‘He won’t. I’m almost certain of that. If he has decided to disappear he certainly wouldn’t need my help. The man can manage on his own.’
I sipped my champagne and surveyed the starters as they arrived at the table.
‘You see, John’s a clever man, Chief Inspector. Very well read. Independently minded. Highly resourceful. He was always good at accumulating esoteric, sometimes forbidden wisdom. He prided himself on getting the facts right so that the books could seem more plausible. He said he didn’t care if anyone faulted his style just as long as they weren’t able to fault his facts. Facts were what he wanted. Painstaking, solid research was the part of the writing process that John really enjoyed. He knew everything from how to manufacture ricin, to the best place to buy an illegal assault rifle. That’s Poland, in case you’re interested. In Gdansk you can put in an order for a new Vepr and within the hour have one delivered to your hotel. That’s why so many people read his books, Chief Inspector. Not because they seem authentic but because they are authentic. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?’
Savigny nodded. ‘That’s right, sir.’
‘John used to offer ten thousand bucks to anyone who could fault his research. To this date that money is unclaimed. Oh, he had the odd letter from some nutter claiming the money, but John was always able to write back and point out just where his correspondent was incorrect. No, he’s quite a character, is John. If he doesn’t want to be found you might have a hard job finding him.’
I winced a little as I heard myself saying this; it sounded very like some bullshit I’d read on the overheated blurb of the last Jack Boardman: You won’t find him unless he wants you to find him.
Amalric nodded. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Mais il faut cultiver notre jardin.’
I nodded, recognizing this, the last line from Voltaire’s Candide. ‘Yes, of course. You are only doing your job. I understand that.’
‘You know, so far you are the only one who talks about Monsieur Houston as if he might be innocent. We have spoken to his agent, Hereward Jones, his publisher, Monsieur Anderton, Monsieur Munns of course, and his first wife, Madame Sheldrake.’
‘You’ve been busy.’
‘And you are the only one who gives him the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Maybe they know more about what happened than I do.’ I shrugged. ‘Which is only what was on television.’
‘Then let me tell you what we do know. I’d show you some photographs only it might put you off your food.’
I shook my head. ‘I was a soldier in Northern Ireland. Blood doesn’t bother me. At least not any more. Believe me, there’s nothing you could show me that could ever put me off a free dinner at Claridge’s.’
Amalric nodded at Savigny, who reached down to his case and took out an iPad. A few seconds later I was looking at a digital slideshow of the Odéon crime scene: two dead dogs, and a woman — Orla — who might almost have been asleep but for the black and ragged hole in the centre of her Botoxed forehead.
Meanwhile Amalric explained exactly what was known; or at least exactly what was known that he wanted me to know.
‘A week last Friday night, Mr and Mrs Houston had dinner at Joël Robuchon, where they were regulars.’
‘Somewhere else I can’t afford.’
Amalric nodded. ‘While they were there they argued. It was a violent argument. Blows were exchanged. The maître d’ at the restaurant says that Mr Houston twisted his wife’s ear. The doorman says that Mrs Houston hit him with her bag. Soon after this they left, with Mrs Houston in tears. He drove them back to the Tour Odéon in her cream Ferrari. At around 10.30 Mrs Houston took a sleeping pill and they went to bed. Then, sometime between midnight and six o’clock that morning, she was shot at point-blank range in the forehead while she lay in bed. We think he probably got out of bed, fetched a gun and shot her while she was asleep. There’s a burn mark on the skin of her forehead.’
‘There’s no exit wound,’ I remarked. ‘On the news they said it was a nine-millimetre. Only that can’t be right. But for the fact that I know this woman I might say it almost looks like a neat job. There’s hardly a hair out of place on this body. A nine-mill bullet would certainly have blown off the back of her skull, not to mention the fact that the pillow would have been covered in blood.’ I shrugged. ‘By the way, that’s the writer in me talking, not the murder suspect. Just so you know.’
‘You’re right,’ said Amalric. ‘It wasn’t a nine-millimetre pistol that killed her.’
Amalric glanced over the top of the iPad and, with a neatly manicured finger, moved the picture on to a shot of a smallish pistol. ‘That’s a Walther 22-calibre automatic,’ he said. ‘The same kind of gun that probably shot Mrs Houston. Mr Houston bought just such a gun in Monaco six months ago. We think it was probably bought for and owned by her. It’s now the only gun missing from what was, after all, a substantial gun cabinet.’
I glanced again at the dead dogs, where considerably more blood was in evidence. It looked like a photograph from a press ad for the RSPCA.
‘The Walther has a ten-shot magazine,’ said Amalric. ‘He used four more shots on the dogs, possibly to silence them, I don’t know.’
‘Four shots? Then I’d say whoever shot the dogs enjoyed it.’
‘Why do you say so, monsieur?’
‘They were small dogs. Two shots for each one. That’s a little excessive. Like he was making sure they were dead. But to be quite frank with you, I think he might have enjoyed it, because I know that I would have enjoyed it. Those two dogs were a bloody nuisance. Not just the noise they made. But the hair they left on your clothes. Nor were they properly house-trained. John was always stepping on the crap they left around the house. It used to drive him mad that they weren’t properly house-trained and so he did his best to have nothing to do with them.’
‘I thought all English people love dogs,’ said Amalric.
‘Whatever gave you that idea? Anyway, I’m Scottish. And I thought they were a bloody nuisance.’
‘Then perhaps the real motive behind her murder was to kill the dogs,’ said Savigny. ‘The husband shoots the wife because he really wants to shoot the dogs.’
Amalric shot him an impatient sort of look.
‘Stranger things have happened,’ said the younger policeman.
Amalric shrugged. ‘At about 8.30 on Saturday morning the concierge knocked on Houston’s door and gave him the English newspapers. According to him Houston seemed quite normal. Neither Mr nor Mrs Houston was seen all day, but that wasn’t unusual. At around 5.30 in the evening Houston left the building on foot. He was out until about 7.30. He remained in the Tower until about midnight, when he went away in his Range Rover. He hasn’t been seen since. Meanwhile the body of Mrs Houston was found on Tuesday morning by the maid.’
‘Why not suicide?’ I asked.
‘The dogs, monsieur. Why would she kill her own pet dogs?’
‘If she was going to kill herself she might have reasoned that John wasn’t likely to care for them himself. I’ve already told you about those dogs; he was none too fond.’
‘And the sleeping pill? How do you explain that?’
‘She takes a pill out of habit before she decided to do it. And maybe she shoots herself in bed in order to embarrass her husband. To put him in a tight spot, if you like.’
‘For what reason?’
‘John would have given her plenty of reasons. Other women, perhaps. He was always a bit of a pussy-hound.’
Savigny frowned and spoke in French to Amalric, who provided what I presumed was the translation; my French isn’t bad but the Chief Inspector was too quick for me.
Savigny smiled. ‘It’s an interesting theory but for one thing: the gun is missing.’
‘I see. But that still doesn’t rule out suicide. Not entirely. How about this, for example? John takes the gun when he finds out that Orla has killed herself. He takes it because it’s his gun. Or at least one he’d purchased. I’m not sure if he owned a Walther 22, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised. He owned quite a few weapons.’