Super-Cannes. Ali Smith

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 Jaguar 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.