False Nine

by Philip Kerr

  ‘Not everything’s about football, Scott.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ I grinned and finished a bottle of Carib, the local beer, which wasn’t very good either. ‘Football is, in point of fact, more important than everything. It’s only when people understand this that we’ll arrive at the true meaning of life and death and perhaps the universe, too. In fact Total Football is the only feasible theorem. Anything else is bound to fail.’

  ‘I’ve been away from Birmingham for too long. I never know when you’re joking. Or maybe I’ve just lost my sense of humour since I became a lawyer.’

  ‘Now that just can’t be true. After all, to support Aston Villa you need a good sense of humour.’

  It stopped raining just as quickly as it had started and within minutes the temperatures were soaring again.

  We left the restaurant and walked around the corner to the dock where the cruise ships were anchored. Halfway there we were intercepted by an almost toothless beggar to whom I gave a two euro coin. A row of shabby offices and shops that seemed to have gone out of business faced the dock, among them a ladies’ hairdresser with several faded photographs in the window that would have deterred any woman who cared what she looked like. Grace knocked on the door and peered through glass that was almost opaque with heat and dust.

  ‘This is one of the addresses?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like anyone’s been through this door in a while,’ I said, observing a pile of uncollected mail inside the door.

  ‘All the same, I think someone’s in there,’ said Grace, pressing her nose against the glass.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘And I’m beginning to doubt why I’m here.’

  ‘We accept disappointment. But we don’t lose hope. The thing about mounting a search for someone or something is that there’s always a stage when it seems like a wild goose chase. Right up until the moment that you find what you’re looking for it helps to be patient, I think. Columbus teaches us that much, surely.’

  ‘True.’

  Finally a door a few yards up the street opened and a woman poked her head out.

  ‘Weh?’

  The woman was black, about forty, wearing a white blouse and with a sort of blue tartan turban on her head. In the lobes of her ears were earrings that looked like two golden fly-swats and around her neck was a yellow cotton scarf that was tied into a knot above her narrow waist. Once again the conversation was conducted in Creole. I was left staring up at the huge ship which looked even more like an office block than I’d supposed; there was a viewing deck and from it I could see the three of us being viewed by a man with a telescope. I was tempted to give him the finger – I thought of the number of times I’d wanted to do something like that in the dugout at Silvertown Dock on seeing the TV cameras focused on me, usually when something catastrophic had just occurred on the pitch – but fortunately I restrained myself long enough for the conversation to be completed.

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked when the woman in the turban had disappeared back indoors.

  ‘No luck there, either,’ said Grace.

  ‘What did she say anyway?’

  ‘Very little.’

  ‘It didn’t sound like very little. It sounded like quite a lot for very little.’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  ‘Any of these people have names? Or does she just go by the name of Queen Creole?’

  ‘I don’t think their names are that important.’

  ‘Maybe not. I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now. Maybe Jérôme Dumas was watching us from the ship. You know I wouldn’t be at all surprised. If he’s on the island at all it looks like the best place to stay. And very probably the best place to get dinner, too. I don’t know why anyone would come here, really. He certainly didn’t come home for the food, that’s for sure.’

  ‘All the same, like you say, this was his home.’

  ‘So far that doesn’t mean very much.’

  ‘No, I mean that old hairdresser’s salon. That was his home when he and his mother were living here in Pointe-à-Pitre. That was his mother’s business.’

  ‘What?’ I stopped in my tracks and turned around. ‘That old place?’

  ‘When she and Jérôme left Guadeloupe Mrs Dumas sold the business to that woman. Then last year an earthquake broke the pipes from the hot water tank. Wasn’t any money to fix them. So the place went out of business. It’s a common enough story in this part of the world. Life’s hard here, Scott.’

  ‘I had noticed that, Grace. It beats me why anyone without family left here would want to come back at all.’

  ‘He’s got family here. He must have. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we’ve already met two of them.’

  ‘That’s a depressing thought. I mean, if I’d even thought that was possible I’d have—’

  ‘You’d have done what? Asked them questions? In French? They wouldn’t have told you a damn thing. You may be black and you may be handsome but you’re not from around here. Take my word. The only way you’re going to get anywhere in Guadeloupe is to say it in Creole.’ She sighed. ‘We may have to come back here, so it would be best to take things slowly. In case you didn’t notice, that’s the Creole way. No one here’s in a hurry except you. So why don’t you remember that there’s not a ball at your feet and slow down.’

  ‘All the same, in the future, I’d like to know things like this, please. Otherwise I’m just a substitute.’

  ‘Fair enough. But look here, there’s something that I’d like to know. You said that you thought Jérôme Dumas might have been in trouble, back in Paris. What kind of trouble did you mean, Scott?’

  ‘He was depressed and taking meds. His girlfriend had dumped him because he was fooling around with other women.’

  I thought about what that meant for a moment; I was fooling around a bit myself.

  ‘Hookers mostly. He was on loan to another club – no player likes to be on loan. It really plays with your head.’

  ‘I said “trouble”, real trouble, not the ups and downs of normal life.’

  ‘I was coming to that. You know, you could learn a bit of patience yourself, Grace.’

  We walked up the street a way, back to the Yacht Club where we were hoping to find a taxi. The heat was at its most intense now so we sought out the shade of the buildings. For some reason I kept thinking that this was only in the high twenties, low thirties. In the Qatari summer the temperatures reached as high as forty-seven degrees; 2022 was going to be fun, but only if you were a local.

  ‘Jérôme also liked to hang out with some Paris bad boys. To smoke some weed. I’ve done a bit of that myself in my time. But it’s also just possible he was involved in a murder. A man named Mathieu Soulié was shot not long before Jérôme left Paris. A satin patch torn off a designer T-shirt bearing a Gothic letter D was found in the dead man’s hand. Unfortunately for Jérôme I think the patch came off a shirt which he’d been modelling in a magazine.

  ‘It’s possible that Jérôme wasn’t involved at all – he certainly doesn’t strike me as the type who would shoot a man – but that wouldn’t matter if he was scared that someone might tell the police he was. I don’t know. He’s not actually wanted for questioning by the police. I mean, the police haven’t yet made a connection. But sometimes that doesn’t stop someone from running away. I’m sure a lawyer would understand something like that.’

  ‘Sure. That’s my bread and butter.’

  ‘I think maybe he’d actually given the T-shirt to the real killer who might have blackmailed him to get rid of the murder weapon. It’s just a theory. But it would certainly explain why he was reluctant to go back to Europe.’

  Grace nodded but she didn’t look convinced.

  ‘I’m here to help him, Grace. Not to get him into trouble. But then you knew that, otherwise you wouldn’t have told your client about me. And he wouldn’t be helping me now. If that’s what he’s doing.’

  The Guadeloupe To
urist Board stood near the Yacht Club on a large square that was dotted with mango trees and royal palms. It was a handsome two-storey white stucco building with Ionic colonnades and a handsome portico and, except for the fact that it was closed, it was unrepresentative of the rest of the buildings in Pointe-à-Pitre. Out front was a taxi rank with just one battered blue taxi. The driver, who smelt of last week’s sweat and probably the week before’s too, agreed to take us to the next address on the search list that was in my companion’s beautiful head. Overcoming our disgust at his body odour, Grace and I sat in the back seat and held hands like a couple of young lovers while he chattered away in Creole.

  ‘He says those are the brothels,’ said Grace, as we drove through a shanty town of squalid wooden shacks that were patrolled by the most unlikely-looking prostitutes I’d ever seen. ‘I think maybe he’s got your card marked as someone who might like to come back here on your own.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘All part of the translation service.’

  ‘Let’s hope they’re not on your list,’ I said, staring out of the window at probably the ugliest pair of whores I’d seen in my life. ‘I’d hate to think we’d have to go looking for him in there.’

  ‘Why? Because these poor women are less glamorous than the hookers in Paris?’

  ‘Actually I was thinking that the area doesn’t look very safe. But probably that, too.’

  ‘A hooker’s a hooker. It’s just that some are more expensive than others.’

  I smiled. ‘There’s a reason for that.’

  ‘Ah. You’re a beauty fascist.’

  ‘If you want to call it that, yes, I suppose I am. Most men are, I think.’

  ‘Not around here they’re not.’

  ‘If I told you I had a real thing about ugly, fat women who wear too much make-up, how would that make you feel now?’

  Grace smiled a quiet smile. ‘Since I’m neither ugly nor fat I’d feel exactly the same way as I do now. I’m just trying to understand you a little better.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  ‘I’m teasing you. Most men like being teased a bit, don’t they?’

  ‘Only in strip clubs.’

  ‘This girlfriend he had in Paris,’ said Grace. ‘What was she like?’

  ‘She wasn’t a hooker, if that’s what you’re driving at.’

  ‘No, but you have met her.’

  ‘Why do I feel like I’m being cross-examined in the witness box?’

  ‘I expect that’s a fairly common sensation, for you. And nothing at all to do with me.’

  ‘No? I wonder.’

  ‘So tell me about her. I’m interested.’

  I shifted uncomfortably on the back seat. It seemed wrong to be describing one woman with whom I’d recently slept to one I was sleeping with now. Especially when the woman was as obviously intelligent as Grace. But I tried anyway:

  ‘Her name is Bella and she’s French. She’s a model. Nice girl, I think. Lives in Paris. Tall, blonde and willowy. She has a hairdryer that looks like a gun. And a little painting by Pierre Bonnard on the sideboard.’

  ‘Attractive?’

  ‘The Bonnard? It’s exquisite.’

  ‘Her, of course.’

  ‘That name. It’s a bit James Bond, isn’t it? Like Pussy Galore. Or Fiona Volpe.’

  ‘I think a lot of these fashion models have names that strike normal people as daft.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Very beautiful. As you might expect with that name.’

  Grace laughed. ‘Men. They’re such suckers for cars. I never get that.’

  ‘You might understand why men like cars so much if you met her.’

  ‘Maybe. Why do you ask, anyway?’

  ‘I’m just trying to figure out what your type is.’

  ‘I don’t have a type.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Having a type has always seemed to me to be a little too restrictive. You could say you only date black women and then you meet a fabulous redhead. So, what, you’re going to ignore the redhead because of some stupid, exclusive rule you’ve created for yourself? I don’t think so. Men who say they have a type are usually trying to excuse their own failure to pull anything at all.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’ve generally observed that men who say they don’t have a type are usually tomcats who will fuck anything they can.’

  ‘That’s a little harsh.’

  ‘Is it?’ She smiled. ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘As I recall I was lying quietly in my basket until you invited me to step through the cat flap.’

  ‘That’s right. I did. But now that I have I think I’m entitled to make a few conclusions about the feline company I’m keeping.’

  ‘And what conclusions have you made?’

  ‘None yet.’ She smiled and squeezed my hand. It was supposed to make me feel better only her nails seemed quite sharp. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m ready to make my summing-up.’

  ‘I can’t wait, your honour.’

  Grace opened her handbag, found a handkerchief, dabbed her forehead and then produced a bottle of scent with which she deodorised herself and then the car.

  The driver laughed and said something in Creole.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ I asked.

  ‘The beach. In Le Gosier.’

  ‘We were in Le Gosier before lunch, weren’t we?’

  ‘Yes. And now we’re going back there.’

  ‘Because it’s preordained by your client that we should.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I remind you of a cat, you said.’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Well, you remind me of a cat, as well. But for entirely different reasons. The fact is, you’re quite inscrutable. I look at you and I have no idea what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Good. I’d hate to think I could be so easily read.’

  ‘Lady, I couldn’t read you if you’d hired the Red Arrows to write your name in the clouds.’

  ‘Maybe I’m not such a mystery.’

  ‘No. But everything else to do with you is.’

  ‘Trust me. All will be revealed.’

  I pulled a face.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘When a lawyer says trust me, I need to check I still have my wallet.’

  ‘Go ahead. I think I know every cheap lawyer joke there is.’

  ‘Except that there are no cheap lawyers.’

  ‘And yet it was me who bought your air ticket from Antigua to Guadeloupe. And whose credit card is lodged with the hotel.’

  ‘Believe me, I’ve wondered about that, too. And I’ve come to a conclusion. Actually, it’s still more of a theory.’

  ‘Oh? Might I hear what that is?’

  ‘I don’t think any of the people we’ve met on Guadeloupe are related to Jérôme Dumas at all. I think it’s probably your client in jail who’s related to him. Who’s maybe at least as worried about him, if not more, as FC Barcelona or Paris Saint-Germain are. I think that maybe Jérôme’s disappearance has something to do with your client being in jail. If I knew the name of your client I bet I’d find that Jérôme’s disappearance follows on from his imprisonment like Sunday follows Saturday.’

  21

  The taxi took us to a gravel car park at the furthest end of the beach at Le Gosier and dropped us near the town hall, an improbably large, ultra-modern building that was out of all proportion to the rest of the sleepy little town: it was as if someone had commissioned Richard Rogers or Norman Foster to design a scout hut.

  I paid the malodorous driver and we walked down a quiet road where an old man straight out of the pages of Hemingway was wrestling a big, dead barracuda into the boot of a Renault Clio while another, younger man was manhandling lobster pots out of a small boat. We stepped onto a white sandy beach where Grace kicked off her shoes and I did the same. The sand felt good under my toes and, for the first time since our arrival on t
he island of Guadeloupe, I started to relax.

  Lots of lardy-looking French people were lying on the beach, or floating in the water like so much white plastic flotsam. The sea lapped energetically at the sand and but for the ugliness of the cheap swimwear that was on show you might have thought you were in paradise. That was me being a beauty fascist again. In my time as a football manager I’ve been called a lot of things – a cunt, mostly – but a beauty fascist certainly wasn’t one of them. It was true, of course. I tend to think fat people ought to keep it covered. That or go on a fucking diet. Not that it was easy to see how anyone could put on weight in Guadeloupe. The place seemed like an ideal place to begin a crash diet.

  Fifty yards off the beach was a small desert island and on the island was a lighthouse, although it was hard to see the necessity for warning any shipping to keep away. A simple Google search could have persuaded you of the absolute necessity of never going anywhere near Guadeloupe at all.

  We walked about thirty or forty yards until we came to a wooden door in a wall of rocks and banana leaves. We stepped carefully between some Frenchies who were enjoying a little shade and whose grumbles indicated their resentment at our disturbing them, and Grace pressed an intercom button on the doorpost. Eventually a man’s voice answered, in French.

  ‘Yes? Who is this?’

  ‘My name is Grace Doughty and with me is Scott Manson, from FC Barcelona. We’re looking for Jérôme Dumas.’

  ‘I’m Jérôme,’ said the voice. ‘Come on up,’ he added, and buzzed us in.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I said, as Grace pushed the door open and we walked through it into a nicely tended garden. ’

  ‘Ye of little faith,’ said Grace.

  ‘I used to play for Northampton Town, so that can’t be true.’

  The door closed neatly behind us and we walked up a long, sloping lawn towards a modern two-storey house constructed of red concrete and glass with a metal terrace and a big picture window. What resembled a set of large canvas sails covered the flat roof like several sun umbrellas. It was very private in that almost none of this could be seen from the beach and the house was shrouded with royal palms and red bougainvillea. Music by Stromae – who is almost as good as Jacques Brel, and a recent and happy discovery of mine, thanks to Bella – was blaring out of an open window while emerging from a tinted glass door was a barefoot young man wearing a Barcelona team kit and whom I recognised immediately as Jérôme Dumas. Around his neck were a pair of PSG Beats; on his wrist was a large gold Rolex and, in his earlobes, were the diamond Panther studs that Bella told me he’d bought from Cartier in Paris. I felt my jaw drop for a second.