Philip Kerr - Research

‘Oh him, yeah.’ John smiled as light dawned on Marble-head. ‘That’s it, Don, old sport. You bloody genius. I remember now. 0-5-0-7. That’s Colette’s fucking passcode.’

‘You’re not serious.’ I made an innocent face. ‘Really?’

‘That’s what Colette used to call me. Monsieur Cinq-à-Sept . For obvious reasons.’ John was already tapping the number into Colette’s iPad. ‘Brilliant,’ he said. ‘We’re in.’ His smile widened. ‘And here it is. Her list of contacts.’

He scrolled down through the list.

‘This must be it. Didier and Mala Laurent. Boulevard la Savine, in the fifteenth arrondissement. There’s a telephone number.’ John picked up his mobile — the one he’d borrowed from Bob Mechanic — and started to dial.

‘No, wait,’ he said, tossing the phone back onto the table. ‘If she is there and she is involved in some sort of blackmail scam, then I’d just be putting her on alert, wouldn’t I? Better to have this conversation if we’re sitting outside the front door. Might be interesting to see what reaction it provokes.’

‘The fifteenth. That’s northern Marseille, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘There was an article about the Marseille banlieues in the Guardian . Pretty rough area to take a friend’s Bentley.’

John shrugged. ‘So maybe we won’t wash it tomorrow.’

‘But more importantly, have you given any thought to what you’re going to say to Colette when we catch up with her? I mean apart from demanding to know where the hell she’s been for the last two weeks?’

‘No. I can’t say that I have.’

‘Let’s suppose for a moment that she really did have nothing to do with Orla’s murder. In which case she’s probably scared witless that she’s going to be a police suspect, too. It seems to me that she’s not just your alibi, you’re hers, too. In which case it might be better if you were both to say that you spent the whole evening together instead of your just having had a quick shag, like you say you had. In one sense that makes you more of a cunt — the fact that you were prepared to do something like that, under your wife’s nose. But being a cunt doesn’t make you a murderer.’

‘Yes, I can see how that might play.’

‘Then all you’ll have to do is think of a way of making sure Colette stays onside.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘How long have you known her? Less than a year?’

‘Six months.’

I shrugged. ‘If it was me I would want to be sure that she knew that you were going to look after her after this is all over. For a start she’ll need a good lawyer. And she’ll need money. Probably quite a lot of money.’ I laughed and then shook my head as if I’d thought better of saying something.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No, go on, say it.’

‘Just that it might actually be cheaper if you married her. When this is all over.’

‘What?’

‘No, think about it. A wife can’t give evidence against her own husband. So if she did ever retract her story, there would be no point.’ I shrugged again. ‘It might actually be a good move. After all, it’s not like you have a wife, is it?’

‘You’re a devious fucker, Irvine. Do you know that?’

I smiled. ‘It has been said.’

‘What’s that book about a road trip?’ asked John.

We were driving west, heading toward Marseille on the busy A8 which, according to the Bentley’s satnav, was a journey of about two and a half hours. I was at the wheel and John had his notebook open on his thigh.

‘There are several. The Hobbit. Travels with Charley .’

‘It’s not The fucking Hobbit .’ John frowned. ‘ Travels with Charley . Is that Graham Greene?’

‘Steinbeck. You’re thinking of Travels with My Aunt . Which isn’t a book about a road trip at all.’

‘Think of some others.’

I shrugged. ‘ The Alchemist , Paulo Coelho.’

John looked nauseous. ‘Ugh. No. I hate him. That’s a real Richard and Judy book. Zero sugar philosophy for muppets.’

‘ The Grapes of Wrath. On the Road .’

‘Kerouac. Yeah, that’s a real life-changing book. After I read it I promised myself I would never waste my time finishing a book I wasn’t enjoying ever again. It’s the kind of road book that would give you road rage.’

I smiled. John’s opinions of books were always amusing.

‘Come to think of it, it’s not a book at all, the story I’m thinking about. It’s Two-Lane Blacktop . A Seventies movie with James Taylor and Dennis Wilson from The Beach Boys.’

‘Haven’t seen it.’

‘Few have. But it’s a cult classic.’

‘What happens?’

‘Not very much. They drive across Route 66 in a ’55 Chevy. Don’t say anything. Get in a couple of races with Warren Oates.’

‘Sounds a bit existential. Not your kind of thing at all.’

‘Nope. It isn’t. But I was thinking. That’s kind of like you and me, old sport. Taylor and Wilson. Except that we’re twice as old as they were in that movie. And this is a much better car, of course. Plus, we’ve got a lot more money. And we don’t have a girl in the back.’

‘Not yet. Maybe we’ll find one on the way.’ I put my foot down. ‘Hey, there’s a green Porsche up ahead. We can race that if you like.’

‘Just keep it to 130.’

We hadn’t driven far past Nice when John noticed a French police car in our mirrors. He turned around in his seat and said, ‘There’s a cop on our tail.’

‘I know.’

‘How long’s he been there?’

‘Couple of miles,’ I said.

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Don’t keep looking at them. It’ll make us look suspicious. Just ignore them.’

‘Easy for you to say.’

‘Easy to say because I’m right.’ I smiled. ‘I know. Let’s play the secret subtitle game. Like we used to do when we were on the road. To keep your mind off them.’

This is a simple game; you give me the title of some worthy book as if it’s the beginning of a sentence which I complete with something funny; extra marks are awarded for vulgarity and political incorrectness. So, for example, if someone said Farewell to Arms , I might reply, ‘Hello, Stoke Mandeville.’

‘I’ll go first,’ I said. ‘ I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings .’

John hesitated for only a moment. ‘Because if it doesn’t then we’re going to feed it to the fucking cat.’

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Your turn.’

‘ And the Mountains Echoed .’

‘With the sound of an enormous fart.’ I thought for a minute. ‘Here’s a hard one for you. Disgrace .’

John smiled. ‘Dat’s Glenda.’ He chuckled. ‘Here’s an easy one. A Million Little Pieces .’

‘Of shit, are what make Kilburn High Road so interesting to walk along. All right I have one for you, John. The Elected Member .’

‘Made the Chinese woman’s vagina wet just to look at it. The Remains of the Day .’

‘Refused to flush away until they found a plumber. How late it was, how late .’

‘Oops. It looked as if she was pregnant after all.’ John smiled grimly. ‘Here’s one you won’t get. The Inheritance of Loss .’

I was quiet for a moment; then I said, ‘Was the leadership of a big band from his father Joe. The Reluctant Fundamentalist .’

‘Was encouraged greatly by the regular application of electricity to his testicles.’

We carried on this childish vein for a while, but after another ten kilometres the police were still there and, despite our laughter, John was now a nervous wreck.