by Philip Kerr
‘It’s him,’ I murmured. ‘I’m sure it’s him. I recognise the earrings.’
‘You can thank me later,’ she said as we neared the man in the Barca shirt.
‘Jérôme Dumas, I presume,’ I said, happily. ‘Scott Manson. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. In Paris, Antigua and now here in Guadeloupe. You’re a hard man to find, Jérôme.’
‘I guess so.’
There was a football on the lawn and seeing it, out of sheer exuberance that my mission now appeared to be over, I kicked it to him playfully.
‘Well, thank God for that, anyway,’ I said. ‘Although we do have a lot to talk about.’
‘If you say so.’
He trapped the football with his left foot, flicked it up, bounced it off his knee and onto his head, nodded it twice and then headed it back to me as if hoping to see what I was made of.
‘Your new employers are very anxious that you return with me to Barcelona as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘You’ve an important match coming up.’
I fielded the ball on my chest, and then up onto my head again, let it roll over my scalp, dropped it onto my knee and then my bare foot, and kept it up again a couple of times, before tapping it back to him. Between us it felt like a kind of language, a sporting Esperanto, and in a sense it is; where two or more men are kicking a football they’re in a dialogue.
‘Sure, and I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused,’ he said, grinning sheepishly. ‘I know you’ve come a long way to find me, Mr Manson.’
Jérôme had the ball in the small of his back now. After a second he shrugged it off and onto his own head and let it bounce five, six, seven, eight times before catching it on his instep and playing it back to me again with perhaps a little more venom than was necessary.
‘Scott,’ I said, controlling the ball with my head. ‘Call me Scott. I’m glad to see you’ve been keeping up your skills.’
I could feel the sweat breaking out on my head and chest as I tried to match his abilities with the ball, which were considerable and much superior to my own; even fifteen years ago I’d have been struggling to keep up with this guy. Now at the age of forty-one I was almost out of breath. I tucked my hands back against my wrists and concentrated hard to keep the ball just an inch or two in the air above one foot. I almost didn’t notice when someone inside the house turned the music off.
‘You’re not so bad yourself, Scott. Not bad at all. For an old guy.’
‘Thanks. And less of the old, if you don’t mind, sunshine.’
‘You were at Arsenal once, weren’t you?’ he said. ‘Before you went into management?’
‘That’s right. I was a centre back.’
‘I eat them for breakfast,’ said Jérôme.
‘Funnily enough, I’ve heard that one before. I think it was Paul Raury, from West Bromwich Albion, who said something similar to me just before I broke his ankle.’
‘When you two are quite finished showing off…’ said Grace.
I flicked the ball to Jérôme who played it off his knee, caught it in his big hands and tucked it possessively under his arm.
‘This is Grace Doughty,’ I said. ‘She’s a lawyer from Antigua. She’s been helping me to find you. Although to be more accurate it’s me who’s been helping her, I think. Given that she seems to know the island and speaks Creole.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Dumas,’ said Grace. ‘Too much, really. He’s been obsessing that we were on a wild goose chase. I told him that you have to be patient with wild geese, but I don’t think he believed that until now.’
‘Can you blame me?’ I said.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Jérôme shook her hand and then mine. ‘Come inside and have something to drink. You’ve come a long way, I expect.’
‘Do you speak Creole?’ I asked Jérôme.
‘Yes. A bit. But when I answer the bell to the door on the beach I always speak French since it’s nearly always French people who are ringing it. Usually they want to know if there’s a toilet nearby. And I have to tell them, otherwise they piss on the wall.’
Inside, the air-conditioned house was very Architectural Digest – all open-plan with upper galleries of bookshelves and other rooms. A bank of white leather armchairs were arranged in front of a matching right-angle sofa, like so many sugar cubes. Lying by the sofa were several days-old copies of Antigua’s newspaper, the Daily Observer, and a copy of Guillem Balague’s excellent biography of Lionel Messi. On the wall was a big plasma television and on the screen was FIFA 15, with the sound turned down; Chelsea against Barcelona. In the middle of the room was a glass table and a couple of PS4 controllers, and everywhere there were vases of flowers and jugs of iced water, almost as if Jérôme had been expecting us. He poured us each a glass of water that was flavoured with elderflower cordial.
‘Nice place,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘I didn’t know it was possible to live as well as this on Guadeloupe.’
‘It belongs to a friend of mine,’ said Jérôme. ‘Gui-Jean-Baptiste Target.’
‘Why does that name ring a bell?’ I said.
‘He’s the centre forward for SM Caen. Used to play for AS Monaco.’
I nodded. ‘I remember. Wasn’t he involved in that match-fixing scandal involving Caen and Nîmes Olympique in November 2014?’
‘He was questioned, I think. But not really involved at all. No charges have been brought, anyway. He lets me borrow this place from time to time.’
‘Is he from Guadeloupe, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s quite a crowd of you,’ I said.
‘Not a crowd, my friend,’ said Jérôme. ‘A team. If only the French would remove their objections to our FIFA incorporation then we could compete in the World Cup. Perhaps not in Russia, but certainly in Qatar. And you know something else? We could win. Especially if we were playing France. In fact I think I could guarantee it.’
‘It’s the same in England. There’s nothing like sticking one to the mother country. Just ask the Scots, or the Irish. I think there’s no one they’d rather beat than England. I should know. I’m part Scots myself.’
Jérôme grinned. ‘Forgive me, but you don’t look much like a Scotsman.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Besides, people in Scotland have been saying that to me all my life. Which is one reason I live in England, I suppose. The English are a lot more tolerant of black people than the Scots. Anyone can look English, I think. But it takes a Scot to look like a Scot. And you know, whatever people say, the French aren’t so bad.’
‘I dunno. Some of them. Maybe.’
‘I saw your apartment in Paris. Met your ex-girlfriend. I’d say you’d enjoyed pretty much all that France has to offer. And then some. From what I’ve read in your file, you were making fifty thousand euros a week at Monaco when you were just sixteen.’
‘How is Bella?’
‘She’s well. Misses you, I think.’
‘I doubt that very much. I wasn’t very nice to her.’
‘Not too late to fix that, I’d have thought. If it was me I’d try to mend my fences with her. I’ve rarely seen a more beautiful girl.’
‘You think so?’
‘You and she made a very handsome couple. She showed me the pictures in Marie Claire and Elle.’
‘We did, didn’t we? But she made her choice. And now I’m alone.’
None of the pictures I’d seen on television or in the magazines did the man’s beauty justice. He was astonishingly handsome with a long nose, a full sensuous mouth and a shaven head. It was a strong, almost Egyptian head in that it reminded me of one of those huge granite carvings of the Pharaoh Rameses II that can be seen in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings. He was tall and wiry, with legs as long as a crane fly’s and when you saw him you realised that his was a perfect footballer’s physique – not small, like a Messi, or as tall as a Crouch – but more felicitously proportioned, and just to see him was to picture him runnin
g at speed with the ball, or curling an improbable shot into the back of the net. Equally, it was plain to see why magazines and Italian designers were falling over themselves to sign him up. Paolo Gentile had not exaggerated. Except for the fact that his body was unmarked by tattoos it was easy to imagine this young man as the next David Beckham and getting rich beyond the dreams of anyone’s avarice. But if I had an early criticism it was that he seemed a little sulky; like a spoiled child.
‘Are you alone here now?’ I asked.
‘Yes, there’s just me and the housekeeper – Charlotte – who comes in every day and cooks and cleans for me.’
‘On the strength of the lunch we just ate I’m not sure there’s a great deal of difference between cooking and cleaning on this island.’
‘Where did you eat?’
‘The Yacht Club in Pointe-à-Pitre,’ said Grace. ‘If you go, don’t have the Creole Plate.’
‘We’re staying along the beach,’ I said, ‘at the Auberge de la Vieille Tour. But neither of us is very optimistic that it’s going to be any better.’
Jérôme pulled a face. ‘It’s true. There’s nowhere good in Pointe-à-Pitre.’
‘This is quite a little hideaway you have here, my young friend. Very private. You could live in a place like this for months and no one would find you.’
Jérôme nodded. ‘I certainly believed so.’
‘I must say you don’t seem to be very surprised that we did.’
He smiled. ‘I heard that you were looking for me. I’ve been expecting you all day.’
‘Was it the guy in Le Gosier who told you we were here in Guadeloupe?’ I asked. ‘The one with half the gift shop from PSG and who looks like a length of ebony? Or Queen Creole from the hairdresser’s salon in Pointe-à-Pitre?’
‘Both. I’m happy to say I still have lots of good friends in Guadeloupe.’
‘Oh, I’m sure. And what about relations?’
‘Sadly, I’ve no family on the island now. Not any more.’
‘What about on Antigua?’ I asked. ‘Any family there?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason. Well, now that I’m here, I think it’s best we put our cards on the table.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as the company you’ve been keeping. If I’m going to be travelling with you, I’d like to know if there’s anything important I should know about. You see, I wouldn’t like to aid someone who’s wanted by the police. Especially when I’m in a foreign country. I’m cautious like that. So why don’t you tell me everything?’
‘Does it really matter?’ said Jérôme.
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’
‘Look, Scott, I’ll gladly return to Barcelona whenever you like. Pay whatever fine they impose. You’ve accomplished what you set out to accomplish, haven’t you? So why don’t you just leave it be? Give them a call and tell them to send a jet to the airport at Pointe-à-Pitre and we can be back there in no time.’
‘All right. I’ll put it another way. I’m afraid there are some things I need to know, and know now. For example, and most importantly: why didn’t you get on that plane from Antigua to London and report for training at Joan Gamper in Barcelona, like you were supposed to do?’
He smiled, a little self-consciously. ‘Maybe I didn’t feel like it.’
‘You don’t want to talk? That’s fine by me. I can understand your reluctance to tell me about this. After all, it’s embarrassing to tell someone how you fucked up when you’ve only just met them. But what you’ve just told me so far won’t be good enough for the people at PSG or Barca who sent me here to find you. Not by a long chalk. If either of the two clubs get so much as a whiff of ill-discipline or someone with a bad attitude then they can fuck you up good, my son. You’re an investment and no one likes to see their investment just disappear without so much as an explanation. If Barca decided they didn’t want you after all – which yet they might – PSG could put you up for transfer and sell you to the highest bidder..‘
I sipped my elderflower water and waited for him to say something but all he did was stare at the game on the screen as if he wished he could just carry on playing.
‘Everything will be fine just as soon as I score my first goal for the Blaugrana,’ said Jérôme. ‘You’ll see. They all will.’
‘Sure it will. Just like it was after you’d scored your first goal at PSG. No, wait, you never scored a goal for PSG, did you? Correct me if I’m wrong but I thought that was why the French agreed to loan you to the Catalans. In the hope that you might do better in Barcelona than you’d done in Paris.’
Jérôme sighed loudly and, leaning back in his chair, shook his head.
‘I think you’re going to have to talk to me, son. Tell me, Grace, you’re a lawyer, would an employer be within their rights to dismiss an employee who didn’t turn up to work for the best part of a month, without an explanation? Not only that, but to sue him for breach of contract?’
‘He’s right, Jérôme,’ Grace told him. ‘You’re going to have to tell him something.’
‘It’s complicated,’ he said finally.
‘It always is.’
‘No, man, really fucking complicated.’
‘Look me up on the internet sometime. You’re looking at someone for whom complicated has been a pretty consistent career choice.’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t know a better way to explain how I’ve been to prison for something I didn’t do.’
‘You did?’
‘I served eighteen months for rape before I was acquitted. How’s that for complicated?’
‘I didn’t know. Christ. That’s really fucked up, man.’
‘Look, I can help you, kid. The fact is I’m not just here to fetch you home, I’m here to save you from yourself, if you need it. Which I happen to think you do. You see, I gave my word to Paolo Gentile that I’d do this. He seems to think your arse is worth saving, although frankly I remain to be convinced by that.’
‘Paolo. How is that old crook?’
‘Coin-operated. Same as ever. He has big plans for you. He’s convinced that he can make you the richest young man in football since Cristiano Ronaldo. Provided you’re willing to toe the corporate line, of course.’ I paused. ‘Is that one of the reasons why you funked it?’
‘A little, perhaps. But look, man, this is all very personal. It’s not easy to tell a complete stranger why I didn’t think I could go back.’
‘You know, I did quite a bit of digging around in your life before I flew over here. I’ve sat around in your lovely apartment with Mandel, and with Alice. She’s very loyal. I liked her. I’ve had dinner with Bella Macchina. I like her, too. I’ve been through your closets and your drawers. I’ve even been through your bathroom cabinet. I think I can safely say I know a lot more about you than you probably think I do. At the moment it’s just me who knows this shit. Not PSG and not Barcelona. If they did they’d run a mile, so you can thank me later.’
Jérôme gave a very Gallic shrug. He didn’t look very thankful. ‘What do you think you know?’
‘I know everything, from why Bella gave you the push, to your fondness for sex games with the Twin Towers, to your run-in with the Paris police. I know you’re on meds for depression. I know that you used to have a gambling problem. I know about your friends in Sevran-Beaudottes, that you used to go there to smoke a little weed and buy some blow, and how one of those hoods gave you a gun. You might be surprised to learn that’s the kind of thing that alarms a football club. And which can drive away a potential advertiser. Take it from one who’s already been there.’
‘Yes, but do you know why he gave me a gun?’
‘I think it may have been something to do with the death of Mathieu Soulié.’
Jérôme nodded, unhappily. ‘Those guys. They’re bastards. I used to go to the Alain Savary Sports Centre and give them clothes and money, trying to put something back in, you know? I figure I’ve been lucky and I wan
t to do something for people who’ve not been as fortunate as me.’
‘That’s very laudable of you, Jérôme.’
‘Anyway, one day I gave them some stuff I’d been wearing on a shoot, with Bella. Some clothes from Dries Van Noten. There was this one T-shirt with a satin square and a letter D—’
‘The one they found in Mathieu Soulié’s dead hand.’
‘That’s right. Chouan – he’s the gang leader – he must have been wearing it when they killed him. Either Soulié tore it off or they deliberately put it there in his hand to incriminate me. Anyway, Chouan said that if I didn’t do what he told me he’d make sure the police got the T-shirt and a picture of me wearing it. I had nothing at all to do with his murder. I even had an alibi. But I don’t think the cops would be too interested in that. They’d still have me in for questioning on account of how I’ve pissed them off already with my politics and my big mouth. Just to give me a hard time.’
‘And the gun?’
‘That was what Chouan wanted. He told me to get rid of it. To throw it in the river. Said he thought the cops were watching him. I’m sure it was the gun that killed that guy.’
‘And did you?’
‘No. I kept it in the apartment for a while until I figured out what to do with it. Then I decided to hide it. I figured it was evidence that might actually help to clear me.’
‘Sensible boy. Where did you hide it?’
‘In a left luggage locker at Gare du Nord.’
‘But there’s an X-ray check on left luggage at all French stations.’