Super-Cannes

by J. G. Ballard

  Deciding to drive into Cannes, I gathered my proof pages and made my way back to the house. Señora Morales, the Spanish housekeeper, moved busily around the kitchen, checking the cartons of groceries delivered from the supermarket. The ever-watchful but tolerant gaze of this middle-aged Spanish woman reminded me of my prep-school matron, translated from the gloom of West Hampstead to the sun terraces of the Mediterranean. She was helpful but garrulous, and I often heard her talking to herself in the kitchen, using a confused mix of Spanish and English.

  She nodded approvingly as I took the soda-water siphon and a bottle of rosé Bandol from the refrigerator. Clearly she assumed that any Englishman of quality would be drunk by noon.

  ‘My car,’ I explained. ‘It’s very old. A few drinks make it go better.’

  ‘Of course. You come to Valencia and open a garage.’ She watched me raise my glass and toast the morning light. ‘It’s always good weather at Eden-Olympia.’

  ‘That’s true. Except for one very stormy day last May.’ I felt the bubbles play against my nostrils and sipped the aerated wine. ‘Señora, how long have you been at Eden-Olympia?’

  ‘Two years. I was housekeeper for Mr and Mrs Narita.’

  ‘The family next door, before the Yasudas? Dr Penrose told me – they were unhappy and moved back to Paris. It must have been a shock, like one of those comics the Japanese read.’

  Señora Morales lowered her eyes to the figs and fennel. ‘Before that I worked for Monsieur Bachelet.’

  I put down my drink, remembering that Guy Bachelet, the head of security at Eden-Olympia, had been one of Greenwood’s victims. ‘I’m sorry, señora. How terrible for you.’

  ‘Worse for him.’

  ‘I was thinking of you. The pain you must have felt when you heard he’d been murdered in his own office.’

  ‘No.’ Señora Morales spoke firmly. ‘Not in his office. He died at his house.’

  ‘You weren’t there, I hope?’

  ‘I was coming from Grasse.’ As if to justify her lucky escape, she said: ‘I start at nine o’clock. Already the police were at the house.’

  ‘That’s right. It was very early. So Monsieur Bachelet was…?’

  ‘Dead, yes. And Dr Serrou.’

  ‘Dominique Serrou?’ Penrose had mentioned Greenwood’s partner at the La Bocca refuge. ‘She was shot at the clinic?’

  ‘No.’ Señora Morales inspected the fading bloom on a peach, as if tempted to return it to the supermarket. ‘Also in the house.’

  ‘I thought everyone was killed at Eden-Olympia? Dr Serrou lived in Le Cannet.’

  ‘Not at her house.’ Señora Morales pointed through the windows at the rooftops of the residential enclave. ‘At Monsieur Bachelet’s house. Four hundred metres from here.’

  ‘They died there together? Dr Greenwood shot them both?’

  ‘At the same time. Terrible …’ Señora Morales crossed herself. ‘Dr Serrou was very kind.’

  ‘I’m sure. But what was she doing there? Was she treating him for something?’

  ‘Something …? Yes.’

  I walked to the window and listened to the sprinklers refreshing the lawns and washing away the dust of the night. I assumed that Bachelet had fallen ill, perhaps with a sudden angina attack, and called an emergency number. Dominique Serrou had driven over, in what would be her last house call, just as another, deranged doctor was making his first of the day.

  ‘Señora Morales, are you certain they died at Bachelet’s house?’

  ‘I saw the bodies. They took them out.’

  ‘Perhaps they were taking them in? Bringing Bachelet home from his office? In the confusion you might easily—’

  ‘No.’ Señora Morales stared at me stonily. She spoke in a surprisingly strong voice, as if seizing her chance. ‘I saw their blood. Everywhere … pieces of their bones on the bedroom wall.’

  ‘Señora please …’ I poured her a glass of water. ‘I’m sorry I raised this. We knew Dr Greenwood. My wife worked with him in London.’

  ‘They told me to go away …’ Señora Morales stared over my shoulder, as if watching an old newsreel inside her head. ‘But I went into the house. I saw the blood.’

  ‘Señora Morales …’ I poured my spritzer into the sink. ‘Why did Dr Greenwood want to kill so many people? Most of them were friends of his.’

  ‘He knew Monsieur Bachelet. Dr Greenwood visited him many times.’

  ‘Was he treating him? Medically?’

  Señora Morales shrugged her broad shoulders. ‘He went in the morning. Monsieur Bachelet waited for him. Dr Greenwood lent him books, about an unhappy English girl. Always talking back to the queen.’

  ‘An unhappy English girl? Princess Diana? Was he a royalist?’

  Señora Morales raised her eyes to the ceiling. The vacuum cleaners had locked horns, expiring in a blare of noise that was followed by fierce shrieks. Excusing herself, she left the kitchen and strode towards the stairs. I paced the tiled floor, and listened to her raised voice as she berated the maids. Talking to me had released the tension of months.

  Before leaving, she paused at the front door and treated me to a sincere, if well-rehearsed, smile.

  ‘Mr Sinclair …’

  ‘Señora?’

  ‘Dr Greenwood – he was a good man. He helped many people …’

  As I changed in the bathroom I could still hear the odd inflections in Señora Morales’s voice. She had gone out of her way to raise my doubts, as if my louche and anomalous position at Eden-Olympia, my role as pool-lounger and morning drinker, made me the confidant she had been searching for since the day of the tragedy. Already I believed her account. If, as she hinted, Dr Serrou had spent the night with Bachelet, the inexplicable brainstorm might have stemmed from a crime passionel. As Greenwood and Dominique Serrou gave their free time to the children’s refuge at La Bocca, a warm affair could easily have sprung from their work. But perhaps Dr Serrou had tired of the earnest young doctor and found the security chief more to her taste. Once Greenwood had shot his rival and former lover he had rushed headlong into a last desperate rampage, murdering his colleagues in an attempt to erase every trace of a world he hated.

  As for the book about the unhappy English girl, I guessed that this was a dossier on a child at the refuge, the abused daughter of some rentier Englishman, or the surviving victim of a car crash that had killed her parents.

  At the same time, it surprised me that Penrose had confided nothing of this to Jane. But a sudden brainstorm was less threatening to future investors at Eden-Olympia than a tragedy of sexual obsession.

  Satisfied that I had virtually solved the mystery, I took a rose from the vase on the hall table and slipped it through my buttonhole.

  6

  A Russian Intruder

  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 Ja
guar 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.

  H
e 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.