Philip Kerr - Research

‘How did they take it? Your fellow writers?’

‘Not well. Philip French had just bought a house in the south of France — in Tourrettes-sur-Loup — and I think he’d been counting on continuing his working association with John in order to pay for it. Things have been difficult for him ever since. Peter Stakenborg was predictably underwhelmed by the news. Nothing ever surprises Peter. I think he even said he’d seen it coming. Mike Munns probably received the news with the least amount of good grace — which is because he hadn’t much grace to start with. Myself — I was a bit shocked at first. But it wasn’t like John just cast us all adrift. He did pay us off very handsomely. As he promised he would.’

‘And did he give you the outline for a seventh Jack Boardman book? Like he said?’

‘Yes. He did. Although as yet I’ve not been able to work up any great enthusiasm to write it. To be quite frank I was burned out on that series long before book six. John knew that, which is another reason why we didn’t write any more. That’s how it goes, you see. After a while a series character becomes the creature to the writer’s Victor Frankenstein; he’s a hideous monster that you’re obliged to spend time with but who you would happily see destroyed. Right now I could no more sit down and write another Jack Boardman book than I could go back in the army. He was a two-dimensional character, Chief Inspector, and without depth to a character about whom you’re writing, it’s just typing. I mean check out the reviews for those books on Amazon and you’ll see what I’m talking about. It is soon plain that the people who enjoy these books and give them five stars aren’t what you and I would call readers. A typical Amazon review for a Jack Boardman book reads something like “Houston’s books are easy to read and the ideal choice if you are unable to read for very long at a time”. The true readers, the real readers — readers like you and me, Chief Inspector — these are the people who give those books one-star reviews.’

I smiled and shook my head.

‘What?’ asked Amalric.

‘It’s just that John — always sales-led — was never ever bothered by those one-star reviews. Most writers — me included — get very hung up by what’s written in the Amazon reviews. But John said that if you actually read the one-star reviews they’re almost always better written than the five-star reviews, and that these always reveal readers who were never the true target market for John’s books in the first place. He used to call this kind of reader a “mal-purchase”. His real market he insisted was the authors of the illiterate, badly spelt five-star reviews, which is of course a much larger number of people than the authors of the better-written ones.’

‘Interesting,’ said Amalric.

‘Perhaps. Anyway, I can’t quite bring myself to get down to that sort of level again — the reader as lowest common denominator. I expect I will do, eventually, when I need the money. But right now I’m just ploughing my own little furrow and telling myself that a book which makes nothing but money is a poor book.’

This was another lie, of course; but writers lie for a living; at least, that’s a truth I’ve always believed.

‘How did Anderton take the news? And Hereward Jones?’

‘Badly. VVL’s shares nosedived on the news, as I expect you know. Lots of editors and marketing people lost their jobs. There was talk of a lawsuit against VVL and their bank by shareholders who felt that VVL had misled investors about John Houston’s future sales. There are still three more Houston books for them to publish, so I expect this year’s sales figures will hold up. But they can forget next year being any good. Especially now that John won’t be delivering The Geneva Convention . Or at least I assume he won’t be delivering it now that he’s suspected of murdering his wife. When I checked Bloomberg this afternoon I noticed that VVL shares had been marked down again.

‘As for Hereward, I imagine his situation is even bleaker. As someone who was earning between eight and ten million dollars a year in commission, he’ll be lucky if he makes a tenth of that now. I believe he’s had to sell his beautiful house in Ascot. Not to mention his famous Rolls-Royce.’

‘When Mr Houston told you that he was terminating the atelier and moving back to London, did he lead you to suppose he’d discussed it with his wife?’

‘It was all “I am going to do this” and “I am going to do that”. I don’t recall him mentioning Orla at all, except to make a disparaging remark about her hat-buying habit.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Oh yes. He said, “I’ve bought a house in St Leonard’s Terrace”, not “We’ve bought one”, which would have been rather more uxorious.’

Uxorious : a word forbidden in John’s lexicon of banned words.

‘“We” is what a good husband would have said. On the other hand John always bought just what he wanted. He was quite impulsive when it came to spending. Recently he paid a million dollars for a watch. You probably read that in yesterday’s Daily Mail .’

‘Yes, an Hublot Black Caviar Bang, wasn’t it?’ said Amalric.

‘A million dollars for a watch,’ breathed Savigny.

‘Ridiculous, isn’t it?’ I said, but I could see Savigny didn’t agree and I knew I was looking at another man who would love to have owned a million-dollar watch. ‘He bought it with the film rights money for The Prisoner of Kandahar . At least that’s what he told the Wall Street Journal when they interviewed him.’

‘This was the novel which caused all the WikiLeaks fuss, wasn’t it?’ said Savigny. ‘With the coalition forces in Afghanistan.’

I nodded. ‘According to WikiLeaks the CIA used John’s book as the model for a Taliban prisoner swap in 2013. In John’s plot, the CIA is looking for a way to close Guantánamo without losing face; so they persuade an American sergeant to let himself be captured in Afghanistan in order that they can swap him for several top Taliban prisoners in Gitmo. Your guess is as good as mine just how much truth there was in that rumour. But he himself never commented on it. Like I say, he could be quite secretive about some things. Except with his accountants, of course. You might ask them some questions. Citroen Wells, in Devonshire Street, London. I believe they handle a lot of top writers.’

‘Do you think he might have been planning to return to London alone?’

‘That’s hard to say. I can’t imagine for a moment that Orla would have wanted to go along to Stamford Bridge with John — to see Chelsea Football Club. She hated football. Or to Lord’s to see the cricket. Not her scene at all. It was all too English for her. Even so, he never mentioned that he was unhappy with her. And she was a very beautiful woman after all.’

‘What about other women?’

‘Now you’re asking. John was always a busy man in the ladies’ department. He told me a joke once which I didn’t think was particularly funny since I was happily married at the time. If you’re married it’s a very subversive sort of joke. He said, “What do you call a man who is always faithful to his wife? Gay.” John thought that was very funny. But I think he really believes that. I’m certain he has girlfriends in places other than Monaco. There was a girl in New York I think he used to see when he was there; but I couldn’t give you a name, or an address. Probably one in Paris, too, but again I have no firm information about who she was or where she lived. I think I saw him with another woman in London, once. But he denied it afterward. John is highly compartmentalized. Which is entirely typical of the writer of course. I’ve yet to hear a better description of what it means to be a writer than the lyric from the song in the Bond movie of the same name: “You only live twice; once in your dreams and once in real life”. Works rather better than Bond’s failed attempt at a Basho-like haiku that’s in Fleming’s book, I think. And it’s a more or less perfect description of John Houston: a man who wrote one life and lived another — perhaps several others. I guess you’ll find out how many when you catch up with him. If you catch up with him.’