilshere. I think there’s more to this story than you’re telling me. Since when is it newsworthy that a player misses training?”

“Two England internationals, a World Cup year, of course it’s newsworthy.”

“Then why were you the only one who reported the news?”

“Good journalism,” said Pardew, deadpan.

“We both know that’s not what’s going on here. Who told you to write that piece?”

“You people are all the same,” said Pardew, blowing smoke toward Slav.

“What do you mean, ‘you people’?”

“S—t, you and your pal at least could have coordinated.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Not two days ago another one of you was around here asking the same questions. What, you all go buy your trench coats together or something?”

“What did he look like?” said Slav.

Pardew shrugged his shoulders, took another drag: “A bit, I don’t know, crazed. Brown hair, about five-ten, had an accent.”

The Left One, thought Slav.

“Can’t you ask him about it?” Pardew continued. “Don’t you have a group chat or something?”

“These are powerful people,” said Slav, absently, trying to put the pieces together.

“Is that supposed to intimidate me?”

“I don’t know, do you feel intimidated?”

“For the right price,” Pardew smiled.

Slav sighed, took out his wallet.

“How’s a twenty?”

Pardew laughed. “Come on,” he said. “They’re paying me a lot more than that. Who do you work for?”

“The good guys,” said Slav.

“There are no good guys,” said Pardew, staring at the floor in what looked to Slav like a rare moment of self-reflection.

“I can help you,” said Slav after a moment. “These people are dangerous, Alan. But I can help you. But you’ve got to tell me who told you to run that story.”

“I suppose now would be a good time to tell you they’re watching this place. They know you’re here. Look outside.” Slav walked to the window.

“You see a black van,” Pardew said.

Slav saw the van, and the apartment building’s reflection on the side of the van and the setting sun over the rooftops, orange and pink below a darkening blue. He heard the footsteps coming up the stairs — two or three pairs of feet, moving quickly, efficiently — looked back out the window, saw the twenty-foot drop and the bushes on the opposite side of the concrete path leading to the front door. Slav heard the footsteps getting closer behind him, saw the latch on the window, heard the door handle turning and the hushed voices on the other side of it and Slav pulled open the window and jumped.

Chapter one | Chapter two | Chapter three | Chapter four | Chapter five | Chapter six | Chapter seven | Chapter eight