‘Good.’ I picked up the Tumi bag and collected the car keys off the table. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘You do that, old sport. If I’m not here I’ll be at one of those bars on the Place de la Libération.’
Chapter 10
I walked back to the square in front of the church where we had left the Bentley and found some small boys next to it, taking pictures of themselves. One of them even crouched down near the exhaust and filmed the start-up on his mobile phone. Tourrettes wasn’t like Monaco where expensive cars are ten-a-penny; it was altogether smaller and much less glamorous; to that extent it reminded me of Cornwall.
I smiled kindly, steered the car carefully away from the busy square and drove north onto the Route de Saint-Jean and then up the narrow, dry-stoned road that was Route du Caire, in the direction of Phil’s villa. Once or twice I had to move quickly into the side as a van driven by some mad local came hurtling down the road the opposite way. There was no street-lighting, since this was rural France, but there were several houses along the way providing just enough illumination to help me navigate. Soon after the hacienda-style entrance of the Hôtel Résidence des Chevaliers on my right, the road narrowed even further until at the top of the hill, on the left, the Bentley’s headlights picked out a rusting metallic sign that read ‘Le VILLA SEUREL, Propriété privée’; next to this was another sign from Immobilière Azuréenne which read ‘À Vendre’. I steered the car through an open gate and up a narrow twisting drive. Ill-kempt bushes brushed the dusty blue doors of the Bentley as the car crawled up a steep hill until the ground beneath the twenty-one-inch wheels flattened and widened and I was turning onto a gravel parking area in front of a two-storey cream house with pale green shutters. I turned off the engine, collected the Tumi bag off the passenger seat and stepped out of the car to find Philip French standing behind a zigzag wall with a glass of wine in one hand and a roll-up in the other.
‘Where’s John?’
‘I thought it best if I came up here on my own,’ I said. ‘Things being what they are between the two of you it seemed best to avoid a scene.’
‘That’s all we’ve ever had — he and I. He’d think of a scene and I’d write it. Today, in the car park at the Saint-Martin was the first conversation we’ve ever had about something real.’
‘He’s not so bad. He didn’t kill her, you know. He really is an innocent man.’
‘I couldn’t give a fuck if he killed her or not. Since I never met her I have no feelings about the woman one way or the other.’
‘Phil. That’s not worthy of you.’
‘Come to do his dirty work, have you?’
‘Not at all.’
‘I hope you brought the money, for his sake.’
French turned on his heel and walked back onto the terrace, and as I followed him I noticed a strong smell of marijuana in the air.
The house occupied a good space at the top of a hill that provided uninterrupted views of the countryside to the south and probably the sea as well. The garden was not overlooked by anyone or anything as far as I could see, and about the only thing that gave a clue as to the parlous state of the owner’s finances was the empty swimming pool and a second immobilière’s sign that had been placed behind a garden shed, only this one read ‘À Louer’. A wrought-iron balcony ran the length of the front of the house, and underneath this was a refectory-style table on which sat a wine-box, a couple of glasses, some cigarette papers and next to a Rizla rolling machine a plastic bag containing tobacco and whatever else you needed to make a joint these days.
‘Nice place you have here,’ I said.
He smiled and I saw that his teeth were not in the best condition; they were the colour of the keys on an old piano. He was a thin man, even a little cadaverous, with skin as thin as the Rizla papers on his joints.
‘How many square metres have you got?’
‘It’s 4,400 square metres of mostly olive grove. Originally we were going to make our own olive oil, but that was another pipe dream down a long borehole of pipe dreams.’
‘But a great place for writing, I’d have thought.’
‘It might be, if I had anything to write. But I’m all written out, Don. I fear my days of writing anything other than some newlywed’s bloody lunch order are over.’ Phil took a deep drag on the roll-up and I noticed he was still wearing John’s Hublot watch. It stood up from his racket-shaft of a wrist like the lid on an Aga cooker.
‘Yes, I know what you mean. Now that we no longer have John’s outlines to work from I’ve found it hard to get going again myself.’
Phil smiled a cynical smile. ‘Sure. Whatever you say, Don.’
‘Look, Phil, I don’t recall there being any bad blood between you and me. I always did my best for all the guys in the atelier. Perhaps you didn’t know, but it was me who persuaded John to give you that redundo money. He needn’t have given any of us any money at all, since we were all technically self-employed. But if you’re going to behave like a cunt I’ll fuck off now and save us both the emotional energy of an argument. Frankly I’ve got enough on my plate dealing with John without you as well.’
French nodded sullenly and took an asthmatic drag on the joint he was smoking as if he was hoping it might provide some actual nourishment. He looked as if he could have eaten a good meal.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. And where are my manners? Would you like a drink?’
I nodded.
Phil fetched a glass of red from the wine box and handed it to me.
‘Where is he, anyway?’ he asked.
‘Actually, he’s drunk. I left him back at the Château Saint-Martin sleeping it off. The way he’s been drinking, this might easily have become more unpleasant than it needs to be.’
‘I’m sorry about this afternoon. I don’t regret pinching his watch, but I do regret being so rude to you, Don.’
‘Forget about it.’
I tasted the wine, which wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked.
‘You’re selling the house?’ I said, changing the subject.
‘Have to. Unfortunately my missus left before I could murder her like John murdered his. Lucky bugger. But now she wants her half. Only the property market in this part of the world is fucked now that the socialists are in and screwing the last penny in taxes out of everyone. So, no one’s interested. No one wanted to rent it. No one wants to buy it.’ He looked at the huge watch on his wrist and smiled a fake sort of smile. ‘Until I got this little gewgaw I was actually thinking of applying for the Society of Authors’ hardship fund so that I could afford the fucking ticket home.’
‘And now that you have that watch, what will you do?’
‘Flog it, of course. See what I can get for it in Monaco if I can find out where he bought the thing. I’ve got a day off tomorrow so I figured to check that out on the internet.’
‘Ciribelli,’ I said. ‘That’s the name of the shop where he bought it. Actually there are three stores, but your best bet is probably the one in the Hôtel de Paris.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’ He frowned. ‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Listen, Don, under the circumstances I’m the last person to give anyone advice on their behaviour. But do you know what you’re doing? Since I moved down here I’ve met a few French cops, and they play rougher than our own boys in blue. Aiding and abetting a man who’s wanted for murder and all that; you’re taking a bit of a risk, aren’t you? If the police nick you, they’ll throw the book at you. Not to mention the desk it was resting on. This is a high-profile case. It’s been all over The Riviera Times and Nice-Matin.’
‘I know. But I figure it’s worth the risk. You see I’m not actually helping John. He only thinks I’m helping him. I’ve got plans of my own.’