Philip Kerr - Research

Then again, our thoughts were not really on food at all but on the iPad we had brought with us to the table; and there was nothing wrong with the wine. We ordered a bottle of delicious Domaines Ott rosé, which is almost ubiquitous in that part of the world, and stared silently out to sea. An Artist of the Floating World . It’s the title of a slight novel by Kazuo Ishiguro, and for a few moments it felt as if we two were at peace and had become so unmoored from the realities of everyday life that we were floating high above the rest of the world. Then again, that’s how most writers feel, most of the time.

‘I gave her this iPad, as a little present, on the twelfth of December,’ said John. ‘Her birthday. But I’m certain the pass-code number isn’t that, and I know it’s not mine because I already tried those numbers.’

I lit a cigarette and nodded; knowing the number — as I did — I now hoped to prod his memory with some helpful suggestions. But while it could easily have been a date, the actual number — 0507 — did not present any other obvious possibilities than a birthday or a significant date in July.

‘I still can’t figure her doing something like this to me,’ he said. ‘After all I gave her. I mean, there was a lot more than a fucking iPad, I can tell you. Money, trips, diamond earrings, clothes, an expensive watch. You name it.’

‘The anniversary of when you met, perhaps,’ I said, helpfully.

‘March something or other.’ John shook his head. ‘Can’t be that. We never really mentioned that kind of thing.’

‘Her telephone number, perhaps.’

He thought about that for a moment, tapped the number into the iPad and then shook his head.

‘How many tries did the internet say you got? Before the thing locks down?’

‘Ten,’ said John.

‘So how many is that now?’

‘Five.’

‘I still can’t figure why she wouldn’t have got in touch with me, either,’ he said. ‘I mean, she knows my email addresses — even the secret one. The Hushmail address I have. Why hasn’t she left a message on that?’

‘What the fuck is Hushmail?’

‘It’s an HIPAA-compliant email service. HIPAA is the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, which sets the standard for protecting sensitive patient data. Which makes it very fucking private for anyone else who uses it. Hushmail is the email equivalent of a burner phone. I was planning to use it in a novel and then decided not to just to help keep the existence of Hushmail a bit more hush-hush.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway. I checked. There’s no message from her on that account either.’

‘My guess is that she probably wants to make you sweat a bit. To soften you up so you’ll be more inclined to offer her a decent bit of wedge for an alibi.’

‘She could be dead of course. This whole trip might be a wild goose chase.’

‘Maybe. But we’re doing this to be proactive, right? And because we can’t think of anything else to do in the circumstances.’

John nodded. ‘Think of a number.’

‘ Le quatorze juillet .’

John tapped the number into the iPad and shook his head.

‘Six,’ he said. ‘Four strikes left.’

As John refilled our glasses with the excellent rosé my phone started to ring; to my horror this was a number I could easily identify. It was Chief Inspector Amalric. I felt my stomach empty. I excused myself and walked away from the table into a little private garden to take the call.

‘Chief Inspector,’ I said, pleasantly. ‘What a pleasant surprise. How can I help you?’

‘You’re not in London?’ he said.

For a moment I considered the possibility that he really had seen me in the lift, at the Odéon. But then I realized it was just as possible he had made this conclusion based on my ringtone. When you’re in a foreign country the ringtone on an English mobile phone sounds different to the way it sounds when you’re back in the UK.

‘No, I’m in Switzerland. I’d been cooped up writing for too long. Cabin fever, I think. So I decided to get away from London for a couple of days. I needed to get some fresh air and to feel the sun on my face.’

‘But the weather is nice in England right now.’

‘Not in Cornwall it isn’t. And besides, the food isn’t nearly as good.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. That dinner we had at Claridge’s was excellent. That’s why I was calling actually. I’m coming back to London on Wednesday, and I hoped to have dinner with you again. I have some more questions for you. About Mr Houston.’

‘I imagined you might, since you haven’t yet caught him.’

‘Now you sound like my boss, Paul de Beauvoir, the Commissioner. Every day he asks me the same question: where is Houston? I know that sooner or later I am going to answer “Texas” out of sheer frustration and I will be off the case. People are starting to avoid me. After almost two weeks they’re as frustrated with my lack of progress as I am. Why just tonight, a man at the Tour Odéon — someone who knew Madame Houston — he virtually ran away when he saw me.’

When he said this it was as if I’d had a mild electric shock. Had he seen me, too? Or was he just fencing with me?

‘I hope you don’t think that I’m avoiding you, Chief Inspector.’

‘You, monsieur? Why would I think such a thing? You are an English officer and a gentleman.’

‘I was,’ I said. ‘I’m not so sure I’m either of these things now. They both sound like luxuries I can ill afford.’

‘In fact, I would go so far as to say that no one has been as helpful as you have been.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘Certainly not his ex-wives or his children. Nor his publisher. When are you going back to London?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m staying with some friends. In Geneva.’

‘Then perhaps I could meet you there. It’s not so very far away from Monaco, you know. Five or six hours by car.’

‘Yes, of course. But look, could I call you back about when and where? I’m a little tied up with something right now.’

‘I hope she’s nice.’

‘I wish it was like that. But it isn’t. I’m afraid I lead rather a dull life, Chief Inspector.’

‘You? A writer? I don’t believe it. All writers have a mistress, surely?’

‘Not me.’

‘Take it from a Frenchman. Perhaps it’s time you got one.’

‘Thanks for the advice. Look, I’ll call you, okay? Tomorrow. But I really do have to go now.’

‘Certainly. You have my number, of course.’

I ended the call; and then checked several times that the call was actually ended. Sometimes you think you’ve hung up and you haven’t. All the same it had been careless of me to use my own phone in Monaco. It was probably too late but I switched it off anyway. That’s how technology works against you. Did he suspect me? There was just enough in what he’d said to make me think he did but not enough to make me think he didn’t. Surely it was just a coincidence that he had telephoned on the very night I had been in Monaco? I’ve never much liked that word, ‘coincidence’; there’s more comfort to be found in words like ‘fluke’, ‘happenstance’ and ‘accident’; thanks to Jung no one believes in coincidence much any more. But Amalric had been helpful in one respect at least. I’d realized exactly what Colette’s passcode number meant.

I dropped my phone into my jacket pocket and was walking toward the gate when it opened to reveal the one person next to Chief Inspector Amalric and Sergeant Savigny whom I least wanted to see on the whole of the Côte d’Azur.

‘I don’t believe it. Talk about coincidence, you coming here to the Chèvre d’Or. Gee, that’s hilarious. Lev. I never ever see you before and then I see you twice in one evening.’