Research by Philip Kerr Read Free Book Online

they called him? The Mies van der Rohe of the modern novel; because form follows function and ornament is a crime. The novelist of the machine age; that was another thing they called him. John loved that. He thought that was a compliment. I told him it wasn’t but he insisted it was, even though they meant it to be insulting. He had that page framed and hung on his office wall. And as a quote on some of his publicity. He was very good at creating publicity.’
    ‘In the last forty-eight hours he’s had more of that than perhaps even he could have bargained for,’ said Amalric. ‘With his face on the front of so many newspapers it won’t be long before we find him. So it would be better for Monsieur Houston if he were to turn himself in. I’m only saying this in case he does decide to get in touch with you.’
    ‘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 beenasleep but for the black and ragged hole in the centre of her Botoxed forehead.
    Meanwhile Amalric explained exactly what was known; or at least