Philip Kerr - Research

‘The quickest route back to Monaco,’ explained John, ‘is via Italy and the A10. We go right through the Alps. Should take us about five hours. It’s one of my favourite drives in the world. Especially in summer. It’s interesting how most of these ski resorts — Chamonix, Courmayeur, Aosta — look completely different at this time of year. And there’s a very good hotel-restaurant in Vercelli we should stop at — the Cinzia — where they serve twenty different kinds of risotto. You’ll love it, Don. Years ago, I had this thing with an Italian publisher who worked for Mondadori — the publishing house in Milan — and that’s where we used to meet. Lovely she was; I think her name was Domitilla.’

‘Not exactly the sort of name you forget,’ I said.

‘Monaco is only sixteen kilometres from Italy and there have been a lot of Italians in my life, one way or another. Sometimes I wonder how I didn’t marry one. I used to go there on the Lady Schadenfreude a lot. To Portofino, Santa Margherita.’

‘You’ve led a charmed life,’ I said. ‘And no mistake.’

‘Until now. If I go down for this it will be my only compensation, old sport. That at least I’ll have lived life to the full, you know?’

‘Anyone can say that, surely.’

‘Yes, but I can say it and mean it. Like Roy Batty in Blade Runner . “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.”’

‘“Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion”.’ I laughed. ‘But if I’m “you people” that must make you a replicant. One thing’s for sure: you’re just as fucking ruthless as Roy Batty.’

‘Me? Ruthless? That’s not how I see myself at all.’

‘John, the last time the two of us were in a car on a French autoroute like this you told me you were closing down the atelier for no other reason than you wanted to leave Monaco and watch bloody Chelsea play football. You knew the damage and disarray that this would cause to those around you: all the people who would lose their jobs because of your decision, the effect it would have on VVL’s share-price, the friendships it was probably going to cost you; but you still went ahead and did it. I seem to recall you even rather relished the damage it might do to poor old Hereward. To say nothing of the damage you must have known it was going to do to me. Now that’s what I call fucking ruthless.’

‘But I compensated everyone, didn’t I? In what way was I ruthless?’

I paused for a moment as I steered the big Bentley into a slower lane. A big truck crept along the near side and the driver’s mate stared down at me. From the look on his dark, unshaven face I was just some rich bastard in a Bentley with no idea of what it was like to really work for a living. His arm was hanging out of the open window and I was close enough to see the pink, bubble-gum patch of eczema on his elbow and the cigarette in his thick, yellowish fingers, but he might as well have been on another planet; there was nothing about what I had to say to John that would have made sense to him and I knew instinctively that he dearly wanted to treat the Bentley like a large, expensive ashtray and tip his fag ash onto our heads. In his position it’s what I would have done. It’s what anyone would do.

‘The trouble with you, John, is that you think that the answer to every problem is to throw money at it.’

‘That’s bollocks.’

‘Really? Has it occurred to you that your relationship with Travis might have been better if you’d just spent more time with the boy and less money trying to please him?’

‘Let’s leave my son out of this, okay, old sport? This has got nothing to do with Travis. And exactly what damage did my closing down the atelier do to you? You had the best compensation package of anyone, Don.’

‘John. You weren’t listening. For me and the people like me — Peter Stakenborg and Philip French — the money was irrelevant. Surely it must have occurred to you that none of us has ever been able to make a decent living from his writing on our own? When you closed the atelier you extinguished the flame that we called an artistic life. You took away all our dreams that we could be something other than nine-to-five men who were part of the awful rat-race called full-time employment — that we too were writers and part of the exclusive club that’s London literary society. It’s one thing to take away a man’s livelihood, John; it’s something else to shatter his dreams. And there’s no amount of money can compensate for something as terrible as that.’

‘You’re exaggerating, surely.’

‘Am I? You turned my life upside down, like a bloody egg-timer. One minute I’m going one way and then the next minute I’m going the other. It’s been months now but I still don’t know where I really am. I’ve been trying to write a novel of my own but I’ve got a dreadful feeling I’ve become hopelessly addicted to John Houston’s crack-pipe. That I can’t do it without the stuff you supply. I might end up having to look for a job myself — like Philip French. I might even have to go back to advertising. At my age. Can you imagine how awful that would be? Me writing copy at sixty. Christ, I’d probably have to work on retail, or below the line.’

‘So what do you want me to do about it now? Jesus, Don, you know how to pick your fucking moments.’

‘I want what any friend would want in a situation like this. Some recognition on your part that you behaved like an arsehole. And an apology. After twenty years of loyal service I think I’m entitled to one.’

Of course this wasn’t what I wanted — not in the least — but, before I put into motion the real point of our journey, it was fun making him jump through yet another hoop like this. Pure sadism on my part.

‘Okay,’ he said impatiently. ‘Yes, you’re right. I was wrong. I behaved badly. And I apologize.’ He paused for a moment. ‘All right?’

I shrugged. ‘It might be, but only if you said it like you mean it.’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw John shrink into the diamond-quilted leather seat and let out a sigh. Then he said:

‘For fuck’s sake, Don, you’ve no idea of the pressure I was under. The pressure to deliver the goods. Again and again. I needed to get out from underneath it all. You remember that scene in A Clockwork Orange when Alex and his droogs tip the bookcase on top of poor old Patrick Magee? That’s what it felt like. A man buried under a whole library of fucking books. But, you’re right. I didn’t ever take into account your feelings, Don; and the feelings of everyone else. And I’m truly sorry about that. It was thoughtless and inconsiderate of me. And I should like to offer you my sincere apology. Okay?’

I nodded. ‘Thank you. Your apology is accepted.’

‘Twenty years,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten it was that long.’

We both lapsed into silence after that — or as much silence as can be encountered in an open-top sports car travelling at a hundred miles an hour on a French autoroute — and I let my mind drift for a while. You would be forgiven for imagining that I was racked with guilt about Orla’s murder; but I wasn’t. Not for a second. I had no regrets on that score. She’d had it coming for a long time and while it’s true, I’d enjoyed killing her — rather more than I had expected to enjoy it — in truth Orla’s death was only the means to an end. In my defence I should add that it has been a long time since I was obliged to pull the trigger on someone in cold blood — the last time was in Northern Ireland. That was on another Mick, of course, while I was on active service, and not exactly to the sound of trumpets, as what happened with the Int and Squint boys in County Fermanagh was murder pure and simple. I’m not ashamed of what happened there. But all the same if things work out the way I’ve planned then it’s to be hoped I won’t ever have to kill anyone again.