Philip Kerr - False Nine

‘Jérôme also liked to hang out with some Paris bad boys. To smoke some weed. I’ve done a bit of that myself in my time. But it’s also just possible he was involved in a murder. A man named Mathieu Soulié was shot not long before Jérôme left Paris. A satin patch torn off a designer T-shirt bearing a Gothic letter D was found in the dead man’s hand. Unfortunately for Jérôme I think the patch came off a shirt which he’d been modelling in a magazine.

‘It’s possible that Jérôme wasn’t involved at all — he certainly doesn’t strike me as the type who would shoot a man — but that wouldn’t matter if he was scared that someone might tell the police he was. I don’t know. He’s not actually wanted for questioning by the police. I mean, the police haven’t yet made a connection. But sometimes that doesn’t stop someone from running away. I’m sure a lawyer would understand something like that.’

‘Sure. That’s my bread and butter.’

‘I think maybe he’d actually given the T-shirt to the real killer who might have blackmailed him to get rid of the murder weapon. It’s just a theory. But it would certainly explain why he was reluctant to go back to Europe.’

Grace nodded but she didn’t look convinced.

‘I’m here to help him, Grace. Not to get him into trouble. But then you knew that, otherwise you wouldn’t have told your client about me. And he wouldn’t be helping me now. If that’s what he’s doing.’

The Guadeloupe Tourist Board stood near the Yacht Club on a large square that was dotted with mango trees and royal palms. It was a handsome two-storey white stucco building with Ionic colonnades and a handsome portico and, except for the fact that it was closed, it was unrepresentative of the rest of the buildings in Pointe-à-Pitre. Out front was a taxi rank with just one battered blue taxi. The driver, who smelt of last week’s sweat and probably the week before’s too, agreed to take us to the next address on the search list that was in my companion’s beautiful head. Overcoming our disgust at his body odour, Grace and I sat in the back seat and held hands like a couple of young lovers while he chattered away in Creole.

‘He says those are the brothels,’ said Grace, as we drove through a shanty town of squalid wooden shacks that were patrolled by the most unlikely-looking prostitutes I’d ever seen. ‘I think maybe he’s got your card marked as someone who might like to come back here on your own.’

‘Thanks.’

‘All part of the translation service.’

‘Let’s hope they’re not on your list,’ I said, staring out of the window at probably the ugliest pair of whores I’d seen in my life. ‘I’d hate to think we’d have to go looking for him in there.’

‘Why? Because these poor women are less glamorous than the hookers in Paris?’

‘Actually I was thinking that the area doesn’t look very safe. But probably that, too.’

‘A hooker’s a hooker. It’s just that some are more expensive than others.’

I smiled. ‘There’s a reason for that.’

‘Ah. You’re a beauty fascist.’

‘If you want to call it that, yes, I suppose I am. Most men are, I think.’

‘Not around here they’re not.’

‘If I told you I had a real thing about ugly, fat women who wear too much make-up, how would that make you feel now?’

Grace smiled a quiet smile. ‘Since I’m neither ugly nor fat I’d feel exactly the same way as I do now. I’m just trying to understand you a little better.’

‘Good luck with that.’

‘I’m teasing you. Most men like being teased a bit, don’t they?’

‘Only in strip clubs.’

‘This girlfriend he had in Paris,’ said Grace. ‘What was she like?’

‘She wasn’t a hooker, if that’s what you’re driving at.’

‘No, but you have met her.’

‘Why do I feel like I’m being cross-examined in the witness box?’

‘I expect that’s a fairly common sensation, for you. And nothing at all to do with me.’

‘No? I wonder.’

‘So tell me about her. I’m interested.’

I shifted uncomfortably on the back seat. It seemed wrong to be describing one woman with whom I’d recently slept to one I was sleeping with now. Especially when the woman was as obviously intelligent as Grace. But I tried anyway:

‘Her name is Bella and she’s French. She’s a model. Nice girl, I think. Lives in Paris. Tall, blonde and willowy. She has a hairdryer that looks like a gun. And a little painting by Pierre Bonnard on the sideboard.’

‘Attractive?’

‘The Bonnard? It’s exquisite.’

‘Her, of course.’

‘That name. It’s a bit James Bond, isn’t it? Like Pussy Galore. Or Fiona Volpe.’

‘I think a lot of these fashion models have names that strike normal people as daft.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Very beautiful. As you might expect with that name.’

Grace laughed. ‘Men. They’re such suckers for cars. I never get that.’

‘You might understand why men like cars so much if you met her.’

‘Maybe. Why do you ask, anyway?’

‘I’m just trying to figure out what your type is.’

‘I don’t have a type.’

‘Really?’

‘Having a type has always seemed to me to be a little too restrictive. You could say you only date black women and then you meet a fabulous redhead. So, what, you’re going to ignore the redhead because of some stupid, exclusive rule you’ve created for yourself? I don’t think so. Men who say they have a type are usually trying to excuse their own failure to pull anything at all.’

‘Hmm.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I’ve generally observed that men who say they don’t have a type are usually tomcats who will fuck anything they can.’

‘That’s a little harsh.’

‘Is it?’ She smiled. ‘I doubt that.’

‘As I recall I was lying quietly in my basket until you invited me to step through the cat flap.’

‘That’s right. I did. But now that I have I think I’m entitled to make a few conclusions about the feline company I’m keeping.’

‘And what conclusions have you made?’

‘None yet.’ She smiled and squeezed my hand. It was supposed to make me feel better only her nails seemed quite sharp. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m ready to make my summing-up.’

‘I can’t wait, your honour.’

Grace opened her handbag, found a handkerchief, dabbed her forehead and then produced a bottle of scent with which she deodorised herself and then the car.

The driver laughed and said something in Creole.

‘Where are we going now?’ I asked.

‘The beach. In Le Gosier.’

‘We were in Le Gosier before lunch, weren’t we?’

‘Yes. And now we’re going back there.’

‘Because it’s preordained by your client that we should.’

‘Yes.’

‘I remind you of a cat, you said.’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Well, you remind me of a cat, as well. But for entirely different reasons. The fact is, you’re quite inscrutable. I look at you and I have no idea what you’re thinking.’

‘Good. I’d hate to think I could be so easily read.’

‘Lady, I couldn’t read you if you’d hired the Red Arrows to write your name in the clouds.’

‘Maybe I’m not such a mystery.’

‘No. But everything else to do with you is.’

‘Trust me. All will be revealed.’

I pulled a face.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘When a lawyer says trust me, I need to check I still have my wallet.’

‘Go ahead. I think I know every cheap lawyer joke there is.’

‘Except that there are no cheap lawyers.’

‘And yet it was me who bought your air ticket from Antigua to Guadeloupe. And whose credit card is lodged with the hotel.’