by Philip Kerr
Colette nodded gravely; she didn’t drink the coffee.
‘Now make sure you’ve got your laptop with you, because I’m going to email you with details of what to say – when eventually you speak to John or to John’s lawyer, depending on where he is. By then he should be a nervous wreck and ready to do anything you want. Once you’ve told him that you’re prepared to say that he was with you for the whole evening, that should go a long way to putting him in the clear; but of course it will draw a whole shit storm down on your head when, eventually, you come back to Monaco to face the music. The police will be quite hard on you, I think. Why didn’t you come forward before? Are you lying to protect him? Did you kill her? That kind of thing. You must be prepared to be bullied. But we’ve spoken about that.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
‘If they ask where the hell you’ve been you can say you were scared. You didn’t know what to do. You thought you might be accused of complicity. You were frightened that they might send you to jail for something you had nothing to do with. You can tell the same thing to John. You can even remind him that you’re French-Algerian, which means you come from a family and from a place where people never talk to the police – he’ll believe that because he’s a bit of a racist.’
‘That’s true. The fifteenth – where my family lives – is the banlieue. No one trusts the police in northern Marseille.’
‘But you’ve thought about it now and decided to do the right thing. Because you can’t bear to remain silent any more when a man’s liberty is at stake, and so on and so on.’
She nodded again.
‘Just remember why we’re doing this, Colette. If you lie for him and say he was with you for the whole evening instead of – what was it? – ninety minutes? Then you’ll have something over him. And if you have something over him the best way of making sure you never use that is for him to marry you. Leave it to me to put that thought in his head. After that, he’ll be in the clear.’
We went down to the garage and got into her car, the new Audi A6 that Lev had bought her when he was still around. I sometimes wondered about Lev Kaganovich. Was he even alive? Now that really was a mystery story. She was just about to start the Audi’s engine when I told her I’d forgotten my Kindle.
‘Do you need it?’ she asked.
‘I can tell you’re not a reader,’ I said. ‘It’s got about a hundred books on it.’ I was already getting out of the car. ‘If I don’t fetch it I’ll have nothing to read at the airport and on the plane, and for me that would be a very particular kind of hell. I need a book the way some people need a cup of coffee.’ I bent down and looked into the passenger cabin. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll only be five minutes.’
I waited for a second, smiled and held out my hand. ‘The key. You’ll have to give me the key.’
‘I thought I gave it to you.’
‘You did. But then I gave it back to you.’
She looked in her Chanel purse and nodded. ‘You’re right. You did. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m so nervous that the police are going to turn up any moment.’ She handed me the key. ‘Please be quick.’
I nodded, returned to the lift, rode up to 29 and let myself back into Colette’s apartment. But the first thing I did was not to find my Kindle but to fetch a bottle of Russian champagne from a bag I’d hidden under Colette’s bed. I opened it, poured some of it down the sink, where it belonged, and then used the half-empty bottle to replace the bottle of Dom in Colette’s ice-bucket. Then I added a few Chekhovian touches to the appearance of the apartment from the same bag: a recent Russian newspaper, some Russian cigarettes – smoked and unsmoked – a half-eaten fifty-gram jar of Beluga caviar (£353), an unopened bottle of Grey Goose vodka, and a packet of Contex condoms in Colette’s bathroom; I even left a copy of Piat`desiat ottenkov serogo on her bedside table, which in case you didn’t know is Fifty Shades of Grey, in Russian. That was a nice touch. It’s surprising what you can get on Amazon.
When I was satisfied that the apartment showed every sign of a recent visit from Colette’s absent Russian boyfriend – more than enough to severely unnerve John, who was convinced he was mafia – I fetched my Kindle from the windowsill where I’d left it and went back down to the garage.
Colette was biting her lip and looking anxious. I kissed her in an effort to reassure her. Was it my imagination or was there just a hint of semen I could taste on her lips?
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘We can go now.’
She winced. ‘I’m sorry, Don. I left my iPad on the kitchen worktop.’
I shook my head. ‘Not to worry. I’ll go and fetch it now …’
‘You’re a very thoughtful man, do you know that?’
I took hold of the handle and opened the car door, but Colette clasped my arm and shook her head.
‘On second thoughts, don’t bother. I have my Apple Mac. I’ve got everything on there that I need. I really won’t need the iPad.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Yes. Besides, I just want to get away from here. Now.’
‘Really. It’s no trouble. And wait, suppose John finds the iPad. Won’t he worry that you’ve gone away without it?’ I shrugged. ‘Won’t you worry that he might go through your diary?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Besides he doesn’t know the passcode.’ She frowned, ‘At least I think he doesn’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I told him once – but no, he never remembers anything like that. He couldn’t even tell you my mobile number.’
I shook my head. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure. Please, Don, let’s just go, huh?’
‘All right.’
Colette started the car and we drove slowly out of the Tour Odéon garage; but instead of turning up the hill and driving through Beausoleil – which would have been the quickest way to the airport – she drove down, toward the sea, and through the city.
‘Why are we going this way?’
‘Because the best time to see Monte Carlo is always in the summer, just before the dawn, at about four in the morning. In fact it’s the only time it looks really beautiful and you have a sense of what it used to be like before money made it so – so nauseating. There aren’t any sweaty tourists greedy for a celebrity at this hour and you can’t smell the stink of gasoline from all those unbearably ridiculous Lamborghinis and Ferraris.’
I nodded and as we came into Casino Square I saw her point; what she’d said – it wasn’t the first line of Casino Royale but still, it was all right. I put my hand on her knee and squeezed it gently.
‘Yes, I agree. It’s quite different. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it like this.’
‘You know something? I’ve never even been into the Casino.’
‘Neither have I.’
‘Let’s do it now,’ she said. ‘Just for ten minutes. We’ll leave the car out front, go in the Salon Privé, and have one spin of the roulette wheel.’
‘Really, we ought to get to the airport. And besides, I’m hardly dressed for it.’
‘Please, Don. I need to feel lucky again. And you are so English – you’ve left us loads of time to get to the airport. At this time of the morning it will take twenty minutes. And your clothes are fine. You’re not wearing jeans. You have a jacket. You don’t have to look like Daniel Craig any more to go in there, you know.’
I smiled at how much like a little girl Colette seemed; it was easy to see why John had fallen for her; I was falling for her, and I wanted to indulge her a little. To encourage her, to enable her to take her mind off things; she’d had a difficult evening and it seemed only fair that we should do something that was important to her.
‘If you like,’ I said. ‘But just a few minutes, mind. We don’t want to miss our planes.’
We parked out front – easy at that time of the morning – and went inside. The casino entrance hall looked more like a nineteenth-century opera house than a place to lose money; then again, when was the last time that opera made m
oney? We presented our passports to the caissier – to prove we weren’t Monégasques, forbidden by law to gamble in the casino – bought a couple of ten-euro tickets for the Salon Privé and passed into a large, high-ceilinged room that was still surprisingly busy with people sitting around blackjack tables and roulette wheels. Some of the gamblers and croupiers looked at Colette with open lust as if wondering how many chips it took to walk in with someone like her. They might have been surprised when I bought Colette a single 500-euro plaque and handed it to her.
‘One spin of the wheel,’ I said.
‘I promise.’
She took a circuit around the room before stopping at one of the many roulette tables, where she put the plaque on black and waited while the croupier turned the wheel and rolled the ball; and when the ball hit black, she squealed so loudly you might have thought she’d beaten Le Chiffre and won millions instead of another single 500-euro plaque. She hugged me excitedly and then we cashed in and left before the temptation to roll again became too great for her to resist.
Outside the sweet early morning air was already warm on the face and the sky was the colour of manuka honey. It was going to be another hot day. A small truck was washing the street in front of the Hôtel de Paris. Consciences are cleaned with equal facility; take it from someone who knows.
‘That was such fun,’ said Colette, as we walked back to the car. ‘I can’t believe I won. Thank you. I feel so much better.’
‘I’m glad,’ I said, and before we got back in the car I kissed her again, only this time I let my hand make free with her breasts.
Less than thirty minutes later we were driving into the long-term underground parking lot at Terminal 2; with its signal-red walls, low ceilings, bright lighting and polished concrete floor, the Nice airport car park was a very pleasant alternative to its malodorous English counterparts. And at that early hour the car park was quiet, with no one else around.
I pointed out a space at the far end of an empty row. ‘There,’ I said. ‘No need to drive any further.’
Colette turned smartly into the spot, switched off the engine and popped the trunk with a button on the driver’s door.
‘I’ll get the luggage,’ I said and jumped quickly out of the car. ‘And I think because you’re earlier than me, I’ll walk you over to your check-in.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘Nonsense. Besides, I’ve got your ticket.’
I put Colette’s bag on the ground, and then my own, and as she came around the back of the car I pointed at something lying on the floor of the Audi’s big boot.
‘Look,’ I said, pointing at the back of the boot. ‘There’s something shiny lying on the floor. Is that – is that your missing earring?’
Of course, I knew it was her missing diamond earring; I knew because it was me who had placed it there in the boot.
‘Oh, my God. You’re right. It is my earring. How did it get there? Is this my lucky day, or what?’
‘It’s your lucky day, all right. You win five hundred euros and now you find your missing diamond earring. That means something else good is going to happen to you now because these things always happen in threes. Take my word for it.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Of course I’m right.’
Colette leaned into the boot to fetch her missing earring, and as she did I pulled out the silenced Walther P22 from under the back of my belt and shot her twice just behind the ear. She was probably dead before her face hit the carpet and all quite painlessly, I might add. It took only another second to sweep up her legs and tip the rest of her body into the trunk. I lowered the lid for a second, glanced around the car park and having ascertained I wasn’t being watched, lifted the lid once more and shot Colette twice in the chest, just to make absolutely sure. The gun was so silent I might have been pulling the trigger on a gas barbecue. I chucked the gun after her, dumped her case in the boot beside her body and then closed the lid, permanently.
I went through her handbag, took some things I thought might come in useful later – including her laptop – turned off her mobile phone and then stuffed the bag under the passenger seat.
I locked up the car and checked in for my flight back to London.
It was a nice day to fly somewhere.
CHAPTER 9
Tourrettes-sur-Loup is an attractive higgledy-piggledy village that occupies a high space on the edge of the spectacular Loup valley and seems to grow out of the rocky plateau it’s built on, like a huge and sprawling geranium; it put me in mind of that mystical albeit much colder place, Shangri-La, from James Hilton’s Lost Horizon. I didn’t know if the inscrutable locals enjoyed impossible longevity, as in Hilton’s hugely successful novel, but they seemed no more interested in the outside world than if they had been Tibetans and, in a local restaurant close to the medieval town square where John and I ate an early dinner, the waiters seemed to regard our attempts to speak French as if they themselves continued to speak ancient Occitan, which was once the language in that part of France. Still, the food was good and there was a decent wine cellar from which we had chosen an excellent ten-year-old Bandol. We were sitting on a small terrace at a restaurant called La Cave de Tourrettes, with a view of the valley that would have given a Sherpa vertigo, and in the air was a strong smell of night-scented jasmine which quite overpowered the smoke from my cigarette. I’d just eaten a delicious terrine of crab and was now contemplating the arrival of a gut-busting cassoulet.
‘That cunt,’ muttered John.
‘Who?’
‘Phil. Who do you think? My friend and former fucking colleague.’
‘Perhaps.’ I shrugged. ‘Good writer, though.’
‘Yes,’ John admitted. ‘Good enough. Or at least he was.’
‘I’m surprised he can’t get published.’
‘The whole business is changing. You’ve got to write exactly what they want or you’re fucked.’
‘Maybe. Still, I can easily see why he chose to live here. This is a nice little place – Tourrettes. It’s a bit Name of the Rose, isn’t it? Unlike the rest of this part of the world there’s something completely unspoiled about it.’
‘The same cannot be said of him.’
‘No, perhaps not.’
‘To be frank, I hardly recognized the bastard.’ John shook his head. ‘He’s changed a lot since I last saw him. I had no idea he was quite so bitter. Thinner, too.’
‘It’s not just money that changes people for the worse,’ I said. ‘It’s the lack of money, too. He’s had a rough time of it, these last few months. That much is clear. I mean, I’d no idea that Caroline had cleared off with the kids. Or indeed that he was working as a waiter.’
‘I think I told you that, John.’
He shrugged. ‘Did you? I don’t remember. Anyway, it’s quite a comedown for any writer to endure.’
‘There’s nothing holy about being a writer, Don. And what’s wrong with being a waiter? George Orwell worked as a waiter. Didn’t do him any harm.’
‘No, he was a plongeur. A dishwasher. And besides, the normal trajectory is that you wait on tables on your way to becoming a famous writer, not the other way around.’
‘The world doesn’t owe you a living just because you’re a writer. Besides, your wife cleared off. And it hasn’t made you a cunt like him.’
‘Kind of you to say so, John.’
‘The way he was talking, you’d think his whole fucking life was my bloody responsibility. I mean, Jesus, he was supposed to be self-employed. When I wound up the atelier I was under no obligation to give him a penny. You know that better than anyone, Don. But I felt an obligation to him, for old times’ sake. To soften the blow. Because he’d been with me for almost as long as you have. Twenty grand I gave him. Twenty fucking grand. And how does he repay me? With threats. Blackmail. The cops.’ He frowned. ‘Do you think it’s true? That the French really took most of it in tax?’
‘Depends how much he owed them already. But t
hey’re pretty good at getting tax out of people, the French. Much better than the Italians.’
I took a drag on my cigarette and blew the smoke toward an American woman who must have thought that every country in the world ought to have behaved like the United States and outlawed the habit; she tutted loudly and waved a napkin ostentatiously in front of her face as if I’d directed some neurotoxic gas in her direction. I toyed with trying to update Oscar Wilde’s famous remark about a cigarette, to take account of this kind of thing: ‘A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It irritates Americans. What more could one want?’ But it didn’t really work; it’s always a mistake to think you can improve on anything Oscar said.
‘I read a rather good Elmore Leonard novel about a blackmailer once,’ I said. ‘52 Pickup. Fifty-two is the amount of money in thousands of dollars that two blackmailers ask their victim to pay.’
‘Then that guy got off lightly, didn’t he? Me, I’m down a million-dollar watch. Not to mention another twenty grand at nine o’clock.’ John glanced at the tan mark where his Hublot Caviar watch had been, shook his head and cursed, again. ‘I can’t tell you how gutted I am about that watch. I bought it in Ciribelli. It wasn’t just an impulse thing. It had sentimental value. It really meant something. To me, at any rate. It was a present to myself for selling one hundred million books. I was going to have it engraved to that effect, only I never quite got around to it.’
‘I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.’
‘What really pisses me off is that he’s probably going to sell it for way less than it’s worth.’
I surveyed the red wine in my glass for a moment and then shook my head.
‘Not without the box, he won’t. These days, people who buy that sort of thing second-hand want everything that goes with it. The box, the certificate, the original receipt, the bloody carrier bag and wrapping paper for all I know. It’s the same with books. Try selling a first-edition Brighton Rock without the dust-jacket and see how much you get. I know. I did.’
