Research

  ‘Yes, that’s a point. Without the box he’ll be lucky if he gets a tenth of what the watch is really worth. But with the box it’d be worth at least twice that. Maybe more.’ John laughed bitterly. ‘That’s a happy thought. Thanks, old sport. I’ll be thinking of that tonight, when I hand over the twenty grand.’

  ‘In 52 Pickup the victim manages not to pay the blackmailers anything at all. That’s why I mentioned it. He tricks them. In fact he goes a lot further than that.’

  ‘Easier said than done.’

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s just possible that if we were to offer to get Phil the Hublot box and all the Black Caviar paperwork for your watch he might be persuaded to give up on the twenty grand. That way he’d get much more money when eventually he sells it. And no questions asked, probably.’

  ‘But I don’t have the box or the paperwork. It’s back at the apartment in Monaco. And there’s no chance of getting it from there.’

  ‘He doesn’t know that. Look, John, if I went up to Phil’s house on my own tonight I could sell him a story that the box is somewhere else. At the atelier in Paris, perhaps. That only I can get it; and that I’m ready to make a deal with him.’

  ‘Go on.’

  I glanced at John’s Tumi bag, which was on the ground by his leg.

  ‘Have you got the money in there?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Give the bag to me.’

  John handed over the bag and I took a quick look inside it just to check it was all there, like he said.

  ‘I’ll show him the twenty thousand, like we agreed. But then I’ll suggest that if he lets me keep the money then I’ll bring him the box and the paperwork. I get to keep the twenty thousand but he stands to make an extra hundred 150,000 when he sells the watch. Maybe more.’

  ‘So he thinks you’ve double-crossed me for twenty grand?’

  ‘Exactly. I’m figuring he’s got nothing against me. In fact I’m sure I can persuade him that I’m his friend and that he owes me – something. Without you there to make things personal I’m sure I can get him to believe that the Bentley and the cash are what I’ve been after all along. I’ll tell him I’d forgotten all about the watch. He’ll want to believe that I really hate you as much as he does. And that I’m no better or worse than him when it comes to revenge.’

  ‘But I already told him the Bentley wasn’t mine.’

  ‘Of course you did. Only I’ll tell him I know different. Or that I know someone who’ll buy the car with no questions asked, for fifty grand. I’ll tell him I’m willing to settle for the cash and the car if he settles for your watch, in its box.’

  ‘Yes, that might work. But why would he trust you to come back with the Hublot box?’

  ‘Because I’m not you. He isn’t a fucking criminal, John. He’s actually quite law-abiding, only right now he’s also desperate. I know him. Phil and I go way back. He used to work at J. Walter Thompson, remember? That’s how he and I met. Besides, I didn’t work in advertising for all those years without becoming just a little bit persuasive.’ I shrugged. ‘Anyway, what have you got to lose?’

  ‘What happens when you don’t come back to Tourrettes with the Hublot box?’

  ‘It will be too late by then. Hopefully you’ll have found Colette and your alibi. With any luck you’ll be out on police bail. Facing trial, perhaps, but with every chance of being acquitted. Meanwhile, you can instruct your lawyers in Monaco to threaten Phil with jail unless he returns the watch.’ I finished the wine in my glass. ‘So, what do you say?’

  ‘Give me a minute to think this over,’ said John. ‘I’m not saying yes. Not yet. Just – give me a minute, okay?’

  The cassoulet arrived and I made short work of it while John – ignoring his own main course – concentrated on the Bandol. He was drinking more than was good for him but I could hardly blame him for that; given the strain he was under the surprise was that he wasn’t drunk more often.

  Then at 8.45 he ordered another bottle of Bandol and told me he would wait at the restaurant for me. ‘I guess there’s no harm in you trying to talk him around,’ he said. ‘It’s not like I have anything to lose.’

  ‘Good.’ I picked up the Tumi bag and collected the car keys off the table. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘You do that, old sport. If I’m not here I’ll be at one of those bars on the Place de la Libération.’

  CHAPTER 10

  I walked back to the square in front of the church where we had left the Bentley and found some small boys next to it, taking pictures of themselves. One of them even crouched down near the exhaust and filmed the start-up on his mobile phone. Tourrettes wasn’t like Monaco where expensive cars are ten-a-penny; it was altogether smaller and much less glamorous; to that extent it reminded me of Cornwall.

  I smiled kindly, steered the car carefully away from the busy square and drove north onto the Route de Saint-Jean and then up the narrow, dry-stoned road that was Route du Caire, in the direction of Phil’s villa. Once or twice I had to move quickly into the side as a van driven by some mad local came hurtling down the road the opposite way. There was no street-lighting, since this was rural France, but there were several houses along the way providing just enough illumination to help me navigate. Soon after the hacienda-style entrance of the Hôtel Résidence des Chevaliers on my right, the road narrowed even further until at the top of the hill, on the left, the Bentley’s headlights picked out a rusting metallic sign that read ‘Le VILLA SEUREL, Propriété privée’; next to this was another sign from Immobilière Azuréenne which read ‘À Vendre’. I steered the car through an open gate and up a narrow twisting drive. Ill-kempt bushes brushed the dusty blue doors of the Bentley as the car crawled up a steep hill until the ground beneath the twenty-one-inch wheels flattened and widened and I was turning onto a gravel parking area in front of a two-storey cream house with pale green shutters. I turned off the engine, collected the Tumi bag off the passenger seat and stepped out of the car to find Philip French standing behind a zigzag wall with a glass of wine in one hand and a roll-up in the other.

  ‘Where’s John?’

  ‘I thought it best if I came up here on my own,’ I said. ‘Things being what they are between the two of you it seemed best to avoid a scene.’

  ‘That’s all we’ve ever had – he and I. He’d think of a scene and I’d write it. Today, in the car park at the Saint-Martin was the first conversation we’ve ever had about something real.’

  ‘He’s not so bad. He didn’t kill her, you know. He really is an innocent man.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a fuck if he killed her or not. Since I never met her I have no feelings about the woman one way or the other.’

  ‘Phil. That’s not worthy of you.’

  ‘Come to do his dirty work, have you?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I hope you brought the money, for his sake.’

  French turned on his heel and walked back onto the terrace, and as I followed him I noticed a strong smell of marijuana in the air.

  The house occupied a good space at the top of a hill that provided uninterrupted views of the countryside to the south and probably the sea as well. The garden was not overlooked by anyone or anything as far as I could see, and about the only thing that gave a clue as to the parlous state of the owner’s finances was the empty swimming pool and a second immobilière’s sign that had been placed behind a garden shed, only this one read ‘À Louer’. A wrought-iron balcony ran the length of the front of the house, and underneath this was a refectory-style table on which sat a wine-box, a couple of glasses, some cigarette papers and next to a Rizla rolling machine a plastic bag containing tobacco and whatever else you needed to make a joint these days.

  ‘Nice place you have here,’ I said.

  He smiled and I saw that his teeth were not in the best condition; they were the colour of the keys on an old piano. He was a thin man, even a little cadaverous, with skin as thin as the Rizla papers on
his joints.

  ‘How many square metres have you got?’

  ‘It’s 4,400 square metres of mostly olive grove. Originally we were going to make our own olive oil, but that was another pipe dream down a long borehole of pipe dreams.’

  ‘But a great place for writing, I’d have thought.’

  ‘It might be, if I had anything to write. But I’m all written out, Don. I fear my days of writing anything other than some newlywed’s bloody lunch order are over.’ Phil took a deep drag on the roll-up and I noticed he was still wearing John’s Hublot watch. It stood up from his racket-shaft of a wrist like the lid on an Aga cooker.

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean. Now that we no longer have John’s outlines to work from I’ve found it hard to get going again myself.’

  Phil smiled a cynical smile. ‘Sure. Whatever you say, Don.’

  ‘Look, Phil, I don’t recall there being any bad blood between you and me. I always did my best for all the guys in the atelier. Perhaps you didn’t know, but it was me who persuaded John to give you that redundo money. He needn’t have given any of us any money at all, since we were all technically self-employed. But if you’re going to behave like a cunt I’ll fuck off now and save us both the emotional energy of an argument. Frankly I’ve got enough on my plate dealing with John without you as well.’

  French nodded sullenly and took an asthmatic drag on the joint he was smoking as if he was hoping it might provide some actual nourishment. He looked as if he could have eaten a good meal.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. And where are my manners? Would you like a drink?’

  I nodded.

  Phil fetched a glass of red from the wine box and handed it to me.

  ‘Where is he, anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘Actually, he’s drunk. I left him back at the Château Saint-Martin sleeping it off. The way he’s been drinking, this might easily have become more unpleasant than it needs to be.’

  ‘I’m sorry about this afternoon. I don’t regret pinching his watch, but I do regret being so rude to you, Don.’

  ‘Forget about it.’

  I tasted the wine, which wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked.

  ‘You’re selling the house?’ I said, changing the subject.

  ‘Have to. Unfortunately my missus left before I could murder her like John murdered his. Lucky bugger. But now she wants her half. Only the property market in this part of the world is fucked now that the socialists are in and screwing the last penny in taxes out of everyone. So, no one’s interested. No one wanted to rent it. No one wants to buy it.’ He looked at the huge watch on his wrist and smiled a fake sort of smile. ‘Until I got this little gewgaw I was actually thinking of applying for the Society of Authors’ hardship fund so that I could afford the fucking ticket home.’

  ‘And now that you have that watch, what will you do?’

  ‘Flog it, of course. See what I can get for it in Monaco if I can find out where he bought the thing. I’ve got a day off tomorrow so I figured to check that out on the internet.’

  ‘Ciribelli,’ I said. ‘That’s the name of the shop where he bought it. Actually there are three stores, but your best bet is probably the one in the Hôtel de Paris.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’ He frowned. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘Listen, Don, under the circumstances I’m the last person to give anyone advice on their behaviour. But do you know what you’re doing? Since I moved down here I’ve met a few French cops, and they play rougher than our own boys in blue. Aiding and abetting a man who’s wanted for murder and all that; you’re taking a bit of a risk, aren’t you? If the police nick you, they’ll throw the book at you. Not to mention the desk it was resting on. This is a high-profile case. It’s been all over The Riviera Times and Nice-Matin.’

  ‘I know. But I figure it’s worth the risk. You see I’m not actually helping John. He only thinks I’m helping him. I’ve got plans of my own.’

  ‘Oh? And what are they?’

  ‘As a matter of fact that’s what I want to talk to you about. Why I came up here on my own tonight.’

  ‘You want to smoke a joint while we talk about it?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll stick to cigarettes if you don’t mind. For what I’ve got to say I need a clear head.’

  ‘Sounds ominous.’

  I sat down, opened my cigarette case and laid it open on the table like a little jewellery box before taking one and lighting it. I sat back and smoked it as if I had all the time in the world to get to the point.

  ‘There’s nothing I like more than smoking a cigarette on a terrace in the south of France,’ I said. ‘Unless it’s fucking someone on a terrace in the south of France. But at my age it looks as if I’ll have to settle for the cigarettes, I think.’ I shrugged. ‘Then again, maybe there’s an alternative. Which is what I want to talk to you about.’

  Philip French sat down opposite me and started to make another joint. ‘So what is it?’

  ‘First, the twenty grand you were demanding from John; to stop you going to the police and informing on him – and by extension me.’ I reached into the Tumi bag and tossed the money onto the table between us. ‘There it is. Paid in full.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I shrugged. ‘Of course, another twenty grand is nothing beside what you could get for that watch if you had the box and all the papers that came with it when John bought it. Without any of that you’ll be lucky to raise a hundred grand, compared with maybe four times as much if you had everything you need to make the thing look kosher.’ I took another drag on the cigarette. ‘But I can get you all that. The box and the papers are in the safe at the atelier in Paris and I still have the key and the combination. The cops are probably keeping an eye on the place, so there’s a risk factor involved. Which means it’s going to cost you, Phil.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Twenty grand.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I take the blame with John and you take the cash.’

  ‘A bargain considering you might raise four hundred grand.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Did I say something funny?’

  ‘Just that there was I feeling like a fucking criminal and now here you are dealing off the bottom. We make quite a pair.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Wait. Why aren’t you asking for half of what I can get for the watch?’

  ‘Because I already have the Bentley.’

  ‘What? He said it belongs to someone else.’

  ‘It does. Only I have a buyer who’ll give me fifty grand for it, no questions asked. You get the watch and the box and I get the car and twenty grand. That makes seventy grand for me.’

  ‘Seventy versus four hundred. It still sounds to me as if you’re coming up short, Don.’

  ‘Perhaps. You can call it a sign of good faith, if you like.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘First things first: do we have a deal about the money?’

  ‘Sure. Keep it. If you can get the box and make the watch squeaky clean, so much the better. But don’t take any unnecessary risks.’

  ‘Okay.’ I put the money back in the black bag. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But I still think you’re selling yourself short.’

  ‘And like I said, that’s a sign of good faith.’

  Phil opened his hand as if expecting me to put something other than money in it. ‘In what?’ he repeated. ‘Don’t make me strip naked for it.’

  ‘In you, Phil. In you. You see I’ve got a nice proposition for you that can make us both much wealthier than a few hundred grand a piece. Enough for you to pay off your wife and to keep this place, if that’s what you want to do.’

  ‘What kind of proposition? And don’t say a novel, or a script, or I’ll laugh. It’s only the people who’ve got almost nothing to say who are being paid the big money to say it in print: cooks and fucking footballers and national treasure actresses with backsides almost as big as thei
r books. These days the Christmas bestsellers look like they were published by Hello! magazine.’

  ‘Just hear me out. If you were describing my idea as a plot for a book, you would call it a simple reversal of fortune plot. You know? The Prisoner of Zenda. We put John Houston to work. For us.’

  ‘And how would that work? He’s a wanted man.’

  ‘In a way, that’s not true. John Houston no longer exists. John is using a false passport. That’s how we’re getting around without any trouble. At the moment he’s someone called Charles Hanway.’

  ‘I might have known he’d have done something like that. Yes, I remember him getting that passport for research when he wrote whichever fucking book it was. And he employed the Forsyth method to get it. So that’s how he’s managed to evade capture. He’s nothing if not resourceful, is our John.’

  ‘My plan is this: we get Charles back to England and we put him up at my place in Cornwall. It’s so out of the way that everything but the rain avoids the fucking place. John keeps that beard going until he looks like all of the other hobbits who live down there. He’d be like the man in the iron mask. He stays there and continues to do what he does best, which is to write story outlines for us. And then we write the actual books. Simple as that. Just like before. Only this time it will be us who reap the benefits. We’ll pay him what he used to pay us. Just enough to enable him to live, reasonably, in Cornwall. Which is to say not very much. Meanwhile you and I will become Philip Irvine – a pseudonym for our writing partnership. I would say Don French, but there’s Dawn French, of course. And we wouldn’t want to be confused with her. Not to mention another pseudonymous writing partnership called French: Nicci French.’

  ‘Sean French and Nicci Gerrard. Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘So Philip Irvine it has to be. At least until we can come up with something better. We can write alternate chapters, like they do. It will take a few books and a couple of years to get ourselves properly established, but I reckon if we stick closely to the old Houston formula Hereward can make a deal with VVL. In less than ten years I see no reason why we shouldn’t be as rich as John.’