‘I am?’
‘Sure you are. I know it in my bones.’
Chapter 12
We shared a room, again. This was a mistake as, on this occasion, John snored, loudly. I almost felt a twinge of sympathy for Orla, having to endure a sound like that. No wonder she’d taken sleeping pills. And in a way, but for John’s snoring, she might still be alive. At six, not long after I’d finally got off to sleep, I was awoken by the early morning call I’d ordered the night before, and I got up feeling irritable and bad-tempered. Even the magnificent view of the rolling foothills of the Baou des Blancs from the little terrace where I ate breakfast could not improve my humour. And I certainly wasn’t looking forward to a two-hour drive to Marseille — even in the Bentley. Only the prospect of staying at the Villa Massalia — which John had promised was excellent — filled me with any enthusiasm for the Monday ahead of us.
John was watching TV. Even before Orla’s murder he had always watched a lot of television.
‘I get more ideas watching daytime TV shows than any other way,’ he was fond of saying. ‘I always tell kids who want to become writers, you don’t have to hang out with cops, or go to the joint and interview bad guys. And you certainly don’t have to live in a garret in Paris, and have breakfast every morning at the Deux Magots. Sometimes, the best research you can do is at home, sitting on your ass, with a doughnut and a coffee in your hand. Shows like Jerry Springer, Montel Williams, and in the UK Jeremy Kyle, will introduce you to as much low-life, trailer-trash modern-day grotesques as you would ever want to meet in one lifetime.’
John — whose French was better than mine — had been watching an early morning repeat of Ça Va Se Savoir!, which was the French version of a tabloid television show, and it was one he loved; I heard him still laughing as he switched over to watch the seven o’clock news on France 3.
‘What the fuck?’ he exclaimed. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Don, get in here and look at this.’
I got up from the breakfast table and walked into the sitting room, where John was pointing at the screen and gibbering, and while I didn’t yet know it, my day was about to get very much better.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he said, and folded his arms womanishly while keeping both eyes on the screen. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Who’s dead?’
‘Colette Laurent.’
It seemed that Colette’s body had been found at last in the boot of a car parked at Terminal 2 of Nice Airport. The Nice police had released very few details beyond Colette’s name and the fact that she had lived in Monaco, but from what the TV reporter was saying, there was little doubt that Colette had been murdered and that the car had been at Terminal 2 for two weeks. But most of the report seemed to concentrate on the disruption the closure of the car park was causing to international flights to and from Nice airport.
‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered John. ‘Poor kid. What a terrible thing to happen to a girl like that. I guess that Russian guy must have killed her after all. Maybe the same night he killed Orla.’
‘It would seem so,’ I admitted.
‘That’s the end of my fucking alibi, isn’t it?’
I shrugged and said nothing. At times like this it was usually best to let his mouth make all the running.
‘I guess there’s no point in us going to Marseille now,’ he said. ‘From the sound of it, she was never there. She’s been in the boot of her car for the last fortnight. Poor kid.’ His nose wrinkled with disgust. ‘And in this weather, too. That’s not good. I mean, can you imagine what this kind of heat does to a body? To be in a space like that all this time? You never met her, Don, but take my word for it, she was so very beautiful.’ He stopped and tried to swallow his emotions whole. ‘Best lay I ever had.’
‘I’m sorry, John,’ I said. ‘Really I am. But none of this alters the fact that we still have to leave here before nine o’clock.’
John stared at me blankly.
‘That cop. Chief Inspector Amalric? From the Monty police? He’s going to see Phil at ten. Remember? I mean Phil probably won’t say anything. But why take the risk, right?’
John sighed a sigh as profound as the view outside, stepped onto the balcony, took hold of the railing with both hands and hung his head. For a moment I thought he was going to jump and I made as if to restrain him. Without him I had nothing. But instead of jumping, he sighed and said:
‘I’ve made up my mind, Don. I’m going to give myself up. I’ve come to the end. I can’t go on. Really I can’t. I mean thanks for everything and I’ll try to keep you out of it, old sport. But there’s no point. Now that Colette has gone the only real option I have of proving I didn’t kill Orla is to take my chances with a jury.’
‘If it was just Orla’s murder, I might agree with you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know something? It might be good,’ I said. ‘The hot weather, I mean. Good for you, at any rate. That is, if you fucked Colette without a condom. Did you?’
‘Of course I fucked her without a condom. I had a vasectomy, remember? What are you talking about?’
‘I’m not exactly sure how that works. Did you ejaculate in her body?’
‘Of course I did. Just not with sperm in the ejaculate. Why on earth do you want to know?’
‘Maybe that Russian fucked her, too. In which case you’ll be all right. Otherwise you’ll just have to hope that the heat in the boot of that car has spoiled any of your DNA that might still be in her pussy.’
‘Oh shit. Yes.’
‘Because if there is any DNA in her pussy then there’s every chance they’ll charge you with her murder, as well. With two women dead — one your wife and the other your mistress — I’d say you’ve got even less chance with a jury now than you had before.’
John put his head in his hands and turned in a circle as if he had a terrible migraine.
‘What a mess,’ he said. ‘What a fucking mess. If I knew where my bag was I might fetch my gun and shoot myself.’
‘I gave your bag to Phil,’ I said.
‘What? Why?’
‘But don’t worry, I still have your new passport. I let him have the bag when he was still in two minds about taking the money. The gun was still in the bag I suppose. I forgot about it. After all, there are so many pockets in that bag. Anyway I forgot about the bag when he gave the cash back.’
John sat down abruptly on the floor of the balcony, took hold of the railing again and then pressed his face against the bars.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Getting used to the view. This is what I’m going to be looking at for the next twenty years.’
I switched off the TV, fetched him a little bottle of The Macallan whisky from the minibar and tossed it to him. ‘Here,’ I said. ‘Get that down your neck. Perhaps it will remind you of where your fucking backbone used to be.’
‘Fuck you. Fuck you, Don. You’re not the one facing life imprisonment.’
‘Who says you are? I mean, really — who says you are?’
John unscrewed the little bottle cap, closed his eyes and emptied the contents into his mouth. I sat down on the floor in front of him and took hold of his jacket collar.
‘Listen to me,’ I said.
I slapped him hard, not once but twice, and when at last he opened his eyes they were filled with tears.
At last I had him where I wanted him.
‘Listen to me, you stupid fuck. I didn’t risk my neck to help you without first thinking through all of the possibilities. And I mean all of them. Now I promise you that there’s a way out of this situation, but you’re going to have to keep calm and pay close attention. If you listen to me and do exactly what I say there’s absolutely no reason why you should ever see the inside of a prison cell. Do you understand? You won’t have to go to prison. I promise you.’
He nodded, silently.