by Jon Steele
‘Very good, Rochat. Right in middles of things, just where you should be.’
He looked around the platform, he was alone. He watched pigeons fly through the open doors of the station, glide to the rafters above the tracks, waddle to their hiding places in the eaves. He heard scratching noises on the concrete floor. He looked down to his boots. It wasn’t him.
He looked down the tracks, saw the headlamps of the funicular coming up the dark tunnel. The rails glowed and the toothlike track in the middle of the rails made shadows on the railbed. Then tiny sparks flashed from the end of the platform and a long shadow stretched out over the floor from behind a concrete pillar. The headlamps of the oncoming funicular blinded his eyes, till the silhouette of a woman stepped from behind a pillar. A woman in a long furry coat, a halo of light shining around her blond hair.
The train pushed puffs of air up the tunnel, passing by the woman to Rochat. The air smelling like flowers. The woman had a cigarette on her lips, she shook a lighter in her hands, clicked it on and off. Sparks flashed but the fire wouldn’t light. He almost saw her face.
Rochat felt his heart skip a beat.
The woman turned, walked towards him. Rochat dropped his eyes, locked them on the concrete floor. He heard the woman’s steps coming closer, the flower smell becoming stronger. He saw black high heels and two legs in blue jeans sticking out from under a furry coat.
‘Pardonnez-moi, monsieur. Avez-vous du feu?’
Rochat didn’t budge. He looked out of the corner of his eyes, saw the ends of her long blond hair.
‘Say, you’re a live one, aren’t you? Never mind, train’s coming anyway.’
The funicular pulled into the station and the doors slid open. Rochat, his eyes still glued to the floor, watched the woman’s feet turn away and step aboard the forward car. He looked up, saw her sitting with her back to the doors. All the passengers on the train looked at him, the way he was rocking back and forth, mumbling to himself:
‘Always going home to do things after coming from Vevey, Rochat, that’s what you do.’
The funicular chimed to say it was leaving for Flon.
As the doors began to close, Rochat jumped aboard the rear car. The doors caught his twisted foot, he pulled and tugged but couldn’t get free. The passengers watched him pound at the doors with his fist.
‘Open up, let me go!’
The doors buzzed angrily, reopened and Rochat tumbled on the floor. The doors slammed shut again, the funicular pulled ahead. Rochat rose to his feet, brushed off his overcoat.
‘Je suis désolé, mesdames et messieurs.’
He shuffled to a corner of the train, peeking around the bodies and through the windows to the forward car. If only that big fat man would move, he could see her.
‘Just a little, just a little, please.’
They came to a stop at Flon. Rochat’s eyes searched through the blur of bodies leaving the forward car … there! The hair, the long blond hair.
eight
Two lifts carried people from Flon Station to Rue du Grand-Chêne. Rochat saw the woman with blond hair step into one lift as the doors closed behind her. He hurried into the second lift. People tried to push him to the back but he stood his ground so he could be first out. The counting clock above the doors ticked slowly down: 20,19,18,17 … Rochat tapped furiously at the ascend button.
‘It’s faster counting my way up Escaliers du marché than waiting for you to close the doors, and I have a crooked foot!’
He felt people step away from him. He remembered Lausannois weren’t comfortable with people who talked loudly in lifts. He stared at the counting clock.
… 4, 3, 2, 1, bzzzzzzzz. Clunk.
‘Merci beaucoup,’ he whispered.
The lift rose slowly to the street. The doors slid open and Rochat rushed out. His eyes searched the pedestrian bridge above Place de l’Europe. If she went that way she’d be going to Bel-Air and the Palud quarter. But he didn’t see anyone with long blond hair and a furry coat. He hurried to the ramp leading to Rue du Grand-Chêne. There, she was just rounding the corner. He shuffled after her, stopped at the top of the ramp and peeked around the corner. He watched her cross Rue du Grand-Chêne and disappear into a haze of light. Rochat rubbed his eyes and looked again. The façade of the Lausanne Palace, wrapped in a big red bow and awash in the glow of red floodlamps. All the pillars and balconies strung with fairylights.
‘No, it’s a real thing, Rochat. The Lausanne Palace in a big red bow means coming to Christmastimes. So maybe you’re not imagining the angel, maybe she’s a real angel like Christmastimes in Lausanne. Have to see her face, Rochat, have to see her face to know.’
He shuffled across the road, slowing his steps near the bus shelter and looking down the pavement towards the hotel. There were lots of trees with little white lights like the lights on the pillars and balconies, but no woman with blond hair and a furry coat. Tall windows at the corner of the hotel opened to a dimly lit room. A narrow dark alley ran down the side of the windows. He shuffled into the shadows where he could see inside.
The room was lit with lots of candles like the loge in the belfry. There was a square bar in the centre of the room with lots of glasses hanging upside down and a fireplace nearby with an old clock on the mantelpiece. Big windows at the end of the room looked out to the lights of Évian across the lake. He saw the woman with the blond hair, sitting on a stool at the bar with her back to the window. She let her furry coat slip from her shoulders. She wore a black sweater underneath.
‘If only she’d turn around, then you’d see if she really is the angel you imagined, Rochat.’
He watched her take a gold cigarette case from her coat pocket and wave a cigarette while flicking her broken lighter. A young man behind the bar gave her a book of matches. She lit her cigarette; a small cloud of smoke floated above her. The young man behind the bar took a tall glass, poured a glass of champagne and set the glass before her. She took a newspaper from her bag, turned slowly through the pages. Then Rochat saw someone else at the far end of the bar. He wore a sports coat and a loosened tie around his neck. He looked familiar, Rochat thought. The face had lines and wrinkles but he didn’t look old. Rochat remembered him in a long brown coat with a belt and straps on the shoulders … the detectiveman from the bridge … and he was looking at the woman with the long blond hair.
‘Pourquoi vous me regardez, monsieur?’
Harper didn’t answer.
‘Hey, buster.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re staring at me.’
‘Actually, I was looking at your newspaper.’
‘That’s the best you can do?’ She opened her cigarette case and pulled out another smoke. She dug through her bag for the matches. ‘Second lunatic I’ve met in one day.’
‘You have one going.’
‘What?’
‘In the ashtray, you already have one going.’
‘So who are you, the smoking police? Come to stamp out the last smokers’ playground in Europe?’
‘Fellow smoker in residence, actually.’
‘You say “actually” a lot. You must be a Brit.’
‘Yes, actually.’
‘Bingo.’
‘I know this may sound odd, but could I buy you a drink for your newspaper?’
‘I already have a drink, but don’t let that stop you. You want a drink? Here, I’ll help. Stephan, would you give the gentleman a drink?’
‘Avec plaisir, Mademoiselle Taylor. Another beer, monsieur?’
‘Cheers.’
The bartender filled a fresh glass, set it on the bar. Katherine drew on her cigarette, blew the smoke in Harper’s face.
‘See? Easy as can be. Anything else you want?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Another favourite word from the Brit vocabulary. Have I seen you in here before?’
‘No, but I’ve seen you. La Brasserie, a few nights ago. You were with a rather well-heeled chap.’
&n
bsp; She fiddled with her cigarette case.
‘My stockbroker.’
‘He looked the type.’
She gave him the once-over.
‘And what about you, what type are you, besides the stalker type?’
‘I work for the IOC.’
‘The Olympic Committee, no way.’
‘Why?’
‘You really don’t look the IOC type. You look cop. What’s your name?’
He took a packet of smokes from his jacket and lit up.
‘Name’s Harper, Miss Taylor. Jay Harper.’
‘Hold it, how did you know my name?’
‘The bartender just said it when you so graciously ordered me a drink.’
‘Clever. You sure you’re not a cop?’
‘I’m not a cop.’
She took a sip of her champagne.
‘In that case, what can I do for you, Mr Harper?’
‘I’d like to look at your newspaper.’
‘Still going with that line, are we?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Come on, you dress cheap but you look smart. And I admit the newspaper line’s cute, but let me ask you something. Is it that I look desperately lonely to you? Or were you just hoping I might be in your price range?’
The bartender leaned over the bar. ‘Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle Taylor. The chef recommends the fish soup. Should I bring it to the bar?’
‘Fine, Stephan, with a glass of the Clavien Chardonnay.’
‘Of course, mademoiselle.’
‘Oh, and tomorrow, could you reserve the table by the fireplace for me? I’m meeting someone for aperitifs at eight. And could you make sure the flames are cooking?’
‘Of course, mademoiselle.’ The bartender nodded to Harper. ‘May I ask if the gentleman will be joining you for dinner tonight?’
Katherine looked at Harper and smiled.
‘No, I think this gentleman will be taking care of himself tonight. Isn’t that right, Mr Harper?’
Harper stamped out his smoke, smiled at the bartender.
‘Seems so.’
The bartender bowed.
‘In that case, monsieur, I hope you will join us again.’ He turned away, took an order for drinks from one of the waiters.
‘Nice place,’ Harper said. ‘Staff has better manners than the clients.’
Katherine set her elbow on the newspaper, rested her head in her hand. Tossed him a little-girl pout for added effect.
‘What’s the matter, ego take a battering?’
‘Just saying the man is a polite bartender.’
‘Oh, I get it. Stiff upper lip and all. Tell you what, I’ll give you what you want if you can even tell me what it’s worth.’
‘What are we talking about, exactly?’
‘You’re a big boy, take a wild guess.’
Harper reached for the newspaper, pulled it slowly from under her arm, dropped fifty francs on the bar.
‘That should cover it, don’t you think?’
‘Hey, excuse me?’
‘Actually, I don’t believe I will. Goodnight, Miss Taylor.’
Rochat watched the detectiveman take the newspaper and his glass of beer and walk from the bar to a small table in the corner. The woman sat alone, running her fingers through her hair, as if combing it. She took a hairclip, pulled her long hair to the back of her neck. Rochat could just see her profile, but not enough to tell if she was the angel he’d imagined in the night.
‘Turn just a little so I can …’
Bells chimed three times from the Hôtel de Ville. Rochat looked at the clock above the fireplace. Big hand on the nine, little hand almost touching eight.
‘Oh, no, Rochat! You’re late!’
He hurried from the shadows, raced across Rue du Grand-Chêne and on to the pedestrian bridge, pulling at the ramp and flying over Place de l’Europe.
‘Everyone at Café du Grütli will be saying, “Where is Marc Rochat? It’s past seven thirty!”’
He shuffled quickly across Rue du Grand-Pont, up Rue Pichard, following the up and down cobblestones of Saint-Laurent to Place de la Palud.
‘You’re le guet de la cathédrale de Lausanne, you must be punctual in all things.’
He shuffled over the cobblestone of the square till he was staring at the numbers ‘1726’ carved in the low stone wall of Lausanne fountain. Streams of water gushed from dragons’ mouths and splashed in a dark pool. A stone lady stood on a pillar, high above the dragons. She held a sword in one hand, scales in the other, and her eyes were closed, as if she was thinking very hard about something.
‘That’s what you should do, Rochat, you should close your eyes and concentrate on your duties. You shouldn’t let your imaginations run away with your brains. You’re being very silly.’
The bells of the Hôtel de Ville chimed four times for the coming hour. Rochat looked up the wood steps of Escaliers du marché to the top of the hill where, above the bare chestnut trees and red-tiled rooftops of the old city, the belfry of Lausanne Cathedral stood in the glare of floodlamps.
‘Go ahead, say it. I know what you think.’
Gong! Gong! Gong …
Rochat listened to Marie-Madeleine’s voice scold him for his behaviour.
Running through the streets like a madman! Barely enough time for your dinner! People will talk!
‘Yes, yes, I know. I’ll hurry with my supper and come to the tower. Yes, yes, I know.’
Harper read it again.
FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN IN DEADLY ROAD ACCIDENT
Claims life of Russian tourist
Special to 24 Heures
6 December 2010. The Swiss winter season claimed its first victim when a driver lost control of his vehicle and drove through a wall of ploughed snow. The accident occurred 30 kilometres north of Montreux on the mountain road to Gstaad. After crashing through a snowbank, the vehicle then tumbled down a deep ravine and burst into flames.
Frédéric Zeller, a 36-year-old computer programmer from Blonay, was quick to photograph the accident with his cellphone and transmit the scene to Swiss authorities. Police received the image of the burning car and reacted quickly with fire crews and emergency helicopters. By the time the rescue crews arrived at the scene, a metre of snow had fallen making their work difficult and dangerous.
Lt Pierre Berclaz of the Swiss police said one body was found in the wreckage. The body was burned beyond recognition. Lt Berclaz said it would be some time before proper identification could be made. Lt Berclaz would not confirm the identity of the victim, saying only that the victim appears to be a Russian tourist travelling alone in Switzerland.
‘This is an unhappy but all-too-frequent occurrence. Many foreign visitors drive at speed, unaware that winter roads, even if appearing clear, are often covered with a thin layer of ice this time of year. The result can be catastrophic.’
Lt Berclaz added Swiss authorities take every precaution in maintaining mountain roads.
‘We are second to none in the world with regard to winter road clearance. But the sad fact is, no amount of care can replace common sense in driving.’
He would not comment on one rescuer’s statement to 24 Heures that several empty bottles of alcohol and gambling chips from Casino Barrière in Montreux were found in the wreckage. But Lt Berclaz did say tests would be carried out to check the blood-alcohol levels of the victim. Neither would he comment on whether the car had been rented to a Russian tourist.
Lt Berclaz took the opportunity to remind citizens of the country’s strict drink-driving laws. More alcohol in the bloodstream than that found in a single glass of wine will be judged as Driving Under the Influence. Severe fines and loss of driving privileges will be the result.
The victim’s remains were flown by helicopter to University Hospital in Lausanne for identification.
Harper stared at the photos.
One: Swiss computer geek posing with his high-tech cellphone with a wide grin on his face. Two: Grainy photo from the cellphone.
Car in flames, black smoke. Headline again: Storm claims life of Russian tourist, thirty klicks north of Montreux, bottles of vodka and casino chips found in the wreckage, deep ravine … Bollocks.
He dug his mobile from his jacket, dialled Miss Barraud’s number. Need to be put through to the Doctor. Her tone more than a little dismissive in explaining the Doctor presently dining with King Juan Carlos of Spain at Le Raisin in Cully.
‘Put me through, fellow co-worker, now.’
Few minutes later the Doctor picked up. Most embarrassing to have the telephone ring, Mr Harper. Could this not wait? Harper gave him a rundown anyway. The Doctor considered the info for three seconds.
‘And?’
‘Sir, we need to talk to the Swiss police, tonight, tell them what we know. Get them on side so they let us know the identity of the victim, soon as possible.’
‘Mr Harper, excusing oneself from the presence of His Majesty the King of Spain to answer a telephone call is the nadir of royal protocol. Returning to the table to announce one must leave to make a statement to the Swiss police is … well, it isn’t done.’
Harper looked at the photos.
‘Sir, I’m looking at these photos, and I have a gut feeling this wasn’t an accident.’
‘Are you saying you believe Yuriev was in that car and he was murdered?’
‘I’m saying, given your instructions to me, you might want to know who’s in that burning wreck, and why, before the goddamn press does.’
Harper listened to the sound of silence for a solid minute.
‘Leave it with me, Mr Harper. Be in my office tomorrow morning, eight a.m., sharp.’
Harper finished his freebie beer. He folded the newspaper, thinking he should give it back to Blondie, apologize for being rude. Even if she was a snot-nosed brat. He scanned the bar. Blondie was gone.
