It’s all a marked contrast to my life in Putney, where I have a penthouse flat in Putney Wharf Tower that overlooks the river, and which is where I conduct my business when I’m in London. It’s there that I have meetings with Neville — the web-master I’ve employed to look after my Facebook, Twitter and website — and Tiffany — the PR person who I have on a monthly retainer to handle all my print and broadcast media publicity. The first thing I do every morning is send Neville a little publishing or philosophical aperçu that he can put up on my Facebook page. These are especially popular in France. Don’t ask me why but they love me in France. Right now I have two books on Le Nouvel Observateur’s list of top twenty bestsellers.
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?’