Research (41 page)

Naturally, when I’m in London I see a lot of my new agent, Hereward – I sacked Craig Conrad – and the small but dedicated team at VVL who are now publishing my books. Of course, I have contractual approval of all jacket designs and I write all my own blurbs for the VVL catalogues. On the back of a television sale that CAA – my film and television agents in Los Angeles – have made, Hereward predicts great things for us in the spring of next year. HBO bought my latest book,
Devils Offended
, while it was still in manuscript. So I’ve taken on Peter Stakenborg to pen one of my future titles, as the pressure to tour the books often means that I now have less and less time to write them; and I’m looking for an additional writer, which ought to be easy enough; the state of British publishing means there are plenty of good writers around who nobody wants to publish any more. What with writing, dealing with an almost endless series of editing queries, book tours, and general publicity, I find I have little or no time to myself.

And, of course, once a month I have to drive all the way
down to Cornwall to see John, to collect a new story outline or an edited manuscript for submission to the publisher, and to try to keep him sweet, of course. Which isn’t easy. John always was an awkward customer, even when we were working in advertising. Fortunately, if ever I have need of such a thing, I have a fail-safe guarantee to ensure his continuing cooperation: a plastic bag containing some forensic treasures incriminating him which would certainly be of interest to the Monty police.

He still asks questions about what happened in Monaco and France. How was it that Phil and Colette ever met, since John only ever saw the former in Paris and never in Monaco? Why was Colette killed at all? Why didn’t they try to get in contact with him to extract some sort of ransom in return for an alibi? And how was it that Phil – who had studied theology before becoming a copywriter and had even once considered entering the priesthood – could become the kind of person who was capable of murdering two people in cold blood?

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Half of the SS were judges and lawyers.’

‘That you can understand. But a priest is something else.’

‘Priests can kill, too,’ I insisted. ‘I wouldn’t let the fact that Phil studied theology persuade you otherwise. History is full of priests who were also killers. The Templars. The Holy Inquisition. Josef Stalin.’

‘Stalin was a priest?’

‘He certainly trained to be one. At least according to Simon Sebag Montefiore’s biography,
Young Stalin
. You should read it. Besides, if our latest novel is to be believed, anyone is capable of murder. Any man, at least. Isn’t that what we were saying? That it’s quite normal for men to kill. That it’s a rare
moment in history when men aren’t killing each other. That this is why we have wars. That war is not, as Clausewitz says, the continuation of politics by other means but rather a normal expression of male psychology. This was the premise of your storyline; and a jolly good one, too, if I may say so. We’re going to make millions off that book when it gets on the telly.’

‘I’m just saying that you wouldn’t have tipped Phil to become a murderer,’ said John. ‘But you, on the other hand … You must have fired your SLR in anger when you were in Ireland.’

‘For sure. I’m not sure I ever hit anything, mind.’

‘Orla thought different. She always said you had a dark past. That she’d had you checked out by someone who used to be an IRA intelligence officer, and that you’d been with some secret black ops outfit in the late Seventies.’

‘Did she? I never knew.’

We were in the sitting room, in front of the wood stove which was blazing away; it might have been summer in Europe but in Cornwall it was something else; I always felt you need a fifth season to properly describe the climate in Cornwall. I’d brought some new books and some good wine and a box of the cigars that John liked and was now enjoying.

‘Were you?’

‘Oh yes.’ I grinned. ‘Can’t you tell? I’m a natural born killer. That’s why I became a writer. Kill your darlings. Isn’t that what they say? Well, I do. And I have. And I enjoy it.’

‘But you do know guns.’

‘Everyone who’s been in the British army knows guns. It comes with the job, John. It’s called basic training. And you were the one with the gun collection, not me. Orla might still
be alive if you hadn’t given her a bloody gun for Christmas. She was shot with her own gun, wasn’t she?’

‘That’s another thing. How the fuck did Phil know where it was?’

‘You must have told him.’

‘I don’t remember it.’

‘John, when we had the
atelier
in Paris you used to say all sorts of things you probably don’t remember now. I do remember you telling us all you’d bought her a gun for Christmas. You even told us what kind of gun it was. You made a joke about it. Frankly, I was a little surprised that Mike Munns never mentioned it in that hatchet job he did on you in the
Daily Mail
. He managed to mention everything else about you that was incriminating.’

‘Which one? The piece that followed on from Orla’s death? Or mine?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t remember making a joke about my buying her a gun.’

I nodded. ‘You said you’d bought her two things for Christmas. A new Ferrari and a gun. And if she didn’t like the Ferrari you would fucking shoot her. Words to that effect.’

‘I really said that?’

I nodded.

‘Jesus. I can just see that one playing in court.’

‘Exactly.’ I shook my head. ‘Anyway, you said you bought it for her because she got nervous when you went away on book tour. Therefore, it wouldn’t be such a stretch of the imagination to suppose that she kept it in the bedside drawer.’

‘No, I suppose not. But look here, Phil loved dogs. He used to have a dachshund and a beagle. At least before Caroline took them back to London. I can’t imagine him shooting the boys any more than I can imagine him shooting Orla herself.’

‘Someone shot them.’

‘That they did. And perhaps we’ll just have to await the book to find out what really happened. And then the inevitable film of the book for television.’

‘What book?’

‘I thought you knew.’

‘Knew what?’

‘That Mike Munns is writing a book about the murders. Mike Munns. You didn’t know?’

‘A book? What kind of book?’

‘A true crime story. That’s the sort of thing he does these days.’

‘True crime?’

‘Yes. His book is about me and Orla and Phil and Colette. About you, too, for all I know.’

‘Me? I can’t see why he’d want to write about me.’

John shrugged. ‘It’s called
The Man Who Shot the Bitch in Monte Carlo
. Good title, don’t you think? If a little unfair to poor Orla. I mean, she could be a bitch. But then what woman isn’t like that sometimes?’

‘Who’s this book for?’

‘For John Blake Publishing. They do a lot of that kind of thing. I don’t think we’re talking about
In Cold Blood
here. Mike’s no Truman Capote, that’s for sure. Or
The Executioner’s Song
. No, I imagine it’ll probably be his usual sleazy exposé of life among the super-rich, with plenty of gore and gratuitous sex thrown in. That’s what sells these days. Like that book he wrote last year about the gay Saudi Arabian prince who murdered his man servant. What was that called?’ John snapped his fingers. ‘
The Prince and the Toyboy
. Which was pretty good, even though I say so myself. He’s a useful turn of phrase, has our Mike. And gratuitous sex
and violence was always his strong suit. Anyway, I saw it on
Publisher’s Lunch
. You know? Today’s publishing news and gossip that’s on the web. Who knows? He might actually find something out. Something the police missed, perhaps. I wouldn’t be surprised. Mike is quite tenacious when there’s a fast buck to be made.’

‘Yes, he might. And he is.’

‘Now that’s one publishing party I’d like to go to. Just to see the look on his face as I ask him to sign my already redundant copy.’

‘He hasn’t been in touch with me about a book,’ I said. ‘And I’m sure Peter would have mentioned it if he’d asked him to help.’ I shook my head. ‘Matter of fact, I haven’t seen him in ages. Last I heard he and Starri were living in Brighton.’

‘Perhaps he figures neither of you trust him enough to help him.’

‘I don’t. And nor does Peter.’ I lit a cigarette. ‘But what the fuck does he know about what happened? He doesn’t know anything.’

‘Nor do you,’ said John. ‘At least that’s what everyone believes.’

‘I haven’t spoken to him since we had lunch in Wandsworth, on the Tuesday Orla’s death was on the TV. Not after that stitch-up piece he did on you. And it’s not like her family would have helped. Not with a title like that. They’re not the kind of people you’d want to betray. So. It has to be a cuttings job. Returning to his own vomit. Speculation. Without speaking to you, or me, he has nothing. The only other people who knew anything are dead. Orla. Colette. Phil.’

‘Maybe the copper is going to offer some new ideas. Chief Inspector Amalric. Do you ever see him around? In Monaco?’

I shook my head.

‘He doesn’t know anything either. He couldn’t know anything. Could he?’

‘Don’t ask me, old sport. I’m dead.’