A Foreign Country

24

Kell knocked quietly on the door of 1214, heard nothing back, slipped the card key into the slot and stepped into François Malot’s room.

A smell of shower gel and scorching sea air; a door had been left open on to a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean. Kell moved quickly in the heat, noting the open safe, the 35mm camera on a side table, a carton of Silver Lucky Strike, a gold cigarette lighter engraved with the initials ‘P.M.’, presumably for ‘Philippe Malot’. Propped up on a table on the right-hand side of the double bed was a framed photograph of Malot’s parents, smiling for the camera, not a care in the world.

A passport was lying on the bedspread. French, well worn, biometric. Kell opened it up. A nine-digit code was perforated into the bottom of each page; he scribbled the number down on a piece of paper and stuffed it into his back pocket. Kell then turned to the identity page which listed Malot’s second name — Michel — his date of birth, the date of issue of the passport, his height, his eye colour and an address in Paris. On subsequent pages there were stamps for entry at JFK, Cape Town and Sharm-el-Sheikh, the last dated three weeks earlier. Kell photographed everything twice, checking that the flash had not reflected on the plastic seal. He then closed the passport and put it back on the bedspread.

Beside the framed photograph was a roman policier — a French translation of Ratking — as well as a wristwatch and a Moleskine diary. Kell photographed each page from January to the end of September, again checking the screen to ensure that the entries were legible. Though he knew that Malot was still miles away in La Goulette, this took time and his pulse was up. He wanted to move as quickly as possible. There was always the danger of a chambermaid stopping by to turn down the bed, even of a third-party guest with access to Malot’s room.

Next he went to the bathroom. Shaving products, dental floss, toothpaste. Inside a washbag Kell found several loose strips of pills: aspirin; chlorpheniramine, which he knew to be an antihistamine often used as a sleeping aid; St John’s Wort; a small bottle of Valium; insect repellent; a comb. No condoms.

Next he went through the pockets of Malot’s jeans, careful not to disturb the layout of the room. In a black leather jacket he found loose change, a Paris metro carnet and a soft packet of Lucky Strike. It was an identical process to that which he had undertaken in Amelia’s room, only now Kell felt a greater sense of the unknown, because he had no notion of Malot’s character beyond his recent bereavement and the obvious vanity he had displayed beside the pool. Under the bed he discovered a Gideon Bible, open at a page in Deuteronomy, and a small box of matches. Underneath the copy of Ratking was an envelope in which Kell found a letter, dated 4 February 1999, written by Malot’s father. Philippe’s handwriting was an illegible scrawl, but Kell photographed both sides of it and replaced the letter carefully in the envelope.

When he was satisfied that he had thoroughly checked the contents of the room, Kell went outside into the corridor, discovered a side staircase leading to an exit adjacent to the swimming pool, and walked back to the Valencia Carthage via the beach. He found the number for Elsa Cassani and called her direct on the Marquand mobile.

To his surprise, Elsa was still in Nice, ‘getting drunk and spending the money you gave me’ at a bar in the old town. Kell could hear rock music thumping in the background and experienced an odd beat of jealousy for the men who were enjoying her company. He assumed that she was talking to him from one of the quiet cobbled streets south of Boulevard Jean Jaurès.

‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to stop getting drunk,’ he told her. ‘More work to do.’

‘OK,’ she replied. If she was disappointed by this, she did not betray it. ‘What do you need me to do?’

‘Got something to write with?’

He listened as she scrabbled around in her bag, found a pen and a piece of paper and announced that she had discovered ‘a nice step to sit on and to take your dictation, Tom’. Kell began to flick through the images on his camera.

‘I need enhanced traces on François Malot. Has to be off the books, through your famous contacts, not via Cheltenham.’ It was an unusual request, but Kell wanted to avoid raising alarm bells with Marquand. ‘You have ways of checking people in France, right?’

A knowing pause. ‘Of course.’

‘Good. I’m going to need full-spectrum background. Bank accounts, telephone records, tax payments, schooling and diplomas, medical history, whatever you can find.’

‘Is that all?’

Kell wasn’t sure if Elsa’s question was evidence of sarcasm or over-confidence. He found one of the photographs of the passport and read out Malot’s full name, his date of birth, his address in Paris. He took the piece of paper on which he had scrawled the passport number and checked that Elsa had taken it down correctly. ‘He was in New York in January last year, Cape Town six months later, Sharm-el-Sheikh in July. I’m going to email you a series of photographs from his diary. I’ll look at them, too, but you may find something useful there. Telephone numbers, email addresses, appointments …’

‘Of course.’

‘One other thing. It looks as though he’s an IT consultant. Try to find out where he works. London had a JPEG of what looked like the Christmas party. I’ll send that too.’

‘When do you need all this by?’ Elsa asked. It sounded as though she was making a concerted effort not to sound overwhelmed.

‘As soon as possible,’ Kell replied. ‘You think you can pull it off?’

‘This is why people hire me.’