by Philip Kerr
‘What’s that, old sport?’
‘I want your word of honour. Yesterday, when I said that I didn’t care if you killed your wife or not, it didn’t, but I think it matters now, if I’m going to help you like this, don’t you? I think it matters a lot. So I want your word that you didn’t murder Orla. If it doesn’t sound too much like a cliché I want to be sure that I’m not helping a murderer to escape justice instead of enabling an innocent man to find it. That you’re not making a complete fucking chump out of me, old sport.’
In my head I tapped a little tuning fork, stood it on the rough surface of my conscience and listened to the clear, true sound of the times when I had been less than honest with poor Don Irvine. He was quite right of course – what he’d said about me the previous day. On occasion I had behaved badly toward him just the way Harry Lime had behaved to Holly Martins in The Third Man: not like a real friend at all; there had been several times when I had treated Don like a chump. He’d chosen exactly the right word. Times when I’d regarded him as someone to use and exploit and ultimately betray. I don’t know how else you can describe paying him so very, very little to do something for which I was being paid so much. I felt bad about that now – especially now that I desperately needed him to help me. For a moment I considered a confession and an apology for all those years when I’d taken ruthless advantage of him, but the words melted in my mouth, and when I swallowed, they were gone, like a single Malteser. Of course, he was right, it did sound exactly like a cliché, but I could see that he really did need to know I was innocent and so I did my best to look honest, and steadfast. This is certainly not my natural default expression. I’m much too much of a cynic to look anything but world-weary and contemptuous – even Orla had accused me of smirking at her in front of the altar on our wedding day, as if I’d been amused at her dress; she was wrong, of course; she’d looked wonderful; all the same I’d had the devil of a job to assure her that this was just the way my face was – but for a brief moment I think I did manage to appear to be as honourable and trustworthy as Don seemed to require me to be. I thought that was best.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I understand perfectly. And I certainly don’t blame you for asking, old sport. I rather think I would, if I was in your shoes. So, to answer your question: no, I did not murder Orla. On my honour, Don. On a stack of bibles, Don. I’m innocent. I’m guilty of a lot of things – you know that more than anyone. But a murderer I’m not.’
‘All right.’ He smiled. ‘That’s all I need to know.’
And then we shook hands on it, just to make sure the bond of trust was firmly there between us.
DON IRVINE’S STORY
PART TWO
CHAPTER 1
It was almost three o’clock on Saturday afternoon when after returning the hire car at Cointrin Airport, we got into the leather-lined passenger cabin of the blue Bentley and, with me at the wheel, started for Monaco. We were soon driving in France. John talked incessantly, excited and happy to be doing something, but his voice was full of anxiety about exactly what we would find in Colette’s apartment and whether or not we could pull off our plan without being arrested and put in prison. With the hood down and wearing Mechanic’s expensive sunglasses – there were several pairs of Persols in the glovebox – we must have looked the very picture of two rich, carefree Swiss friends driving down to the Côte d’Azur or perhaps the Italian Riviera, for the weekend. This was an image we were content to hide behind. A clear and innocent conscience fears nothing, and that’s usually the best way to behave when you have committed or are committing a serious crime. And I know what I’m talking about. After all, I’d been feigning innocence for weeks.
Ever since I murdered Orla.
You might have thought that play-acting has its limits – that it’s only too easy to become weary of constant dissimulation and to get caught out in a lie; but this simply isn’t true. Once you commit to an egregious deception – really commit to it – there’s very little that can break your resolve. The fact is that it’s exactly as Joseph Goebbels said: if you tell a big enough lie and keep repeating it people will eventually come to believe it. The evidence of this was right beside me, in the passenger seat, in the person of John Houston, who was much too naïve ever to have asked me the same question I had asked him. He really did believe I was his protector – the solid, dependable type with a stiff upper lip you see in so many old British films, when in truth I was more of the James Steerforth sort who turns out to have run off with Little Emily. Or put a bullet in her head. And it struck me as ironic, but the man with all the imagination didn’t seem to have considered the possibility that the true author of his misfortunes was not some Pakistani arms dealer, some local hedge-fund scammer, or even a Russian mafioso; it was me, his oldest friend. But there’s a coda to what Goebbels said: the fact is if you tell a big enough lie and keep repeating it, after a while you start to believe that lie yourself. In fact that’s almost necessary if you stand any chance of getting away with it. Honestly, there were plenty of times since my arrival in Geneva when I’d managed to convince myself of the possibility that John might actually have murdered his wife just so that I could look him straight in the eye and treat him exactly like the prime suspect the Monty police thought he was. But if you’re going to kill your friend’s wife and make out that he did it, you have to become a good dissembler: the need to smile and smile and be a villain is found on page one of the Sparknotes on how to play the scoundrel.
‘The quickest route back to Monaco,’ explained John, ‘is via Italy and the A10. We go right through the Alps. Should take us about five hours. It’s one of my favourite drives in the world. Especially in summer. It’s interesting how most of these ski resorts – Chamonix, Courmayeur, Aosta – look completely different at this time of year. And there’s a very good hotel-restaurant in Vercelli we should stop at – the Cinzia – where they serve twenty different kinds of risotto. You’ll love it, Don. Years ago, I had this thing with an Italian publisher who worked for Mondadori – the publishing house in Milan – and that’s where we used to meet. Lovely she was; I think her name was Domitilla.’
‘Not exactly the sort of name you forget,’ I said.
‘Monaco is only sixteen kilometres from Italy and there have been a lot of Italians in my life, one way or another. Sometimes I wonder how I didn’t marry one. I used to go there on the Lady Schadenfreude a lot. To Portofino, Santa Margherita.’
‘You’ve led a charmed life,’ I said. ‘And no mistake.’
‘Until now. If I go down for this it will be my only compensation, old sport. That at least I’ll have lived life to the full, you know?’
‘Anyone can say that, surely.’
‘Yes, but I can say it and mean it. Like Roy Batty in Blade Runner. “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.”’
‘“Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion”.’ I laughed. ‘But if I’m “you people” that must make you a replicant. One thing’s for sure: you’re just as fucking ruthless as Roy Batty.’
‘Me? Ruthless? That’s not how I see myself at all.’
‘John, the last time the two of us were in a car on a French autoroute like this you told me you were closing down the atelier for no other reason than you wanted to leave Monaco and watch bloody Chelsea play football. You knew the damage and disarray that this would cause to those around you: all the people who would lose their jobs because of your decision, the effect it would have on VVL’s share-price, the friendships it was probably going to cost you; but you still went ahead and did it. I seem to recall you even rather relished the damage it might do to poor old Hereward. To say nothing of the damage you must have known it was going to do to me. Now that’s what I call fucking ruthless.’
‘But I compensated everyone, didn’t I? In what way was I ruthless?’
I paused for a moment as I steered the big Bentley into a slower lane. A big truck crept along the near side and the driver’s mate stared down at me
. From the look on his dark, unshaven face I was just some rich bastard in a Bentley with no idea of what it was like to really work for a living. His arm was hanging out of the open window and I was close enough to see the pink, bubble-gum patch of eczema on his elbow and the cigarette in his thick, yellowish fingers, but he might as well have been on another planet; there was nothing about what I had to say to John that would have made sense to him and I knew instinctively that he dearly wanted to treat the Bentley like a large, expensive ashtray and tip his fag ash onto our heads. In his position it’s what I would have done. It’s what anyone would do.
‘The trouble with you, John, is that you think that the answer to every problem is to throw money at it.’
‘That’s bollocks.’
‘Really? Has it occurred to you that your relationship with Travis might have been better if you’d just spent more time with the boy and less money trying to please him?’
‘Let’s leave my son out of this, okay, old sport? This has got nothing to do with Travis. And exactly what damage did my closing down the atelier do to you? You had the best compensation package of anyone, Don.’
‘John. You weren’t listening. For me and the people like me – Peter Stakenborg and Philip French – the money was irrelevant. Surely it must have occurred to you that none of us has ever been able to make a decent living from his writing on our own? When you closed the atelier you extinguished the flame that we called an artistic life. You took away all our dreams that we could be something other than nine-to-five men who were part of the awful rat-race called full-time employment – that we too were writers and part of the exclusive club that’s London literary society. It’s one thing to take away a man’s livelihood, John; it’s something else to shatter his dreams. And there’s no amount of money can compensate for something as terrible as that.’
‘You’re exaggerating, surely.’
‘Am I? You turned my life upside down, like a bloody egg-timer. One minute I’m going one way and then the next minute I’m going the other. It’s been months now but I still don’t know where I really am. I’ve been trying to write a novel of my own but I’ve got a dreadful feeling I’ve become hopelessly addicted to John Houston’s crack-pipe. That I can’t do it without the stuff you supply. I might end up having to look for a job myself – like Philip French. I might even have to go back to advertising. At my age. Can you imagine how awful that would be? Me writing copy at sixty. Christ, I’d probably have to work on retail, or below the line.’
‘So what do you want me to do about it now? Jesus, Don, you know how to pick your fucking moments.’
‘I want what any friend would want in a situation like this. Some recognition on your part that you behaved like an arsehole. And an apology. After twenty years of loyal service I think I’m entitled to one.’
Of course this wasn’t what I wanted – not in the least – but, before I put into motion the real point of our journey, it was fun making him jump through yet another hoop like this. Pure sadism on my part.
‘Okay,’ he said impatiently. ‘Yes, you’re right. I was wrong. I behaved badly. And I apologize.’ He paused for a moment. ‘All right?’
I shrugged. ‘It might be, but only if you said it like you mean it.’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw John shrink into the diamond-quilted leather seat and let out a sigh. Then he said:
‘For fuck’s sake, Don, you’ve no idea of the pressure I was under. The pressure to deliver the goods. Again and again. I needed to get out from underneath it all. You remember that scene in A Clockwork Orange when Alex and his droogs tip the bookcase on top of poor old Patrick Magee? That’s what it felt like. A man buried under a whole library of fucking books. But, you’re right. I didn’t ever take into account your feelings, Don; and the feelings of everyone else. And I’m truly sorry about that. It was thoughtless and inconsiderate of me. And I should like to offer you my sincere apology. Okay?’
I nodded. ‘Thank you. Your apology is accepted.’
‘Twenty years,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten it was that long.’
We both lapsed into silence after that – or as much silence as can be encountered in an open-top sports car travelling at a hundred miles an hour on a French autoroute – and I let my mind drift for a while. You would be forgiven for imagining that I was racked with guilt about Orla’s murder; but I wasn’t. Not for a second. I had no regrets on that score. She’d had it coming for a long time and while it’s true, I’d enjoyed killing her – rather more than I had expected to enjoy it – in truth Orla’s death was only the means to an end. In my defence I should add that it has been a long time since I was obliged to pull the trigger on someone in cold blood – the last time was in Northern Ireland. That was on another Mick, of course, while I was on active service, and not exactly to the sound of trumpets, as what happened with the Int and Squint boys in County Fermanagh was murder pure and simple. I’m not ashamed of what happened there. But all the same if things work out the way I’ve planned then it’s to be hoped I won’t ever have to kill anyone again.
Several minutes passed before John glanced over at the Bentley’s speedometer and said, ‘Better keep to the speed limit, old sport. In case the local filth pull us over. I wouldn’t like to answer a lot of awkward questions about who this car belongs to.’
‘No, you wouldn’t want that, would you?’ I said, and lifting my foot off the gas pedal a little, I let our speed drop back to a more respectable eighty-five miles per hour.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘That’s always how wanted felons get nicked, you know. Committing some ordinary misdemeanour like that.’
I nodded.
‘I mean, it’s John Houston that Bob Mechanic thinks he’s lent his cars to, not Charles Hanway. Not that Bob’s around to answer any nosy-parker cop questions. But all the same. Best keep our noses clean, eh?’
‘Sure, John, I can do that. As a matter of fact, I’ve been keeping my nose clean for years.’
CHAPTER 2
We stopped for an early dinner at the Hotel Cinzia, which was a nondescript modern building of red and yellow concrete set back from a deserted crossroads in Vercelli, and not at all what I’d been expecting; it looked about as charming as my local launderette. But after a delicate lemon and asparagus risotto every bit as good as John Houston had said it would be, we drove on, with him at the wheel, which allowed me a chance to doze for a while.
When I opened my eyes again, about an hour later, we were already on the Italian coast and driving west, away from Genoa toward Ventimiglia and France. The Bentley ate up the road with a voracious appetite that showed no sign of abating.
‘Wish I could sleep like that,’ said Don. ‘In the car, I mean. I can manage it at home, in a chair, but never in a car. Especially with the hood down.’ He shrugged. ‘Not that anyone could sleep when Orla was driving. She was a terrible driver.’
‘Me, I can sleep anywhere,’ I said.
‘You must have a clear conscience, old sport.’
I pretended to think about that for a moment. ‘I suppose I have.’
‘It was a joke,’ said John.
‘All the same, there’s nothing much that I do feel bad about. Except perhaps Jenny. Yes, there is Jenny. Perhaps, if I’d fought a little harder to keep her, I might still have her.’ I shrugged. ‘But I don’t blame her for leaving me. Not in the least. No, I expect she needed a bit more excitement than I was able to give her.’
‘With a High Court judge?’ John shook his head. ‘Surely not. He’s seventy-something isn’t he? Lord Cocklecarrot or whatever his name is?’
‘Yes. Seventy-three.’
‘He doesn’t sound very exciting. How old is Jenny? Fifty?’
‘Fifty-one.’
‘So what kind of excitement was it that you were thinking of? I can see what’s in it for him. She’s a very good-looking woman. But I can’t see what’s in it for her. Apart from the thrill of being Lady Cocklecarrot.’
‘I expect the
y talk. I was never one for talking very much.’
John laughed. ‘So I’d noticed.’
‘And I think they go to Fiesole a lot. Apparently Harold Acton used to be a neighbour, when his lordship’s parents owned the place. I’m told it has a rather fine garden. Not to mention a fantastic, E. M. Forster view of Florence. I think I might easily have left someone like me for something like that. Unlike the Reverend Eager, I’ve always rather liked that particular view of Florence. Of course, I’d have Jenny back in a heartbeat, you know. If that’s what she wanted.’
‘Have you even had another woman since she cleared off?’
‘No.’
‘Christ. What, not even a rental?’
‘I’m not like you, John. I’m not led by my cock.’
‘Oh, I’m not led by my cock. But I do think it’s there to be used, at least while I can. It’s a short time we have on earth, I think, and perhaps it’s just as well that I’ve got a very big cock.’
‘Not that I think Jenny’s coming back any time soon.’
I might have added that the real reason she wasn’t coming back was that I scared her. I’d never told my wife exactly what I did when I was in the army but she knew that there was something I wasn’t telling her. Something importantly horrible. Of course she did; wives always know when they’re being lied to and sometimes they can even see the killer in your eyes. I’m certain mine could.
In July 1977, after Sandhurst, I’d joined the Queen’s Own Highlanders, and I went with them to Belize and then on their second tour of Northern Ireland. We were there until 1980. 1979 was the worst year for British security personnel killed in the province. My own regimental CO, Lieutenant-Colonel David Blair, was one of them. On 27 August 1979 – the same day that the Duke of Edinburgh’s uncle, Lord Louis Mountbatten, was assassinated by the Provos, along with the boatman and three members of his family, in County Sligo – Blair was killed in the Warrenpoint ambush. A British army convoy drove past a 500-pound bomb hidden by the road, killing six members of 2nd Battalion, the Parachute Regiment. Thirty minutes later, the Provos detonated a second bomb, at a nearby command point, killing twelve more soldiers – including my CO, Blair – who’d gone to assist the dead and injured. I was at the scene soon after the second explosion and it was a butcher’s shop, with body parts all over the road, in the River Clanrye, and hanging from the trees. Only one of Colonel Blair’s epaulettes remained to identify him, as his body had almost completely disappeared in the blast. I gave the epaulette to a brigadier from the 3rd Infantry, David Thorne, who took it with him when he briefed Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, who apparently wept when she saw it.
