by Ken McClure
The Anvil
Ken Mcclure
Ken McClure
The Anvil
ONE
Geneva, April 1988
Jutte Hahn opened the bedroom door quietly and looked in at the sleeping figure of Sean MacLean. She smiled and flicked the hair back from her face. Anyone seeing the look in her eyes would have been in no doubt about the love that was there. She and MacLean had lived together for nearly a year now and every day seemed like the first. MacLean moved in his sleep and rolled on to his left side. Jutte came over to the bed and sat down on the edge. She ran her finger gently down the contours of his bare arm and smiled at the slight movement she induced. She stopped at his hand and thought how much she loved his touch. Strong, tanned wrists led to long sensitive fingers, surgeon’s fingers, for that was what MacLean was.
There was a gold ring on the second finger of his right hand; it had been his father’s wedding ring. She could make out the letters, JM on it and a tiny emblem, which she knew was a thistle, but could not quite see in the early light filtering through the still-closed blinds. MacLean was fiercely proud of his Scottish origins. Woe betide anyone at the clinic who called him English. Jutte smiled at the thought. MacLean was so gentle about everything else.
Jutte had met MacLean on the ski slopes above Zermatt. He had been having a weekend away from the clinic and she was employed to instruct parties of school children in the fundamentals of skiing. She had been taken aback by his directness when he came straight up to her and asked if she would have a drink with him when classes were over for the day. Her immediate instinct had been put him down but there had been something about his openness that had made her think twice and then agree. Far from being a sophisticated operator, which had been her first thought, MacLean had a quality of childlike innocence.
When she thought back to that first evening she reflected on how easily it could have been their last. MacLean had spoken about nothing but his work. The company he worked for had come up with some new compound, which affected the kind of surgery MacLean was interested in and he was filled with such enthusiasm for it. She hadn’t understood much at the time but the one thing that struck her was that MacLean’s concern for his patients was genuine. When he had driven her home that evening she had expected him to make some kind of pass but instead he had suddenly apologised for being so boring. He had kissed her fingertips lightly and asked if he might be allowed to see her again.
After seeing each other regularly for two months they had decided to live together. If Sean MacLean had suggested they fly to the moon Jutte would have agreed without a second thought; she had fallen so much in love with him. He had become everything to her. She ran her fingers lightly along his forehead and curled a lock of dark hair. She wished with all her heart that she could do something to help him with what he was going through right now. Things had gone wrong with the project at the clinic and trials on the new compound had been abandoned. There had been a death and MacLean blamed himself.
Jutte continued to trace her fingers lightly round the contours of MacLean’s face, pausing only when he showed signs of stirring. She brought them underneath his chin and up against the stubble on his cheek to circle the edge of his ear. MacLean moved as if annoyed by a fly and Jutte stopped until he settled again. She touched his ear and MacLean brought up his hand. He kept it against his ear. Jutte ran her index finger gently up the spaces between his fingers in turn. She knew that he liked that.
‘Monster,’ murmured MacLean.
Jutte laughed out loud and MacLean opened his eyes.
‘Do you know what time it is?’ she asked.
‘Not only do I not know what time it is,’ replied MacLean sleepily, ‘I don’t care.’
‘It’s seven thirty,’ said Jutte.
‘It’s also Saturday,’ said MacLean. He turned over on to his front and put both hands up on the pillow. Jutte rubbed his shoulders in a circular motion.
‘That’s nice,’ purred MacLean.
‘You should have been a cat,’ smiled Jutte.
‘Next time around,’ said MacLean.
‘What would you like for breakfast?’
‘You.’
‘Instead of porridge?’ mocked Jutte. ‘What would your Scottish granny say.’
‘Granddad would understand,’ growled MacLean, turning round to pull her down on top of him.
Jutte squealed in mock protest then kissed him full on the lips.
‘Have I told you lately how much I love you?’ said MacLean.
‘Not lately enough.’
‘Then I do.’
‘Say it,’ demanded Jutte.
‘I love you.’
‘Good,’ said Jutte, freeing herself and standing up. ‘Then you won’t have forgotten your promise?’
‘Promise,’ said MacLean uncertainly.
‘To go up to the mountains this week-end.’
‘Ah,’ MacLean replied thoughtfully.
‘You promised,’ insisted Jutte.
‘Very well, I promised,’ conceded MacLean after a moment’s thought.
‘Then up you get and into the shower with you.’
‘Jutte, I don’t think I feel like… ‘
Jutte put her finger to his lips. ‘We are going,’ she said. ‘You need to get away from here for a bit; we both do. It will help to take your mind off things.’
MacLean considered and then conceded. He said, ‘All right, we’ll go.’ He got out of bed.
‘While you are in the shower I will drive down to the bakers and get some of Madame Renaud’s croissants.’
‘Wonderful,’ said MacLean.
‘Can I take your car?’
‘The keys are by the door.’
‘Won’t be long.’ Jutte put on a pale blue jacket over her blouse and picked up the keys. She kissed MacLean on the cheek and was gone.
MacLean went into the bathroom and took off the boxer shorts he used as pyjamas. He examined himself in the mirror and grimaced as he saw the beginnings of loose flesh around his middle. He needed more exercise. Being over six-foot tall and broad with it, he could carry spare flesh without it showing too much but he didn’t like it. He would start running again soon. He had stopped it when things had started to go wrong at the clinic and had been drinking more that was good for him but he would have to get a grip on himself. After this weekend he would get back to a stricter regime.
He stepped into the shower and made a slight adjustment to the regulator but, as he reached for the soap, an explosion rocked the building and the apartment was filled with the sound of breaking glass. MacLean threw a towel round his waist and rushed through to find that the balcony doors had been blown in. Ignoring the glass underfoot and filled with fear and trepidation, he moved outside to look down. His Mercedes was now a heap of smouldering wreckage. Metal was strewn all over the road and a tyre was burning. The air was filled with smoke and what looked like pieces of paper were floating silently down. One of the pieces landed on the balcony and MacLean picked it up slowly as if in a trance. It was a small piece of pale blue material.
Zurich, June 1988
Lisa Vernay opened her eyes cautiously as the morning sun caught her face on the pillow. It was just after six. She turned over and let her arm drop lightly on to the space beside her. A few months ago the emptiness would have rekindled the hollow feeling and maybe even have brought tears but not now. Jean Pierre had gone and she had accepted it; she had moved on. She had left Geneva to find a new job working at the Klausman Clinic in Zurich and with it had come a new apartment, a white Volkswagen convertible and a growing new circle of friends.
Among that circle was Jeff Edelman, an American surgeon at the clinic who seemed more than a little interested in her. Lisa liked him but was in no hurry to form any clo
se relationship. She would keep him at arm’s length for the time being — at least until the hurt healed. Besides, she suspected that he was several years younger than she was. But maybe that was a consideration of another age.
Jean Pierre had been very generous to her at the time of the break-up, a generosity born of guilt but nevertheless she had no need to seek security. She could afford to take things slowly. In her heart she had forgiven him and could even wish him well but as for the little bitch who had stolen him away… that was quite another matter.
Lisa got out of bed and opened the curtains. She basked for a few moments in the warmth of the sun coming through the glass before sliding back the door and stepping out on to the balcony. The air was already pleasantly warm. Ten floors below her she could see the sunlight sparkle on the clear blue water of the apartment swimming pool. There was only the tiniest ripple on its surface and the surrounding gardens were deserted. It looked so inviting and she did not have to be at the clinic until nine. The first lab samples wouldn’t start arriving until half past; there would be plenty of time.
She slipped out of her nightdress and padded lightly across the floor to the closet where she kept her swimsuits. Of the three in the top drawer she chose the navy-blue one-piece with the band of lighter blue running diagonally up to her left shoulder like a fork of lightning. She made it fit perfectly with her fingertips, running them round the inside of the elastic and smoothing it over her still-firm buttocks.
She examined herself in the full-length mirror door of the closet and was not displeased at what she saw. At the age of thirty-five her stomach was flat, her breasts arrogant and her hair was still jet black without assistance. She could pass for mid to late twenties. She threw a bathrobe round her shoulders, packed a towel and her keys into a duffel bag and slipped her feet inside the rope sandals she’d bought in Saint Raphael last year. She paused as she reached the door then ran back to the kitchen to switch on the electric kettle for when she came back. That would save a few minutes.
Lisa dropped the robe from her shoulders on to one of the poolside chairs and kicked her sandals underneath. She walked to the head of the pool and looked down at the water. An onlooker might have expected her to dive in but she didn’t. Lisa never dived into pools. She hadn’t done that since she was fourteen years old when she’d tried to emulate her older brother Paul by diving into the sea from the rocks near their holiday home in Brittany. She had mistimed the swell and hit her head on the bottom. The remainder of the holiday had been spent in hospital.
Lisa touched the mark on her forehead subconsciously as she walked up the side of the pool to the centre ladders and climbed down. The water was cold but she held her breath and continued to descend until the water lapped below her chin. She pushed herself away from the side and floated on her back for a few moments, gazing up at the unbroken blue of the sky, enjoying the scents from the surrounding shrubs. She turned over on to her front and started to swim up and down in a lazy crawl. It felt good to stretch her limbs.
As she started to tire, she decided on a final length of breaststroke to take her down to the shallow end. She pushed off with her feet and stayed under the surface with her hands by her sides as long as possible, rejoicing in the feeling of moving through the water like a fish but when she broke the surface she became aware of a man waiting at the end of the pool. He was wearing overalls and leaning on a rake.
‘Bonjour,’ said Lisa as she stood up, wiping the water from her eyes.
‘Bonjour Madame,’ replied the man. ‘You swim well.’
‘Merci,’ said Lisa coldly. She could not recall having seen this particular gardener before and thought his comment on her swimming prowess a little too familiar. She climbed up the steps and was surprised to see that the man had moved to the head of them. He was blocking her way.
‘Would you mind moving?’ she said.
The man looked down at her. His mouth smiled but his eyes did not. He didn’t say anything and he didn’t move.
Lisa’s throat began to tighten. The shallow end of the pool was screened from the apartment block by shrubbery. She felt afraid.
‘Are you stupid?’ she demanded. ‘I asked you to move!’
The man continued to smile.
Lisa was about to sink back down into the water when the man suddenly reached down and gripped her under her right arm. He pulled her clean out of the pool and clamped his other hand over her mouth. She was carried, kicking and struggling but completely mute into the dense shrubbery and pinned on her back. The man slowly relaxed the hand over her mouth, his eyes warning her not to scream.
Lisa was consumed by terror. ‘I have money,’ she gasped. ‘I’ll give you it. Anything you want, just don’t hurt me. Please, please, for God’s sake don’t hurt me.’
The smile returned to the man’s lips but his eyes were like stones. He turned Lisa on to her side and curled his arm round her neck to grip her chin. For a moment she could not understand what was happening but then with hellish insight it became clear. ‘Oh my God!’ she gasped. She opened her mouth to scream but the man tightened his grip and gave her neck a sudden sharp twist. He turned Lisa’s lifeless body over on to her back and left it to return a moment later with a stone. He traced out an area on her forehead with his forefinger then brought the stone down sharply on it. The death was to look like an accident: that was the agreement. Satisfied with his handiwork, he pulled Lisa’s body out of the shrubbery and slid it silently back into the water.
Paris, September 1988
Kurt Immelman left the Peripherique at the Porte D’Orleans and coaxed the Porsche through increasingly heavy traffic as he headed north on Avenue du General Leclerc. He checked his watch and saw that he had plenty of time. Professor Jaffe did not expect him until ten.
A particularly stunning young woman dressed in a close-fitting white dress crossed in front of him as he came to a halt at traffic lights. He eyed her appreciatively and smiled when she glanced in his direction. She smiled back. People had been right about Paris, he reflected. There were more beautiful women in this city than in any other and they had the poise and confidence to go with it. A woman would not have smiled back in Geneva.
Kurt had been in Paris for seven months and had enjoyed all of them. The city had style; it had an undercurrent of excitement, which acted like a drug. You missed it when you went away for any length of time. The young were constantly aware of their sexuality and used it in a sophisticated game. Smiles, glances out of the corner of the eye, apparently casual brushing encounters were the opening gambits. Dinner in left bank cafes, holding hands by the Seine and kissing in the shadow of Notre Dame came next. Making love in his apartment in Montrouge or hers in Montmartre… but maybe time was running out. On his birthday last Friday Kurt had become thirty-eight years old.
His appointment as chief plastic surgeon at the Le Monde Hospital had marked the end of a very long apprenticeship as assistant surgeon at some of the finest clinics in Europe. He was now his own boss. There would be more time for other things. Things like finding a wife, because, at thirty-eight, he was in danger of becoming set in his ways as a bachelor, a fact which his mother had pointed out to him in a letter enclosed with his birthday card. He had believed that only unmarried daughters received maternal complaints about being denied the joy of grandchildren. As an only son he had been proved wrong.
The simple truth was that since medical school he had very little time at all to consider courtship and marriage. Surgery was a demanding speciality and if you really wanted to succeed at top level it demanded all your energy and attention. Kurt wanted to succeed; he wanted to be the best. He had moved all over Europe to ensure that he worked with the best, picked their brains, studied their techniques. Now it was beginning to pay off. His reputation in the medical world was growing fast. This morning he had been called in as consultant on a case in one of the most exclusive hospitals in Paris.
The patient was the son of an Arab Sheikh who had been badly burned
in a car accident. He had been trapped inside his car when it had overturned and caught fire. The notes said that the left side of the boy’s face had been severely damaged and forty percent of his torso had sustained second degree burns. His genital area was also affected. No expense was to be spared to restore the boy to as near normal as could be done.
Kurt brought the car to a halt in the parking lot at the rear of the hospital and saw the attendant walk towards him. The man glanced at his windshield then became aggressive. ‘No permit, no parking,’ he said.
Kurt eyed the man with distaste. He had an intense dislike of petty officialdom. ‘I’m here at Professor Jaffe’s request,’ he said, getting out the car.
The man stiffened at the name Jaffe. ‘You are Doctor Immelman?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘The Professor said you would be coming. You are to go directly to the seventh floor.’
Immelman nodded and walked towards the front door. He was wondering what Jaffe would be like. He had never met him.
The elevator was smooth and fast. The doors slid back silently and Immelman stepped out into a seventh floor corridor. He almost tripped over a tool bag, which had been left by an engineer who was working on the other elevator. The man’s legs were visible in the opening: he was working on the roof of the car. A triangular metal stand held a card saying that the elevator was temporarily out of service.
Kurt turned away and started to look for an indication of where Jaffe would be found. His name did not appear on the staff board. He walked slowly along the corridor until he met a nurse coming the other way.
‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Professor Jaffe.’
‘Not on this floor Monsieur,’ replied the girl. ‘Professor Jaffe’s unit is on the second floor.’
‘The second!’ exclaimed Kurt. What on earth was the fool in the car park talking about? He returned to the elevators and found that the engineer had moved to the one he had come up in. The metal sign seemed to be placed ambiguously between both cars.
