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writer ought to be able to write anywhere. A standing desk hasn’t made me the writer Papa was, but then again it hasn’t done me any harm either: I couldn’t fall asleep at my desk when I was standing up or browse any online porn. Being on your feet all day – like a beat copper – burns calories, too, and there are already enough lard-arse writers around as it is.
    At lunchtime I wandered out onto the High Street and picked up a sandwich from Marks & Spencer; after eating it I had a short nap in my Eames chair, and then continued work until around 4.30. The phone did not ring again until almost six o’clock, which was a bit of a surprise; it was much more of a surprise to discover that it was the cops who were calling me.
    ‘Monsieur Irvine?’
    ‘Speaking.’
    ‘My name is Vincent Amalric and I am a chief inspector of police with the
Sûreté Publique
in Monaco. My Commissioner, Paul de Beauvoir, has ordered me to investigate the murder of Madame Orla Houston. I believe you knew her quite well, yes?’
    It was a masculine-sounding voice, masculine and very French; every few seconds there was a short pause and a quiet inhalation of breath, and I guessed he was smoking a cigarette. Cops should always smoke when they’re working on a case; not because it makes them look cool or anything but because a cigarette is the perfect baton for conducting an interrogation; it gives the smoker pause for thought and a pregnant pause for disbelief, and if all else fails you can always blow smoke in someone’s face or press it into your suspect’s eye.
    ‘I knew her.’
    ‘Tell me, monsieur – and forgive me for asking this so soonin our conversation – but has John Houston spoken to you recently?’
    ‘No, not for several weeks.’
    ‘An email, perhaps? A text?’
    ‘Nothing. I’m sorry.’
    ‘So. I am arriving in London on Saturday. My sergeant and I will be staying at Claridge’s.’
    ‘Very nice for you both. I can see that life as a policeman in Monaco has its rewards.’
    ‘Claridge’s is a nice hotel? Is this what you mean, monsieur?’
    ‘It’s probably the best hotel in London, Chief Inspector. Not quite as opulent as the Hermitage, perhaps, or the Hôtel de Paris, but probably as good as it gets in London.’
    ‘
Bon
. In which case I feel there could be no problem in me inviting you there for dinner next Monday evening. I was hoping that you might help me with my inquiries.’
    I could have pointed out that this was once a euphemism in English crime reporting – a phrase that implied a degree of guilt – but I felt this was hardly the time to help Chief Inspector Amalric with the subtleties of his English, which anyway was better than my French. Besides, the phrase seemed almost to have disappeared; these days the Metropolitan Police just arrested you and then tipped off the newspapers.
    ‘Certainly, Chief Inspector. At what time?’
    ‘Shall we say eight o’clock?’
    ‘Fine. I’ll be there. By the way, how did you get my telephone number?’
    ‘Your colleague Mike Munns gave us your contact details. We saw the article in today’s newspaper and spoke to him only a short while ago. He was most helpful. He said that ifwe spoke to anyone in London we should make sure that we spoke to you, since you have known Monsieur Houston the longest?’
    ‘Longer than Mike Munns, yes.’
    ‘And longer than his late wife, too?’
    ‘Oh yes. I’ve known John for more than twenty years. Since before he became a published author.’
    ‘Then I have just one more question for the present, sir. Is it possible you have some idea where Monsieur Houston might have gone?’
    ‘I’ve been thinking about that. I know he’d been working on a book in Switzerland but he didn’t think to tell me where and I didn’t ask. He had a largish boat, as I’m sure you know. The
Lady Schadenfreude
. And a plane at Mandelieu. A twin-engined King Air 350. With a plane like that he could have gone anywhere in Europe in