Philip Kerr - False Nine

‘What did you say?’

I sighed. ‘It was a stupid joke. A throwaway remark.’

‘That’s why it’s called Twitter, isn’t it? Because it’s not supposed to mean anything important.’

‘And yet it does. A Brazilian player called Rafinha came off during a football match in Barcelona and I suggested, humorously, or so I thought, that maybe he had his period.’

‘I get it. Like the cranberry juice scene in The Departed . Ray Winstone and Leonardo DiCaprio.’

‘S’right. Anyway, the Twitter sisters thought it was in poor taste and sexist and reported me to the FA who are now investigating the matter. It used to be that it was all right to be a sexist in football. Now everyone is obliged to sound as reconstructed as Ed fucking Miliband. What makes it doubly irritating is that my father had told me to stay off Twitter. And until then, I had.’

‘I like you being a sexist. Especially right now. I wouldn’t have you any other way.’

‘I’m pleased to hear you want to have me, anyway.’

‘But seriously, Scott, why don’t you tell everyone on Twitter to fuck off and then close the account?’

‘Is that your advice as a lawyer?’

‘Yes. It is.’

‘I never thought of that.’

‘Your father’s right. You should listen to him. Twitter is just a hostage to fortune. You stay on it long enough you’re bound to slip up. So. Take the FA’s fine, say sorry, and then say bollocks to Twitter.’

‘You know, I think I will.’

‘And being described as a liar is nothing new to me, Scott. I hear much worse than that in court. No, what I’d find more offensive is if you decided that just because I was a little economical with the truth, you didn’t want to fuck me again.’

‘Oh, there’s very little chance of you saying anything that would achieve a result like that. In fact, I think it makes for a more interesting situation in bed, don’t you? If I were to take charge of you, now.’

‘What I think you’re saying is that you’d like to show me who’s the boss here.’

‘It certainly beats getting screwed by my lawyer if I fuck you, don’t you think?’

From the hotel we walked back to the villa in the dark, along a main road that was busy with cars and mosquito-like scooters. There was an evening market in the car park at Le Gosier and we paused for a while to inspect the local fish, exotic fruits and vegetables, jars of honey, fresh-baked bread, jars of spices, sweets and candy, meats — raw and cured — and bottles of rum. There were even a couple of hamburger vans serving food that actually smelt appetising. It was all very colourful and just a little bit puzzling.

‘Maybe we should just have dinner here,’ I said. ‘We certainly couldn’t do any worse.’

Grace pulled a face.

‘No, really,’ I insisted. ‘Some of the best meals I’ve ever had have been snatched at vans parked in front of English football stadiums.’

Ignoring the vans we walked on. The locals seemed friendly enough but we might easily have been somewhere in West Africa and it was hard to believe that we were in a part of the EU, although the prices were almost as high as if we’d been at a tourist market in provincial France. I wondered how the people of Guadeloupe — who looked as if they didn’t have much money — could afford anything at all. But we bought some things and walked on, hand in hand.

‘You know I’m going to need your help, Grace,’ I said. ‘The kid seems like a nervous wreck. There’s no telling what he’ll do. And if, when we go back to the house, Jérôme says he’s changed his mind about returning to Barcelona with me, I’m going to need you to help me persuade him that his father has a reasonable chance of acquittal.’

‘I know.’

‘So, are you with me?’

‘Let me tell you something about my cousin, Scott. I know you think he’s a bit of a wastrel. But I owe him everything.’

‘Is that a no?’

‘No. Not exactly. But you have to understand how much I owe him. It wasn’t just my university education he paid for. It was my apartment, too. And my offices. And my car. He also paid for his father’s apartment, in Antigua. And his car, too. And Jérôme will certainly be paying for John’s legal defence. That man we met this morning — the one on the sunlounger? He’s the former football coach at the local lycée here in Pointe-à-Pitre. Gerville-Réache. To which Jérôme also regularly gives money. The woman in the hairdresser’s? Jérôme sent her money when he found out that the earthquake had closed her business. He’s the most generous man I know. Without him a lot of people on this stupid island would have nothing.’

‘I appreciate that. And believe me, I think it’s good that he looks after his friends and family. But surely you can see that he needs to earn money. Without a big salary from PSG and FCB all that could come to an end. If the goose stops laying the golden eggs it’s not just bad for Jérôme Dumas, it’s bad for everyone.’

‘I understand that. But you see Jérôme and John, they weren’t always close. And now they are. Very close. Especially since Jay’s mother died. Since that happened they’re even closer. So it’s natural that he should be worried sick about all this.’

‘I’m a football man, Grace. I’m not a sports psychologist. My job is to represent the club and to make sure he understands the club’s position.’

‘Just as long as you understand mine.’

‘Oh, I do. But look, all he has to do is come back with me, have his medical and then explain why he went AWOL. He could even ask for some compassionate leave and return to Antigua for a while. If I endorse that request they’re bound to say yes. Because they’ll owe me big time for finding the kid.’

‘You really think they’d allow it?’

‘Why not? They’ve been very understanding of Messi while his whole life is being turned upside down by those bastards in the Spanish tax authorities. So I’m pretty sure they can extend a little of the same understanding to Jérôme Dumas and his father.’

‘All right. I’ll back you all the way. One thing’s for sure; he can’t stay here in Guadeloupe. Spending all day hunched on the PlayStation isn’t good for anyone. Least of all someone who’s depressed. He needs to be doing what he’s good at again, and that’s playing football.’

We reached the house which was almost as private from the street as it had been on the beach — just another door in a wall that led into a lushly planted garden. This time Charlotte, the housekeeper, admitted us, and in person. She was a large, smiling woman in her forties who said almost nothing, but it was clear that dinner had been prepared at home; something delicious was well under way in the kitchen. Grace and I looked at each other and breathed a sigh of relief. We were both famished.

‘Mr Dumas will be with you shortly,’ she said, showing us into the drawing room. She pointed at a bottle of expensive rosé chilling in a wine cooler next to some glasses. ‘Help yourself to some wine.’

I poured two glasses, sipped the excellent wine and then we went to inspect the beechwood bookshelves.

‘Who did he say owns this house?’ said Grace.

‘A French footballer. Gui-Jean-Baptiste Target.’

‘He seems to like reading about the game as much as he likes playing it,’ she said. ‘Nearly all of these books are about football.’

‘That would certainly explain the PlayStation 4.’

‘Oh my God. This one is by you. Foul Play .’ She took it back to the sofa and opened it. ‘Did you write this or did someone else do it for you?’

‘No, I wrote that myself. Which probably explains why it didn’t seem to sell very well. I should have got myself a ghost. Like Roddy Doyle or Phil Kerr. Kerr’s more expensive, I hear. But then he doesn’t look for a credit. The rumour is he’s done quite a few famous footballers. Probably because as ghosts go he’s more transparent than most.’