Philip Kerr - Research

‘I will,’ I said.

‘Promise?’

‘Scout’s honour.’

I followed Twentyman’s Ferrari out of the garage and into the street, where it was as if his V12 engine was in competition with my W12 for the amount of high-performance noise they could both generate. The roundabout in front of the Odéon echoed with a din that was like a very small and exclusive Grand Prix.

I drove down Boulevard d’Italie in search of Il Giardino — the Italian restaurant where John was awaiting my return. I pulled up in front of a tall privet hedge that shielded the outside tables from the street and started to ring John’s mobile number, but he was already opening the Bentley’s door and dropping into the passenger seat. A strong smell of scotch came with him, not to mention an air of general grievance.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he said. ‘It’s nearly nine o’clock. I was beginning to think something had happened to you.’

‘Sorry about that,’ I said. ‘There wasn’t any mobile reception in the garage and then I’m afraid I just forgot about it.’

‘You forgot? Thanks, Don, and fuck you. I’ve been having bloody kittens since you left.’

‘I forgot because your building is still crawling with Monty cops,’ I said. ‘Oddly enough I was rather more concerned with avoiding arrest than with your fucking nerves.’

‘It’s me they want to fucking arrest, old sport ,’ protested John. ‘In case you’d forgotten.’

‘Perhaps. But they would certainly want to know what the fuck I was doing in the Odéon, old sport . With your girlfriend’s iPad tucked under my arm. You see, they’re the same cops I met in London. The ones who came to interview me.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I fucking saw them, you ungrateful cunt. In the lobby. And outside the entrance. I just hope to Christ they didn’t see me.’

‘Oh, Jesus, Don, I’m sorry. I thought they’d have cleared off by now.’

‘They haven’t. Then I got caught by one of Colette’s neighbours. Fellow named Michael Twentyman.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Don’t worry, he’s now under the impression that I’m her missing Russian lover, Lev Kaganovich.’

‘How does that happen?’

‘I did my impersonation of Uncle Vanya. Even though I say so myself it was worthy of an Emmy, or whatever it is they give those tossers for a bit of dressing up and make-believe.’

‘Yes. You always fancied yourself as a bit of an actor, didn’t you? When we were in advertising.’

‘Actually, my best performances were done in the army,’ I said, momentarily affecting a Northern Irish accent. ‘But that’s another story.’

John started to relax a little.

‘Michael Twentyman. I recognize that name. I never met him myself but I think Orla used to know him.’

‘Come on. Let’s get out of here before he sees us and invites us to a party.’

As I put the Bentley in gear and accelerated slowly away he found the other end of the Apple wire in Colette’s iPad that I’d positioned down the side of the passenger seat in its faux snakeskin cover.

‘Is this it? Is this her iPad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank God for that.’

He plugged it into a charging socket underneath the Bentley’s armrest and pressed the iPad’s home button to start it up, but for now there wasn’t enough power in the thing.

‘We can open that when we get to the hotel in Èze,’ I said. ‘It will give us something to talk about over dinner.’

‘I fucking hope so.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She had a passcode on her iPad.’

‘Don’t you know the number?’

‘I thought I did. But now, I’m not so sure I haven’t forgotten it.’

‘This is a fine time to forget it given that I just risked my ass retrieving that piece of junk from under the noses of the Monty cops. Because that’s what it is if you can’t remember the goddamn number.’

‘Keep your hair on. I’m sure I’ll remember it.’

‘Let’s hope so. Otherwise this whole journey will have been a waste of time.’

John grunted. ‘Don’t I know it.’

We made our way up the hill into Beausoleil and out of Monaco.

I said, ‘But even if you don’t, it’s only four numbers. How difficult can that be to break?’

John made an error noise.

‘Clearly you know nothing about Apple. If you repeatedly enter the wrong passcode, it disables the iPad. The only way to unlock an iPad that has a passcode, other than by entering the correct passcode, is to restore it to the original factory settings. And that deletes all of the data — which is the very thing we’re after.’

‘Everything?’

‘Everything.’

‘I see.’

‘Did you find her laptop?’ he asked. ‘It might be a different story if we had Colette’s laptop. We could plug the iPad into the computer and that would restore the data.’

‘No sign of that, I’m afraid. And believe me I looked everywhere. She must have taken it with her when she left Dodge. You’d better start trying to think of the right number. Or we’re fucked.’

‘Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear already, old sport.’

As I steered the Bentley west — toward the small medieval village of Èze — John fell into sombre silence and I guessed he was trying to remember the iPad passcode. I already knew Colette’s passcode, but I was trying to work out how I was going to give him the correct four numbers without drawing suspicion on myself.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Pulling my cock out. I don’t want to come inside you.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘Because when John fucks you he’ll notice that someone has fucked you already.’ I paused. Colette was keeping me inside her. ‘Won’t he?’

‘Of course he won’t. Not unless he goes down on me and he never does. With him it’s always the same cinq à sept, douche comprise . It’s become a sort of joke with us. Besides, I don’t want to change these sheets before he comes down here. So, go ahead and come in me.’

I shifted a little, pushed my cock right up to the neck of her womb — thank God for Cialis — and almost immediately rediscovered some urgency in my pelvic movements; a couple of minutes later I was rolling off her and giving her a tissue and struggling back into my underpants — to protect her Frette bed linen.

‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘I thought you’d like the idea of — what’s that disgusting phrase you have in English? Remuant sa soupe .’

‘Stirring someone else’s porridge.’ I laughed. ‘You’re right. Now I come to think of it, I do like that idea. Or else I am a Turk.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Now then. You’re quite clear about what to do when he gets here?’

‘Yes. Only I’m trying not to think about it. I feel terribly sick when I do.’

‘So, forget about it. Pretend it isn’t happening. That it’s got nothing to do with you. If it makes you feel any better you can ask me not to go through with it.’

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Let’s not do this, Don. Really. I’ve got cold feet about the whole thing.’

‘There you are,’ I said. ‘And now that you’ve asked, I bet you’re feeling better already. Look, I’m happy to have this on my conscience.’

‘I don’t believe you have one.’

‘Not since Warrenpoint, no.’

‘Warrenpoint. That’s the place in Ireland where your friend was killed, wasn’t it?’

I nodded. For a moment I replayed some very vivid frames of that particular horror movie. A beautiful sunny day in August — the bank holiday; and me, an Armalite rifle over my shoulder, a cigarette between my trembling lips, picking through the still smoking, mangled wreckage of a four-ton lorry with a stick, looking for human body parts, finding a man’s hand with a wedding ring on the finger and then vowing eternal, undying hatred for the Irish.