Читать книгу Super-Cannes - Ali Smith, Ali Smith - Страница 14

‘THEY’RE RIFLE BULLETS, steel-capped,’ I told Jane in her office at the clinic. ‘Probably fired from a military weapon. Two of them were in the pumphouse. The third I fished out of the pool an hour ago.’

Jane watched me as I leaned across her desk and placed the three bullets in her empty ashtray. Stolen from a pub in Notting Hill, the ashtray was a reassuring presence, proof that a small part of Jane’s rackety past still survived in this temple of efficiency.

Jane sat calmly in her white coat, dwarfed by a black leather chair contoured like an astronaut’s couch. She touched the bullets with a pencil, and raised a hand before I could speak.

‘Paul – take it easy.’

Already she was playing the wise daughter, more concerned about my adrenalin-fired nerviness than by the unsettling evidence I had brought. I remembered her under the roadside plane trees near Arles, calmly sucking a peach as the engine steamed and I rigged an emergency fan belt from a pair of her tights.

She prodded the bullets, moving them around the ashtray. ‘Are you all right? You should have called me. This Russian – what’s Halder playing at?’

‘I told him not to worry you. Believe me, I’ve never felt better. I could easily have run here.’

‘That’s what bothers me. The Russian didn’t hurt you?’

‘He brushed my shoulder, and I slipped on the grass.’

‘He spoke English?’

‘Badly. He said his name was Alexei.’

‘That’s something.’ Jane stood up and walked around the desk. Her small hands held my face, then smoothed my damp hair. She paused at the swollen bruise above my ear, but said nothing about the wound. ‘Why do you think he was Russian?’

‘It’s a guess. He mentioned someone called Natasha. Do you remember those touts near the taxi ranks at Moscow Airport? They had everything for sale – drugs, whores, diamonds, oil leases, anything except a taxi. There was something seedy about him in a small-time way. Poor diet and flashy dentistry.’

‘That doesn’t sound like Eden-Olympia.’ Jane pressed my head against her breast and began to explore my scalp. ‘Awful man – I can see he upset you. He might have been lost.’

‘He was looking for something. He thought I was David Greenwood.’

‘Why? There’s no resemblance. David was fifteen years younger …’ She broke off. ‘He can’t have met David.’

I rotated my chair to face Jane. ‘That’s the point. Why would David have any contact with a small-time Russian crook?’

Jane leaned against the desk, watching me in a way I had never seen before, less the tired house-doctor of old and more the busy consultant with an eye on her watch. ‘Who knows? Perhaps he was hoping to sell David a used car. Someone from the rehab clinic might have mentioned his name.’

‘It’s possible. Doctors doing charity work have to mix with a lot of riffraff.’

‘Apart from their husbands? Paul, these bullets – don’t get too involved with them.’

‘I won’t …’

I listened to the lift doors in the corridor as Jane’s colleagues left the clinic after their day’s work. Somewhere a dialysis machine moved through its cleaning cycle, emitting a series of soft grunts and rumbles, like a discreet indigestion. The clinic was a palace of calm, far away from the pumphouse and its bullet-riddled sack. I gazed through the cruise-liner windows at the open expanse of the lake. A deep shift in the subsoil sent a brief tremor across the surface, as a pressure surge moved through a ring main.

Proud of Jane, I said: ‘What an office – they obviously like you. Now I see why you want to spend your time here.’

‘It was David’s office.’

‘Doesn’t that feel …?’

‘Strange? I can cope with it. We sleep in his bed.’

‘Almost grounds for divorce. They should have moved you. Living in the same villa is weird enough.’ I gestured at the filing cabinets. ‘You’ve been through his stuff? Any hints of what went wrong?’

‘The files are empty, but some of his records are still on computer.’ Jane tapped a screen with her pencil. ‘The La Bocca case histories would make your hair curl. A lot of those Arab girls were fearfully abused.’

‘Thanks, I’d rather not see them. What about the children here? Is there a lot of work for you?’

‘Very little. There aren’t many children at Eden-Olympia. I don’t know why they needed a paediatrician. Still, it gives me a chance to work on something else. There’s a new project using the modem links to all the villas and apartments. Professor Kalman is keen that I get involved.’

‘Fine, as long as they don’t exploit you. Is it interesting?’

‘In an Eden-Olympia kind of way.’ Jane played distractedly with the bullets, as if they were executive worry-beads supplied to all the offices. ‘Every morning when they get up people will dial the clinic and log in their health data: pulse, blood-pressure, weight and so on. One prick of the finger on a small scanner and the computers here will analyse everything: liver enzymes, cholesterol, prostate markers, the lot.’

‘Alcohol levels, recreational drugs …?’

‘Everything. It’s so totalitarian only Eden-Olympia could even think about it and not realize what it means. But it might work. Professor Kalman is very keen on faecal smears, but I suspect that’s one test too far. He hates the idea of all that used toilet paper going to waste. The greatest diagnostic tool in the world is literally being flushed down the lavatory. How does it strike you?’

‘Mad. Utterly bonkers.’

‘You’re right. But the basic idea is sound. We’ll be able to see anything suspicious well in advance.’

‘So no one will ever get ill?’

‘Something like that.’ She turned and stared at the lake. ‘It’s a pity about the paediatrics. At times I feel all the children in the world have grown up and left me behind.’

‘Only at Eden-Olympia.’ I reached out and held her waist. ‘Jane, that’s sad.’

‘I know.’ Jane looked down at the bullets in her palm, seeing them clearly for the first time. She pressed them against her heart, as if calculating the effect on her anatomy, and with a grimace dropped them into the ashtray. ‘Nasty. Are you going to hand them in?’

‘To the security people? Later, when I’ve had time to think. Say nothing to Penrose.’

‘Why not? He ought to know.’ Jane held my wrist as I reached for the bullets. ‘Paul, stand back for a moment. You’d expect to find a few bullets in the garden. Seven people were killed. The guards must have been in a total panic, shooting at anything that moved. Stop putting yourself in David’s shoes.’

‘I’m trying not to. It’s difficult, I don’t know why. By the way, I’m sure David didn’t shoot the hostages in the garage. I had a careful look inside.’

‘But Penrose told us the garage had been rebuilt.’

‘It wasn’t. I’ll show you around.’

‘No thanks. I’ll stay with Professor Kalman at the colorectal end of things. So where did David shoot the hostages?’

‘In the garden. One probably died against the pumphouse doors. A second was shot in the pool.’

‘Bizarre. What was the poor man doing – swimming for help?’ Tired of talking to me, Jane rested her face in her hands. She tapped a computer keyboard, and a stream of numerals glimmered against her pale skin.

‘Jane …’ I held her shoulders, watching the screen as it threw up a list of anaesthetics. ‘I’m badgering you. Let’s forget about David.’

Jane smiled at this. ‘Dear Paul, you’re so wired up. You’re like a gun dog waiting for the beaters.’

‘There’s nothing else to think about. Lying by a swimming pool all day is a new kind of social deprivation. Let’s drive down to Cannes and have an evening on the town. Champagne cocktails at the Blue Bar, then an aïoli at Mère Besson. Afterwards we’ll go to the Casino and watch the rich Arabs pick out their girls.’

‘I like rich Arabs. They’re extremely placid. All right – but I have to go back and change.’

‘No. Come as you are. White coat and stethoscope. They’ll think I’m a patient having an affair with his glamorous young doctor.’

‘You are.’ Jane held my hands to her shoulders and rocked against me. ‘I need time to freshen up.’

‘Fine. I’ll get some air on the roof and bring the car round to the entrance in twenty minutes.’ I leaned across her and pointed to the computer screen. ‘What’s all this? I saw David’s initials.’

‘Eerie, isn’t it? You’re not the only one finding traces of the dead.’

‘“May 22” …’ I touched the screen. ‘That was a week before the murders. “Dr Pearlman, Professor Louit, Mr Richard Lancaster … 2.30, 3, 4 o’clock.” Who are these people?’

‘Patients David was seeing. Pearlman is chief executive of Ciba- Geigy. Lancaster is president of Motorola’s local subsidiary. Don’t think about shooting them – they’re watched over like royalty.’

‘They are royalty. There’s a second list here. But no times are given. When was it typed in?’

‘May 26. It’s a list of appointments waiting to be scheduled.’

‘But David was a paediatrician. Do all these people have children?’

‘I doubt if any of them do. David spent most of his time on general duties. Paul, let’s go. You’ve seen enough.’

‘Hold on.’ I worked the mouse, pushing the list up the page. ‘“Robert Fontaine … Guy Bachelet.” They were two of the victims.’

‘Poor bastards. I think Fontaine died in the main administration building. Alain Delage took over from him. Does it matter?’

‘It slightly changes things. Only two days beforehand David was reminding himself to arrange their appointments. A strange thing to do if he planned to kill them. Jane …?’

‘Sorry, Paul.’ Jane switched off the screen. ‘So much for the conspiracy theory.’

I turned away and stared across the lake, expecting another seismic shudder. ‘He was still booking them in for their check-ups. All that cholesterol to be tested, all those urinalyses. Instead, he gets up early in the morning, and decides to shoot them dead …’

Jane patted my cheek. ‘Too bad, Paul. So the brainstorm theory is right after all. You’ll have to go back to the sun-lounger, and all that deprivation …’

Waving to the night staff, I walked through the foyer of the clinic to the car-park entrance. As the lift carried me to the top floor I stared at my dishevelled reflection in the mirror, part amateur detective with scarred forehead and swollen ear – the price of too much keyhole work – and part eccentric rider of hobby-horses. As always, Jane was right. I had read too much into the three bullets and the intact garage. A nervy gendarme searching the garden might have fired into the pumphouse when the engine switched to detergent mode, startling him with its subterranean grumblings. The rifle round in the pool could have richocheted off the rose pergola and been kicked into the water by a passing combat boot. The hostages had probably died in the avenue, shot down by Greenwood as they made a run for it. Wilder Penrose’s description of events, the official story released to the world by the press office at Eden-Olympia, was not to be taken literally.

The lift doors opened onto the roof, empty except for the Jaguar. The medical staff and visiting senior executives left their cars on the lower floors, but I always enjoyed the clear view over La Napoule Bay, and the gentle, lazy sea that lay like a docile lover against the curved arm of the Esterel.

I leaned on the parapet, inhaling the scent of pines and the medley of pharmaceutical odours that emerged from a ventilation shaft. I was thinking of Jane and her new office when I heard a shout from the floors below, a muffled cry of protest followed by the sound of a blow struck against human bone. A second voice bellowed abuse in a pidgin of Russian and Arabic.

I stepped to the inner balustrade and peered into the central well, ready to shout for help. Two Eden-Olympia limousines were making their way down the circular ramp. The chauffeurs stopped their vehicles on the third level, slipped from their driving seats and opened the rear doors, giving their passengers a ringside view of the ugly tableau being staged in an empty parking space.

A Senegalese trinket salesman knelt on the concrete floor in his flowered robes, beads and bangles scattered around him. Despite the dim light, I could see the streaming bruises on his face, and the blood dripping onto a plastic wallet filled with cheap watches and fountain pens. A dignified man with a small beard, he tried to gather together his modest wares, as if knowing that he would have little to show for the day’s work. Patiently he retrieved a tasselled mask that lay between the booted heels of the security guards who were beating a thickset European in a cheap cream suit. The victim was still on his feet, protesting in Russian-accented French as he warded off the truncheon blows with his bloodied hands. Their blue shirts black with sweat, the three guards manoeuvred him into the corner and then released a flurry of blows that sank him to his knees.

I turned away, dazed by the violence, and then shouted to the executives watching from their cars. But they were too engrossed to notice me. Sitting by the open doors of the limousines, they were almost Roman in their steely-eyed calm, as if watching the punishment of a slacking gladiator. I recognized Alain Delage, the bespectacled accountant who gave Jane a lift to the clinic. He and the other executives were dressed in leather jackets zipped to the neck, like members of an Eden-Olympia bowling club.

The beatings ended. I listened to the Russian coughing as he leaned against the wall, trying to wipe the blood from his suit. Satisfied, the security men holstered their truncheons and stepped back into the darkness. Starter-motors churned and the limousines swung towards the exit, carrying away the audience from this impromptu piece of garage theatre.

I gripped the balustrade and limped down the ramp, searching the lift alcoves for a telephone that would put me through to the emergency medical team. The African was now on his feet, straightening his torn robes, but the Russian sat in his corner, head swaying as he gasped for air.

I circled the ramp above them, trying to attract their attention, but a uniformed figure stepped from behind a pillar and barred my way.

‘Mr Sinclair … be careful. The floors are hard. You’ll hurt yourself.’

‘Halder?’ I recognized his slate-pale face. ‘Did you see all that …?’

Halder’s strong hand gripped my elbow and steadied me when I slipped on the oily deck. His aloof eyes took in my lumbering gait, assessing whether I was drunk or on drugs, but his face was without expression, any hint of judgement erased from its refined features.

‘Halder – your men were there. What exactly is going on?’

‘Nothing, Mr Sinclair.’ Halder spoke soothingly. ‘A small security matter.’

‘Small? They were beating the balls off those men. They need medical help. Call Dr Jane on your radio.’

‘Mr Sinclair …’ Halder gave up his attempt to calm me. ‘It was a disciplinary incident, nothing to concern you. I’ll help you to your car.’

‘Hold on …’ I pushed him away from me. ‘I know how to walk. You made a mistake – that wasn’t the Russian I saw this morning.’

Halder nodded sagely, humouring me as he tapped the elevator button. ‘One Russian, another Russian … examples have to be made. We can’t be everywhere. This is the dark side of Eden-Olympia. We work hard so you and Dr Jane can enjoy the sun.’

‘The dark side?’ I propped the door open with my foot and waited for Halder to meet my eyes. ‘Away from the tennis courts and the swimming pools you hate so much? I wouldn’t want to spend too much time there.’

‘You don’t need to, Mr Sinclair. We do that for you.’

‘Halder …’ I lowered my voice, which I could hear echoing around the dark galleries. ‘That was a hell of a beating your men handed out.’

‘The Cannes police would be a lot harder on them. We were doing them a favour.’

‘And the parked limousines? Alain Delage and the other bigwigs were watching the whole thing. Wasn’t that just a little over the top? It looked as if it was staged for them.’

Halder nodded in his over-polite way, waiting patiently to send me and the lift towards the roof. ‘Maybe it was. Some of your neighbours at Eden-Olympia have … advanced tastes.’

‘So … it was arranged? Carefully set up so you could have your fun?’

‘Not us, Mr Sinclair. And definitely not me.’ He stepped away from the lift, saluted and strode down the ramp, heels ringing on the concrete.

I settled myself in the Jaguar and inhaled the evening air. The scent of disinfectant and air-conditioning suddenly seemed more real than the sweet tang of pine trees. I felt angry but curiously elated, as if I had stepped unharmed from an aircraft accident that had injured my fellow-passengers. The sweat and stench of violence quickened the air and refocused the world.

Without starting the engine, I released the hand-brake and freewheeled the Jaguar along the ramp. I was tempted to run Halder down, but by the time I passed him the Russian and the Senegalese had gone, and the scattered beads lay blinking among the pools of blood.