Research (29 page)

‘But the plot you outlined to me is very different from his,’ I said. ‘Besides, you’ve always said that you should never be deterred by someone writing a book which is in the same ball-park. That sometimes the second book about something succeeds where the first one fails.’

‘But his one didn’t fail. That’s rather the point, old sport. Anyway, what the fuck took you?’ John drained his glass and poured another. ‘I thought you’d run out on me. The food here’s not that bad.’

‘You know you’re going to have to start trusting me, John.’

He nodded. ‘Fair enough. I’m sorry.’

‘I ran into Michael Twentyman. It seems he’s having dinner with a couple of friends in the other restaurant.’

‘What did you tell him? Suppose he recognizes me?’

‘He doesn’t know you.’

‘No, but my picture has been on the front of
Nice-Matin
.’

I smiled, wryly. ‘That picture doesn’t do you justice.’

‘I’m glad you think this is funny.’

‘I also had Chief Inspector Amalric on the phone,’ I said. ‘It seems that he wants to question me again.’

‘Jesus. About what?’

‘I rather imagine he thinks I can tell him where you are hiding.’

John bit his lip and looked worried. He turned around in his chair as if expecting to see the Chèvre d’Or terrace surrounded by French gendarmes. ‘Maybe they’re undercover cops,’ he said. ‘These other diners.’

Several of the other tables were occupied by Chinese – imperceptibly different from the Japanese who’d once flocked to Europe. I shook my head.

‘You don’t suppose he’s on to me? Your chief inspector.’

‘No. But I’m not so sure that he wouldn’t like to make me a suspect.’

‘You? What the fuck for? You haven’t killed anyone. At least no one I know about.’

‘I had the sneaking suspicion he might have spotted me in your building. When I was in there fetching that iPad.’

‘Christ, Don.’

John looked around again.

I shrugged. ‘Look, I’m probably imagining it. He didn’t get a good look at me. I’m certain of it.’

‘I hope so.’

‘He’s under a lot of pressure to get a result. From the Police Commissioner. And the Minister of Interior. He probably called me because he can’t think of anything else to do. That’s what cops are like when they’re not getting anywhere. They do everything they did before, again, in case they missed something. At least that’s what the clever ones do, and like I said before, Amalric is nothing if not clever.’

‘You’re not just saying that, are you? To make me feel better. Because as it is I’m not going to sleep a fucking wink tonight. My heart feels like a bloody canary.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It was just a coincidence that he should have called me on the very night we went back to Monaco. Look,
if they were really on to us, they’d have arrested us by now, don’t you think? I mean what’s to be gained by not picking us up now? He was on a fucking fishing trip, I’m sure of it. Because of the pressure from the top.’

I was trying to persuade myself of this as much as I was trying to reassure John that everything was all right. I was half inclined to climb in the Bentley and leave Èze as quickly as possible. Suddenly it seemed dangerously near Monaco. But I was dog-tired. Half a bottle of decent rosé will do that to you after a long drive. All I wanted now was to go to bed in a nice air-conditioned bedroom.

But I still had one thing to do.

‘My heart bleeds for him,’ said John.

I laughed. ‘Typical bloody Frenchman though. Always thinking about their cocks. He more or less asked me if I had a mistress. And when I said I didn’t, he suggested I should get one. He sounds like he’s a shagger. A real DSK.’

John frowned. ‘A DSK? What’s that?’

‘Dominique Strauss-Kahn. You know? He was MD of the IMF before he got caught with his trousers down and the French press turned him into
Monsieur Cinq-à-Sept
.’

‘Oh him, yeah.’ John smiled as light dawned on Marble-head. ‘That’s it, Don, old sport. You bloody genius. I remember now. 0-5-0-7. That’s Colette’s fucking passcode.’

‘You’re not serious.’ I made an innocent face. ‘Really?’

‘That’s what Colette used to call me.
Monsieur Cinq-à-Sept
. For obvious reasons.’ John was already tapping the number into Colette’s iPad. ‘Brilliant,’ he said. ‘We’re in.’ His smile widened. ‘And here it is. Her list of contacts.’

He scrolled down through the list.

‘This must be it. Didier and Mala Laurent. Boulevard la Savine, in the fifteenth arrondissement. There’s a telephone
number.’ John picked up his mobile – the one he’d borrowed from Bob Mechanic – and started to dial.

‘No, wait,’ he said, tossing the phone back onto the table. ‘If she is there and she is involved in some sort of blackmail scam, then I’d just be putting her on alert, wouldn’t I? Better to have this conversation if we’re sitting outside the front door. Might be interesting to see what reaction it provokes.’

‘The fifteenth. That’s northern Marseille, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘There was an article about the Marseille
banlieues
in the
Guardian
. Pretty rough area to take a friend’s Bentley.’

John shrugged. ‘So maybe we won’t wash it tomorrow.’

‘But more importantly, have you given any thought to what you’re going to say to Colette when we catch up with her? I mean apart from demanding to know where the hell she’s been for the last two weeks?’

‘No. I can’t say that I have.’

‘Let’s suppose for a moment that she really did have nothing to do with Orla’s murder. In which case she’s probably scared witless that she’s going to be a police suspect, too. It seems to me that she’s not just your alibi, you’re hers, too. In which case it might be better if you were both to say that you spent the whole evening together instead of your just having had a quick shag, like you say you had. In one sense that makes you more of a cunt – the fact that you were prepared to do something like that, under your wife’s nose. But being a cunt doesn’t make you a murderer.’

‘Yes, I can see how that might play.’

‘Then all you’ll have to do is think of a way of making sure Colette stays onside.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘How long have you known her? Less than a year?’

‘Six months.’

I shrugged. ‘If it was me I would want to be sure that she knew that you were going to look after her after this is all over. For a start she’ll need a good lawyer. And she’ll need money. Probably quite a lot of money.’ I laughed and then shook my head as if I’d thought better of saying something.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No, go on, say it.’

‘Just that it might actually be cheaper if you married her. When this is all over.’

‘What?’

‘No, think about it. A wife can’t give evidence against her own husband. So if she did ever retract her story, there would be no point.’ I shrugged again. ‘It might actually be a good move. After all, it’s not like you have a wife, is it?’

‘You’re a devious fucker, Irvine. Do you know that?’

I smiled. ‘It has been said.’

‘What’s that book about a road trip?’ asked John.

We were driving west, heading toward Marseille on the busy A8 which, according to the Bentley’s satnav, was a journey of about two and a half hours. I was at the wheel and John had his notebook open on his thigh.

‘There are several.
The Hobbit
.
Travels with Charley
.’

‘It’s not
The
fucking
Hobbit
.’ John frowned. ‘
Travels with Charley
. Is that Graham Greene?’

‘Steinbeck. You’re thinking of
Travels with My Aunt
. Which isn’t a book about a road trip at all.’

‘Think of some others.’

I shrugged. ‘
The Alchemist
, Paulo Coelho.’

John looked nauseous. ‘Ugh. No. I hate him. That’s a real Richard and Judy book. Zero sugar philosophy for muppets.’

‘
The Grapes of Wrath
.
On the Road
.’

‘Kerouac. Yeah, that’s a real life-changing book. After I read it I promised myself I would never waste my time finishing a book I wasn’t enjoying ever again. It’s the kind of road book that would give you road rage.’

I smiled. John’s opinions of books were always amusing.

‘Come to think of it, it’s not a book at all, the story I’m thinking about. It’s
Two-Lane Blacktop
. A Seventies movie with James Taylor and Dennis Wilson from The Beach Boys.’

‘Haven’t seen it.’

‘Few have. But it’s a cult classic.’

‘What happens?’

‘Not very much. They drive across Route 66 in a ’55 Chevy. Don’t say anything. Get in a couple of races with Warren Oates.’

‘Sounds a bit existential. Not your kind of thing at all.’

‘Nope. It isn’t. But I was thinking. That’s kind of like you and me, old sport. Taylor and Wilson. Except that we’re twice as old as they were in that movie. And this is a much better car, of course. Plus, we’ve got a lot more money. And we don’t have a girl in the back.’

‘Not yet. Maybe we’ll find one on the way.’ I put my foot down. ‘Hey, there’s a green Porsche up ahead. We can race that if you like.’

‘Just keep it to 130.’

We hadn’t driven far past Nice when John noticed a French police car in our mirrors. He turned around in his seat and said, ‘There’s a cop on our tail.’

‘I know.’

‘How long’s he been there?’

‘Couple of miles,’ I said.

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Don’t keep looking at them. It’ll make us look suspicious. Just ignore them.’

‘Easy for you to say.’

‘Easy to say because I’m right.’ I smiled. ‘I know. Let’s play the secret subtitle game. Like we used to do when we were on the road. To keep your mind off them.’

This is a simple game; you give me the title of some worthy book as if it’s the beginning of a sentence which I complete with something funny; extra marks are awarded for vulgarity
and political incorrectness. So, for example, if someone said
Farewell to Arms
, I might reply, ‘Hello, Stoke Mandeville.’

‘I’ll go first,’ I said. ‘
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
.’

John hesitated for only a moment. ‘Because if it doesn’t then we’re going to feed it to the fucking cat.’

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Your turn.’

‘
And the Mountains Echoed
.’

‘With the sound of an enormous fart.’ I thought for a minute. ‘Here’s a hard one for you.
Disgrace
.’

John smiled. ‘Dat’s Glenda.’ He chuckled. ‘Here’s an easy one.
A Million Little Pieces
.’

‘Of shit, are what make Kilburn High Road so interesting to walk along. All right I have one for you, John.
The Elected Member
.’

‘Made the Chinese woman’s vagina wet just to look at it.
The Remains of the Day
.’

‘Refused to flush away until they found a plumber.
How late it was, how late
.’

‘Oops. It looked as if she was pregnant after all.’ John smiled grimly. ‘Here’s one you won’t get.
The Inheritance of Loss
.’

I was quiet for a moment; then I said, ‘Was the leadership of a big band from his father Joe.
The Reluctant Fundamentalist
.’

‘Was encouraged greatly by the regular application of electricity to his testicles.’

We carried on this childish vein for a while, but after another ten kilometres the police were still there and, despite our laughter, John was now a nervous wreck.

‘What’s
their
bloody game?’ he said.

‘That’s all it is. A game. Just like ours. You must have encountered this sort of thing before.’

‘No. What do you mean?’

‘When you were making your road trips between Monaco and Paris in your Lamborghinis and Aston Martins. Look, they’re just fucking with us. We’ve got an expensive supercar we can’t drive like an expensive supercar because they’re right behind us. That’s the game. You’ll see, in a few more miles they’ll get bored and move on to someone else.’

‘They’re on to us, I’m sure of it. They’ll probably try to arrest me at the next toll.’

‘You’re paranoid.’

‘I don’t think so. After what you told me last night, about that cop telephoning you, I think the game is up for me, Don. Really I do.’

‘I don’t blame you for being paranoid. But that’s what you are. You’ve got to relax. Close your eyes. Zone out. Pretend they’re not there. Just be calm and I’ll tell you when they’re gone. Look here’s another one.
American Pastoral
.’

But John wasn’t listening. He delved into the little black Tumi briefcase he’d brought from Geneva and, to my horror, produced an automatic pistol.

‘What the fuck is that?’ I demanded.

‘What’s it look like? It’s Orla’s Walther P22.’

‘Are you crazy?’

‘I’m damned if they’re going to take me without a fight. I can’t spend the next twenty years in jail like Phil fucking Spector.’

‘Put that thing away. You’ll get us both killed.’

‘I fucking mean it, Don. I’m not going to jail. I’m sixty-seven years old. I’d rather go out in a hail of bullets than die in prison.’

I could see he was desperate – desperate enough to do something stupid, and he gave me little choice but to turn sharply off the A8 at the next junction. The cops however
stayed on the A8, which left us heading north on the M336 toward St-Paul-de-Vence and me wondering what to do now. But first I needed to get the gun out of John’s hand and him in a slightly calmer frame of mind.

I kept on driving north for about ten or fifteen kilometres. It was an uninspiring landscape typical of the crappy roadside hinterland of the Côte d’Azur: garden centres, Casino markets, builder’s merchants, tyre centres, McDonald’s, car showrooms, petrol stations and banks. The sort of road that makes the south of France look more like a ring road around Hemel Hempstead.

‘They’re gone,’ I said after a while.

‘I know.’

‘The Monty cops said Orla was killed with a 22-calibre Walther,’ I said. ‘Is that the same gun?’

‘Yes.’

‘You brought the murder weapon with you? Shit, John. Are you crazy?’