‘That’s my point. The whole place is probably run by a management consultancy in Osaka.’
‘Fine by me. It might be a lot fairer. At Guy’s there are two sets of stairs. One at the front for the men that goes up to the roof, and the converted servant’s staircase at the back that ends on the third floor. I don’t need to tell you who that’s reserved for.’
‘Things are changing.’
‘That old mantra – women have listened to it for too long. How many teaching professors are women? Even in gynae?’ Lowering her voice, she said in an offhand way: ‘Kalman tells me they haven’t filled my post yet. He asked if I’d like to stay on for another six months.’
‘Would you?’
‘Yes, if I’m honest. Think about it. More time here would do you good. A mild winter, a couple of hours of tennis every day. We’ll find someone to play with you – maybe Mrs Yasuda.’
‘Jane…’ I tried to embrace her, but she tensed herself, exposing the sharp bones of her shoulders. ‘I have to get back to London. There’s a business to run. Charles won’t carry me for ever.’
‘I know. Still, you could fly out at weekends. It’s only an hour from London.’
‘You work at weekends.’
She made no reply, and stared down at the swimming pool. Her eyes avoided mine, and she seemed to be mentally subdividing her new domain, unpacking her real baggage in the privacy of her mind.
‘Paul, relax …’ She spoke brightly, as if she remembered an exciting experience we had once shared. ‘We stay together, whatever happens. You’re my wounded pilot, I have to sew up your wings. Are you all right?’
‘Just about.’ For the first time the wifely baby-talk sounded unconvincing. I noticed the transfers of the Hatter, the Dormouse and the Red Queen that Greenwood had pasted to the wardrobe door. Jane was growing up, like the Alice of Through the Looking-Glass, and I sensed something of Carroll’s regret when he realized that his little heroine was turning into a young woman and would soon be leaving him.
I closed the library door and said: ‘You’d better change. Kalman’s collecting you in an hour. Before you go, I’d like a printout of that appointments list.’
‘David’s? Why?’ Jane picked up her white coat. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘No one will know. Can you access it on the terminal downstairs?’
‘Yes, but … why do you want it?’
‘Just a hunch. I need to track it down. Then I can lay David to rest.’
‘Well … keep it to yourself. These senior people don’t like their medical records floating around.’
‘It’s a list, Jane. I could have copied it out of the phone book.’ I paused by the stairs. ‘Have you been able to find out why they were seeing David? Was there anything wrong with them?’
‘Just sports injuries. Nothing else. Skin lacerations, one or two broken bones. There’s some very rough touch rugby being played at Eden-Olympia.’
The pressure of Jane’s mouth still dented my lips as I walked to the car. I thought of her with the computer in the study, watching me warily as she searched through Greenwood’s records. Had she been testing me, with her talk of extending the contract? After another six months she would be as institutionalized as any long-term convict, locked inside a virtual cell she called her office. Eden-Olympia demanded a special type of temperament, committed to work rather than to pleasure, to the balance sheet and the drawing board rather than to the brothels and gaming tables of the Old Riviera. Somehow I needed to remind Jane of her true self. In its way her theft of the magazine from the tabac was a small ray of hope.
I tucked the appointments list into my breast pocket and searched for the car keys. Parked behind the Jaguar on the sloping forecourt was Wilder Penrose’s sports saloon, a low-slung Japanese confection with huge wing mirrors, grotesque spoiler and air intakes large enough for a ramjet. To my puritan eye the car was an anthology of marketing tricks, and I refused even to identify its manufacturer.
I assumed that Penrose was making a house call on Simone Delage, easing this highly-strung woman through the aftermath of some troubled dream or advising her about the impotence problems of over-promoted accountants. He had deliberately parked a few inches from the Jaguar, rather than on the Delages’ forecourt, forcing me to make a tight turn that would show up the Jaguar’s heavy steering.
I started the engine, listening with pleasure to the hungry gasp of the rival carburettors, for once ready to sink their differences against a common enemy. I edged forward and swung the steering wheel, but found my way blocked by the plinth of the dolphin sculpture. I reversed, careful not to touch the Japanese car, but at the last moment, giving way to a sudden impulse, I raised my foot from the brake pedal. I felt the Jaguar’s heavy chrome bumper bite deep into soft fibreglass, almost buckling the passenger door of the sports saloon. It rocked under the impact, its hydraulics letting out a chorus of neurotic cries.
Trying to ignore what I had done, but admitting to a distinct lightness of heart, I rolled down the ramp towards the street.
9 Glass Floors and White Walls
‘MR SINCLAIR, THERE’S no crime at Eden-Olympia. None at all.’ Pascal Zander, the new head of security, sighed with more than a hint of disappointment. ‘In fact, I can say that the whole concept of criminality is unknown here. Do I exaggerate?’
‘You don’t,’ I told him. ‘We’ve been here two months and I haven’t seen a single cigarette stub or bubble-gum pat.’
‘Bubble gum? The idea is unthinkable. There are no pine cones to trip you, no bird shit on your car. At Eden-Olympia even nature knows her place.’
Zander beamed at me, glad to welcome me to his den. An affable and fleshy Franco-Lebanese, he stood behind his desk, camel-hair coat over his shoulders, more public relations man than security chief. Crime might be absent from Eden-Olympia, but other pleasures were closer to hand. When his secretary, a handsome Swiss woman in her forties, brought in an urgent letter for signature, he stared at her like a child faced with a spoonful of cream.
‘Good, good …’ He watched her leave the office and then turned the same lecherous gaze towards me, letting it linger for a few moments without embarrassment. He sat down, still wearing his coat, and shifted his rump on the leather chair. As he flicked dismissively at the onyx pen-stand he made it clear that both the chair and the desk he had inherited from Guy Bachelet, his murdered predecessor, were too small for him. Already bored by my visit, he stared at the distant rooftops of Cannes, to an older Côte d’Azur where the hallowed traditions of crime and social pathology still flourished.
For an unsavoury character, Pascal Zander was surprisingly likeable, one of the few openly venal individuals in Eden-Olympia, and I found myself warming to him. I had intended to report the brutal beatings in the clinic car park, but here was a police chief who sincerely believed that he had abolished crime. He was sympathetic when I described the Russian intruder who punched me, but plainly saw our brawl as little more than an outbreak of personal rivalry between expatriates, probably over the affections
