‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m not. I’m perfectly serious. This can really work, Phil. I’m absolutely certain of it.’
‘Suppose we get caught? Christ, Don, we’d go to prison. They’d give us five years for something like this. And the prisons down here are exactly what they say on the tin. There’s none of that open-prison shit you get back home. You serve hard time in the south of France. There’s no telly in a cell, just some jihadi with a hard-on and a welcoming smile.’
‘There’s a book in that, too, I shouldn’t wonder. But I really don’t see how we’d get caught. Like I say, Polruan – that’s where I live in Cornwall – it’s so quiet and out of the way that you could be living next door to Lord Lucan and have no idea.’
‘Have you talked about this with John?’
‘Not yet. I’m waiting for him to get really desperate before I broach the subject. Which he will when we travel to Marseille and fail to find the woman he’s relying on to give him an alibi for where he was and what he was doing on the night Orla was murdered. That’s where he’ll have his meltdown and I point out the many advantages of living in Cornwall.’
‘Suppose he says no?’
‘Frankly, if it’s a choice between a prison cell in Monaco and a life of freedom in Cornwall then Cornwall edges it.’ I laughed. ‘But only just. Seriously though. What would you choose? It’s an offer he can’t refuse.’
French nodded. ‘That’s quite a plot you’ve got there. Although a little far-fetched, perhaps.’
‘It will work.’
He stood up. ‘Come with me, Don. I want to show you something.’
I got up and followed him, pausing only to go back and fetch John’s bag.
‘It’ll be all right there,’ he said.
‘With twenty grand in there, it doesn’t leave my sight,’ I said.
‘Fair enough.’
I picked up the bag and followed French around the back of the house to a neat little cottage bungalow with a flat roof. He opened the door, switched on a light and showed me into an office with everything a writer would have needed: an Apple iMac the size of a window, a Herman Miller Aeron chair, a wraparound desk, a Dyson fan, a Flos Piani desklamp, an Eames lounger and ottoman, and all surrounded with floor-to-ceiling brushed aluminium shelves that were home to a library of beautiful books.
‘This is what I call a writer’s study,’ I said. ‘I’d love to have somewhere like this to work in. It’s fantastic.’
‘I don’t know why,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t bear to sell any of this shit. Which is absurd when you think about it because I don’t actually write anything. Not any more. I just come in here and read or stare at the walls. You see I meant what I said, Don. About writer’s block.’
‘Oh come on, Phil: writer’s block. That’s just an ignorant question for the literary festivals. Athlete’s foot I believe in. But not writer’s block. Do lawyers get lawyer’s block? Do policemen get policeman’s block? I don’t think so. It’s a bullshit excuse invented to cover up for one’s own laziness. It doesn’t exist.’
‘Maybe not for you. But the thought of sitting down and writing something now fills me with dread. And it’s more than just writer’s block. I’m written out. Finished. I couldn’t write another book if Erle Stanley Gardner was in here to dictate it.’
‘Nonsense. You might just as well say that your heavenly muse has deserted you. There are no muses. All that stuff is for Virgil and Catullus and Dante, not you and me. You don’t need a muse to write what we write any more than there could be a mental block that stops us from doing it. We’re pros. That’s what we do.’
French smiled wearily.
‘This will explain it better, perhaps.’
He leaned over his desk, moved the mouse on its mat and chose a file on the iMac which had simultaneously come to life.
‘It’s an email I wrote to my wife Caroline and never sent. But it explains everything. Forgive the pet names and intimacies. But please read it.’
‘You’re depressed, Phil. That’s all. And who wouldn’t be? I know what I’m talking about because my wife left me, too. That sort of thing affects writers the same way it affects anyone. But it isn’t writer’s block.’
‘Please read it.’
I shrugged and sat down in his chair. It was a nice desk. Everything felt just right.
Dear Mrs Cat,
Forgive my silence. It’s not just you that I have failed to write to but rather that I have failed to write anything at all. Not one paragraph. Of course the urge dies hard but however much I try, nothing comes. Not even a trickle of words. It is as if there was no ink in my pen or ribbon in my typewriter. Faced with a blank page I feel as clumsy as if I was a savage who knew only grunts and sign language. I’m as blocked as if I was entombed inside a pyramid, sealed for ever. It is like being impotent except that there is no Viagra or Cialis that can fix this.
You’ll remember that whenever my writing was blocked I would sit down and write a long letter to you – to kick start my writing. And so, here goes. It’s probable that I shall never send this but if I do, then I apologize for any pain this might cause on top of so much pain I have caused you before. Please try to understand, I wish only happiness for you. Do you remember the first time we met? It was at Felicity’s house, in Hampstead, and I told you then that I was going to dedicate my life to making you happy. I still feel that way.
Mrs Cat. How did it get to be like this between us? I don’t know. And I have no words to explain it, not because there are no words but because what I feel is locked in a general sense of my own impotent wordlessness. I don’t think that it’s that I have been trying to explain the inexplicable, just that I have learned that any explanation with words is now a task that is beyond me, Caroline. The craft or art of writing something has, like you, quite deserted me; and I am wise enough to know that if it can’t be done – if I can no longer put something as important as you and me into any words – then perhaps I am no longer a writer at all.
I think a good writer always tries to overcome each and every obstacle, like a horse going over the fences. But there are many horses that refuse those fences that look to be impossible; those horses are often retired from racing for it is said they lack heart. Some are even destroyed. Unfortunately this has also happened to me. Since you left our home in Tourrettes I can no longer overcome the writer’s everyday obstacles. I no longer have the heart for it. Every day I make an effort to write something – the same effort I always did – but without success. I do not seem to have the resources to do that simple thing I used to do with such facility. Of course, it’s true that a man may change and become someone else, but if that has happened to me then I think the man who was the writer has now gone for ever, as perhaps you have done. I am not bitter. I do not blame you for anything. But I think that without you I am another man entirely – a man who cannot write a thing. And that is intolerable to me …
I stopped reading and shook my head.
‘You’ve been smoking too much weed,’ I said. ‘You’re depressed, Phil. That’s why you can’t work. It’s evident in every word. You need to get away from here – from yourself, for a while. It’s not Viagra you need, it’s a fistful of Prozac. Come back to England with me and John. Forget being a writer for a bit. Do something else. And then, when you’re ready, we’ll give you a story outline and you can start work again. Just like before. Only this time you’ll be working for yourself. Think about it, Phil. There will be lots of other women. Foreign book tours with willing publicity girls. Fancy cars. Expensive houses. You’re not a bad-looking guy. I promise you this will seem like a bad dream in a few months’ time. Just give yourself a chance.’
‘Thanks, Don, but no. It’s a kind offer and I wish you success with it, only I’m through with writing; even if I wasn’t washed up as a writer I’m not sure I could take the pressure of writing two books a year. Not any more. But don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul. Your secret is s
afe with me.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, it’s so far-fetched who would believe me? Seriously though. Mum’s the word.’
I nodded. ‘I know that, Phil.’
Of course, I didn’t know it at all; I was thinking, ‘Once a blackmailer, always a blackmailer,’ and I could see no option now but to kill Phil as I had killed Colette. That’s the trouble with murder. There’s an exponential factor – the same one that Macbeth encounters. Blood will have blood. If I didn’t kill Philip French then I would have killed both Orla and Colette for nothing. Because this had always been my goal, to have John working for me, just as I’d once worked for him. There was nothing spontaneous about this plan. I’d been working toward this ever since John had closed the atelier. The idea I’d just outlined to Phil had been quite genuine; even the offer I’d made him – that he and I should become writing partners – had been real. At the same time, ever since our unexpected meeting at the Château Saint-Martin I’d always known that killing Philip French was also a possibility; and now that I’d seen the email he’d written – but not sent – to his wife, Caroline, I recognized an opportunity to turn his death to my immediate advantage.
John would cease to be wanted by the Monty police if someone else was held responsible for Orla’s murder. Not to mention Colette’s.
I leaned forward on the desk chair and pointed at the Eames lounger.
‘Sit down,’ I told him. ‘I want to say one more thing and then I’ll leave you alone.’
He nodded and sat down on the Eames.
‘When I’ve got the box and the papers, for the watch, I’ll FedEx them here. All right? I wouldn’t be surprised if the name of Ciribelli, the jewellers, is on them. So that should make things easier for you to get a decent sum for the Hublot.’
‘Thanks a lot, Don.’
‘And by the way, when you’ve got the money promise me that you’ll fix yourself up. Buy some new clothes. Get a haircut. See a dentist. And quickly. All that dope you’re smoking is affecting your gums.’
‘It is?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘It’s been a while since I could afford to see a dentist.’
‘They’re receding badly.’
Philip French touched his mouth.
‘It’s the first thing I noticed when I saw you again, Phil. You know it looks to me that you’re suffering from the same thing Martin Amis had back in 1995, when he spent twenty grand on his teeth. You remember that? Talk about a mountain out of a molehill. The chattering classes thought it was vanity, but of course it wasn’t; it was gum disease: Marty smokes roll-ups just like you. So, see a dentist, Phil. And soon. You wouldn’t want to get an abscess, would you? I’m not so sure you don’t already have one on the way – your face is looking just a little puffy on one side.’
‘What are you, my dentist?’
‘No.’ I smiled thinly. ‘But you’re forgetting that I once studied dentistry. So just occasionally I let my white tunic show.’
‘I thought it was law you studied.’
‘Don’t you think I remember what degree I started?’
‘I didn’t know they did dentistry at Oxford.’
‘They don’t. I was at Cambridge. I couldn’t afford to finish my studies so then I joined the army. That’s why they put me on a toothpaste account when I went into advertising. Because I’d been a dental student.’
French nodded firmly as if he actually recalled my fictional early career as a dental student and said, ‘Yes, I remember now.’
‘It taught me one thing,’ I said. ‘Dentistry, I mean. Not the army. That didn’t teach me anything. Dentistry taught me that there’s so much physiological health that relates to the state of our oral hygiene. Did you know that a lot of heart disease is caused by dental caries? It’s true. Simple flossing is a much more effective way of preventing a heart attack than cutting down on cholesterol. So, if I were you I’d get that swelling seen to as soon as possible, mate. If that’s what it is. I can’t be entirely sure from where I’m sitting.’
Philip French was exploring the state of his gums with his tongue.
‘Look, forget I said anything. It’s probably nothing at all. These things usually are.’
‘Would you take a quick look before you go?’
I shrugged. ‘Really, I’m not qualified, Phil. You should see a professional. If there is the beginning of an abscess you’ll need it properly drained and you’ll need an antibiotic. To stop an infection. Amoxicillin is generally prescribed and is very effective. But if it starts to become painful Nurofen is probably best.’
I knew all this because I’d already endured treatment for a dental abscess the previous summer. As John used to say, in preparing one of his story outlines, ‘There’s no research quite as effective as something you’ve experienced yourself.’
‘Just humour me, Don, please. Just take a quick look and see what you think.’
‘All right. But let me fetch a flashlight from my bag so I can see what’s what.’ I frowned. ‘Have you got any mouthwash?’
‘There’s this,’ he said and held up a bottle of scotch.
‘That’ll have to do.’
We both took a swig and I collected the Tumi bag off the floor.
‘Just lean back on the recliner,’ I said. ‘Now then, open wide and let me take a look.’
He leaned back and opened his mouth.
‘Wider.’
Behind my back I thumbed down the hammer on John’s Walther .22 and slipped off the safety catch. I knew there was already one in the chamber because I’d seen him lock and load the gun when we were on the autoroute. Obviously I’d have preferred a 38 – or better still Hemingway’s twelve-gauge – to shoot a man in the head; and I certainly wouldn’t have trusted a .22 to trepan a male skull; but the soft palate at the back of his mouth was a different story: that was just muscle fibres sheathed in mucus membrane, after which the next stop was a really thin piece of bone the name of which I couldn’t remember, and then the hypothalamus. A lot depends on the ammunition of course; but for what I had in mind the .22 would do just fine.
‘Wider.’
I put the muzzle inside Philip’s mouth – he probably thought it was a flashlight – and quickly squeezed the trigger, shooting him, Hitler style, like he’d actually meant to commit suicide. His body went into spasm for a moment as if the neurons that controlled his nerves had been fried with electricity; his eyes filled with blood and other stuff, and his legs twitched violently for several seconds – so violently that I was obliged to hold them down for fear that he might fall off the recliner and ruin the death scene I’d so carefully contrived. Then his head rolled slowly to one side. After another moment or two his breathing became laboured and messy as blood and cerebrospinal fluid started to drain through the open wound in the palate of his mouth, straight down his throat and into his lungs. A pink bubble formed on his lips and began to enlarge as if it was being inflated by some hidden pump. His chest was struggling to get a hold on the atmosphere. I stood back and waited for the bubble to burst and for him to drown.
As always when I kill someone I felt a tremendous sense of cosmic connection to the world, as vivid and sharply defined as if I had touched the forefinger of my maker. A South Bank Show moment. I don’t normally believe in God, but it’s at moments like these that I do experience a timeless force in the world that is Life itself. You only have to see a human life ebbing away in front of you to feel a tremendous relationship with all of nature, not just the omnipresent cicadas and the strong smell of violets in the air, but the shimmering leaves on the olive trees and the stars in the sky. It is as if life is enhanced and amplified to an almost deafening maximum by the witnessing of its departure. Human existence asserts itself most vigorously in the face of death. I expect that’s why men and women used to attend public executions – as if, in an uncertain world, it was only by seeing someone put to death that they themselves could feel the truly fantastic sensation that is life itself. It is the most beautiful an
d shattering experience to find yourself so strongly underlined like a great passage of writing in a book that otherwise can sometimes feel just a little ordinary. That’s a shocking admission, I know; but I feel true clarity most when I have a smoking gun in my hand. I’ve noticed how people in movies always do it with a long face and then beat themselves up about it afterward; that’s not how it is at all. From everything I’ve read, most people get off on killing someone. Me, I was grinning like a loon. So much so I felt obliged to offer some sort of explanation to someone I’d known for more than a decade.
‘Sorry, Phil. If you can still hear anything then I just want to say that I didn’t want this at all. You do see that, don’t you? Really. It was a genuine offer I made to you earlier this evening. I’d have much preferred having you as a writing partner, buddy. As it happens I think you were right about that and I was wrong. Now I come to think about it, you were written out. That last novel you wrote for John wasn’t very good. I thought it was just a blip, but John recognized that something more fundamental had happened. So, it looks like I’m going to have to do this by myself, as I don’t much like the idea of sharing anything with Mike Munns. I don’t know about Peter Stakenborg. I’ll have to think about him. He’s harder to control. And I don’t want to do this with anyone I can’t control. That would defeat the whole object of the exercise.’
A sound like the drain in a sink – or perhaps a coffee machine – emanated from the depths of his throat and lasted for almost a minute before, like him, it died. I felt for a pulse, and not finding one I now considered the forensic picture I wanted to paint for the local police, much as I would have done if I’d been writing a novel. The difference was that this was real, although I have usually found that the best way to achieve realism within a text is to imagine oneself carrying out a crime, much like a method actor might have done; in other words, I have always tried to feel what it would be like to have done some dreadful thing in a novel, so much so that I sometimes have trouble separating those people I really killed from those I think I’ve only killed within the context of a story. So I finished my wine, and then began work.