Philip Kerr - False Nine

It was only now that I remembered why the father of these twins was in jail. He was accused of murder. Maybe murder was not something brother Philippe was unfamiliar with. And I began to feel afraid, like I was back in the nick and facing down some racist bastard with a home-made shiv. As close to the sea as this there would be no problem getting rid of my body; they probably knew a boat they could borrow to take my corpse out beyond the island and dump me over the side. The local fish would eat me and I’d probably never be seen again.

But if there is one thing I’ve learned in football it’s never to show your fear, because it’s a mistake to think of it as just a game; football is about mental toughness, about saying and doing whatever you need to help your team win. I guessed that I was going to need a lot of that now.

‘What, are you going to kill me? Is that it? I should be easy enough to kill. Two of you, one of me. That’s one way of making this problem go away, I suppose. How about it, Jérôme? Are you ready to add a stabbing to your list of crimes and misdemeanours?’

‘You don’t speak to my brother like that,’ said Philippe, grabbing hold of my shirt collar with his empty hand. I took hold of his thick wrist and tried to twist my collar from his grasp but he was much stronger than I had supposed. ‘You don’t know him. You only think you do. He’s not a criminal. He’s a good man.’

‘I don’t doubt it, since you’re the man with the knife in his hand. But his career is over if you kill me. That much is certain.’

Jérôme looked at his brother carefully. ‘No one’s going to kill anyone,’ he said, which seemed to be as much for Philippe’s hearing as for mine. ‘All right? We’re cool here. So, put the knife down, Philippe.’

But Philippe’s grip merely tightened on my shirt collar and on the handle of his knife, which was one of those with a black blade and a serrated edge — the kind you expect Rambo to pick his teeth with. I expect there was a useful compass in the handle, just in case you got lost at the local supermarket. I started to look for the exits, wondering if I could make it to the bottom of the garden before the twin with the knife caught up with me and cut me a new smile.

‘I don’t think Grace will be too happy if she finds out that she’s become an accessory to a murder,’ I said. ‘How’s that going to affect her chances of running for political office? Not well, I’d have thought.’

‘Shut up,’ said Philippe. ‘Leave her out of this. You’ve done enough talking, Englishman.’

‘Oh, I agree,’ I said. ‘But consider this before I shut my mouth. Or before you do it for me. Barcelona and PSG know where I am. I sent them an email from Jumby Bay telling them I was at the house of Gui-Jean-Baptiste Target. Not to mention the limo driver who’ll be back here at five a.m. wondering where I’ve got to. I bet that even the Guadeloupe police could solve that crime. If I disappear, this address is the first place they’ll look. And it won’t just be your father who goes to jail, it will be the two of you. If you’re lucky they’ll give you twin beds in the same stinking cell. And in twelve months’ time the only balls you’ll be kicking are each other’s for being dumb enough to kill me.’

‘He’s right,’ Jérôme told his brother. ‘It’s not worth it. So put the knife down, eh?’

Philippe glanced at his brother and then pushed me away. There were tears in his eyes. ‘He shouldn’t speak to you like that, Jay. He has no idea what you’ve been through. Better for us both that we get rid of him. He’s going to spoil everything. For you, me, Dad, everyone.’

‘No, no. It’s okay. It’s okay. You’ll see, Philippe. Everything is going to be fine. We’ll sort this out, I promise. I’ll make him understand. All right?’

‘Better listen to your brother, Philippe. For once he’s talking complete sense. You’d be making a very big mistake to kill me and think you could get away with it. But there’s still a chance to salvage something from this mess if you both level with me now.’ I nodded. ‘That’s right. Tell the truth. The whole truth. And maybe we can fix this mess.’

Jérôme put his hand on Philippe’s arm, and then on the hand that was holding the knife. Finally he managed to take the blade away from his brother. He laid the long, black knife on the table next to the Mont Blanc. From where I was standing the pen didn’t look like it was mightier than the sword but there was no doubt that my prospects had improved, a little. I let out an unsteady breath as fear gave way to nervousness.

‘Shit, I need that drink,’ I said, and returned to the tray where this time I poured myself a large glass of twenty-one-year-old Elijah Craig bourbon with a shaking hand, and drained it in one noisy gulp.

I knew I wasn’t completely out of the woods yet. And I figured my best chance of preserving my safety was to get hold of the knife before they changed their minds about cutting my throat. I poured another drink and walked to the table where the knife was now within my grasp. I sipped the bourbon, put the glass down, picked the knife up and examined it objectively, almost as if it had already been used to commit a crime and there was an evidence tag attached to it.

‘This would certainly get the job done, I suppose,’ I remarked coolly. ‘Saw a man stabbed in prison once. With a shank made from a toothbrush and piece of glass. I don’t think the guy who stabbed him expected him to die because the victim was stabbed in the thigh. But the femoral artery was cut right through and he bled to death before anyone could do anything about it. That’s the one thing they never get right in the movies. The blood. There’s a lot of blood when someone bleeds out. A whole gallon of the stuff makes a hell of a puddle.’

I looked at the twins, neither of whom seemed bothered that I was the one now holding the knife. I put it down, collected my drink and sat on the sofa.

‘I’m all ears, gentlemen.’

Which was hardly true; there was my chest to consider; my chest felt like I’d just played on the losing side in a cup final.

The twins looked at each other for a moment as if exchanging some telepathic remark — they did a lot of that, I was to observe — and then sat down opposite me. For a moment neither man said a thing but then Jérôme held his hand up in front of my face as if to indicate his true identity and started to speak, albeit with some difficulty.

‘I’ve never talked about this to anyone except my family,’ he said.

‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, wearily, ‘you’re the true king of France.’

‘Jay,’ said Philippe Dumas. ‘Why take a chance? He’s a prick. You can’t trust this guy to keep his mouth shut. And once it’s out in the open it’s out. There’s no going back with something like this.’

‘I have to tell him, Philippe. You heard what he said. If I level with him there’s still a chance for me.’

‘That’s right, Jérôme,’ I said. ‘A good chance, I’d say. You’re a top player. With everything going for you. But if I have to get on that plane by myself, it will be because of your bullshit. It will be over. I can promise you that. No football team will ever touch you again. I’ll make fucking sure of it.’

Jérôme nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you everything. The whole story.’

I sipped some bourbon and waited, patiently.

‘Have you ever heard of a footballer called Asa Hartford?’ said Jérôme after a long pause.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course.’

Almost everyone in English football has heard of Asa Hartford. Back in the early seventies he was a Scottish international who played for West Bromwich Albion. A good one, too. I think he even knew my dad. He also played for Scotland. Then — in 1971, was it? — Leeds United bought him in a high-profile transfer that fell through after it was discovered that Hartford had a hole in the heart.