Quintin Jardine - For The Death Of Me

Back in the bedroom, I took a fresh shirt from my bag. When I had removed it from its wrapping, I picked up the one I had worn the day before, meaning to stuff it into the polythene and toss it all in the waste. But as I crumpled it in my hand, my fingers closed on the forgotten envelope in the pocket, Maddy January’s parting thank-you card.

I took it out and opened it. It was inscribed as she had said, but with it there was something else: another tiny square SD disk. ‘As a token of good faith,’ she had added, ‘and maybe a little insurance.’

As I stared at it, I felt as if someone had switched me back on. I had purpose again; I had things to do.

The first of those involved breakfast. Somehow I’d managed to skip lunch the day before, and I was starving. I checked out of the dosshouse and took a cab to Seventh and Fifty-fifth. They were between rush-hours in the Carnegie Deli, so I was afforded the luxury of a table on my own. I demolished a Woody Allen (lotsa corned beef, plus lotsa pastrami) and a side order of cinnamon toast, and I was on my second coffee refill when I was aware of a guy peering at me. He wore a white apron; it was too pristine for him to have been a cook, so I guessed that he had to be the owner. ‘Hey,’ he asked hoarsely, ‘ain’t you Oz Blackstone?’

I ran my hand over my heavy stubble. ‘So the beard didn’t fool you.’

‘Buddy, you’re supposed to be dead. It says so in the Daily News.’

‘Shit, and I felt fine when I woke up this morning.’

He chuckled. ‘Yeah, maybe I should be careful what I believe. They ran another story about a guy found semi-conscious on Broadway with a Smith and Wesson up his ass. I didn’t swallow that one, though. No, you maybe don’t look so great, Oz, but I reckon you’re alive. Tell you what, buddy, how about proving it by sending me a picture for the wall?’ (I forgot to mention that the Carnegie is decorated with the autographed photographs of thousands of celebrities who’ve eaten there over the years.)

‘I’ll do that,’ I promised.

‘Great. When you do, be sure to put today’s date on it.’

When I’d mopped up the last of the maple syrup with the last of the cinnamon toast, and paid at the counter on the way out, I caught another cab. I’d done some telephone-directory research at the hotel so I was able to ask the driver to take me straight to the British Consulate General, on Third Avenue at East Fifty-first.

I walked in off the street, and asked to see the Consul General and the Press Officer, in that order. The counter clerk looked at me sceptically until I handed over my passport: that got her attention, big-time. I was shown straight in to see the boss.

I kept my story simple.

• I had never been on the plane; I had decided at the last minute to drive the rental back to New York, so I hadn’t been aware of the tragedy until I’d been approached in the Carnegie.

• I’d thought the guy was joking until I bought a Daily News.

• I had just bought the rights to Benedict Luker’s novel, and we had been in Trenton to look at a possible location.

• Primavera had met Luker in Monaco when we had closed the deal, and had subsequently arranged to visit him in New York.

• Ms January was her friend and, coincidentally, was the ex-wife of my brother-in-law, who had just been appointed a judge by Her Majesty the Queen.

The last part really sealed it; obviously, the cops in New Jersey wanted to talk to me, but the Consul General insisted that they do so on what was legally British soil. An assistant Chief of something and another senior officer came to Third Avenue at half past midday and took a formal statement. They were clued up enough to ask me about Marie; I was ready for that, and told them that I was considering her for a role in the movie of Blue Star Falling (true) and that the meeting had been arranged to suit my schedule (lie, more or less).

Once they were done, they asked me if I would identify the bodies of Dylan and Maddy. . they still hadn’t found Prim. I was able to do so from photographs they had brought with them: they’d been banged about, obviously, but not too badly burned because of the swamp, so they’d been made recognisable. I nodded, mute, as I was shown each one.

They asked me who would be handling the funeral arrangements. I told them that Ms January’s mother lived in England but that she had a sister in Princeton, who could be contacted in India through the university. I added that, as far as I knew, Benedict Luker had no next of kin and that I would take care of his needs.

As soon as they had left, the Consul General authorised the Press Officer to issue a statement announcing my miraculous escape, and recounting most of the story I’d told him and the cops. He offered me lunch, too, but I was still full of Woody Allen and cinnamon toast, so I passed on that. But I did ask him for his secretary’s help in getting me out of the country; within half an hour she had me booked on the six thirty out of JFK, connecting to Nice and getting me home well in time for lunch the next day.

They gave me the full diplomatic treatment on both sides of the Atlantic. I never saw Customs or Immigration at JFK or ’Eefrow and, better still, I never saw any journalists.

The evil hour was only postponed, though: there was no protection in Nice, and I have never been happier to be met by a minder. Conrad, ever efficient, had hired extra security; just as well, because the airport staff couldn’t have come close to coping. This was the Cannes Film Festival and Grand Prix week rolled into one and trebled. And all for poor, poor, pitiful me.

It was easier in Monaco: the Prince had ordered the police to guard my privacy while I recovered from the terrible shock I’d had.

I had another thing to recover from too. I had to tell Susie exactly why I’d missed the plane. I may be pretty good at manipulating the truth, but not when she’s around. She didn’t take it well. For a while I thought that the curse of being married to Oz had struck again, but eventually she told me that she’d rather have me, in her words, ‘with a stain on your record and by my side than sat spotless up on a cloud playing a fucking harp’.

She went on to add that there can be very few people in history who could claim that their dick saved their life. Even so, I don’t think that she’s quite forgiven me; maybe she never will.

The kids didn’t understand any of what had happened, thank JC, and won’t for a while. Tom knows his mother won’t be coming back, and he’s making of that what a four-year-old can. Being brutal about it, he hadn’t seen much of her for a year, so it would have been worse for him if it had been Susie or me who’d been put out to the pasture in the sky.

A week later, I was back in New York, with Susie. Benedict Luker’s cremation was private; there were only five of us there, the two of us, his publisher, his editor and her secretary. The lovely editor was heartbroken. I reckon old Benny had been right: he might well have been on there.

The memorial service we held for Prim in Auchterarder, ten days after that, was an altogether different matter. David and Dawn Phillips were the chief mourners, of course, but Tom Blackstone was there too, with his dad, and Bruce Grayson, Prim’s nephew, with his. They tell me that there were four hundred people outside the jam-packed church, listening as the service was relayed on speakers.

David asked me to do a eulogy for his daughter. I was touched, and agreed, of course. When I considered what I would say, I found myself remembering the last time Prim and I had really talked to each other, in the Algonquin, our favourite hotel in New York. And this is how it turned out.