The Watchers

by Jon Steele

  ‘What … what time is it?’

  ‘It is the late afternoon, my dear. Come and sit, you must take some herbal tea.’

  The tall one wheeled a china tea service into the room. Komarovsky helped her to the divan and sat beside her. ‘We’ve been reading your reviews. They call you exquisite and wonderful.’

  ‘Reviews?’

  ‘Last night, my dear, at your coming-out party, you were adored by all.’

  Yes, she remembered them. How they adored her, loved her, caressed her. Her heart rushed faster thinking of them. Beautiful bodies, slipping through her fingers, like touching warm light. Komarovsky raised the cup to her lips, she sipped.

  ‘It tastes so sweet.’

  ‘An ancient potion to calm you, my dear, drink it slowly. My attendants will prepare a bath of water and oils to refresh your skin before supper.’

  ‘Supper? No, the deal was only one night. I’m going to Zermatt next week. I have to go home.’

  She tried to stand but the floor fell from under her. Komarovsky took her hand and eased her back to the divan.

  ‘There, there, my dear. I have already spoken with Madame Badeaux, everything is fixed. Tonight you will dine on fresh sweetmeats to rekindle your energy. Another long night of pleasure awaits you.’

  She sipped again. She felt something wonderful ooze through her blood. So warm, so lovely.

  seventeen

  Harper spotted them as he stepped off the train in Montreux. Two husky men with bulges under their overcoats.

  They spotted him just as fast.

  ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Harper.’

  ‘Have a pleasant trip?’

  He gave them a recce. Twin sons of different mothers. This one’s nose itches, the other one sneezes. And built like the no-neck bulldozers outside GG’s nightclub. Must be the milk they drink in this country, Harper thought.

  ‘Fine. Where’s Inspector Gobet?’

  ‘We’ll take you to him now.’

  ‘It’s only a short walk.’

  A conductor’s whistle blew from the next platform. Long windows of the departing train carriages stuffed with happy faces.

  ‘Looks like they’re having fun.’

  ‘That’s the Golden Line to Gstaad, Mr Harper. Skiing holidays have begun in Switzerland.’

  ‘The train leaves twice each day. At noon and six in the evening, on the dot.’

  Harper looked at the clock above the platform: 5:59:00.

  ‘Hate to tell you, lads, but that train’s leaving a minute early.’

  ‘Not to worry, Mr Harper.’

  ‘He won’t leave before his scheduled time.’

  Harper pulled his smokes from his mackintosh and lit up. He watched a red rubber ball of a second hand loop around the bottom of the clock and move up to the twelve. It stopped. The clocks above all five platforms stopped. All the second hands falling in line, then marching ahead as one. Electric motors wound into gear, the train pulled ahead.

  ‘Station clocks throughout Switzerland are resynchronized each minute, Mr Harper.’

  ‘They operate as one clock, so the country’s trains leave exactly on time.’

  Harper nodded.

  ‘Or the conductor gets a big fine, I bet.’

  Twin blank stares.

  ‘More along the lines of a lengthy prison term. We’d prefer to shoot them but capital punishment is banned in Switzerland.’

  ‘Shall we go? Inspector Gobet has a dinner engagement this evening, we wouldn’t wish him to be late.’

  Like being escorted by Mutt and Jeff. Harper puffed on his fag, wondering where he’d heard the term ‘Mutt and Jeff’ or what the bloody hell it meant, but knowing it fit these guys like a pair of handmade gloves.

  ‘Lead the way, lads.’

  Down some concrete steps and through the tunnels under the platforms. Everyday-looking sorts rushed for the coming and going trains. Harper followed his guides through the crowd and down the escalator to Avenue des Alpes. Mutt pointed to the right, so did Jeff.

  ‘This way, s’il vous plaît.’

  ‘It’s only a short walk.’

  They walked along a narrow road lined with leftovers from la belle époque, Bauhaus boxes, post-modern sixties shite. Harper chuckled, wondering at the things one remembers from History Channel, like Bauhaus and belle époque, and why.

  The road opened on to a small roundabout. Harper did a three-sixty of the view. Looked swell in the fading light. Whole town neatly fitted between the curving shore of Lac Léman and the cloud-scraping Alps. The white mountains looking as if they’d fallen from the sky and landed at the end of the road, next to the palm trees.

  ‘Palm trees, in Switzerland?’

  ‘Montreux has a unique microclimate, Mr Harper. Winters here are mild and sunny. You can see the locals were spared much of last night’s terrible storm.’

  Harper considered the scene.

  ‘So the end of the world wasn’t quite as advertised.’

  Mutt and Jeff stopped in their tracks, spoke …

  ‘The end of the world, Mr Harper?’

  ‘Whatever do you mean by that?’

  … dead fucking serious.

  ‘Something someone told me last night after the storm, sounded funny. Of course I was incredibly drunk at the time.’

  ‘Excessive drinking can often be accompanied by hallucinations, Mr Harper.’

  ‘Perhaps you should consider moderating your consumption.’

  ‘Moderation, right.’

  Mutt pointed across the roundabout. So did Jeff.

  ‘We’re going just over there.’

  ‘Where you see the Afghan Restaurant.’

  Triangle-shaped building on the far corner, six floors. Forgotten laundry and satellite dishes on the balconies. Ground floor with high windows and a painted sign: ‘Faryab’.

  Harper saw the Pashtun-looking clientele within, drinking Sadaf tea and smoking cigarettes. He dropped his own smoke on the ground and stomped it underfoot. He wondered how he’d know what a Pashtun looked like, or what the hell Sadaf tea even was, but knew he could smell the wretched stuff already.

  ‘Fine, let’s go.’

  Mutt touched Harper’s elbow, Jeff pointed down.

  ‘Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur Harper, pick that up.’

  ‘It’s forbidden to throw rubbish in Switzerland’s streets.’

  Harper picked up the butt, tossed it in a bin.

  ‘Of course it is.’

  They moved along the roundabout. A uniformed copper stood at the side entrance of the building, a strip of red plastic tape was strung across the door. The copper saw them coming, pulled aside the tape and let them through. Narrow hall with a single bulb dangling from the ceiling and filling the passage with stark light. Raga music and the scent of grilled meat bleeding through thin walls. He saw a mailbox by the door. Names listed looked to be from countries a body would do anything to get the hell out of. End of the hall, a small brown-skinned man standing at the bottom of the stairs. He was sucking on a smoke, his hands nervous and shaking. No wonder. The cop in the cashmere coat was looming over him, pointing his pudgy finger in the small man’s face. The copper turned, saw Harper coming through the door.

  ‘Ah, bonsoir, Monsieur Harper.’

  ‘Inspector.’

  ‘This is Monsieur Amin, the owner of the café and manager of this building.’

  Dark eyes, trimmed moustache, his brown skin smelling of cardamom. He spoke nervously.

  ‘My customers are asking questions, Inspector.’

  ‘And you will inform your customers that a resident in your building has suffered a fatal heart attack.’

  ‘You call that thing up there a heart attack?’

  ‘For the purposes of conversation, yes. And may I remind you this is an official police inquiry, which has revealed, in part, that you’ve been renting flats to illegal residents. I don’t have to spell out what that means for you and your family in the Canton de Vaud. I’m sure your children would find
deportation to Kabul most unpleasant.’

  ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘Then you’ll do as I ask, and everything will be fine.’

  ‘Inshallah.’

  ‘In your part of the world, sir, such things may require the will of God. Within the borders of Switzerland, my assurance is all that is needed.’

  Inspector Gobet opened a door into the café, Abu Marwan stepped through. The Inspector closed the door, looked at Harper.

  ‘Poor fellow, he’s had a terrible fright. I’m sorry I couldn’t elaborate on the telephone, Mr Harper. I appreciate you making the trip.’

  ‘Did I have a choice?’

  ‘No, you didn’t. This way, please.’ The Inspector wound up the stairs. Harper followed with Mutt and Jeff bringing up the rear. ‘I must say, Mr Harper, I’m beginning to wonder as to your social skills.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Indeed. Since arriving in Lausanne, you’ve made telephone contact with two foreigners. One of them, a Russian named Alexander Yuriev whom you managed to misplace. Your other telephone acquaintance has proved somewhat more interesting, one Konstantin Toda from Tirana.’

  ‘The night clerk from the Port Royal?’

  ‘The very same. Male, thirty-seven years old, lived alone except for his collection of tropical fish. He came to Switzerland fifteen years ago. He has overstayed his thirty-day tourist visa considerably. For the last six years, he’s been working at the Hôtel Port Royal. Without benefit of a work permit, I might add. Other than that he appeared a decent sort. Law-abiding, low profile, wired money to his family on a regular basis.’

  They came to the second-floor landing. Two uniforms stood before an open door midway down the hall. Harper stuffed his hands in the pockets of his mackintosh.

  ‘Let me guess, the night clerk’s suffered a fatal heart attack.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  The Inspector stopped at the door, he motioned the coppers aside. Harper looked in. Large aquarium on a white plastic table. Fish darting in cloudy water. Lamp in the aquarium the only light in the dark, filling the room with sickly green light. Sour smells slapped his senses. Sweat, shit, blood.

  ‘It doesn’t smell like a heart attack, Inspector.’

  The Inspector gestured towards the door.

  ‘Please, after you, and step no further than the plastic sheeting on the floor.’

  Harper stepped ahead.

  A wrought-iron bed behind the door, other side of the room the night clerk was pinned to the wall like a bug. An iron rod running through his naked chest and into the wall, arms and legs hanging lifeless. Streaks of blood on his face, eyes gouged from his skull, black socks stuffed in his mouth. Abdomen sliced open, blood and body fluids spilled over the floor.

  ‘Bloody fucking hell.’

  ‘An apt description. A forensics team of the Montreux police worked the room for physical evidence before my arrival. You may be interested in knowing what they found.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘No fingerprints, other than those you would expect to find. No footprints on the floor, no samples of skin or hair not belonging to the victim, no traces of anyone being in this room but the victim and his tropical fish. Abu Marwan was cleaning the hall when he saw blood seeping under the door. The door was bolted from inside and he called the Montreux police. They arrived and broke open the door. Please notice the bars on the windows. The flat is on the fire escape and the bars can only be opened from inside the room, they haven’t been disturbed. Residents of the building were interviewed. No one saw strangers in the building, no one heard sounds of struggle.’

  ‘So what the hell happened?’

  ‘Frankly, we’re stumped. And the reason I called for you.’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Yes, we thought you might help us with one of your hunches.’

  Harper stared at the Inspector. Same I-know-something-you-don’t smirk on the copper’s mug. Mutt and Jeff in the doorway, waiting to be impressed as well. Harper swept the room with a quick glance.

  ‘Fine. It appears the night clerk, having succumbed to a fit of remorse over working in Switzerland without a permit, locked himself in his room, tore an iron rod from the bed frame, gouged out his eyes and his bowels before impaling himself through the chest and pinning himself to the wall at a pressure of five thousand pounds per square inch. It also appears he gagged himself beforehand, so he wouldn’t disturb the neighbours. How am I doing so far?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten what he did with his eyeballs, Mr Harper.’

  ‘Dissolved them in battery acid?’

  ‘More along the lines of digested.’

  The Inspector pointed to the aquarium, the fish snapping at tiny bits of flesh floating in the water. Harper rubbed the back of his neck.

  ‘Right. Missed that one.’

  ‘As did the forensics officer of the Montreux police. There’s also the question of the victim’s missing heart, liver, kidneys and tongue. We’ve checked the neighbourhood skips to no avail. Leading us to believe whoever murdered Mr Toda wanted his organs as a killing trophy of some kind, if not lunch.’

  Harper looked at the dangling corpse, guts sliced to shreds.

  ‘Jesus wept.’

  ‘Indeed. Shall we go down for some fresh air?’

  Back down the stairs, out on the street. They stood in a pool of white light from the lamp above the door. A Mercedes pulled up to the pavement, 500 series, dark blue. Matched the suit under the Inspector’s cashmere coat.

  ‘No doubt, Mr Harper, you’re asking yourself what the Deputy Director of the Swiss Police from Berne is doing at a murder scene in Montreux.’

  ‘No doubt you’re about to tell me.’

  ‘We only have a handful of wilful homicides per year in Switzerland and I keep abreast of all such investigations, I like to see that they’re conducted properly.’

  ‘Don’t think I’d care to be the forensics lad who missed the eyeballs in the fish tank.’

  ‘I promise you you would not. When I learned the victim was working at the hotel in which Alexander Yuriev was staying, I thought I’d best swing by.’

  The driver lowered his window, handed over a clear plastic bag. Something inside, a magazine.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant Gauer, please inform the morgue they may collect the body. Mr Harper, there was one item deliberately left at the scene.’

  ‘Deliberately?’

  ‘One must assume from the lack of physical evidence that nothing was left by accident. In this case, the most recent issue of Playboy magazine that was found on the victim’s bed. Would you care to have a look at Miss December?’

  Magazine opened to a shot of Miss December. Harper looked at her. Pretty smile.

  ‘And this means what?’

  ‘If you look at the bottom of the page you’ll see a telephone number. There’s no name but I believe it to be yours.’

  Harper saw the number. No bloody idea. Then again, maybe that wasn’t the fucking point.

  ‘You really want me to answer, Inspector, or are you just profiling the manner of my thinking again?’

  ‘Truth be told I knew immediately it was yours.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Elementary, my dear Mr Harper. I saw, I dialled, you answered. When would Mr Toda have written this?’

  ‘The Port Royal, Friday night, the night I was supposed to meet Yuriev at GG’s. I’m surprised he got it right.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Took him a few tries. Given where he wrote it, he was probably otherwise engaged.’

  ‘Did he call you at any time in the last few days?’

  ‘No, but I called him a few times.’

  ‘When was the last time you spoke with him?’

  ‘Would’ve been Sunday. In the early morning, around three a.m.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘That I called him, or that it was three a.m.?’


  ‘Just answer the question, Mr Harper.’

  ‘I was searching strip joints and bars for Yuriev all night. Ended up on Rue Caroline and heard the cathedral bells ring three times.’

  ‘And what was the substance of the conversation?’

  ‘Same as the rest. I asked him if there’d been any word from Yuriev.’

  ‘Did Mr Toda sound in any way distressed?’

  ‘Not that I could tell.’

  ‘I see. Would you get in the motorcar, please?’

  Mutt and Jeff both sides of the Merc, holding open the passenger doors.

  ‘Am I under arrest, Inspector?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort. I just happen to be on my way to Lausanne. Dinner at the Palace Brasserie with the Doctor. Our annual oyster fête before the holidays. Bit of a tradition.’

  Eviscerated corpse followed by a serving of gutted Ostrea edulis.

  ‘You must have a cast-iron stomach, Inspector.’

  ‘Feelings and emotions are best laid aside in our line of work, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘This isn’t my line of work.’

  ‘Actually it is, you’re just a bit slow on the uptake.’

  Harper didn’t like the sound of it.

  ‘I’ll take the train, thanks.’

  ‘Please, don’t make me pull rank. Besides, there’s something else I’d like to show you.’

  Rochat packed three flannel shirts, a pair of trousers, two pairs of winter socks and two clean towels in his rucksack. It wasn’t easy. Every time he turned his back, Monsieur Booty jumped in to claw at the contents.

  ‘Listen, you miserable beast, I told you. I’m staying in the tower the next few nights. We’ve had lots of snow and Monsieur Taroni says an ice storm is coming. So you just get out of the rucksack and stop bothering me. I have important duties.’