Philip Kerr - Research

‘But what about your fifteen-book contract with VVL?’

‘To hell with it. And to hell with them, too. I’ll just have to pay them back the twenty million dollars advance.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’ John grinned. ‘Yes.’

‘But what about Dead Red ?’

‘Don’t worry, you can finish Dead Red and get paid just like we agreed, old sport; for that matter all of you guys can finish whatever it is you’re writing now. That should also help to soften the blow for VVL. Naturally I’ll try to cushion the blow for you and everyone else in the atelier with some sort of severance package. Which, of course, will be rather more generous in your own case, Don, since you’ve been with me the longest. Fifty thousand quid. How does that sound?’

‘Very generous,’ I said, although I could have pointed out that in any normal year this was only half of what I made from writing John Houston books.

‘And I certainly haven’t forgotten my promise — to try to find you a decent outline for a bestseller of your own, old sport.’

I felt my heart skip a beat; this was something much more worrying than a catastrophic reduction in my earnings.

‘Holy shit, John. You goddamned asshole.’

‘What?’

‘What do you mean “try”? You already said you were going to give me the outline of The Geneva Convention .’

As a reward for twenty years of loyal service, John had previously promised to ‘donate’ me the very much-needed plot for a book I was going to write myself, just as soon as I’d finished writing Dead Red . This was to be a stand-alone thriller about a Geneva-based hedge fund called The Geneva Convention and John had said it was one of the best outlines he’d written in a long time; when I read it I knew he wasn’t wrong, and I had no doubt that provided I observed all of the lessons I had learned while writing thrillers for John then The Geneva Convention might actually make me a small fortune. Perhaps even a large one. My own agent, Craig Conrad, had listened to my description of John’s outline and assured me he could probably sell it to someone at Random House for at least fifty grand; all that I had to do was write the damn thing.

‘I think I said that it was probably the best outline I could give you. Which, to be fair, is not quite the same thing as actually agreeing to give it to you, old sport. Or even saying that I was going to give it to you. I hate to split grammatical hairs here, but I really don’t think what you’re saying truly reflects our conversations about this idea.’

‘Come on, John. You certainly led me to believe that this was the outline you were going to give me.’

‘No, you led yourself to believe it, Don. I think that’s more accurate. And it’s not like I gave you the finished article, is it? Bound in leather, with gold letters on the cover, like we normally do? With a contract? No. Look, don’t worry about it. I told you, I’ll try to give you something else. Something just as good, I promise. But it so happens that The Geneva Convention is the book I’m going to write myself. The whole damn thing. After all, it is my story to do with as I like. I don’t know why I feel I have to justify this to you. It’s not as if you’ve ever had anything to do with writing the outlines, old sport. Besides, this book needs to be a little different from what we’ve been writing up until now. This book is going to need more atmosphere. More detail. Closer observation. Which is precisely why I want to write it myself.’

‘Sure, John, sure. It’s your damned outline to do whatever you like with.’

We were both silent for about thirty or forty miles of auto-route. I stared out of the Aston’s passenger window as we hurtled through the French countryside. Outside, the car’s V12 engine sounded like some wild beast in distress; but cocooned inside, the quiet was a little unnerving and the silence nothing short of awkward. John felt it, too; and after a while he said, ‘Tell you what, old sport. I’ve had a great idea. You can write the next Jack Boardman book.’

‘What do you mean, the next? I already wrote the last six, remember?’

‘What I mean is, why don’t you take him over? With your name on the jacket, and only your name. I’ll give him to you. The character. Yours to do with as you like. Book six sold a million and a half copies, right?’

‘Yes, but book five sold twice as many, which is why you decided not to pursue book seven, remember?’

‘Maybe so. But it’s still a valuable franchise, Don. And I do have a finished outline for book seven which I will gladly give you as my parting gift. There’s absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t squeeze another three books out of that character. Maybe five, which could be worth millions; I bet VVL would go for it, too. Especially now that they know I won’t be writing any more of those books myself. There are plenty of precedents for doing that sort of thing: Kingsley Amis, John Gardner and Sebastian Faulks with James Bond. The Faulks book Devil May Care was actually very successful. Good title, too. I had plans to use that title myself. And of course you wouldn’t have to cut me in for a percentage the way Faulks was obliged to do with Ian Fleming’s estate. Whatever money the book made would be yours and yours alone.’

I bit my lip and grunted as if I was thinking about it. I hadn’t in the least enjoyed writing the sixth Jack Boardman book; after six I was heartily sick of him — as sick of him as Ian Fleming had been of James Bond, perhaps — and I’d hoped never to write another one again, but, all the same, I didn’t want to say no; an outline for another of Boardman’s adventures was still a valuable property, John was right about that much.

‘At least say you’ll think about it, old sport. Look, I’ll even mention it to Anderton when I see him to tell him I’m through with all this.’

‘All right. I’ll think about it.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Are you planning to tell the rest of the guys when we get to the atelier in Paris?’

‘That’s right, I am. And then I’m going to catch the Euro-star to London and tell Anderton and everyone at VVL and then Hereward. I can’t wait to see his fucking beard turn fifty shades of grey.’

‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

John grinned and pressed his foot down on the accelerator as if he was anxious to get to Paris so that he could action his new plan as soon as possible.

‘I have to confess I am a little. You know, part of being a winner, old sport, is knowing when enough is enough. When it’s time to give up the fight and walk away and find something new. Like J. K. Rowling. I mean, good for her, I thought. Knowing when to quit is the essence of real creativity, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just glad I chose not to buy any of VVL’s shares when they came on the market. You do know that Bat Anderton is going to have a heart attack.’

John laughed. ‘He’ll survive. And so will VVL. Bloomsbury survived after Harry Potter, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, but their shares halved after the series came to an end. They had to invest heavily in the German publishing market. They bought Berlin Verlag.’

‘Then VVL will have to do something similar, won’t they? Besides, it’s not like they won’t get Dead Red and the three books that Munns and Stakenborg and Philip French are writing right now. And The Geneva Convention .’

I shrugged and drank some wine. ‘When we got to Paris, Houston told everyone he was ending our arrangement, like he said he would, and then he went on to London where he did the same. We’ve spoken on the telephone since then but I think that might have been the last time I saw him, Chief Inspector.’