Philip Kerr - False Nine

I went inside and found myself in a near-perfect facsimile of a Dickensian lawyer’s office, right down to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with the All England Law Reports . There was a big leather chesterfield in the waiting room, a landscape picture of King John signing the Magna Carta and several portraits of geriatric English judges wearing full-bottomed wigs. All the place lacked for an English legal atmosphere was a freezing fog rubbing on the window panes.

The receptionist ushered me straight into her employer’s office where the tone of the decor changed a little. There were two photographs on the wall of Grace Doughty wearing a karate suit; she seemed to hold a black belt which must have helped to persuade some of her clients to behave themselves — at least when they were with her. I expect they needed reminding, too, as Miss Doughty was a real looker. She was black but I figured she was also what is sometimes described as high yellow in that she must have had a large proportion of white ancestry. She wore a navy-blue jacket and skirt, a crisp white blouse and was as voluptuous as a Mexican bass guitar. I knew there had been another reason why I’d wanted to see her in person, and this was it.

‘Miss Doughty, this is Mr Scott Manson,’ said the receptionist.

Miss Doughty got up and came around her desk with brown eyes that were already sizing me up. She had the look of a woman who was destined for higher things, at least in Antigua.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.

I was just about to shake her outstretched hand when the giant cruise ship sounded its massive horn which, on that small quiet island street, sounded like the final trumpet blown at the day of judgement or, at the very least, an irate mastodon.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I said, shrinking into the collar of my polo shirt. ‘Do they do that very often?’

She laughed. ‘Only every day. You get used to it.’

The horn sounded again and seemed to linger in the air long afterwards.

‘I don’t think I would. I bet the young mothers of St John’s just love that.’

‘This is a sleepy little place. It helps to keep us awake.’

‘I guess so.’

‘I’ve just been reading about you, as you can see.’ She pointed at her leather-topped partner’s desk where, on a laptop, I saw my Wikipedia entry displayed on screen. ‘It seems that you and I went to the same university.’

‘On an island as small as this that makes us practically related,’ I said.

She laughed again. ‘I think so. And I think we must have overlapped by a year.’

‘I’d like to say I remember something like that, but I don’t.’

What was wrong with the men on Antigua? To let a woman as fine as this one go unclaimed. She wasn’t even wearing an engagement ring.

‘Please. Sit down. Would you like some tea?’

‘English tea?’

‘What else would I offer someone who went to Birmingham University?’ she said.

‘You make it sound like the Old Vicarage, Grantchester.’

‘It was for a girl like me. I loved every minute.’

Mrs Doughty looked at the secretary still hovering in the doorway. ‘Tracy, would you bring us all some tea and biscuits please?’

‘Is that where you got your LLB? At Birmingham?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You didn’t ever want to stay on in England and practise there?’

‘Too cold,’ she said. ‘And too wet.’

‘You got that right.’ I smiled, liking her own smile which matched the string of white pearls around her neck and trying to keep my eyes off the Grand Canyon-deep fissure of cleavage that lay close to it.

‘And the interest in karate? Where did that come from?’

‘Oh that. At Birmingham, too. I was into a lot of sports there. I even played a bit of women’s football. And supported Aston Villa.’

‘Someone’s got to, I suppose.’

‘Hey, just a few years before I started my LLB they finished sixth in the table. If they hadn’t sold Dwight Yorke to Manchester United they might have finished even higher. Somehow the purchase of Paul Merson never quite made up for that. He was good but never as good as Yorkie.’

I made a quick Question of Sport guess. ‘That must be the 1998–99 season you’re talking about.’

She nodded.

‘At one point — Christmas — we were top of the Premier League. They’ll come good again, I feel sure of it,’ she said.

We chatted like this until the tea arrived but as soon as it was served I tried to bring her to the point of me being there.

‘So, Miss Doughty, what makes you think you can help me find Jérôme Dumas?’

‘Just so as we’re clear here. You are looking for him?’

‘It would seem pointless denying it after you heard everything I said to Inspector White.’

‘And that you’re acting in the interests of FC Barcelona.’

‘Not just them. Paris Saint-Germain, too. Strictly speaking, he’s still their player, on loan to FCB.’

‘Last of all, is it your intention when you’ve found Jérôme Dumas to take him straight back to Europe?’

‘Yes. It is. The season is well under way and he’s needed to bolster their chances of winning the league. There’s an important match coming up against Madrid and they’d like him back well before that so that he’s truly match-fit.’

‘Then I’m certain I can help you to find him.’

‘That’s great. But before I say “you’re hired” can I ask if your certainty is based on something better than just the same kind of optimism that says Aston Villa will come good again?’

‘It is. I can’t be too specific at this stage but I can tell you that the help I’m offering isn’t just from me. It comes from a reliable source. My client. Who wishes to remain anonymous at this stage.’

‘Is this someone who’s looking for a generous payday? Because I should warn you I’m only authorised to pay any kind of reward when Mr Dumas is safely back in Barcelona.’

‘On the contrary. My client asks for no money at all.’

‘I like him already. Do you know where he is? Mr Dumas?’

‘No. I don’t. And nor does my client. But he does know where he might be. To that extent you will still have to go and look for him. But at least now you’ll know that you’re looking in the right place.’

‘I thought I was in the right place.’

‘Not yet, you aren’t. Look, I’m sorry to be so cryptic, Mr Manson. But you really will have to trust me on this.’

‘Perhaps if I knew some more about your client...’

‘And if I gave you a name, how would that help you? In fact, I can promise you that it wouldn’t help you at all. It would only slow you down. And we don’t want that, do we? My understanding is that you want to return to Europe with Jérôme Dumas as quickly as possible and with a minimum of publicity. Am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I think you have no option but to put your faith in me and my firm.’

Tracy, the receptionist, arrived back in the office with a tray bearing a teapot and china plates and saucers. Grace Doughty poured and I took a cup from her unringed hand.

‘The tea is good,’ I said. ‘Just like home.’

‘I’m pleased you like it.’

‘Suppose I take your advice and don’t find Jérôme Dumas. I’ll have wasted my time here. Which is limited. Suppose what your client really wants is to sell me a dummy. To put me off the scent. Then where will I be?’

‘But if there was any scent to be found in this case, as you put it, you wouldn’t be sitting in my office drinking tea, would you?’

‘Not yet, perhaps. But I’ve a good nose. And I can generally find my way around.’

‘Oh, I can readily believe that. Thanks to the English tabloids you’ve made quite a name for yourself as something of an amateur detective. The sleuth of Silvertown Dock. Isn’t that what the Daily Express called you? This time last year, wasn’t it? But we both know that isn’t going to work here.’