Research (3 page)

‘I suppose he’s at his place in the South of France,’ I said. ‘The lucky bugger.’

‘You make it sound like it’s something special,’ said Munns.

‘I think it is, to Philip,’ I said. ‘It cost him all he had.’

‘It certainly wouldn’t have been my choice,’ said Munns. ‘It’s a modest little house. There’s an olive grove but there’s no air conditioning.’

‘It sounds quite idyllic,’ insisted Stakenborg.

‘Tourrettes-sur-Loup is hardly that. It’s more of a syndrome, really.’

‘Coming from you, Mike, that’s almost witty.’

‘Hey, I wonder if they’ll make Philip a suspect,’ said Munns.

‘Why would they do that?’ I asked.

‘Because Tourrettes is just an hour’s drive from Monaco,’ said Munns.

‘And?’

‘And because Philip hated John Houston even more than I do. Am I right, or am I right?’

‘You’re never right, Mike,’ I said. ‘Even when you’re not wrong.’

‘You just think you hate him,’ Stakenborg told Mike. ‘Which is something altogether different from the way poor old Phil feels. Besides, Phil doesn’t really hate John. It’s just that he’d gone out on a limb to buy that house in Tourrettes; he assumed that his income from ghosting Houston’s books was going to stay at a steady hundred grand per annum plus bestseller bonuses for the next ten years.’

‘It’s always a mistake to assume anything when you’re a freelance hack,’ I said. ‘Which is what we all were.’

‘So when John pulled the plug on our little
atelier
—’

I felt myself wince: I’d always been a little embarrassed by Houston’s name for our writing quartet: the
atelier
. It made us sound as if we had all been employed in the workshop of
a real artist, instead of someone whose only talent was for making tons of money.

‘Philip felt especially aggrieved.’

‘… And blamed Orla,’ added Munns. ‘For putting him up to it. That’s what he told me at any rate.’

‘Best keep that to yourself,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If the Monty cops turn up here asking questions it might be best if you didn’t repeat that,’ I said. ‘For Philip’s sake. There’s no point in dropping him in it, too. And before you ask, no, I don’t believe Philip killed Orla any more than I think it was John who did it. Or you, or Peter.’

‘Do you think they will?’ Munns asked. ‘The cops. Turn up here, I mean?’

‘Peter’s right,’ I said. ‘The Monty cops have got plenty of money and not much else to do. Which means some cops are bound to show up here before very long. London is the most logical place to start an inquiry like this. Let’s face it, his publisher lives in London. His agent lives in London. We all live in London. His two ex-wives and his kids live in London. His old mother lives in London.’

‘And they all hate him, too,’ said Munns. ‘Yes, you’re right. You just named the whole pack of Cluedo cards for those who might have had a bit of malice aforethought where John is concerned.’

‘Never let the facts get in the way of a good story,’ said Stakenborg. ‘It’s easy to see why John thought you had a talent for fiction, Mike.’

‘Actually it was Don here who brought me into the
atelier
,’ said Munns. ‘Not John.’

‘Mike used to bring those same rigorous talents to his journalism when he was a hack on the
Daily Mail
,’ I said. ‘Didn’t
you, Mike? But for that, who knows where you’d be now, post-Leveson? In prison for phone hacking, probably.’

Munns grinned. ‘Maybe. I pulled a few strokes in my time, sure. But look here, you can’t argue with the fact that when Houston switched off the
atelier
’s router he let everyone down. Not just the monkeys like us who wrote John’s books to order, but a virtual industry that was dedicated to one man: the publisher, the agent, the whole fucking shooting match. He had his own bloody West Wing dedicated to his publishing brand at Veni, Vidi, Legi. How many was it? Ten, fifteen people? Not to mention those three girls in the Houston office. All of whom lost their nice jobs when John decided he wanted to go back to basics and write something on his own. To say nothing of the effect on VVL’s share price, reduced lawyers’ fees, accountants’ fees, and Christ only knows what else. I reckon you’ve got more motives there than at the Lee Strasberg Theatre and Film Institute.’

‘For murder?’ I laughed.

‘Certainly for murder. Why not? But you’re right, Peter. That wasn’t the reason why the ex-wives and the kids and his old mother hated him. They hated him already.’

‘Need I remind you that it’s poor Orla who’s dead,’ I said. ‘Not John.’

‘Listen to him. Poor Orla. Poor Orla, my arse. Poor Orla had it coming. Even so I reckon John must have used a silver bullet from a melted-down crucifix for her. He’d certainly have needed one.’

‘Unless he’s dead, too,’ added Stakenborg. ‘And we just don’t know it yet. Russian mafia, a disgruntled hooker – Christ, there must be plenty of those, I never knew a man who liked having rentals more than John. A jealous husband or two – John never could keep his hands off another chap’s
girl. A dope dealer, perhaps – yes, he liked a bit of blow now and then, especially when he was partying with the ladies. Or, maybe you’re right after all, Mike, his literary agent; Hereward’s income must have fallen off a cliff since John got to fancying he could win the Booker Prize. And if it hasn’t yet, it soon will. Agents are an egotistical lot. Always think they made their client’s money for them. Or none at all, as in my case. Actually I’m sure my agent wishes I was dead. He could probably sell my novel – yes,
my
novel – if I could only do something that might make me a bit more of a marketable commodity, such as die in some trendy way. Like Keith Haring. You know, a dead John Houston might actually sell a shedload of his next book. The one Mike wrote.’ Stakenborg snapped his fingers as he tried to remember the title.

‘
The Merchant of Death
,’ said Munns.

‘So, who knows, maybe he’s cooked up this whole thing to sell even more. No one knows more about how to sell a book than John Houston. I mean look how many records Michael Jackson sold after he checked out of Neverland. Or wherever it was. In the twelve months following his death the King of Crap sold thirty-five million albums.’

‘I never thought of that,’ said Munns. ‘Not a bad idea at all. This celebrity slaying is bound to get more column inches than Jordan’s tits.’

‘Now who’s writing fiction?’ I said.

‘But either way, however you look at it,’ added Munns, ‘you have to admit that John himself is totally fucked.’

*

It was past six o’clock when I got back to my flat in Putney. This was on the top of one of those gloomy but large red-brick buildings near the bridge and overlooking the river – what the Americans would have called a wraparound apartment,
with a little corner turret and a round window; handy for the shops, some quite decent pubs, and the number 14 bus to Piccadilly. The writer J. R. Ackerley – the one who was overly fond of his Alsatian dog – had once lived opposite; and, in one of the other mansion blocks nearer the bridge, so had the poet Gavin Ewart and the novelist William Cooper, both of whom I had sort of known. Putney’s a bit like that, with lots of writers you haven’t quite heard of, which is why they live in Putney and not Monaco, I suppose. As I stared out of my turret window at the small boats that passed up and down the dirty brown river Thames I often told myself that the view from University Mansions was infinitely preferable to the one John had enjoyed of the Ligurian Sea from the double-height windows of his apartment in the Tour Odéon; but this was just another fiction in my life – like the one that I was happier living alone, or the one that I didn’t need John Houston to get a novel published. The fact of the matter was that I hated London. The place was full of miserable people who were always moaning about the weather, or the bankers, or Europe, or this government or the last government; Cornwall wasn’t any better; that was just moaning with a fucking fleece on. John was fond of describing Monte Carlo as a slum full of billionaires, but that sounded just fine to me. Billionaires have higher standards than yokels who buy all their clothes at Primark.

I was pissed of course. In spite of my best intentions we had drunk at least a bottle apiece, followed by vintage brandies off the trolley, which is when the Chez Bruce bargain set lunch stops being such a bargain. I’d paid for all six of those, which ended up costing more than the food. That’s what they mean by vintage brandy: filling the tank of an old Rolls-Royce would have been so much cheaper.

There was no chance of me being able to write anything other than my name and form number at the top of the paper, so I switched on the telly and sat on the sofa in the hope of having a nap. It wasn’t long before ITV News got round to the murder of Orla Houston in the running order of ‘stories’. That’s one of the reasons I never watch television news; because ‘stories’ used to be ‘reports’ (I have enough of stories during my working day); possibly this might be because there’s nothing in the news that sounds very much like news – it’s all speculation and opinion and stream of consciousness, or just plain bullshit. Facts are rare. Virginia Woolf could write the script for the six o’clock news. And so it was with the Houston ‘story’: John was still missing and the prime suspect – anyone who knew of his whereabouts was encouraged to call the Monty police; Orla’s body had been removed from the apartment and taken to a local mortuary; and her family had been informed and some of them were travelling from Dublin, presumably to identify the body and arrange a funeral. Cruelly I wondered if there might be a colour party. Orla’s cousin, Tadhg McGahern, was a Sinn Féin MEP and had already arrived in Monaco from Brussels. The last time I’d seen him he’d been at Orla’s wedding, when he’d been wearing an expression that was not unlike the one his half-brick of a face was wearing now – the bastard.

The Mac Curtain family were a rough lot. One of her brothers, Colm, was a Fianna Fáil member of the Dáil Éirann, which is the principal chamber of the Irish parliament; of course there’s nothing wrong with that, but at his sister’s wedding in St Maarten, Colm and I had almost come to blows when someone – most likely it was Orla herself – told him that before working for the London advertising agency where I’d met John, I’d been a junior officer in the British army.
Colm had received this news with something less than the good humour that ought to have been required at his sister’s wedding. As I recalled it now, sprawled on the sofa with eyes half closed against the undulating room, the conversation had gone something like this:

‘So you’re Donald Irvine.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, extending my hand to shake his. ‘And you must be Orla’s brother, Colm. I’m pleased to meet you.’

Colm had stared at my hand as if it had been covered in the blood of Bobby Sands; but I still left it out in front of me, if only for the sake of Anglo-Irish relations. Not that I’m English, but you know what I mean.

‘I can’t shake your hand, Don,’ he said. ‘Not until I’ve found out if it’s true.’

‘If what’s true, Colm?’

‘If it’s true that you were a British soldier in Northern Ireland?’

I smiled a conciliatory smile and dropped my hand.

‘It was twenty-five years ago, Colm. It would be a real shame if the British Prime Minister and Gerry Adams can manage a handshake in Downing Street and we can’t do the same at your own sister’s wedding.’

‘Tony Blair didn’t murder any of my friends,’ said Colm. ‘And you still didn’t answer my question.’

‘It’s not a proper question for a day like this. We’re supposed to be celebrating, not opening old wounds. But for the record, I’ve never murdered anyone.’

‘If you say so. But it certainly doesn’t sound like you’re denying that you were a Brit soldier in Ireland.’

‘I’m not denying anything.’

‘Then it is true. That you were part of an occupying force in my country.’

‘Please, Colm,’ I said. ‘Let’s not fall out over this. If you want to pick a fight with me then do it later, preferably outside, and I’ll gladly accommodate you, all right? But not now, old son.’

‘No one is falling out over anything. I asked you a civil question, Mr Irvine. The least you can do is to give me a civil answer.’

‘You were hardly being civil when you refused to shake my hand, Colm.’ I held it out once more. ‘Look. There it is again. So, what do you say? Shall we let bygones be bygones, for John and Orla’s sake? After all this day is not about the past, it’s about the future.’

‘Bullshit.’

Colm looked at my hand for a moment and then smacked it away, which transformed my hand into a fist; the next second he had caught me neatly by the wrist and held the fist in front of his face, as if it had been a crucial and damning piece of evidence in a court of law.

‘Go ahead,’ he said, coolly. ‘Punch me. It’s what you want to do, isn’t it, soldier?’

‘I think it’s what you’d like me to do,’ I said pulling my wrist from his wiry fingers. ‘To prove a point to yourself, or perhaps to some of these other people. But you’re not going to do that, Colm. I won’t let you.’

By now several other guests had seen something of this incident and moved to separate us; but for some reason – I’m not sure how – Tadhg McGahern got it into his head that I had threatened his cousin, and it wasn’t long before I was being painted by the wedding’s Irish contingent as the old colonial villain of the piece. Later on, I tried to explain what had happened to Orla, but she wasn’t having any of it; naturally she sided with her chimp of a brother. Blood is
thicker than water, although in Northern Ireland it’s more often just thick.

Now, as I watched the television footage of Orla’s body being lifted into a panelled forensic van I heard the reporter’s voice utter some nonsense about how following her tragic murder ‘tributes’ had been paid to ‘the beautiful actress’ by some of the people who worked with her. Then the doors of the van closed on Orla and she was driven swiftly away to her autopsy, which hardly bore thinking of with a woman as stunningly beautiful as she had been. That much was true at any rate. You could hardly blame John for marrying a woman like Orla – especially at his age; at the wedding John had been sixty-two and Orla just thirty-one. There were trophy wives and then there was Orla Mac Curtain, who had been nothing less than the FA Cup.