Philip Kerr - Research

‘So when John pulled the plug on our little atelier —’

I felt myself wince: I’d always been a little embarrassed by Houston’s name for our writing quartet: the atelier . It made us sound as if we had all been employed in the workshop of a real artist, instead of someone whose only talent was for making tons of money.

‘Philip felt especially aggrieved.’

‘... And blamed Orla,’ added Munns. ‘For putting him up to it. That’s what he told me at any rate.’

‘Best keep that to yourself,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If the Monty cops turn up here asking questions it might be best if you didn’t repeat that,’ I said. ‘For Philip’s sake. There’s no point in dropping him in it, too. And before you ask, no, I don’t believe Philip killed Orla any more than I think it was John who did it. Or you, or Peter.’

‘Do you think they will?’ Munns asked. ‘The cops. Turn up here, I mean?’

‘Peter’s right,’ I said. ‘The Monty cops have got plenty of money and not much else to do. Which means some cops are bound to show up here before very long. London is the most logical place to start an inquiry like this. Let’s face it, his publisher lives in London. His agent lives in London. We all live in London. His two ex-wives and his kids live in London. His old mother lives in London.’

‘And they all hate him, too,’ said Munns. ‘Yes, you’re right. You just named the whole pack of Cluedo cards for those who might have had a bit of malice aforethought where John is concerned.’

‘Never let the facts get in the way of a good story,’ said Stakenborg. ‘It’s easy to see why John thought you had a talent for fiction, Mike.’

‘Actually it was Don here who brought me into the atelier ,’ said Munns. ‘Not John.’

‘Mike used to bring those same rigorous talents to his journalism when he was a hack on the Daily Mail ,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you, Mike? But for that, who knows where you’d be now, post-Leveson? In prison for phone hacking, probably.’

Munns grinned. ‘Maybe. I pulled a few strokes in my time, sure. But look here, you can’t argue with the fact that when Houston switched off the atelier ’s router he let everyone down. Not just the monkeys like us who wrote John’s books to order, but a virtual industry that was dedicated to one man: the publisher, the agent, the whole fucking shooting match. He had his own bloody West Wing dedicated to his publishing brand at Veni, Vidi, Legi. How many was it? Ten, fifteen people? Not to mention those three girls in the Houston office. All of whom lost their nice jobs when John decided he wanted to go back to basics and write something on his own. To say nothing of the effect on VVL’s share price, reduced lawyers’ fees, accountants’ fees, and Christ only knows what else. I reckon you’ve got more motives there than at the Lee Strasberg Theatre and Film Institute.’

‘For murder?’ I laughed.

‘Certainly for murder. Why not? But you’re right, Peter. That wasn’t the reason why the ex-wives and the kids and his old mother hated him. They hated him already.’

‘Need I remind you that it’s poor Orla who’s dead,’ I said. ‘Not John.’

‘Listen to him. Poor Orla. Poor Orla, my arse. Poor Orla had it coming. Even so I reckon John must have used a silver bullet from a melted-down crucifix for her. He’d certainly have needed one.’

‘Unless he’s dead, too,’ added Stakenborg. ‘And we just don’t know it yet. Russian mafia, a disgruntled hooker — Christ, there must be plenty of those, I never knew a man who liked having rentals more than John. A jealous husband or two — John never could keep his hands off another chap’s girl. A dope dealer, perhaps — yes, he liked a bit of blow now and then, especially when he was partying with the ladies. Or, maybe you’re right after all, Mike, his literary agent; Hereward’s income must have fallen off a cliff since John got to fancying he could win the Booker Prize. And if it hasn’t yet, it soon will. Agents are an egotistical lot. Always think they made their client’s money for them. Or none at all, as in my case. Actually I’m sure my agent wishes I was dead. He could probably sell my novel — yes, my novel — if I could only do something that might make me a bit more of a marketable commodity, such as die in some trendy way. Like Keith Haring. You know, a dead John Houston might actually sell a shedload of his next book. The one Mike wrote.’ Stakenborg snapped his fingers as he tried to remember the title.

‘ The Merchant of Death ,’ said Munns.

‘So, who knows, maybe he’s cooked up this whole thing to sell even more. No one knows more about how to sell a book than John Houston. I mean look how many records Michael Jackson sold after he checked out of Neverland. Or wherever it was. In the twelve months following his death the King of Crap sold thirty-five million albums.’

‘I never thought of that,’ said Munns. ‘Not a bad idea at all. This celebrity slaying is bound to get more column inches than Jordan’s tits.’

‘Now who’s writing fiction?’ I said.

‘But either way, however you look at it,’ added Munns, ‘you have to admit that John himself is totally fucked.’

It was past six o’clock when I got back to my flat in Putney. This was on the top of one of those gloomy but large red-brick buildings near the bridge and overlooking the river — what the Americans would have called a wraparound apartment, with a little corner turret and a round window; handy for the shops, some quite decent pubs, and the number 14 bus to Piccadilly. The writer J. R. Ackerley — the one who was overly fond of his Alsatian dog — had once lived opposite; and, in one of the other mansion blocks nearer the bridge, so had the poet Gavin Ewart and the novelist William Cooper, both of whom I had sort of known. Putney’s a bit like that, with lots of writers you haven’t quite heard of, which is why they live in Putney and not Monaco, I suppose. As I stared out of my turret window at the small boats that passed up and down the dirty brown river Thames I often told myself that the view from University Mansions was infinitely preferable to the one John had enjoyed of the Ligurian Sea from the double-height windows of his apartment in the Tour Odéon; but this was just another fiction in my life — like the one that I was happier living alone, or the one that I didn’t need John Houston to get a novel published. The fact of the matter was that I hated London. The place was full of miserable people who were always moaning about the weather, or the bankers, or Europe, or this government or the last government; Cornwall wasn’t any better; that was just moaning with a fucking fleece on. John was fond of describing Monte Carlo as a slum full of billionaires, but that sounded just fine to me. Billionaires have higher standards than yokels who buy all their clothes at Primark.

I was pissed of course. In spite of my best intentions we had drunk at least a bottle apiece, followed by vintage brandies off the trolley, which is when the Chez Bruce bargain set lunch stops being such a bargain. I’d paid for all six of those, which ended up costing more than the food. That’s what they mean by vintage brandy: filling the tank of an old Rolls-Royce would have been so much cheaper.

There was no chance of me being able to write anything other than my name and form number at the top of the paper, so I switched on the telly and sat on the sofa in the hope of having a nap. It wasn’t long before ITV News got round to the murder of Orla Houston in the running order of ‘stories’. That’s one of the reasons I never watch television news; because ‘stories’ used to be ‘reports’ (I have enough of stories during my working day); possibly this might be because there’s nothing in the news that sounds very much like news — it’s all speculation and opinion and stream of consciousness, or just plain bullshit. Facts are rare. Virginia Woolf could write the script for the six o’clock news. And so it was with the Houston ‘story’: John was still missing and the prime suspect — anyone who knew of his whereabouts was encouraged to call the Monty police; Orla’s body had been removed from the apartment and taken to a local mortuary; and her family had been informed and some of them were travelling from Dublin, presumably to identify the body and arrange a funeral. Cruelly I wondered if there might be a colour party. Orla’s cousin, Tadhg McGahern, was a Sinn Féin MEP and had already arrived in Monaco from Brussels. The last time I’d seen him he’d been at Orla’s wedding, when he’d been wearing an expression that was not unlike the one his half-brick of a face was wearing now — the bastard.