Research (11 page)

‘What do you mean, the next? I already wrote the last six, remember?’

‘What I mean is, why don’t you take him over? With your name on the jacket, and only your name. I’ll give him to you. The character. Yours to do with as you like. Book six sold a million and a half copies, right?’

‘Yes, but book five sold twice as many, which is why you decided not to pursue book seven, remember?’

‘Maybe so. But it’s still a valuable franchise, Don. And I do have a finished outline for book seven which I will gladly give you as my parting gift. There’s absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t squeeze another three books out of that character. Maybe five, which could be worth millions; I bet VVL would go for it, too. Especially now that they know I won’t be writing any more of those books myself. There are plenty of precedents for doing that sort of thing: Kingsley Amis, John Gardner and Sebastian Faulks with James Bond. The Faulks book
Devil May Care
was actually very successful. Good title, too. I had plans to use that title myself. And of course you wouldn’t have to cut me in for a percentage the way Faulks was obliged to do with Ian Fleming’s estate. Whatever money the book made would be yours and yours alone.’

I bit my lip and grunted as if I was thinking about it. I hadn’t in the least enjoyed writing the sixth Jack Boardman book; after six I was heartily sick of him – as sick of him as Ian Fleming had been of James Bond, perhaps – and I’d hoped never to write another one again, but, all the same, I didn’t want to say no; an outline for another of Boardman’s
adventures was still a valuable property, John was right about that much.

‘At least say you’ll think about it, old sport. Look, I’ll even mention it to Anderton when I see him to tell him I’m through with all this.’

‘All right. I’ll think about it.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Are you planning to tell the rest of the guys when we get to the
atelier
in Paris?’

‘That’s right, I am. And then I’m going to catch the Euro-star to London and tell Anderton and everyone at VVL and then Hereward. I can’t wait to see his fucking beard turn fifty shades of grey.’

‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

John grinned and pressed his foot down on the accelerator as if he was anxious to get to Paris so that he could action his new plan as soon as possible.

‘I have to confess I am a little. You know, part of being a winner, old sport, is knowing when enough is enough. When it’s time to give up the fight and walk away and find something new. Like J. K. Rowling. I mean, good for her, I thought. Knowing when to quit is the essence of real creativity, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just glad I chose not to buy any of VVL’s shares when they came on the market. You do know that Bat Anderton is going to have a heart attack.’

John laughed. ‘He’ll survive. And so will VVL. Bloomsbury survived after Harry Potter, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, but their shares halved after the series came to an end. They had to invest heavily in the German publishing market. They bought Berlin Verlag.’

‘Then VVL will have to do something similar, won’t they? Besides, it’s not like they won’t get
Dead Red
and the three
books that Munns and Stakenborg and Philip French are writing right now. And
The Geneva Convention
.’

*

I shrugged and drank some wine. ‘When we got to Paris, Houston told everyone he was ending our arrangement, like he said he would, and then he went on to London where he did the same. We’ve spoken on the telephone since then but I think that might have been the last time I saw him, Chief Inspector.’

‘How did they take it? Your fellow writers?’

‘Not well. Philip French had just bought a house in the south of France – in Tourrettes-sur-Loup – and I think he’d been counting on continuing his working association with John in order to pay for it. Things have been difficult for him ever since. Peter Stakenborg was predictably underwhelmed by the news. Nothing ever surprises Peter. I think he even said he’d seen it coming. Mike Munns probably received the news with the least amount of good grace – which is because he hadn’t much grace to start with. Myself – I was a bit shocked at first. But it wasn’t like John just cast us all adrift. He did pay us off very handsomely. As he promised he would.’

‘And did he give you the outline for a seventh Jack Boardman book? Like he said?’

‘Yes. He did. Although as yet I’ve not been able to work up any great enthusiasm to write it. To be quite frank I was burned out on that series long before book six. John knew that, which is another reason why we didn’t write any more. That’s how it goes, you see. After a while a series character becomes the creature to the writer’s Victor Frankenstein; he’s a hideous monster that you’re obliged to spend time with but who you would happily see destroyed. Right now I could no more sit down and write another Jack
Boardman book than I could go back in the army. He was a two-dimensional character, Chief Inspector, and without depth to a character about whom you’re writing, it’s just typing. I mean check out the reviews for those books on Amazon and you’ll see what I’m talking about. It is soon plain that the people who enjoy these books and give them five stars aren’t what you and I would call readers. A typical Amazon review for a Jack Boardman book reads something like “Houston’s books are easy to read and the ideal choice if you are unable to read for very long at a time”. The true readers, the real readers – readers like you and me, Chief Inspector – these are the people who give those books one-star reviews.’

I smiled and shook my head.

‘What?’ asked Amalric.

‘It’s just that John – always sales-led – was never ever bothered by those one-star reviews. Most writers – me included – get very hung up by what’s written in the Amazon reviews. But John said that if you actually read the one-star reviews they’re almost always better written than the five-star reviews, and that these always reveal readers who were never the true target market for John’s books in the first place. He used to call this kind of reader a “mal-purchase”. His real market he insisted was the authors of the illiterate, badly spelt five-star reviews, which is of course a much larger number of people than the authors of the better-written ones.’

‘Interesting,’ said Amalric.

‘Perhaps. Anyway, I can’t quite bring myself to get down to that sort of level again – the reader as lowest common denominator. I expect I will do, eventually, when I need the money. But right now I’m just ploughing my own little
furrow and telling myself that a book which makes nothing but money is a poor book.’

This was another lie, of course; but writers lie for a living; at least, that’s a truth I’ve always believed.

‘How did Anderton take the news? And Hereward Jones?’

‘Badly. VVL’s shares nosedived on the news, as I expect you know. Lots of editors and marketing people lost their jobs. There was talk of a lawsuit against VVL and their bank by shareholders who felt that VVL had misled investors about John Houston’s future sales. There are still three more Houston books for them to publish, so I expect this year’s sales figures will hold up. But they can forget next year being any good. Especially now that John won’t be delivering
The Geneva Convention
. Or at least I assume he won’t be delivering it now that he’s suspected of murdering his wife. When I checked Bloomberg this afternoon I noticed that VVL shares had been marked down again.

‘As for Hereward, I imagine his situation is even bleaker. As someone who was earning between eight and ten million dollars a year in commission, he’ll be lucky if he makes a tenth of that now. I believe he’s had to sell his beautiful house in Ascot. Not to mention his famous Rolls-Royce.’

‘When Mr Houston told you that he was terminating the
atelier
and moving back to London, did he lead you to suppose he’d discussed it with his wife?’

‘It was all “I am going to do this” and “I am going to do that”. I don’t recall him mentioning Orla at all, except to make a disparaging remark about her hat-buying habit.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Oh yes. He said, “I’ve bought a house in St Leonard’s Terrace”, not “We’ve bought one”, which would have been rather more uxorious.’

Uxorious
: a word forbidden in John’s lexicon of banned words.

‘“We” is what a good husband would have said. On the other hand John always bought just what he wanted. He was quite impulsive when it came to spending. Recently he paid a million dollars for a watch. You probably read that in yesterday’s
Daily Mail
.’

‘Yes, an Hublot Black Caviar Bang, wasn’t it?’ said Amalric.

‘A million dollars for a watch,’ breathed Savigny.

‘Ridiculous, isn’t it?’ I said, but I could see Savigny didn’t agree and I knew I was looking at another man who would love to have owned a million-dollar watch. ‘He bought it with the film rights money for
The Prisoner of Kandahar
. At least that’s what he told the
Wall Street Journal
when they interviewed him.’

‘This was the novel which caused all the WikiLeaks fuss, wasn’t it?’ said Savigny. ‘With the coalition forces in Afghanistan.’

I nodded. ‘According to WikiLeaks the CIA used John’s book as the model for a Taliban prisoner swap in 2013. In John’s plot, the CIA is looking for a way to close Guantánamo without losing face; so they persuade an American sergeant to let himself be captured in Afghanistan in order that they can swap him for several top Taliban prisoners in Gitmo. Your guess is as good as mine just how much truth there was in that rumour. But he himself never commented on it. Like I say, he could be quite secretive about some things. Except with his accountants, of course. You might ask them some questions. Citroen Wells, in Devonshire Street, London. I believe they handle a lot of top writers.’

‘Do you think he might have been planning to return to London alone?’

‘That’s hard to say. I can’t imagine for a moment that Orla would have wanted to go along to Stamford Bridge with John – to see Chelsea Football Club. She hated football. Or to Lord’s to see the cricket. Not her scene at all. It was all too English for her. Even so, he never mentioned that he was unhappy with her. And she was a very beautiful woman after all.’

‘What about other women?’

‘Now you’re asking. John was always a busy man in the ladies’ department. He told me a joke once which I didn’t think was particularly funny since I was happily married at the time. If you’re married it’s a very subversive sort of joke. He said, “What do you call a man who is always faithful to his wife? Gay.” John thought that was very funny. But I think he really believes that. I’m certain he has girlfriends in places other than Monaco. There was a girl in New York I think he used to see when he was there; but I couldn’t give you a name, or an address. Probably one in Paris, too, but again I have no firm information about who she was or where she lived. I think I saw him with another woman in London, once. But he denied it afterward. John is highly compartmentalized. Which is entirely typical of the writer of course. I’ve yet to hear a better description of what it means to be a writer than the lyric from the song in the Bond movie of the same name: “You only live twice; once in your dreams and once in real life”. Works rather better than Bond’s failed attempt at a Basho-like haiku that’s in Fleming’s book, I think. And it’s a more or less perfect description of John Houston: a man who wrote one life and lived another – perhaps several others. I guess you’ll find out how many when you catch up with him. If you catch up with him.’

‘What about her?’ he asked. ‘Do you think she might have played around like he did?’

‘I really couldn’t say. She always struck me as a bit of an ice-maiden. You know, cold. I couldn’t ever imagine her flirting with anyone. But even if I could it’s my impression that the smallest country in the world would be a poor place to conduct a secret affair.’

‘Not the smallest,’ said Amalric, correcting me. ‘The Vatican City is smaller. And I don’t think that size ever stopped scandal there. Do you?’

I chuckled. ‘Maybe not.’

Sergeant Savigny came back to the table and sat down, smelling strongly of French cigarettes, which only made me want one; but I have a rule about smoking: unless in a situation of stress I only smoke when I am writing and only then when I am stuck. I don’t like my habits to become too much like a habit.

Amalric sat back in his chair and tugged at the end of his little beard.

‘It’s said that God never takes away something,’ he said after a moment or two, ‘without giving something better in its place. But not in this case. When Houston put an end to the
atelier
it seems everyone was a loser by his decision. Even him, perhaps, since he was obliged to hand back a cheque for twenty million. You, your fellow writers, the people at Veni, Vidi, Legi, the Houston office staff, shareholders, the publisher Mr Anderton, Mr Houston’s literary agent Here-ward Jones. Some of these people lost only their jobs; but some lost a great deal of money – or at least they didn’t make the money that they were quite sure they were going to make until Houston’s bombshell announcement. Which is almost the same thing. Of course, no one lost their life, unlike Mrs Houston; but I can’t help but feel her murder is connected with everything you have told me, Monsieur
Irvine. As a policeman I’ve come to the conclusion that the Bible is wrong; it’s the lack of money that’s the root of all evil.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps Mrs Houston didn’t want to accompany her husband back to London. Perhaps she liked living in Monaco.’

‘Anything is possible, I suppose.’

‘Perhaps that’s why he killed her,’ said Savigny.

‘Maybe.’

‘Was he a jealous man?’ Savigny was warming to his line of questioning.

‘John? No. Not at all. I have the impression that if he’d found out she was fucking someone else, he’d have been pleased.’

‘Pleased?’ Savigny was frowning. ‘How?’

‘It would have let him off the hook, that’s how. And of course he’d have forgiven her because, in his own way, he loved her. Love will hide a multitude of sins.’