Gunshot residue – GSR – is the burnt and unburnt particles of primer and propellant that are left on a gunman’s hand after a shot has been fired: it’s one of the first things scenes of crime officers look for in determining whether or not someone took their own life with a firearm. So I put the still-cocked automatic in Phil’s right hand and fired the gun out of the open door and into the olive grove. Then I let his arm fall with the gun still in his hand; to my great satisfaction, with his finger hooked through the trigger guard the gun remained firmly in his grip.
Next, I searched carefully for both brass cartridges: two would have made the police suspicious. I didn’t find two, but I found one and pocketed it carefully before seating myself in front of his iMac and typing a few extra lines onto the maudlin and self-pitying email he’d written to his wife Caroline. I added some stuff about John Houston that held him responsible for the things that had gone wrong in Philip’s life; I drew back from a full murder confession, of course. That would have been too much. Then I pressed send.
I wiped the Apple keyboard with some cyber-cleaning compound I found in his desk drawer and then, still carrying my wine glass – which was covered with fingerprints – I went back to the Bentley and dropped the glass into the boot, from where I now retrieved my backpack.
Back on the terrace I retrieved the butt of my cigarette from his ashtray and lit another to help me concentrate. I had all the time in the world, of course. Everything was quiet. The nearest neighbour must have been at least half a kilometre away. There was just the incessant noise of the cicadas and a dog barking in the distance to disturb the peace of the countryside.
Back in the house I placed Colette’s car and door keys in the drawer of a fitted closet in a bedroom upstairs. In another drawer I left her laptop, but not before wiping it carefully, of course. I put her hairbrush beside the sink in the bathroom and one of her lipsticks in the bathroom cabinet. In the kitchen bin I placed the ticket for the parking lot at Terminal 2 of Nice Airport where I had left the Audi and her dead body.
I was on my way out to the garage to add the Tour Odéon in Monaco to the list of favourites on the satnav in Phil’s car when I saw a copy of that day’s Riviera Times on a pile of newspapers by the kitchen door, and I remembered the story about the unidentified body found in the ashes of the forest fire in the forêt de l’Albaréa, near Sospel.
Rereading the story I found that the police thought it unlikely the body would ever be identified, as it was so badly consumed by the enormous heat generated by the fire. This was very much to my advantage. So when I went into the garage to program the satnav I also added the coordinates of Sospel to make it seem as though Phil had visited both of these places. Then I circled the story in the paper and left it where I had found it, on a pile of old newspapers in the kitchen.
It was all circumstantial stuff but, in my experience of dealing with the police – and in particular, the RUC – the circumstances of collecting evidence are such that, short of a full confession on the part of a suspect, there’s seldom any one thing that stands out to the exclusion of everything else. Most cops will tell you that circumstantial evidence will usually do very nicely thank you, and I’d left enough of it scattered around poor Philip’s house to convince Henry Fonda and a whole room full of angry men. As soon as the police located Colette’s body they would conclude that she and French had been co-conspirators; and if I got really lucky they might even conclude that they had killed John and dumped his body in the forêt de l’Albaréa, which was perhaps an hour’s drive north of Monaco.
I went back into Philip’s study to double-check that he was dead. There’s an easy way to do this and it isn’t a pulse. You just put your mobile phone under the victim’s nostrils and then check to see if there’s any condensation on the glass. There wasn’t. He was as dead as the net book agreement.
I pocketed the twenty thousand euros but I left John’s Tumi bag on the floor beside the desk; Tumi luggage and bags all have metal plates containing twenty-digit numbers permanently affixed to a pocket inside so that it’s easy to trace them if they get lost. John’s bag in Philip French’s possession would be another piece of important evidence that he was dead. I’d been with him when he’d bought it in the Hôtel Métropole shopping centre in Monaco.
Another excellent piece of evidence was the million-dollar watch that French had extorted from John; with any luck someone at the Château Saint-Martin or in Tourrettessur-Loup might have seen him actually wearing it. Anyone disposing of John Houston’s body would surely have taken an expensive watch like the Hublot Black Caviar.
But perhaps the best evidence of course was the murder weapon now in Philip’s hand – the same make and calibre of pistol that had been used to murder Colette, not to mention the same ammunition: I’d been quite careful about that.
I walked around the villa trying to think of anything I’d forgotten; but the more I thought about it the more inclined I was to the conclusion that even Inspector Clouseau could have made a good case against Philip French with the picture I’d painted for the local police.
CHAPTER 11
I was about to get back in the car and leave Philip’s villa when my mobile started ringing. To my horror the caller ID said it was Chief Inspector Amalric. I thought about not answering it but then he’d have only rung again; besides, as Michael Corleone once said, ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’
‘Chief Inspector,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry. I was going to call you, wasn’t I? I completely forgot. I’m afraid it’s been one of those days.’
‘That’s quite all right, monsieur. Geneva must be a lot more interesting on a Sunday than I remember it.’
‘Not nearly as interesting as Monaco. As a matter of fact I’m going back to London, on Tuesday. It would be difficult to meet on Wednesday, but I could meet you any day after that, if you’re still planning on going to London yourself.’
‘Why don’t I call you as soon as I get to Claridge’s and we can arrange a dinner. Thursday perhaps.’
‘I’m always delighted to have dinner at Claridge’s. I take it that you haven’t yet caught up with him, then. With John Houston.’
‘I regret not. But there’s someone else I’m seeing first thing tomorrow who might be able to help me catch up with Mr Houston, as you say. Someone I haven’t managed to speak to before.’
‘Oh? Who’s that?’
‘Your old friend and fellow writer in Houston’s atelier, Philip French. I have an appointment with him at ten o’clock.’
‘You’re going to Tourrettes-sur-Loup?’
‘Yes. As a matter of fact I’m there right now. You see, I used to live in Tourrettes. My sister still lives here and I’m staying with her tonight. It’s quite like old times.’
‘Oh, I see.’ I swallowed so hard I wondered if he heard it.
‘Before I see him tomorrow, I wanted to ask you a little about him. What’s he like?’
‘I’ve known him for more than ten years. He’s solid. Reliable.’
‘Did you know that he’s working as a waiter? At a hotel in Vence?’
‘No, I didn’t. I knew that since John wound up the atelier money has been tight for him. But I didn’t know things were that bad.’
‘Did you know that he owes the bank a lot of money?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know his wife has left him?’
‘I didn’t know that either. Look, it’s been a while since we spoke.’
‘Would you say that he was the type of fellow to bear a grudge?’
‘Phil? No more than anyone else. Look, if you’re asking me if he’s the type to commit murder then the answer is absolutely not. Besides, if he did have a grudge against John why would he take it out on Orla?’
‘Why indeed?’
‘On the other hand.’
‘Yes?’
‘I was just thinking. No one has seen or heard of John in almost two weeks. To be quite frank with you, Chief Inspector, the
last time we spoke I lied to you. I said I didn’t think he would try to get in contact with me. The truth is, I did, kind of. And since he hasn’t I’ve begun to fear the worst.’
‘So have I,’ said Amalric. ‘So have I. Look, I’d better go. My sister is calling. She and I – we’re supposed to meet some old school friends at a restaurant in town tonight.’
‘Oh?’ I was trying to conceal the panic in my voice. ‘Which one? Just in case I ever go back there.’
‘L’Auberge de Tourrettes. Do you know Tourrettes?’
‘A little. It’s very pretty. I’ve always rather envied Philip having a house there.’
‘Yes, that’s the restaurant I’d recommend, if you’re ever back here.’
‘As good as Claridge’s?’
‘In its own way, yes, perhaps.’
‘When you see him, say hello to Philip from me.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘And enjoy your dinner.’
As soon as the Chief Inspector had rung off I called John to tell him to take a taxi back to the Château Saint-Martin, immediately. But he wasn’t answering, so I sent him a text and asked him to acknowledge it straight away. He didn’t.
At the same time I tried to do a Google search for L’Auberge de Tourrettes on my iPhone, but I had already exceeded my monthly data download limit and I had little choice but to go back into Philip’s study and, ignoring his bloodshot staring eyes, to try and find the restaurant on his iMac. From the Google map it appeared that L’Auberge de Tourrettes, on Route de Grasse, was about 200 metres from La Cave de Tourrettes, on Rue de la Bourgade and on the opposite side of the town square where, earlier on, I’d parked the Bentley. As soon as I had located the restaurant where the Chief Inspector was dining I removed my Google searches from the iMac’s browsing history, just in case some resourceful cop attending the murder scene decided to check that, too. Then I wiped the keyboard and tried to call John again.
The Chief Inspector hadn’t ever met John, but he was a clever man and I was sure that if they did run into each other – in the Place de la Libération, perhaps – a thin beard wasn’t going to fool him, even at night; when cops are looking for missing persons and fugitives they always construct photofits and facial composites of how that person might look with a beard, glasses, or a different hairstyle. Amalric would almost certainly have committed those pictures to memory, and if he hadn’t he would certainly have loaded them onto his smartphone.
Once again John didn’t answer his phone, so I called the restaurant and asked them if the Englishman was still there on the terrace. They told me he’d paid the bill and left about ten minutes before, and I guessed that almost certainly he was now sitting outside one of the many bars on the Place de la Libération, nursing a cognac, girl-watching and probably not even hearing his ringtone. It was more than likely that in just a few minutes John would see Amalric parking his car and – what was worse – that Amalric might see him.
Three murders are quite an investment and it was obvious that all of my efforts to turn John into my secret employee would be rendered futile if he was arrested. Realizing I now had little option but to go back into Tourrettes-sur-Loup and fetch him from under the Chief Inspector’s nose, I cursed loudly, for there was just as great a risk that I myself might bump into him.
I jumped back into the Bentley and took off in a spray of gravel. Naturally I could have wished for a less noticeable car; but with the hood up it was dark inside the passenger cabin and there was every chance of not being recognized.
A few minutes later I entered the Place de la Libération and slowly made my way anti-clockwise around the square, steering carefully around the Sunday night tourists for fear of knocking one down, and pausing in front of one café and then another until I was back where I started, with no sign of John anywhere.
On my third trip around the square – and in front of the Café des Sports – I turned right and drove a short way along the Route de Vence, with still no sign of John. A hundred metres further on I steered the Bentley around a miniroundabout and approached the square again, this time from the east.
‘Where the fuck are you, John?’ I muttered through clenched teeth as once more I entered the square. This time I followed the road into the car park that occupied the centre and circled again. All the time I was repeat-dialling his phone every ten seconds.
Then I saw him sitting on the edge of a water trough next to the Café des Sports like some feckless teenager, except that he had a brandy glass in one hand and a cigar in the other. He was talking to a bicyclist clad from head to toe in matching blue Lycra who was filling his water bottle from the public tap.
I tapped gently on the horn, lowered the passenger window and stopped the Bentley.
‘Get in,’ I said as urgently as I dared in front of the cyclist.
John drained his glass, laid it and a banknote on a table behind the trough, and opened the car door.
‘Quickly,’ I said.
John jumped in, hauled the car door shut and I pressed my foot gently on the accelerator.
‘Where the fuck were you?’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you answer your phone? I’ve been round this fucking square four times.’
‘I was in the public toilet,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Is there a problem?’
I didn’t reply. I’d meant to turn left again – around the square – so as to avoid the Auberge de Tourrettes further on, but the way into the main square was now blocked with traffic and the driver of the van behind me was too impatient to let me wait. So I drove on and, anxious to avoid going past the Auberge on the left, I turned right onto the Route de Saint-John, and along to the Route du Caire, which led up to Phil’s villa. I had no intention of going back there, of course, and the Château Saint-Martin was in the opposite direction, but just then, beside a short rank of parked cars opposite the foot of the Route du Caire, I saw Chief Inspector Amalric get out of a blue Renault with a busty-looking blonde who looked much too young and pretty to be his sister; they paused and then, arm in arm, came toward the Bentley.
‘Christ, there he is,’ I muttered and pulling down the sun-visor, turned sharply up the Route du Caire.
In my rear-view mirror I saw him turn – to look at the Bentley? I told myself Amalric probably had other things on his mind at that moment, such as getting in the blonde’s pants, but I couldn’t be absolutely sure he hadn’t seen my face.
‘Would you mind telling me what the fuck is going on?’ demanded John.
‘That’s one of those Monty cops back there,’ I said.
John let out a curse and turned sharply in his seat to look back, but we were already round the corner.
‘The detective who called me last night in Èze.’
‘What the fuck is he doing here?’
‘He’s going to see Phil in the morning,’ I said.
‘I knew that bastard was going to sell me out,’ snarled John. ‘Fucker.’
‘Relax,’ I said. ‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I know Phil. Look, shut up and let me think for a moment, will you?’
I keyed the Château Saint-Martin’s details into the Bentley’s satnav and saw that there was no point in driving on much further, as the road we were on continued away from Vence for several miles; so a bit further up the hill, I turned the car around and drove back the way we came – but slowly, so as not to overtake Amalric and his girlfriend.
Finally, we were back on the road to Vence and the Château and I was able to put my foot down and do some thinking.
‘Maybe we should check out of the hotel,’ said John. ‘Go somewhere else. Or even drive to Marseille tonight.’ He looked at the empty space on his wrist where his watch had been, swore once again and then peered at the clock on the Bentley’s dashboard. ‘We can be at the Villa Massalia before midnight,’ he said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘We’ve both had too much to drink. Besides, that detective – Amalric – he isn’t going t
o see Phil until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he called me again. While I was at Phil’s house. Wanting to get the low-down on what kind of a bloke he is. Whether he was the type to do you and Orla in. That kind of thing.’
‘Jesus. And what did you tell him?’
‘That he’s not. No more than you are, John.’ I shrugged. ‘At least I think so. Frankly Phil seemed a bit suicidal. I think it was fortunate I went up there and spoke to him.’
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t set up a collection for him.’
I grunted.
‘Did he go for the deal? The box and the papers for the watch?’
‘The money’s in the glovebox.’
‘Really?’ John opened the glovebox and found his twenty thousand euros. ‘Bloody hell, old sport. How did you talk him out of it?’
‘It’s you he hates. Not me.’
‘So what makes you think he won’t grass me up when that cop goes to his house tomorrow?’
‘Then he won’t get the full bar mitzvah for the Hublot. He’ll be out of pocket by a considerable margin.’ I shook my head. ‘Look, it’s just a coincidence that cop coming here on the same day we did. Amalric hadn’t managed to speak to Phil before, so he’s doing it tomorrow.’
By now I’d decided not to tell John that Phil was dead; at least not for a while, until I had him somewhere less public; I’d had enough of panic for one Sunday evening. And I was dog-tired to boot – too tired to devise an edited version of what had happened. Nervous exhaustion, I imagine. It’s amazing what one simple murder can take out of you. With a gun you’d think there’d be nothing to it. Just pull the trigger and stand back. But not a bit of it. Probably something to do with the adrenalin rush you get when you blow someone’s brains out.
We arrived back at the Château and I dropped John at the front door.
‘I don’t know about you,’ I said, ‘but I need a drink.’