Philip Kerr - False Nine

‘Yes, but to make a point.’

‘What about the inky finger?’

‘He washed his hands.’

‘Grace washed her hands. Since last night I estimate she washed her hands at least three or four times. And the ink was still on her fingers this morning.’

‘So, maybe he’s just the fastidious type.’

‘In which case why is he wearing the same clothes he wore last night? I can still see the traces of the ink on his jeans from when he wiped his hand on them. That’s not very fastidious.’

‘Good point. The book by Russell Brand can be easily explained. It’s just a fucking book you gave him. Not a big deal. Besides, he’s ill-mannered. You already know that about him.’

‘And not liking coffee?’

‘Perhaps he was drinking coffee last night for a reason. To be sociable. To stay awake for some reason. I’ve met people who drink coffee who aren’t as crazy about it as you are.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Of course, anyone overhearing this little chat with yourself would conclude that there’s nothing wrong with him. That you’re the one who’s fucking crazy. A schizophrenic.’

‘True. All right. We’ve got until seven o’clock tomorrow morning to figure this out, all right? After that we’ll be on the plane back to Barcelona. And it will be too late.’

‘Mmm hmm. How many engines does this plane have anyway?’

‘It’s twin-engined.’

‘Would you call yourself a nervous passenger?’

‘Yes, Scott. I would.’

‘Then maybe he is, too. Did you think of that, Sherlock? Maybe he doesn’t like to fly any more than you do.’

‘I never thought of that. But still, it would only explain the moody behaviour. Not the details. And aren’t you forgetting something? When I was giving him a couple of Catalan phrases? I never suggested a Spanish teacher to him last night. Nor before. That was just bullshit. A bluff. To see what he’d say.’

‘You’re a suspicious fucker, Manson. Do you know that?’

‘Yes. I am. Let me know if you think of anything, okay?’

‘You know where to find me. I’ll be right here whenever you need me, pal.’

I went back into the bedroom and lay down. I hadn’t slept much the night before and so I closed my eyes and, for some surreal, peculiar reason I started to dream of Manchester United and a League Cup game they’d played against Barnsley back in 2009.

The way you do sometimes.

I sat bolt upright on the spare room bed as if a powerful current of electricity had been conducted through my body, and swore, loudly, several times.

‘Fucking hell. Fucking hell. Fucking hell.’

Okay, it’s not exactly ‘ eureka ’ and I’m no Archimedes but suddenly the solution to the problem that been occupying me earlier now seemed so bloody obvious that it shouldn’t have been a mystery at all; in fact, the very ordinariness of the answer now seemed to be in inverse proportion to the apparent difficulty of the original question. It was simple. And it was brilliant. And nobody but me had guessed it until now.

‘Fucking hell. The sneaky little cunt. The duplicitous bastard.’

I jumped off the bed, went into the bathroom, splashed some water onto my face and then stared into the mirror at my ruefully smiling double. The man I knew almost as well as I knew myself.

‘You look very pleased with yourself, Scott Manson.’

‘You have to admit. It’s the only possible answer.’

‘Go on then. You’re dying to tell me what I already know, of course. But don’t let that stop you.’

‘It’s not him,’ I said. ‘The kid downstairs. It’s not Jérôme Dumas. It can’t be. It looks exactly like him. Almost exactly. It sounds like him. Almost. Even behaves like him.’

‘Almost.’

‘Precisely. But it just isn’t him. It’s some other sod. I’m looking at you in the mirror and I’m thinking this is what he sees. Only he doesn’t need a fucking mirror to do it.’

‘You mean...’

‘Exactly. He’s got a brother.’

‘Like Gary and Phil Neville.’

‘More alike than them. Identical. And probably a lot more amicable than those two bastards.’

‘Fábio and Rafael da Silva? The Brazilian lads.’

‘Yes. Monozygotic twins.’

‘Did you say psychotic or zygotic?’

‘You probably need a bit of both to get away with a scam like this. I was trying to work out why the fuck I was thinking about Manchester United before I went to sleep, and that’s the reason. Them. The da Silva boys. Old Trafford’s Cheech and Chong.’

‘They were good. Rafael is better than Fabio, who’s now at Cardiff City, I think. Which says all you need to know. And don’t forget the Bender boys in Germany.’

‘Jérôme has got a secret twin.’

‘Or Frank and Ronald de Boer. Rene and Willy van de Kerkhof. Except that they’re not secret twins, of course. Everyone knows about them.’

‘This would certainly explain why Jérôme didn’t know about Russell Brand’s booky-wook, about the picture, or the Spanish teacher, and why the brother I met this afternoon isn’t quite like the one I met last night. There’s no ink on his forefinger and he plays with his right foot instead of his left. Because he’s not the same man. Apart from that they’re identical.’

‘Fucking hell, you’re right, you know.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But why? Why would you do something like this?’

‘I don’t know. But when you think about it, it could be the basis of a very nice racket.’

‘I see what you mean. If one brother ever gets injured, the other can take his place. Like The Man in the Iron Mask .’

‘Yes. Just like that. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Jérôme Two is almost as talented a player as Jérôme One. Only not quite. Which makes a big difference in football, of course. I mean, there are lots of lads with plenty of talent but only a few with the extra five per cent of ability you need to carry you into professional football at the highest level.’

‘That could be it, yes.’

‘Which would explain this whole weird scam. One twin supports the other. They probably shared everything. The same job. The same girl.’

‘You mean?’

‘Why not? Bella Macchina. It’s what twins do, isn’t it? Shag each other’s girlfriends.’

‘It’s what you’d do if you were a twin, Scott, which isn’t necessarily what most normal people would do. Not everyone is a bugger for the hole like you.’

‘Maybe you’re right. But it also explains why he — they — liked to hire those two French hookers he called the Twin Towers. Because he, they, were into twins in a weird way that no one could ever have suspected.’

‘Fucking hell. That’s right. So. What the fuck are you going to do now?’

‘I don’t know. Have it out with him — them — I guess. Here and now. I think I’ll have to tell the one who’s here to go and fetch the other from his hiding place so I can hear them out.’

‘That could be tricky.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Suppose they don’t want to play?’

‘Then I’ll have to leave them here and fly back to Europe by myself.’

‘And the clubs? What are you going to tell PSG and FCB?’

‘I don’t know that either. I think a lot depends on what the twins have to say about this. But if this has been going on for a while, and I rather suspect it has, then there are an awful lot of people in Paris and Barcelona who are not going to be happy. Not to mention Paolo Gentile.’

‘Do you think Grace Doughty knew about all this? She was pretty economical with the truth before, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes. I do. The bitch. I think she knows everything.’

‘A good fuck, though.’