Philip Kerr - Research

‘What about her?’ he asked. ‘Do you think she might have played around like he did?’

‘I really couldn’t say. She always struck me as a bit of an ice-maiden. You know, cold. I couldn’t ever imagine her flirting with anyone. But even if I could it’s my impression that the smallest country in the world would be a poor place to conduct a secret affair.’

‘Not the smallest,’ said Amalric, correcting me. ‘The Vatican City is smaller. And I don’t think that size ever stopped scandal there. Do you?’

I chuckled. ‘Maybe not.’

Sergeant Savigny came back to the table and sat down, smelling strongly of French cigarettes, which only made me want one; but I have a rule about smoking: unless in a situation of stress I only smoke when I am writing and only then when I am stuck. I don’t like my habits to become too much like a habit.

Amalric sat back in his chair and tugged at the end of his little beard.

‘It’s said that God never takes away something,’ he said after a moment or two, ‘without giving something better in its place. But not in this case. When Houston put an end to the atelier it seems everyone was a loser by his decision. Even him, perhaps, since he was obliged to hand back a cheque for twenty million. You, your fellow writers, the people at Veni, Vidi, Legi, the Houston office staff, shareholders, the publisher Mr Anderton, Mr Houston’s literary agent Here-ward Jones. Some of these people lost only their jobs; but some lost a great deal of money — or at least they didn’t make the money that they were quite sure they were going to make until Houston’s bombshell announcement. Which is almost the same thing. Of course, no one lost their life, unlike Mrs Houston; but I can’t help but feel her murder is connected with everything you have told me, Monsieur Irvine. As a policeman I’ve come to the conclusion that the Bible is wrong; it’s the lack of money that’s the root of all evil.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps Mrs Houston didn’t want to accompany her husband back to London. Perhaps she liked living in Monaco.’

‘Anything is possible, I suppose.’

‘Perhaps that’s why he killed her,’ said Savigny.

‘Maybe.’

‘Was he a jealous man?’ Savigny was warming to his line of questioning.

‘John? No. Not at all. I have the impression that if he’d found out she was fucking someone else, he’d have been pleased.’

‘Pleased?’ Savigny was frowning. ‘How?’

‘It would have let him off the hook, that’s how. And of course he’d have forgiven her because, in his own way, he loved her. Love will hide a multitude of sins.’

‘Talking of which,’ said Amalric, ‘would it surprise you to know that the contact list on Orla Houston’s iPhone included a number of sinners in the persons of several prominent Irish republicans? Two of whom — according to an officer we spoke to today at Scotland Yard — served long sentences at Portlaoise Prison for arms smuggling?’

‘Does that surprise me? No. As a matter of fact I believe those two guys you mentioned helped John with the research for one of his books. Ten Soldiers Wisely Led . That was the last book I wrote for John. Before Dead Red , I mean.’

Savigny nodded thoughtfully. ‘ Dix Soldats Sagement Conduits . That’s the follow-up book to Le Prisonnier de Kandahar , isn’t it? One of my favourite books, sir.’

‘Is it?’ said Amalric.

‘There’s this guy who wears diamond-encrusted shoes. An arms dealer. Fantastic.’

‘The title comes from Euripides,’ I added helpfully. ‘Ten soldiers wisely led will beat a hundred without a head. I always thought it was Orla’s brother who put John in contact with those two characters. But it could just as easily have been her. John always suspected she was giving money to Sinn Féin. His money. I know they argued about it. John did not approve.’

I don’t know why, but I mentioned the incident at Orla’s wedding to John when Colm Mac Curtain had tried to pick a fight with me.

‘They sound like quite a family,’ observed Amalric.

‘They are.’

‘Is it possible that perhaps she might have offended someone in those circles?’ asked Savigny. ‘According to Scotland Yard, some of these people are still active and violent.’

‘You mean Irish nationalist paramilitaries?’ I smiled. ‘I’m a writer, Sergeant. It’s my job to make you believe that anything is possible.’ I shrugged. ‘With a sound-suppressor on a gun, it just might be, I suppose. John slips out of the Odéon Tower — for whatever reason — and comes back to find that his wife has been murdered by the Real IRA. I like that story better than him shooting his own wife in cold blood. But frankly I think I’ve got too much imagination to be a cop, don’t you?’

I tried and failed to suppress a yawn, and then glanced at my watch, which wasn’t an Hublot but a hundred-and-fifty-pound Bulova that was a poor imitation of the rather more expensive Rolex Sea Dweller. ‘But even my imagination is a getting a little dull. And my throat a little dry. I’m not used to talking as much as this. So perhaps you’ll excuse me.’ I took out my wallet.

‘No, no, monsieur,’ said Amalric. ‘You were our guest.’

‘Thank you, very much.’

‘No, thank you, monsieur.’

I allowed him to carry on thinking that I might actually have offered to pay my share while, from my wallet, I took out the two business cards I’d been reaching for all along. I handed one to Amalric and the other to Sergeant Savigny, who was standing up to say goodbye.

‘I enjoyed it very much,’ I said. ‘Especially the wine.’

Amalric was nodding circumspectly, which excited my curiosity. ‘What did you think of the restaurant?’ I asked him.

‘It’s trying hard to be something it’s not,’ he said. ‘But then again, isn’t everyone?’

‘Don’t hesitate to call or email if you have any more questions,’ I said. Then we all shook hands and I left.

It was a warm, clear Monday evening in London. From Claridge’s I walked up to Oxford Circus where I caught a Central Line train west to Notting Hill Gate, and then the District Line south to Putney. I walked onto the bridge and about halfway across stopped and stared across the river, hoping that the air would help to clear my head. Putney looked better at night when it was almost as glamorous-looking as Monaco; almost, but not quite. Saint Mary the Virgin Church, immediately to the east of the bridge, was bathed in sharp white light like a ghost ship. Next to the church, the blue lights from Putney Wharf Tower — a rather smarter, more expensive apartment building than my own — reflected on the metallic surface of the water in a way that made the river seem almost benign when it was anything but that. Strong currents and whirlpools made the Thames much too dangerous for swimming while the tide — which was now at its highest — was playing its usual game of trying to catch out the motorists who had unwisely parked along the Embankment to the west of Putney Bridge. It was not uncommon to return from dinner at one of Putney’s many inexpensive restaurants to find your car filled up to the roof with Thames water. This was certainly an entertaining spectacle to watch from the safety of an upper window in a pub, and the customers drinking at The Star and Garter often did just that.

There’s nothing that seems to give people more pleasure in Britain than watching a disaster happening to someone else in slow motion. Except perhaps what George Orwell would have called ‘a perfect murder’, which is to say a murder involving money and celebrities, of the kind that encourages not just extensive write-ups in the Sunday newspapers but also lots of books and melodramas — in short, the kind of murder that had befallen Edmond Safra and now Orla Mac Curtain. Her death really did seem to have all of the qualities that Orwell required to make a murder memorable. If Dominick Dunne had been alive he’d certainly have been on the next available plane to the Côte d’Azur. But if the Monty cops working the Edmond Safra case had screwed up — as the Vanity Fair journalist had implied — they didn’t look like they were about to make any of the same mistakes again. I might not have learned anything from Chief Inspector Amalric and Sergeant Savigny that made me change my mind about what had happened in Monaco, but I had certainly revised my opinion concerning the efficiency of the Monty cops. Amalric had been especially impressive and served to remind me that a well-read cop is like a supermarket steak: not as thick as you might hope.