‘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.’