by Jon Steele
Harper tried to remember his excellent record, couldn’t fill in one bloody blank.
‘But no, Mr Harper, I’m afraid that wouldn’t do in this case. The killers hammered the victim’s face to a pulp using a claw hammer. They sawed off his hands and feet for good measure. Sniffer dogs found those bits yesterday, minus the fingertips.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Would you care for a glass of water, Doctor, I’m sure this is upsetting.’
‘No, no.’
Harper glanced at the Doctor. Going green at the gills. Tough. His eyes shot back to the Inspector.
‘What about his room at the Port Royal, any traces of DNA?’
‘As you’re somewhat new to the canton you wouldn’t know that particular hotel is a discreet location for, shall we say, short stays. The room’s been rented and cleaned to Swiss standards several times since he checked out. Believe me, there is no evidentiary DNA to be found. Are you sure you won’t take a glass of water, Doctor?’
‘No, thank you. But I’d like to know what it is you’re getting at, Mr Harper?’
Harper looked at the Doctor and felt sorry for him.
‘Excuse me, sir. The one fact Inspector Gobet isn’t telling us is that he can’t be sure Yuriev wasn’t the victim.’
‘But I thought … Good Lord, Jacques, if there’s the slightest chance it was Yuriev in that automobile …’
‘A simple matter of police procedure soon to be resolved. The call that caused my delay was from my office in Berne, informing me the Russian authorities have located Yuriev’s one living blood relative. An aged sister in Arkhangelsk. We’ll obtain a DNA sample from her and compare it to that of the corpse.’
The door opened and the butler returned to pour more coffee. The Doctor and the Inspector took the opportunity to chat about the upcoming Christmas holidays. The Doctor off to St Barts for some sun, the Inspector skiing at Klosters. Must have oysters at La Brasserie before. The Doctor asked Harper his holiday plans; he had none. The butler rolled the coffee service out of the door.
‘How long will this identification process take, Jacques?’
‘A week or so at the least. We’re obliged to work through diplomatic channels as we wish to collect the samples ourselves and to bring them to Berne for analysis. Russian police forensics, not to mention the corruption, are a thing to be avoided.’
‘And what should we do, in the meantime?’
‘Leaving aside the events on the Montreux–Gstaad road, we must assume Mr Yuriev’s still in Switzerland. We have to know the reason he came to Lausanne and why he wishes to see you. Mr Harper was correct in his original assessment. Until Yuriev is found, there’s every chance he’s a scandal waiting to happen. Which is why I recommend Mr Harper continues to look for him.’
Harper shifted in his chair.
‘Wouldn’t the Swiss police be better suited?’
‘We’re quite busy chasing real criminals, Mr Harper. As Yuriev has broken no laws, the Swiss police would appreciate your detective skills in what should remain, at present, an internal matter for the IOC.’
‘I’m not a detective.’
‘Then I am misinformed.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Last night, after speaking to the Doctor, I assigned a few men to look around Montreux, ask a few discreet questions. One of my officers visited a Miss Lucy Clarke at the Casino Barrière in Montreux and interviewed her. She reported you visited her in Évian over lunch. Pulling out a photograph between the steamed dumplings and the moo goo gai pan, asking questions about Yuriev. Very détective privé.’
‘Surely then you’d rather have someone else look for Yuriev.’
‘Please, Mr Harper, I’m giving you a bit of stick, as my friends at the Yard would say. In fact, you demonstrated initiative and curiosity. I was impressed, to a point. You telephoned Mr Yuriev’s hotel in the early hours of Saturday morning, speaking with a Mr Toda, I believe.’
‘Who?’
‘Konstantin Toda, the night clerk.’
Harper squirmed in his seat. Never asked the guy’s name.
‘Right.’
‘You reported to the Doctor that Yuriev had checked out, taking his luggage. But had you gone to the scene yourself, you would’ve discovered Yuriev left something in the porter’s closet.’
The Inspector reached inside the Migros bag, pulled out what looked like an oversized brown envelope. He laid it on the table. The Doctor leaned closer for a look.
‘I don’t believe it.’
Harper was thinking the same damn thing. Thirty x sixty centimetres of brown wrapping paper around thin sheets of cardboard. The wrapper stamped with a picture of the building he’d seen and avoided every bloody day since coming to town.
La Cathédrale de Lausanne
Jeu de construction
‘A cardboard cut-out? Of the cathedral?’
The Inspector removed the cardboard sheets from the wrapper, spread them over the table.
‘We call it a maquette, Mr Harper, a paper model. These perforated sections are removed from the cardboard sheets, like so. It’s Swiss made so the details are perfect at a ratio of one centimetre to two metres. Here are the flying buttresses, the Occidental and Apostles’ porches here. Here is the belfry that sits over the main entrance and the lantern tower over the altar. There’s even a tiny weathercock for the top of the lantern tower. A little paper glue, a bottle of good Swiss white, some delicate finger work, et voilà. One rather fine Gothic cathedral. Very popular with tourists. Thousands of them sold every year.’
The Doctor examined the cardboard sheets, stunned.
‘But why would Yuriev have such a thing?’
‘The very question. Perhaps Mr Harper would give us the benefit of a hunch.’
‘A hobby, or a gift for someone.’
‘A very good notion, Mr Harper. And, perhaps, the very thing he wished to give you, Doctor. Either of which suggests a man in a light mood. Bit of sightseeing, some shopping. Hardly the behaviour of someone who thinks he’s being followed.’
Harper rubbed the back of his neck.
‘This can’t be it, this thing’s a bloody toy.’
‘Mr Harper, this thing was in Yuriev’s possession the day you were to meet with him, the day he disappeared. In the detective trade we don’t call such a thing a toy, we call it evidence.’
Harper wanted to tell him to sod off. But the more he looked into the Inspector’s eyes, the more he realized the cop in the cashmere coat wasn’t just playing him, he was making all the rules. Whilst Jay Harper didn’t even know the name of the game.
eleven
Katherine stirred and stretched in her bed. It was scrumptious under the duvet. She opened her eyes and saw the ashtray on the nightstand. With a half-smoked joint begging to be smoked. She fluffed the pillows, made herself comfy. She lit the joint and drew a long toke.
‘Nothing like a nice buzz first thing in the morning.’
She pressed a switch next to the bed, raising the shutters. Beyond the terrace Lausanne Cathedral glowed in winter’s morning light. Two black crows made lazy circles above the belfry. Katherine tucked the duvet under her chin, she smoked deep hits. The cathedral, the winter light, the circling crows, everything so lovely.
‘Black birds circled
In a cold blue sky.
Far above our forever
Bound to earth dreams.
Flightless and wishing
Only to be like them.’
It sounded nice, even though she knew it was only stoner babble. She dropped the roach in the ashtray, rolled on her tummy, stretched again. She propped up on her hands, saw the clock next to the lamp. Not even ten. She fell back to the mattress and let herself slip into the buzz. She rocked slowly from side to side, feeling something wonderful shoot from her hips to her brain.
‘So nice.’
Rolling on her back, closing her eyes, touching her favourite places. Her neck, her nipples, tracing feather-light circles over her
stomach.
‘So very nice.’
She squeezed her nipples. Sharp tingles ran through her body. Her fingers chased after them, finding them at the moist place between her legs. She teased herself, found the perfect pressure. Dopey warmth pulsed through her blood.
‘So very nice, baby.’
She turned her head, opened her eyes to the mirrored closets. Seeing the woman in the looking glass, the woman watching her, following her every move. The woman she was making love to.
‘Look at her eyes, baby. She needs it.’
Katherine kicked off the duvet, watched her body stiffen. She let the sensation build, felt the rush flow deeper, harder. Wanting to hold it …
‘Not yet, so good.’
… but the woman in the looking glass wanting, begging, quivering …
‘Oh, look at her, she’s coming, look at her. Oh, baby … oh, the lovely, the lovely.’
For the briefest moment, she felt it: a place of perfect pleasure. She sighed as it slipped away. ‘Wow, if only you could stay there for ever, girl.’
She rolled out of bed, slipped on her white robe. Something moved outside her windows. The two black crows from the cathedral now sitting on the railings of her terrace, watching as she covered her body.
‘Enjoy the show, fellas? You know I usually get paid a lot of money for that trick.’
The crows cocked their heads and fluttered their wings. They fell from the railings and then rose through the blue sky to reclaim their circling place above the belfry.
‘Men, who needs ’em?’
She tipsied to the bath.
Rochat opened his eyes to pitch black.
He smelled old dirt, old bones. He heard footsteps overhead, sat up, hit his head against something hard.
‘Ouch!’
The footsteps above stopped and a voice shouted:
‘Who’s there? Who are you, where are you?’
The voice was muffled and distant but Rochat knew it belonged to the caretaker of the cathedral.
‘Monsieur Taroni, it’s me, Marc Rochat.’
‘Marc Rochat? But I don’t see you, where are you?’
‘I’m under your feet.’
‘But your voice is coming from the air vents by the narthex.’
‘I’m down in the crypt, monsieur. Could you shine a light through the iron gates under Otto so I can find my way out?’
‘Yes, yes.’
The steps walked away but quickly returned.
‘Rochat, what are you doing in the crypt?’
‘I was drawing and my lantern went out after I fell asleep.’
‘Drawing? Drawing what? There’re only skeletons in the crypt.’
‘Oui, monsieur, I was drawing the skeletons.’
‘Drawing skeletons? Again? You aren’t touching them, are you? They mustn’t be touched. They’re like dust already.’
‘That’s why I need a light. So I won’t trip over anyone.’
‘Anyone? What anyone? Is someone down there with you?’
‘It’s only me and the skeletons, monsieur. I don’t want to trip over a grave and hurt the bones.’
‘D’accord. I’m going for a lamp, Rochat. Don’t touch anything.’
The steps walked away; they returned again.
‘Rochat.’
‘Oui, monsieur?’
‘This is Marc Rochat speaking? This isn’t a trick?’
‘Non, monsieur.’
‘You swear this isn’t a trick?
‘Swear on what?’
‘You’re in a cathedral, for heaven’s sake, swear on anything. Wait, I’ll tell you. There’s something down there, under the crossing square, swear on that.’
Rochat needed a moment to remember.
‘I swear on the old well under the altar square.’
‘Alors, you must be Rochat. He’d know about the well. Unless you read it in a book.’
‘Monsieur Taroni, it’s Marc Rochat who can barely read or write his own name.’
‘All right then, j’arrive.’
The footsteps walked off. Grey light dripped through the stone shafts of the air vents. Rochat yawned and rubbed his eyes, saw he was in a small cave at the back of the crypt. Through a low arch he could see into the larger caves, to the small mounds of open graves rising from the dirt. The footsteps came back, stopped over his head.
‘Rochat. Are you still there?’
‘Where would I go, Monsieur Taroni?’
‘Just checking. I have the lamp. I’ll lay the power cable and hang it on the gates to the crypt. I must hurry and open the Apostles’ entrance. It’s after nine and the workers are waiting to begin work. We’re starting the renovations on the south portal today and moving the Apostles’ steeple. You’ve made us late, Rochat.’
‘I’m very sorry, monsieur.’
‘Be sure to replace the lamp in the unfinished tower. On the proper shelf, mind you. I don’t like it when my equipment is misplaced.’
The footsteps marched towards the altar, Rochat heard the iron gates squeak open and he saw yellowy light pour through the earthen arches and tunnels. Rochat scrambled to his knees, looked across the graves. The lamp was at the far end of the crypt, the thin shadow next to the light belonged to Monsieur Taroni.
‘Can you find your way now, Rochat?’
‘Oui, et merci beaucoup.’
‘Don’t leave anything down here. There’s to be nothing left down here but the skeletons, and Rochat?’
‘Oui, monsieur?’
‘I’m still unclear why you were down here all night.’
‘I was drawing.’
‘Yes, yes. Drawing skeletons by candlelight, I know this. The rest is strange.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Rochat, we all know you are a little, well, we know what you are. But I’d think even you’d find sleeping in the crypt a little, well, you know, strange.’
Monsieur Taroni’s shadow hung the lamp on the gate and left. Rochat looked around to the skeletons. All the skulls staring at him.
‘Don’t mind Monsieur Taroni, he’s very nice. And I’m sure he didn’t mean to be rude. I suppose a crypt is a funny place to wake up. Maybe I’m not here, maybe I’m dreaming.’
But he couldn’t remember being in his bed and falling asleep, and he couldn’t remember ever talking to himself in a dream. The last thing he remembered was lighting one more candle in the lantern, the last candle. Feeling sleepy but wanting to finish a drawing of a skeleton melded into the hardened dirt, fused and inseparable. Then he remembered imagining Monsieur Rannou at the organ, talking about lost angels coming to the cathedral to hide because they were broken and needed Rochat to protect them.
‘Dear me, such a strange night. You must have a cup of tea.’
He gathered his things, stood as best he could beneath the low stone ceiling and shuffled through the labyrinth of open graves. He could sense the skeletons watching him pass, even though they only had holes in their skulls where their eyes used to be. Arms folded over their chests, the way they were laid long ago when there was flesh on their bones.
He came to the old stone well directly under the crossing square of the nave. Monsieur Buhlmann once said it’s where the dead bishops poured holy waters that couldn’t be used any more. These days the well was dry as dust and covered by a heavy grate of thick iron rods protruding from a central hub. Rochat circled the well, counting the sixteen iron rods pointing in different directions. Like a very old compass, he thought. This way would be north, this way south, then east and west. He followed the tunnel to the east, ducked under a low-hanging arch that opened to a crescent-shaped cave, directly under the chancel. He looked back, saw the skeletons and graves scattered around the well. The graves like a garden and the bones like seeds scattered in all the directions of the world.
‘It looks like someone planted you in your graves and you’re waiting for a dead bishop to put holy water on the ground so you can grow again and go back outside. That’s a much nicer st
ory to imagine than being stuck in the ground, isn’t it? Yes, it is, Rochat, and you can draw that story the next time you come to visit.’
He turned and banged his head against a stone buttress. He heard the yellow teeth of the skeletons chatter with glee.
‘Oh, I’m glad you think it’s so funny. You may be dead but that’s no excuse for bad manners. Good day to you.’
He shuffled away, his crooked foot catching the corner of a grave. He tumbled to the ground, pencils and papers scattering in the dirt. He heard yellow teeth chattering again.
‘You did that on purpose! Don’t deny it. I come down here to keep you company and this is the thanks I get.’
He crawled through the dirt, pulling together the pages of his sketchbook and searching for his pencils. He found three, but the number four pencil was missing. He looked through the dirt, in the graves, between the bones.
‘Must find it, can’t leave it down here. Monsieur Taroni said nothing’s to be down here but you old bones. Which one of you is hiding it?’
One skeleton lay in his grave, its cracked skull turned and looking to the side, its bony finger pointing that way. Rochat followed the skeleton’s gaze to the stone well under the main altar.
‘How could it have fallen into the well? There’s a big stone wall around it and an iron grate on top.’
Rochat heard the skeleton rattle its teeth.
‘Oh, you think so? Well, I’ll show you.’
He crawled to the well, looked through the spikes of the grate.
‘See, I can see and I can tell you there’s nothing down there but …’
Something along the side of the well, in a dugout where some stones had fallen away. He squeezed his arm through the iron spikes, just barely. And he stretched as far as he could reach, touching it with the tips of his fingers. Metal, square, a handle. Rochat tried to lift the iron grate. It wouldn’t budge.
‘Whatever it is, it doesn’t belong in a well for holy waters.’
