Читать книгу Super-Cannes - Ali Smith, Ali Smith - Страница 13

THE SPRINKLERS HAD fallen silent. All over the residential enclave there was the sound of mist rising from the dense foliage, almost a reverse rain returning to the clouds, time itself rushing backwards to that morning in May. As I left the house and walked towards my car I thought of David Greenwood. The conversation with Señora Morales had brought his presence alive for the first time. During the weeks since our arrival, as I lay by the pool or strolled around the silent tennis court, the young English doctor had been a shadowy figure, receding with his victims into the pre-history of Eden-Olympia.

Now Greenwood had returned and walked straight up to me. I slept in his bed, soaped myself in his bath, drank my wine in the kitchen where he prepared his breakfasts. More than mere curiosity about the murders nagged at my mind. I thought again of his friendship with Jane. Had we come to Eden-Olympia because she was still fond of the deranged young doctor, and curious about his motives?

I walked past the garage, aware that I had never been tempted to raise the roller doors. Rebuilt or not, this macabre space was a shrine to the four men who had died inside it. One day, when my knee was stronger, I would use the remote control now resting in a bowl on the kitchen table.

The Jaguar waited for me in the sun, its twin carburettors ready to do their best or worst. Starting this high-strung thoroughbred was a race between hope and despair. By contrast, thirty feet from me, was the Delages’ Mercedes, as black and impassive as the Stuttgart night, every silicon chip and hydraulic relay eager to serve the driver’s smallest whim.

Simone Delage stood beside it, briefcase in hand, dressed for a business meeting in dark suit and white silk blouse. She stared at the damaged wing of the Mercedes like a relief administrator gazing at the aftermath of a small earthquake. A sideswipe had scored the metal, stripping the chromium trim from the headlights to the passenger door.

For once, this self-possessed woman seemed vulnerable and uncertain. Her manicured hand reached towards the door handle and then withdrew, reluctant to risk itself on this failure of a comfortable reality. The car was as much an accessory as her snakeskin handbag, and she could no more drive a damaged Mercedes to a business meeting than appear before her colleagues in laddered stockings.

‘Madame Delage? Can I help?’

She turned, recognizing me with an effort. Usually we saw each other when we were both half-naked, she on her balcony and I beside the pool. Clothed, we became actors appearing in under-rehearsed roles. For some reason my tweed sports jacket and leather-thong sandals seemed to unnerve her.

‘Mr Sinclair? The car, it’s … not correct.’

‘A shame. When did it happen?’

‘Last night. Alain drove back from Cannes. Some taxi driver, a Maghrebian … he suddenly swerved. They smoke kief, you know.’

‘On duty? I hope not. I’ve seen quite a few damaged cars here.’ I pointed across the peaceful avenue. ‘The Franklyns, opposite. Your neighbour, Dr Schmidt. Do you think they’re targeted?’

‘No. Why?’ Uncomfortable in my presence, she hunted in her bag for a mobile phone. ‘I need to call a taxi.’

‘You can drive the car.’ Trying to calm her, I took the phone from her surprisingly soft hand. ‘The damage is superficial. Once you close the door you won’t notice it.’

‘I will, Mr Sinclair. I’m very conscious of these things. I have a meeting at the Merck building in fifteen minutes.’

‘If you wait for a taxi you’ll be late. I’m leaving now for Cannes. Why don’t I give you a lift?’

Madame Delage surveyed me as if I had offered my services as the family butler. My exposed big toes unsettled her, flexing priapically among the unswept leaves. She relaxed a little as she slid into the leather and walnut interior of the Jaguar. Unable to disguise her thighs in the cramped front seat, she beamed at me pluckily.

‘It’s quite an adventure,’ she told me. ‘Like stepping into a Magritte …’

‘He would have liked this car.’

‘I’m sure. It’s really a plane. Good, it goes.’

The carburettors had risen to the occasion. I reversed into the avenue, dominating the gearbox with a display of sheer will. ‘It’s kind of your husband to give Jane a lift to the clinic.’

‘It’s nothing. Already we’re very fond of her.’

‘I’m glad. She’s talked about getting a small motorcycle.’

‘Jane?’ Madame Delage smiled at this. ‘She’s so sweet. We love to hear her talk. So many schoolgirl ideas. Look after her, Mr Sinclair.’

‘I try to. So far, she’s been very happy here. Almost too happy – she’s totally involved with her work.’

‘Work, yes. But pleasure, too? That’s important, especially at Eden-Olympia.’ For all her armoured glamour, Simone Delage became almost maternal when she spoke of Jane. Her eyes followed the road towards the Merck building, but she was clearly thinking of Jane. ‘You must tell her to relax. Work at Eden-Olympia is the eighth deadly sin. It’s essential to find amusements.’

‘Sports? Swimming? Gym?’

Madame Delage shuddered discreetly, as if I had mentioned certain obscure bodily functions. ‘Not for Jane. All that panting and sweat? Her body would become …’

‘Too muscular? Would it matter?’

‘For Jane? Of course. She must find something that fulfils her. Everything is here at Eden-Olympia.’

I stopped under the glass proscenium of the Merck building, an aluminium-sheathed basilica that housed the pharmaceutical company, an architect’s offices and several merchant banks. Simone Delage waited until I walked around the car, as if opening the Jaguar’s door was a craft skill lost to Mercedes owners.

Before releasing the catch I rested my hands on the window ledge. ‘Simone, I meant to ask – did you know David Greenwood?’

‘A little. Dr Penrose said that you were friends.’

‘I met him a few times. Everyone agrees that he lived for other people. It’s hard to imagine him wanting to kill anyone.’

‘A terrible affair.’ She appraised me with the same cool eyes that had gazed at the Alpes-Maritimes, but I sensed that she welcomed my interest in Greenwood. ‘He worked too hard. It’s a lesson to us …’

‘In the days before the tragedy … Did you see him behave strangely? Was he agitated or –?’

‘We were away, Mr Sinclair. In Lausanne for a week. When we came back it was all over.’ She touched my hand, making a conscious effort to be friendly. ‘I can see you think a lot about David.’

‘True. Living in the same house, it’s hard not to be aware of what happened. Every day I’m literally moving in his footsteps.’

‘Perhaps you should follow them. Who knows where they can lead?’ She stepped from the car, a self-disciplined professional already merging into the corporate space that awaited her. She briefly turned her back to the building and shook my hand in a sudden show of warmth. ‘As long as you don’t buy a gun. You’ll tell me, Mr Sinclair?’

I was still thinking about Simone Delage’s words when I returned from Cannes with the London newspapers. I left my usual route across the business park and drove past the Merck building, on the off chance that she might have finished her meeting and be waiting for a lift home. In her oblique way she had urged me to pursue my interest in David Greenwood. Perhaps she had been more involved with David than I or her husband realized, and was waiting for a sympathetic outsider to expose the truth.

I parked the Jaguar outside the garage and let myself into the empty house, pausing involuntarily in the hall as I listened for the sounds of a young Englishman’s footsteps. The Italian maids had gone, and Señora Morales had moved on to another family in the enclave.

As I changed into my swimsuit I heard a chair scrape across the terrace below the bedroom windows. Assuming that Jane had called in briefly from the clinic, I made my way down the stairs. Through the porthole window on the half-landing I caught a glimpse of a man in a leather jacket striding across the lawn to the swimming pool. When I reached the terrace he was crouching by the doors of the pumphouse. I assumed that he was a maintenance engineer inspecting the chlorination system, and set off towards him, my stick raised in greeting.

Seeing me over his shoulder, he kicked back the wooden doors and turned to face me. He was in his late thirties, with a slim Slavic face, high temples and receding hairline, and a pasty complexion unimproved by the Riviera sun. Beneath the leather jacket his silk shirt was damp with sweat.

‘Bonjour … you’re having a nice day.’ He spoke with a strong Russian accent, and kept a wary eye on my walking stick. ‘Doctor –?’

‘No. You’re looking for my wife.’

‘Natasha?’

‘Dr Jane Sinclair. She works at the clinic.’

‘Alexei … very good.’

He was staring over my shoulder, but held me in his visual field, the trick of a military policeman. His smile exposed a set of lavishly capped teeth that seemed eager to escape from his mouth. Despite his sallow skin, imprinted with years of poor nutrition, he wore gold cufflinks and handmade shoes. I assumed that he was a Russian emigré, one of the small-time hoodlums and ex-police agents who were already falling foul of the local French gangsters.

He raised his hand as if to shake mine. ‘Dr Greenwood?’

‘He’s not here. Haven’t you heard?’

‘Heard nothing …’ He stared cannily at me. ‘Dr Greenwood live here? Alexei …’

‘Alexei? Listen, who are you? Get out of here …’

‘No …’ He moved around me, pointing to the scars on my injured legs, confident that I was too handicapped to challenge him. Burrs covered the sleeves of his jacket, suggesting that he had not entered Eden-Olympia through the main gates.

‘Look …’ I moved towards the terrace and the extension phone in the sun lounge. The Russian stepped out of my way, and then lunged forward and struck me with his fist on the side of my head. His face was cold and drained of all blood, lips clamped over his expensive teeth. I felt my ringing ear, steadied myself and seized him by the lapels. The three months I had spent in a wheelchair had given me a set of powerful arms and shoulders. My knees buckled, but as I fell to the grass I pulled him onto me, and punched him twice in the mouth.

He wrestled himself away from me, clambered to his feet and tried to kick my face. I gripped his right foot, wrenched his leg and threw him to the ground again. I began to punch his knees, but with a curse he picked himself up and limped away towards the avenue.

I lay winded on the grass, waiting for my head to clear. I fumbled for my walking stick, and found myself holding the Russian’s calf-leather shoe. Tucked under the liner was a child’s faded passport photograph.

‘Taking on intruders is a dangerous game, Mr Sinclair.’ Halder surveyed the diagram of scuff-marks on the lawn. ‘You should have called us.’

‘I didn’t have time.’ I sat in the wicker armchair, sipping the brandy that Halder had brought from the kitchen. ‘He knew I was on to him and lashed out.’

‘It would have been better to say nothing.’ Halder spoke in the prim tones of a traffic policeman addressing a feckless woman driver. He examined the leather shoe, fingering the designer label of an expensive store in the Rue d’Antibes. Voices crackled from the radio of his Range Rover, parked in the drive next to the Jaguar. Two security vehicles idled in the avenue, and the drivers strode around in a purposeful way, chests out and peaked caps down, hands over their high-belted holsters.

But Halder seemed unhurried. Despite his intelligence, there was a strain of pedantry in the make-up of this black security guard that he seemed to enjoy. He switched on his mobile phone and listened sceptically to the message, like an astronomer hearing a meaningless burst of signals from outer space.

‘Have they caught him yet?’ I poured mineral water onto a towel and bathed my head, feeling the bubbles sparkle in my hair. Surprisingly, I seemed more alert than I had been since arriving at Eden-Olympia. ‘He called himself Alexei. He shouldn’t be too difficult to find. A man strolling around with one shoe on.’

Halder nodded approvingly at my deductive powers. ‘He may have taken off the other shoe.’

‘Even so. A man in his socks? Besides, it’s an expensive shoe – welt-stitched. What about your surveillance cameras?’

‘There are four hundred cameras at Eden-Olympia. Scanning the tapes for a one-shoed man, or even a man in his socks, will take a great many hours of overtime.’

‘Then the system is useless.’

‘It may be, Mr Sinclair. The cameras are there to deter criminals, not catch them. Have you seen this Alexei before?’

‘Never. He’s like a pickpocket, hard to spot but impossible to forget.’

‘In Cannes? He may have followed you here.’

‘Why should he?’

‘Your Jaguar. Some people steal antique cars for a living.’

‘It’s not an antique. In a headwind it will outrun your Range Rover. Besides, he didn’t come on like a car buff. Not the kind we’re used to in England.’

‘This isn’t England. The Côte d’Azur is a tough place.’ Concerned for me, Halder reached out to pluck some damp grass from my hair, and then examined the blades in his delicate fingers. ‘Are you all right, Mr Sinclair? I can call an ambulance.’

‘I’m fine. And don’t worry Dr Jane. The man wasn’t as strong as I expected. He’s a small-time Russian hoodlum, some ex-informer or bookie’s runner.’

‘You put up a good fight. I’ll have to take you on my patrols. All the same, you’re still getting over your plane crash.’

‘Halder, relax. I’ve wrestled with some very tough physiotherapy ladies.’ I pointed to the faded passport-booth photo on the table. ‘This child – it looks like a girl of twelve. Is that any help? He mentioned the name “Natasha”.’

‘Probably his daughter back in Moscow. Forget about him, Mr Sinclair. We’ll find him.’

‘Who do you think he is?’

Halder stroked his nostrils, smoothing down his refined features, ruffled by the effort of dealing with me. ‘Anyone. He might even be a resident. You’ve been wandering around a lot. It makes people curious.’

‘Wandering? Where?’

‘All over Eden-Olympia. We thought you were getting bored. Or looking for company.’

‘Wandering …?’ I gestured at the wooded parkland. ‘I go for walks. What’s the point of all this landscape if no one sets foot on it?’

‘It’s more for show. Like most things at Eden-Olympia.’

Halder stood with his back to me, searching the upstairs windows, and I could see his reflection in the glass doors of the sun lounge. He was smiling to himself, a strain of deviousness that was almost likeable. Behind the brave and paranoid new world of surveillance cameras and bulletproof Range Rovers there probably existed an old-fashioned realm of pecking orders and racist abuse. Except for Halder, all the security personnel were white, and many would be members of the Front National, especially active among the pieds-noirs in the South of France. Yet Halder was always treated with respect by his fellow guards. I had seen them open the Range Rover’s door for him, an act of deference that he accepted as his due.

Curious about his motives, I asked: ‘What made you come to Eden-Olympia?’

‘The pay. It’s better here than Nice Airport or the Palais des Festivals.’

‘That’s a good enough reason. But …’

‘I don’t look the type? Too many shadows under the eyes? The wrong kind of suntan?’ Halder stared at me almost insolently. ‘Or is it because I read Scott Fitzgerald?’

‘Halder, I didn’t say that.’ I waited for him to reply, watching while he twisted the Russian’s shoe in his hands, as if wringing the neck of a small mammal. When he nodded to me, accepting that he had tried to provoke me, I turned my bruised ear towards the intercom chatter. ‘I meant that it might be too quiet here. Your men have a job pretending to be busy. Apart from this man Alexei, there doesn’t seem to be any crime at Eden-Olympia.’

‘No crime?’ Halder savoured the notion, smirking at its naivety. ‘Some people would say that crime is what Eden-Olympia is about.’

‘The multinational companies? All they do is turn money into more money.’

‘Could be … so money is the ultimate adult toy?’ Halder pretended to muse over this. He was intrigued by the stout defence I had put up against the intruder, but my excited sleuthing irritated him, and he was clearly relieved when the guards in the avenue walked up to the wrought-iron gate and signalled the all-clear.

‘Right…’ Halder glanced around the garden and prepared to leave. ‘Mr Sinclair, we’ll be stepping up patrols. No need for Dr Jane to worry. The Russian must have gone.’

‘Why? He could be sitting by any one of a hundred pools here. He’s looking for David Greenwood – he didn’t even know the poor man was dead.’

‘So he went back to Moscow for a few months. Or he doesn’t watch television.’

‘Why would he want to see Greenwood?’

‘How can I say?’ Wearily, Halder tried to disengage himself from me. ‘Dr Greenwood worked at the methadone clinic in Mandelieu. Maybe he gave the Russian a shot of something he liked.’

‘Did Greenwood do that kind of thing?’

‘Don’t all doctors?’ Halder touched my shoulder in a show of sympathy. ‘Ask your wife, Mr Sinclair.’

‘I’ll have to. How well did you know Greenwood?’

‘I met him. A decent type.’

‘A little highly strung?’

‘I wouldn’t say so.’ Halder picked up the Russian’s shoe. He stared at the blurred photograph of the girl, rubbing her face with his thumb. ‘I liked him. He got me my job.’

‘He killed ten people. Why, Halder? You look as if you know.’

‘I don’t. Dr Greenwood was a fine man, but he stayed too long at Eden-Olympia.’

I stood by the pool’s edge, and searched the deep water. The strong sunlight had stirred up an atlas of currents that cast their shadows across the tiled floor, but I could see the wavering outline of the silver coin below the diving board. Behind me the sprinkler began to spray the lawn, soaking the pillows of the chairs that Halder had moved in his hunt for evidence. The grass still bore the marks of colliding heels, the diagram of a violent apache dance. The raw divots reminded me of the Russian’s frightened body, the reek of his sweat and the sharp burrs on his leather jacket.

I left the pool and retraced the Russian’s steps to the pumphouse. The wooden doors had jumped their latch, exposing the electric motor, heater and timing mechanism. The cramped space was filled with sacks of pool-cleaner, the chlorine-based detergent that Monsieur Anvers poured into the loading port. Twice each day the soft powder diffused across the water, forming milky billows that dissolved the faint residues of human fat along the water-line.

I ran my hand over the nearest wax-paper sack. Its industrial seals were unbroken, but a stream of powder poured onto the floor from a narrow tear. Sitting down, my legs stretched out in front of me, I gripped the sack and pulled it onto the cement apron. A second vent, large enough to take a child’s index finger, punctured the heavy wrapper, and the cool powder flowed across my knees.

I tore away the paper between the holes, and slid my hand into the sticky grains. They deliquesced as I exposed them to the sunlight, running between my fingers to reveal a bruised silver nugget like a twisted coin. I cleaned away the damp powder, and stared down at the deformed but unmistakable remains of a high-velocity rifle bullet.

I upended the sack and let the powder flow across the apron. A second bullet lay between my knees, apparently of the same calibre and rifling marks, crushed by its impact with a hard but uneven structure.

I laid the bullets on the ground and reached into the pumphouse, running my hands over the remaining sacks. Their waxed wrappers were unbroken, and the pumping machinery bore no signs of bullet damage. I assumed that the stock of detergent had remained here when the pool motor was switched off after David Greenwood’s death. Restarting the motor a few days before our arrival, Monsieur Anvers had decided to leave the punctured sack where it lay.

I turned to the wooden doors, feeling the smoothly painted panels, fresh from a builder’s warehouse. The chromium hinges were bright and unscratched, recently reset in the surrounding frame. With my hand I brushed away the loose grains of powder and felt the apron beside the doors. The smooth cement had been faintly scored by a rotating abrader, and the steel bristles had left small whorls in the hard surface, as if carefully erasing a set of stains or scorch-marks.

I felt the bullets between my fingers, guessing that they had not been deformed by their impact with the pine doors or the detergent sack. A larger object, with a bony interior, had absorbed the full force of the bullets. Someone, security guard or hostage, had collapsed against the pumphouse doors, and had then been shot at close range, either by himself or others.

I listened to the cicadas in the Yasudas’ garden, and watched the dragonflies flitting around the tennis court. According to Wilder Penrose, the three hostages had been killed inside the garage. I imagined the brief gun-battle that had taken place near the house, as David Greenwood made his final stand against the security guards and gendarmes. He had murdered the hostages in an act of despair, and then sat down against the pumphouse, ready to kill himself, staring for the last time at the skies of the Côte d’Azur as the police marksmen approached.

But no one, holding a rifle to his own chest, a thumb outstretched to the trigger guard, could shoot himself twice. Whoever the victim, an execution had taken place beside the swimming pool of this quiet and elegant house.

A Range Rover of the security force cruised the avenue, and the driver saluted me as he passed. I stood outside the garage, the remote control unit in my hand. The doors rolled noiselessly, and light flooded the interior, a space for three cars with wooden shelves along the rear wall.

For all Penrose’s assurance that the garage had been rebuilt, the original structure remained intact. The concrete floor had been laid at least three years earlier, and was slick with engine oil that had dripped from some of the most expensive cars on the Côte d’Azur. Cans of antifreeze stood on the shelves, along with bottles of windscreen fluid and an Opel Diplomat owner’s manual.

I carefully searched the floor, and then examined the walls and ceiling for any traces of gunfire. I tried to imagine the hostages trussed together, squinting at the light as Greenwood entered the garage for the last time. But there were no bullet holes, no repairs to the concrete pillars, and no hint that the floor had been cleaned after an execution.

Almost certainly the three men, the luckless chauffeurs and maintenance engineer, had died elsewhere. At least one of them, I suspected, had been shot in the garden, sitting with his back to the doors of the pumphouse.

I closed the garage and rested against the warm roof of the Jaguar. It was a little after six o’clock, and the first traffic was leaving Cannes for the residential suburbs of Grasse and Le Cannet. But Eden-Olympia was silent, as the senior executives and their staffs remained at their workstations. Jane had asked me to collect her from the clinic at 7.30, when the last of her committee meetings would end.

A fine sweat covered my arms and chest as I walked back to the garden, a fear reaction to the garage. I had expected a chamber of horrors, but the ordinariness of the disused space had been more disturbing than any blood-stained execution pit.

I stripped off my shirt and stood by the diving board. Calming myself, I stared down at the dappled floor, a serene and sun-filled realm that existed only in the deeps of swimming pools. A water spider snatched at a drowning fly, and then skied away. As the surface cleared, I saw the bright node of the coin, a gleaming eye that waited for me.

I dived into the pool, broke through the foam and filled my lungs, then turned onto my side and dived again towards the silver pearl.