‘She wasn’t a hooker, if that’s what you’re driving at.’
‘No, but you have met her.’
‘Why do I feel like I’m being cross-examined in the witness box?’
‘I expect that’s a fairly common sensation, for you. And nothing at all to do with me.’
‘No? I wonder.’
‘So tell me about her. I’m interested.’
I shifted uncomfortably on the back seat. It seemed wrong to be describing one woman with whom I’d recently slept to one I was sleeping with now. Especially when the woman was as obviously intelligent as Grace. But I tried anyway:
‘Her name is Bella and she’s French. She’s a model. Nice girl, I think. Lives in Paris. Tall, blonde and willowy. She has a hairdryer that looks like a gun. And a little painting by Pierre Bonnard on the sideboard.’
‘Attractive?’
‘The Bonnard? It’s exquisite.’
‘Her, of course.’
‘That name. It’s a bit James Bond, isn’t it? Like Pussy Galore. Or Fiona Volpe.’
‘I think a lot of these fashion models have names that strike normal people as daft.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Very beautiful. As you might expect with that name.’
Grace laughed. ‘Men. They’re such suckers for cars. I never get that.’
‘You might understand why men like cars so much if you met her.’
‘Maybe. Why do you ask, anyway?’
‘I’m just trying to figure out what your type is.’
‘I don’t have a type.’
‘Really?’
‘Having a type has always seemed to me to be a little too restrictive. You could say you only date black women and then you meet a fabulous redhead. So, what, you’re going to ignore the redhead because of some stupid, exclusive rule you’ve created for yourself? I don’t think so. Men who say they have a type are usually trying to excuse their own failure to pull anything at all.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ve generally observed that men who say they don’t have a type are usually tomcats who will fuck anything they can.’
‘That’s a little harsh.’
‘Is it?’ She smiled. ‘I doubt that.’
‘As I recall I was lying quietly in my basket until you invited me to step through the cat flap.’
‘That’s right. I did. But now that I have I think I’m entitled to make a few conclusions about the feline company I’m keeping.’
‘And what conclusions have you made?’
‘None yet.’ She smiled and squeezed my hand. It was supposed to make me feel better only her nails seemed quite sharp. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m ready to make my summing-up.’
‘I can’t wait, your honour.’
Grace opened her handbag, found a handkerchief, dabbed her forehead and then produced a bottle of scent with which she deodorised herself and then the car.
The driver laughed and said something in Creole.
‘Where are we going now?’ I asked.
‘The beach. In Le Gosier.’
‘We were in Le Gosier before lunch, weren’t we?’
‘Yes. And now we’re going back there.’
‘Because it’s preordained by your client that we should.’
‘Yes.’
‘I remind you of a cat, you said.’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Well, you remind me of a cat, as well. But for entirely different reasons. The fact is, you’re quite inscrutable. I look at you and I have no idea what you’re thinking.’
‘Good. I’d hate to think I could be so easily read.’
‘Lady, I couldn’t read you if you’d hired the Red Arrows to write your name in the clouds.’
‘Maybe I’m not such a mystery.’
‘No. But everything else to do with you is.’
‘Trust me. All will be revealed.’
I pulled a face.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘When a lawyer says trust me, I need to check I still have my wallet.’
‘Go ahead. I think I know every cheap lawyer joke there is.’
‘Except that there are no cheap lawyers.’
‘And yet it was me who bought your air ticket from Antigua to Guadeloupe. And whose credit card is lodged with the hotel.’
‘Believe me, I’ve wondered about that, too. And I’ve come to a conclusion. Actually, it’s still more of a theory.’
‘Oh? Might I hear what that is?’
‘I don’t think any of the people we’ve met on Guadeloupe are related to Jérôme Dumas at all. I think it’s probably your client in jail who’s related to him. Who’s maybe at least as worried about him, if not more, as FC Barcelona or Paris Saint-Germain are. I think that maybe Jérôme’s disappearance has something to do with your client being in jail. If I knew the name of your client I bet I’d find that Jérôme’s disappearance follows on from his imprisonment like Sunday follows Saturday.’
21
The taxi took us to a gravel car park at the furthest end of the beach at Le Gosier and dropped us near the town hall, an improbably large, ultra-modern building that was out of all proportion to the rest of the sleepy little town: it was as if someone had commissioned Richard Rogers or Norman Foster to design a scout hut.
I paid the malodorous driver and we walked down a quiet road where an old man straight out of the pages of Hemingway was wrestling a big, dead barracuda into the boot of a Renault Clio while another, younger man was manhandling lobster pots out of a small boat. We stepped onto a white sandy beach where Grace kicked off her shoes and I did the same. The sand felt good under my toes and, for the first time since our arrival on the island of Guadeloupe, I started to relax.
Lots of lardy-looking French people were lying on the beach, or floating in the water like so much white plastic flotsam. The sea lapped energetically at the sand and but for the ugliness of the cheap swimwear that was on show you might have thought you were in paradise. That was me being a beauty fascist again. In my time as a football manager I’ve been called a lot of things — a cunt, mostly — but a beauty fascist certainly wasn’t one of them. It was true, of course. I tend to think fat people ought to keep it covered. That or go on a fucking diet. Not that it was easy to see how anyone could put on weight in Guadeloupe. The place seemed like an ideal place to begin a crash diet.
Fifty yards off the beach was a small desert island and on the island was a lighthouse, although it was hard to see the necessity for warning any shipping to keep away. A simple Google search could have persuaded you of the absolute necessity of never going anywhere near Guadeloupe at all.
We walked about thirty or forty yards until we came to a wooden door in a wall of rocks and banana leaves. We stepped carefully between some Frenchies who were enjoying a little shade and whose grumbles indicated their resentment at our disturbing them, and Grace pressed an intercom button on the doorpost. Eventually a man’s voice answered, in French.
‘Yes? Who is this?’
‘My name is Grace Doughty and with me is Scott Manson, from FC Barcelona. We’re looking for Jérôme Dumas.’
‘I’m Jérôme,’ said the voice. ‘Come on up,’ he added, and buzzed us in.
‘I don’t believe it,’ I said.
‘Why not?’
‘Jesus Christ,’ I said, as Grace pushed the door open and we walked through it into a nicely tended garden. ’
‘Ye of little faith,’ said Grace.
‘I used to play for Northampton Town, so that can’t be true.’
The door closed neatly behind us and we walked up a long, sloping lawn towards a modern two-storey house constructed of red concrete and glass with a metal terrace and a big picture window. What resembled a set of large canvas sails covered the flat roof like several sun umbrellas. It was very private in that almost none of this could be seen from the beach and the house was shrouded with royal palms and red bougainvillea. Music by Stromae — who is almost as good as Jacques Brel, and a recent and happy discovery of mine, thanks to Bella — was blaring out of an open window while emerging from a tinted glass door was a barefoot young man wearing a Barcelona team kit and whom I recognised immediately as Jérôme Dumas. Around his neck were a pair of PSG Beats; on his wrist was a large gold Rolex and, in his earlobes, were the diamond Panther studs that Bella told me he’d bought from Cartier in Paris. I felt my jaw drop for a second.