Research (12 page)

‘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.

‘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.’

‘I already considered that, and the answer is no.’

‘Why not?’

‘Look, Don, I don’t want to go into any details right now. What I want to say is this: I know you might think I let you down and maybe I did and I’m sorry about it. But you’re the only one who can help me. You’re the only person I can trust, old sport. I need a favour. A big favour. And it’s the kind of favour you simply won’t be able to do if you set up a Skype call between me and those two Monty cops, because if that happens then it stands to reason the British police will start watching you in the hope you’ll lead them to me.’

‘I get it. I’m to come and see you, is that it? Sure. Just tell me where you are and I’m there.’

‘Look, I know this is asking a lot. You’ll be aiding and abetting
a serious crime and subject to prosecution. If you were found guilty you could go to prison, Don.’

‘What am I, Forrest Gump? John, I trained to be a lawyer, remember? Say what you want me to do and then you can read me the Miranda.’

‘There’s a sort of box containing some stuff which I’d like you to pick up and bring to me here.’

‘You mean like a safety deposit box?’

John laughed. ‘Jesus, Don, that stuff is strictly for the Ludlum movies. Nobody bothers with safety deposit boxes these days. At least no one who wants to keep things secret. For one thing you can’t trust any of the fucking banks to keep their mouths shut – least of all the Swiss ones. And for another I happen to know of at least two Liechtenstein banks that are under constant surveillance by the CIA – I mean you walk out of some of these places it’s like the red fucking carpet. You might as well pause and smile and tell the folks watching back home that Domenico Vacca made your fucking tuxedo. No, if you really want to keep your stuff safe and secret you use a self-storage facility. And it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than a fucking bank, too. UK has eight hundred self-storage facilities – more than the rest of Europe put together. It’s a 350 million pound a year industry in Great Britain alone and there’s no way that any law enforcement agencies can keep eyes on them. Al-Qaeda probably has shares in these companies.’

I laughed. The way John talked sometimes, it was like reading one of his novels.

‘So, here’s what you do,’ he said. ‘You drive to Big Yellow Self Storage on Townmead Road in Fulham. Next to the Harbour Club where I used to be a member.’

‘I know it.’

‘I rent twenty-five square feet of storage space on the first floor. Number F14. And that’s where you’ll find this box. The pin number to get in the place is 1746, Battle of Culloden, so a Jock like you shouldn’t have any trouble remembering it. And there’s free parking so it won’t cost you a penny either. There’s a combination padlock on the door. It’s another Scottish defeat. Flodden Field, 1513. Anyone asks you – not that they will – then the space is rented to a Mr Hanway. You’ll see that your name is also on the system. A little precaution I took at the time. In the storage space you’ll find a box. Really, it’s more of a foot locker. Or a small trunk. The combination on that lock is Bannockburn. 1314.’

‘So what’s in the box?’

‘You could call it research, I suppose. You know how I always tried to get things right – how far I would go. Yes, of course you do. Sometimes a little too far, right? I got myself a fake British passport and driver’s licence, sourced an illegal handgun, and bought some of the last US Treasury bearer bonds. I broke a few laws in the cause of checking out what was actually possible, sure. But that’s what made the books work; because the stories were watertight. I always figured that if I got caught doing any of that shit I’d deploy the Forsyth defence. I’d get my lawyer to say that I was merely practising the same research techniques used in undercover journalism – in the same way that Freddie did when he wrote
The Day of the Jackal
. Of course, I never did get caught; and I held on to the stuff for what you might call romantic reasons. I mean I suppose I always rather fancied myself as Jason Bourne. Anyway, that’s what’s in the box, old sport. A thriller writer’s career contraband. Look, bring the cash and the documents – in fact bring everything except the gun and the bonds. Yes, you’d best toss the gun in the river. But
inside a Mont Blanc Meisterstück pen you’ll find there are some conflict diamonds, so for Christ’s sake don’t try to use it to sign anything.’