by Philip Kerr
‘Interesting,’ said Amalric.
‘Perhaps. Anyway, I can’t quite bring myself to get down to that sort of level again – the reader as lowest common denominator. I expect I will do, eventually, when I need the money. But right now I’m just ploughing my own little furrow and telling myself that a book which makes nothing but money is a poor book.’
This was another lie, of course; but writers lie for a living; at least, that’s a truth I’ve always believed.
‘How did Anderton take the news? And Hereward Jones?’
‘Badly. VVL’s shares nosedived on the news, as I expect you know. Lots of editors and marketing people lost their jobs. There was talk of a lawsuit against VVL and their bank by shareholders who felt that VVL had misled investors about John Houston’s future sales. There are still three more Houston books for them to publish, so I expect this year’s sales figures will hold up. But they can forget next year being any good. Especially now that John won’t be delivering The Geneva Convention. Or at least I assume he won’t be delivering it now that he’s suspected of murdering his wife. When I checked Bloomberg this afternoon I noticed that VVL shares had been marked down again.
‘As for Hereward, I imagine his situation is even bleaker. As someone who was earning between eight and ten million dollars a year in commission, he’ll be lucky if he makes a tenth of that now. I believe he’s had to sell his beautiful house in Ascot. Not to mention his famous Rolls-Royce.’
‘When Mr Houston told you that he was terminating the atelier and moving back to London, did he lead you to suppose he’d discussed it with his wife?’
‘It was all “I am going to do this” and “I am going to do that”. I don’t recall him mentioning Orla at all, except to make a disparaging remark about her hat-buying habit.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Oh yes. He said, “I’ve bought a house in St Leonard’s Terrace”, not “We’ve bought one”, which would have been rather more uxorious.’
Uxorious: a word forbidden in John’s lexicon of banned words.
‘“We” is what a good husband would have said. On the other hand John always bought just what he wanted. He was quite impulsive when it came to spending. Recently he paid a million dollars for a watch. You probably read that in yesterday’s Daily Mail.’
‘Yes, an Hublot Black Caviar Bang, wasn’t it?’ said Amalric.
‘A million dollars for a watch,’ breathed Savigny.
‘Ridiculous, isn’t it?’ I said, but I could see Savigny didn’t agree and I knew I was looking at another man who would love to have owned a million-dollar watch. ‘He bought it with the film rights money for The Prisoner of Kandahar. At least that’s what he told the Wall Street Journal when they interviewed him.’
‘This was the novel which caused all the WikiLeaks fuss, wasn’t it?’ said Savigny. ‘With the coalition forces in Afghanistan.’
I nodded. ‘According to WikiLeaks the CIA used John’s book as the model for a Taliban prisoner swap in 2013. In John’s plot, the CIA is looking for a way to close Guantánamo without losing face; so they persuade an American sergeant to let himself be captured in Afghanistan in order that they can swap him for several top Taliban prisoners in Gitmo. Your guess is as good as mine just how much truth there was in that rumour. But he himself never commented on it. Like I say, he could be quite secretive about some things. Except with his accountants, of course. You might ask them some questions. Citroen Wells, in Devonshire Street, London. I believe they handle a lot of top writers.’
‘Do you think he might have been planning to return to London alone?’
‘That’s hard to say. I can’t imagine for a moment that Orla would have wanted to go along to Stamford Bridge with John – to see Chelsea Football Club. She hated football. Or to Lord’s to see the cricket. Not her scene at all. It was all too English for her. Even so, he never mentioned that he was unhappy with her. And she was a very beautiful woman after all.’
‘What about other women?’
‘Now you’re asking. John was always a busy man in the ladies’ department. He told me a joke once which I didn’t think was particularly funny since I was happily married at the time. If you’re married it’s a very subversive sort of joke. He said, “What do you call a man who is always faithful to his wife? Gay.” John thought that was very funny. But I think he really believes that. I’m certain he has girlfriends in places other than Monaco. There was a girl in New York I think he used to see when he was there; but I couldn’t give you a name, or an address. Probably one in Paris, too, but again I have no firm information about who she was or where she lived. I think I saw him with another woman in London, once. But he denied it afterward. John is highly compartmentalized. Which is entirely typical of the writer of course. I’ve yet to hear a better description of what it means to be a writer than the lyric from the song in the Bond movie of the same name: “You only live twice; once in your dreams and once in real life”. Works rather better than Bond’s failed attempt at a Basho-like haiku that’s in Fleming’s book, I think. And it’s a more or less perfect description of John Houston: a man who wrote one life and lived another – perhaps several others. I guess you’ll find out how many when you catch up with him. If you catch up with him.’
‘What about her?’ he asked. ‘Do you think she might have played around like he did?’
‘I really couldn’t say. She always struck me as a bit of an ice-maiden. You know, cold. I couldn’t ever imagine her flirting with anyone. But even if I could it’s my impression that the smallest country in the world would be a poor place to conduct a secret affair.’
‘Not the smallest,’ said Amalric, correcting me. ‘The Vatican City is smaller. And I don’t think that size ever stopped scandal there. Do you?’
I chuckled. ‘Maybe not.’
Sergeant Savigny came back to the table and sat down, smelling strongly of French cigarettes, which only made me want one; but I have a rule about smoking: unless in a situation of stress I only smoke when I am writing and only then when I am stuck. I don’t like my habits to become too much like a habit.
Amalric sat back in his chair and tugged at the end of his little beard.
‘It’s said that God never takes away something,’ he said after a moment or two, ‘without giving something better in its place. But not in this case. When Houston put an end to the atelier it seems everyone was a loser by his decision. Even him, perhaps, since he was obliged to hand back a cheque for twenty million. You, your fellow writers, the people at Veni, Vidi, Legi, the Houston office staff, shareholders, the publisher Mr Anderton, Mr Houston’s literary agent Here-ward Jones. Some of these people lost only their jobs; but some lost a great deal of money – or at least they didn’t make the money that they were quite sure they were going to make until Houston’s bombshell announcement. Which is almost the same thing. Of course, no one lost their life, unlike Mrs Houston; but I can’t help but feel her murder is connected with everything you have told me, Monsieur Irvine. As a policeman I’ve come to the conclusion that the Bible is wrong; it’s the lack of money that’s the root of all evil.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps Mrs Houston didn’t want to accompany her husband back to London. Perhaps she liked living in Monaco.’
‘Anything is possible, I suppose.’
‘Perhaps that’s why he killed her,’ said Savigny.
‘Maybe.’
‘Was he a jealous man?’ Savigny was warming to his line of questioning.
‘John? No. Not at all. I have the impression that if he’d found out she was fucking someone else, he’d have been pleased.’
‘Pleased?’ Savigny was frowning. ‘How?’
‘It would have let him off the hook, that’s how. And of course he’d have forgiven her because, in his own way, he loved her. Love will hide a multitude of sins.’
‘Talking of which,’ said Amalric, ‘would it surprise you to know that the contact list on Orla Houston’s iPhone included a number of sinners in
the persons of several prominent Irish republicans? Two of whom – according to an officer we spoke to today at Scotland Yard – served long sentences at Portlaoise Prison for arms smuggling?’
‘Does that surprise me? No. As a matter of fact I believe those two guys you mentioned helped John with the research for one of his books. Ten Soldiers Wisely Led. That was the last book I wrote for John. Before Dead Red, I mean.’
Savigny nodded thoughtfully. ‘Dix Soldats Sagement Conduits. That’s the follow-up book to Le Prisonnier de Kandahar, isn’t it? One of my favourite books, sir.’
‘Is it?’ said Amalric.
‘There’s this guy who wears diamond-encrusted shoes. An arms dealer. Fantastic.’
‘The title comes from Euripides,’ I added helpfully. ‘Ten soldiers wisely led will beat a hundred without a head. I always thought it was Orla’s brother who put John in contact with those two characters. But it could just as easily have been her. John always suspected she was giving money to Sinn Féin. His money. I know they argued about it. John did not approve.’
I don’t know why, but I mentioned the incident at Orla’s wedding to John when Colm Mac Curtain had tried to pick a fight with me.
‘They sound like quite a family,’ observed Amalric.
‘They are.’
‘Is it possible that perhaps she might have offended someone in those circles?’ asked Savigny. ‘According to Scotland Yard, some of these people are still active and violent.’
‘You mean Irish nationalist paramilitaries?’ I smiled. ‘I’m a writer, Sergeant. It’s my job to make you believe that anything is possible.’ I shrugged. ‘With a sound-suppressor on a gun, it just might be, I suppose. John slips out of the Odéon Tower – for whatever reason – and comes back to find that his wife has been murdered by the Real IRA. I like that story better than him shooting his own wife in cold blood. But frankly I think I’ve got too much imagination to be a cop, don’t you?’
I tried and failed to suppress a yawn, and then glanced at my watch, which wasn’t an Hublot but a hundred-and-fifty-pound Bulova that was a poor imitation of the rather more expensive Rolex Sea Dweller. ‘But even my imagination is a getting a little dull. And my throat a little dry. I’m not used to talking as much as this. So perhaps you’ll excuse me.’ I took out my wallet.
‘No, no, monsieur,’ said Amalric. ‘You were our guest.’
‘Thank you, very much.’
‘No, thank you, monsieur.’
I allowed him to carry on thinking that I might actually have offered to pay my share while, from my wallet, I took out the two business cards I’d been reaching for all along. I handed one to Amalric and the other to Sergeant Savigny, who was standing up to say goodbye.
‘I enjoyed it very much,’ I said. ‘Especially the wine.’
Amalric was nodding circumspectly, which excited my curiosity. ‘What did you think of the restaurant?’ I asked him.
‘It’s trying hard to be something it’s not,’ he said. ‘But then again, isn’t everyone?’
‘Don’t hesitate to call or email if you have any more questions,’ I said. Then we all shook hands and I left.
*
It was a warm, clear Monday evening in London. From Claridge’s I walked up to Oxford Circus where I caught a Central Line train west to Notting Hill Gate, and then the District Line south to Putney. I walked onto the bridge and about halfway across stopped and stared across the river, hoping that the air would help to clear my head. Putney looked better at night when it was almost as glamorous-looking as Monaco; almost, but not quite. Saint Mary the Virgin Church, immediately to the east of the bridge, was bathed in sharp white light like a ghost ship. Next to the church, the blue lights from Putney Wharf Tower – a rather smarter, more expensive apartment building than my own – reflected on the metallic surface of the water in a way that made the river seem almost benign when it was anything but that. Strong currents and whirlpools made the Thames much too dangerous for swimming while the tide – which was now at its highest – was playing its usual game of trying to catch out the motorists who had unwisely parked along the Embankment to the west of Putney Bridge. It was not uncommon to return from dinner at one of Putney’s many inexpensive restaurants to find your car filled up to the roof with Thames water. This was certainly an entertaining spectacle to watch from the safety of an upper window in a pub, and the customers drinking at The Star and Garter often did just that.
There’s nothing that seems to give people more pleasure in Britain than watching a disaster happening to someone else in slow motion. Except perhaps what George Orwell would have called ‘a perfect murder’, which is to say a murder involving money and celebrities, of the kind that encourages not just extensive write-ups in the Sunday newspapers but also lots of books and melodramas – in short, the kind of murder that had befallen Edmond Safra and now Orla Mac Curtain. Her death really did seem to have all of the qualities that Orwell required to make a murder memorable. If Dominick Dunne had been alive he’d certainly have been on the next available plane to the Côte d’Azur. But if the Monty cops working the Edmond Safra case had screwed up – as the Vanity Fair journalist had implied – they didn’t look like they were about to make any of the same mistakes again. I might not have learned anything from Chief Inspector Amalric and Sergeant Savigny that made me change my mind about what had happened in Monaco, but I had certainly revised my opinion concerning the efficiency of the Monty cops. Amalric had been especially impressive and served to remind me that a well-read cop is like a supermarket steak: not as thick as you might hope.
Back in the flat I took off my one good suit and wearing just my underpants and a T-shirt I checked my emails and decided to finally open the one headed ‘News about your ticket’ from the National Lottery; I’d been delaying this in order that I might enjoy the property pornographic fantasy of just what I’d do if I won a rollover jackpot of eight million pounds and I felt absurdly deflated – as if I really could have bought that seven-bedroom manor house in Bouches du Rhône – when I discovered I’d won only ten quid.
I was about to log off for the day when the Skype ringtone came through the desktop speakers with a sound effect that was like a robot farting in a paddling pool. I almost fell off my Herman Miller with surprise. John Houston was the only person who ever called me on Skype and thus my only Skype contact; his Skype Name was Colonneh. This wasn’t because John cared about the cost of international telephone calls but because he had a thing about privacy and security and, while researching one of his meticulous outlines, he’d learned from the FBI that because Skype was what they call ‘peer to peer’ there was no way that anyone – the Feds included – could eavesdrop on your conversation. I suppose this was something else I had neglected to mention to Chief Inspector Amalric.
I clicked the mouse to answer the call and a second later I was staring at a very different-looking John from the man I had last seen in a car on the French autoroute. For one thing he was now wearing a short grey beard and had lost a little weight, which rather suited him. What with the salt-and-pepper beard and the way his head was leaning on his hand he reminded me more than a little of Thomas Carlyle or perhaps John Fowles. But I could see nothing particularly desperate about the figure on the screen. His shirt collar was clean and the million-dollar Hublot watch was clearly visible on his thick, tanned wrist. The room behind him had lots of bookshelves and a high ceiling. He might have been about to give an online interview to a creative-writing class.
‘John. How the hell are you?’
He gave a wry sort of smile.
‘Aside from being a fugitive from justice and wanted for my wife’s murder, I’m fine, old sport.’
‘As a matter of fact I just had dinner with the Monty cops.’
‘They’re in London already? Jesus.’
‘Two of them are.’
‘Where’d they take you?’
I smiled. It was a question that only John would have asked in these circumstances.<
br />
‘Claridge’s. That’s where they’re staying.’
‘Fucking hell. They must really like me for this one. Claridge’s.’
‘You’re the obvious suspect, all things considered.’
‘And that’s precisely why I left. Because I looked so bang to rights for it. I figured my best chance was to get out of Dodge and try to clear myself from outside the principality. Unpleasant things in Monty have a habit of getting tidied away rather too quickly.’
‘That comes of there not being much room for anything – the place being smaller than a pimple on France’s arse.’
‘Maybe. Or just lazy cops.’
‘I don’t know, John, the two detectives I met tonight seemed quite equal to the task of tracking you down.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘The truth. What else could I tell them? John, I don’t know anything. I told them about the last time I spoke to you. I told them what we talked about. But if you’re asking me if I told them I thought you were guilty, no, I didn’t tell him that, because I don’t.’
‘Thanks, old sport. I appreciate it. And for what it’s worth, I really didn’t kill her. What does everyone else think?’
‘Peter and Mike think you’re probably guilty as charged. I don’t know about Bat and Hereward. I’m seeing them tomorrow, at their offices in Eastbourne Terrace. They asked me to come in and see them.’
‘I see.’
‘So what did happen?’
‘I’ve been framed, that’s what happened.’
‘Then why don’t you tell that to the cops? On Skype, I mean. I could set it up. You could talk to them like you’re doing with me now. Put your end of the story to them from wherever it is you are and you’d still be safe. Without having you in their custody they’d have no option but to check out your side of the story.’