Philip Kerr - False Nine

‘Believe me, if possible I try to avoid the French newspapers.’

‘And so do I. So does anyone who’s in the newspapers’ line of fire. But if it isn’t possible to avoid them, then what do you do?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Sure you do. Let me tell you why. This morning, Grace and I flew from Antigua’s airport and while I was there I saw the local newspaper, the Daily Observer, prominently displayed at the newsagent.’ I picked one of the newspapers off the floor and tossed it onto the table. ‘This newspaper.’

‘What of it? It’s a rag. There’s nothing in it.’

‘The man who drives the boat from Jumby Bay and takes the guests back to the airport is named Everton. Everton told me that on the day you were supposed to go back to London you seemed fine until you got to the airport when something happened that appeared to change your mood. He says his last sight of you was at the newsagent reading a newspaper. Although he doesn’t remember which one, he told me you seemed to be upset.

‘I’ve already checked the editions of all the French newspapers they sell at the airport, Le Monde, Figaro, Libération and L’Equipe , from the same day that you were supposed to fly back. The ones you said you choose to avoid. And I believe you. And the fact is that I found there was nothing in any of those papers that would have caused you to change your plans so abruptly. Nothing at all. But the story on the front of that day’s edition of the Daily Observer just might have done. Why? Because it was something recent, something which had happened on the island the previous night, something wholly unexpected and something violent.’

‘Like what?’

‘I’m coming to that. The newspaper reported that following an altercation on a boat in Nelson’s Dockyard two men were found unconscious in one of the cabins. One of the men subsequently died and the other was under police guard in the Mount St John’s Medical Centre. Neither man was named but it was reported that the boat belonged to a local man known as DJ Jewel Movement.

‘I think when you saw this story in the newspaper you decided to delay your departure first, to find out exactly who was dead and who was still alive. Then, after later editions of the paper reported that DJ Jewel Movement had died and the other man was named as John Richardson and was being transferred to Her Majesty’s Prison in Antigua facing a possible murder charge, I think you decided to remain in the area indefinitely so that you could offer him legal assistance in the person of Miss Doughty here. My guess is that this John Richardson is someone you are related to. Or at the very least a good friend. Ever since then I think you’ve been following the case in the papers and with the help of Miss Doughty.’

I smiled at her. ‘I don’t blame you for lying to me, Grace. And please don’t be insulted. I know it’s what lawyers do when they’re being paid. Only they much prefer to call it client confidentiality.’

‘I’m not insulted,’ she said. ‘And in point of fact I haven’t actually lied to you, Scott. Not once. I’ve merely told you only what I’m able to tell you. I was just obeying my client’s instructions. But you think what you like.’

‘There’s no need to call her a liar,’ said Jérôme. ‘It’s not actually her fault. And she knows much less than she seems to know, perhaps.’

‘So, why don’t you tell me what’s what here? And then I can be the judge of that.’

‘How do I know I can trust you not to tell anyone else? I mean, you could spoil everything. My sponsorships. My deal with the bank—’

‘Yes, I thought that was bollocks.’

‘Everything.’

‘You don’t know that I won’t spoil it. But I’m sick and tired of all this. I just want to go home to London, to try to find a proper job, not play nursemaid to someone who doesn’t know how well off he really is. And frankly I can do without any more bullshit, too. The fact is I will certainly tell PSG and FCB what I do know if you hold out on me any longer. If you want to wreck your fucking career completely, that’s up to you, son, be my guest.’

He pulled a face.

‘I won’t say the truth is always best,’ I added. ‘Sometimes a lie is kinder. But this isn’t one of those times. I love the game. And I love the people who are good at the game. I saw the way you played against Barcelona back in September and I honestly thought you were the best player on the pitch.’

He nodded. ‘You’re right. That was the best I ever played for PSG. If only I’d scored that night things might have been different.’

‘Football is hard like that. Very hard, sometimes. Talk about survival of the fittest. Sometimes it seems positively Darwinian. As unforgiving as Nature itself. A career can end in just five minutes with an ill-timed tackle, like the one that finished Man United’s Ben Collett. On football’s scrapheap at the age of just eighteen. But you’re still in the game, son. Never forget that. And just because it doesn’t happen at one club doesn’t mean it won’t happen at another. People never seem to remember that when Thierry Henry left Monaco he didn’t go straight to Arsenal, he had a dismal eight months at Juventus.’

‘You’re right. He did, didn’t he? Christ, I’d forgotten that, too.’

‘The Italians played him on the wing but he was largely ineffective and I think he scored only three goals in sixteen appearances.’

‘It’s the same with me,’ insisted Jérôme. ‘PSG kept playing me on the wing when I’m a striker. In that game for Barcelona I was a nine, but a false nine. That’s my best position. Same as Messi.’

‘Barcelona clearly think the same way. That’s why they’re keen to have you playing for them ASAP. I want to help Barcelona because they were good to me when I was just out of the nick and I needed a coaching job. And you should know I’ll always put them first. But I want to help you, too, Jérôme, because I respect your ability. I genuinely think you can be one of the best players in the world.’

‘Thank you for that.’

I stood up, straightened the crease on my trousers and glanced around. ‘I’d like to use the toilet if I may. While I’m out of the room I suggest you make a decision one way or the other.’

Jérôme Dumas showed me to a lavatory on an upper floor. I washed my hands in a stone shelf basin and on my way back downstairs stuck my head around a couple of doors because I’m nosy that way. Jérôme’s master bedroom was home to several Louis Vuitton bags and, strewn across the floor, a whole wardrobe of clothes and accessories; it certainly didn’t look as if the cleaner was doing very much in that house; then again, it was a cleaner from Guadeloupe.

On the wall of another bedroom was a painting of a pumpkin by Yayoi Kusama, very like the one Dumas had at his apartment in Paris. They must have been selling a job lot of them to footballers that year.

Back in the treble-height drawing room, it seemed that Jérôme was finally ready to spill his guts. It was about time. My patience with him was growing very thin. If there had been a boot or a pizza at hand I might have thrown it at him.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you everything. Everything. I just hope I’m doing the right thing.’

‘Then it’s lucky you’ve got your lawyer to advise you,’ I said. ‘Tell him, Grace. Tell him it’s got to be like this. My way or the highway.’

‘You’re doing the right thing, Jay,’ said Grace. ‘Scott really is here to help. I wouldn’t have brought him here if I didn’t think you could trust him.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

I knew Jérôme was serious because he turned off the PlayStation while he said this and you know something must be about to happen when someone under the age of twenty-five turns off one of those idiot-boxes voluntarily.