Super-Cannes. Ali Smith

Our conversation had drained the colour from Penrose’s face. Only his hands continued to move. Resting on the cushions beside him, they flinched and trembled with a life of their own.

      ‘Was anyone else involved?’ I pointed towards Cannes. ‘Coconspirators on the outside?’

      ‘The investigating magistrate found nothing. He spent weeks here with his police teams, staging reconstructions of the murders. A strange kind of street theatre, you’d think Eden-Olympia was taking over from the Edinburgh Festival. Meanwhile, foreign governments were pressing hard for a result. Half the world’s psychologists jammed the baggage carousels at Nice Airport. There was even a televised debate in the conference room at the Noga Hilton. They came up with nothing.’

      ‘He tried to kill you.’ Jane pushed her glass away, distracted by the insect’s angry buzzing. ‘You were wounded. How did he look when he shot you?’

      Penrose sighed, his heavy chest deflating at the memory. ‘I didn’t see him, thank heavens. I’m not sure that I was one of his targets. A glass door blew in while I was checking something in the pharmacy. David was firing from the outside corridor at Professor Berthoud. By the time I stopped bleeding he’d gone.’

      ‘Grim …’ I felt a sudden sympathy for Penrose. ‘A nightmare for you.’

      ‘Far more for David.’ Penrose watched his restless hands and then nodded to me, grateful for this display of fellow-feeling. ‘Paul, it’s impossible to explain. Some deep psychosis must have been gathering for years, a profound crisis going back to his childhood.’

      ‘Did David know any of the victims?’

      ‘He knew them all. Several were patrons of the La Bocca refuge, like poor Dominique Serrou, the breast cancer specialist at the clinic. She gave a lot of her free time to the refuge. God only knows why David decided to kill her.’

      ‘Was Eden-Olympia his real target?’ Jane carried her glass to the open air and released the trapped insect. ‘I love it here, but the place is disgustingly rich.’

      ‘We thought of that.’ Penrose watched the insect veer away, smiling at its angry swerves and dives. ‘Eden-Olympia is a business park. This isn’t Fritz Lang’s Metropolis. Drive to Le Cannet or Grasse and you’ll find a dozen old “zincs” where you can enjoy your pastis and bet on the horses at Longchamp.’

      ‘Third-World politics?’ I suggested. ‘Multinational corporations make a perfect terrorist target.’

      ‘IBM Europe? Nippon Telegraph?’ Penrose reluctantly shook his head. ‘Companies here aren’t involved with the Third World. None of them are sweating rubber or bauxite out of a coolie workforce. The raw material processed at Eden-Olympia is high-grade information. Besides, political terrorists don’t rely on people like David Greenwood. Though you have to admire the way he carried it off. Once the alarm was raised he must have known all the doors would shut around him.’

      ‘Which they did?’

      ‘Tighter than a nun’s knees. When he realized it was over, he came back here and killed his hostages, a couple of off-duty chauffeurs and a maintenance engineer. Why he seized them in the first place no one knows …’

      ‘Wait a minute …’ Jane stepped forward, pointing to Penrose. ‘Are you saying …?’

      ‘Tragically, yes. He killed all three.’

      ‘Here?’ Jane seized my wrist, her sharp fingers almost separating the bones. ‘You’re saying this was David’s villa?’

      ‘Naturally.’ Penrose seemed puzzled by Jane’s question. ‘The house is assigned to the clinic’s paediatrician.’

      ‘So the murders began …’ Jane stared at the white walls of the sun lounge, as if expecting to see them smeared with bloody handprints. ‘David lived in this house?’

      Penrose ducked his head, embarrassed by his slip of the tongue. ‘Jane, I didn’t mean to alarm you. Everything happened in the garage. David shot the hostages there, and then killed himself. They found him inside his car.’

      ‘Even so …’ Jane searched the tiled floor at her feet. ‘It feels strange. David living here, planning all those terrible deaths.’

      ‘Jane …’ I took her hands, but she pulled them away from me. ‘Are you going to be happy? Penrose, can’t we move to another house? We’ll rent a villa in Grasse or Vallauris.’

      ‘You could move, yes …’ Penrose was watching us without expression. ‘It will create problems. Houses here are at a premium – none of the others are vacant. It’s a condition of Jane’s contract that she stay within Eden-Olympia. We’d have to find you an apartment near the shopping mall. They’re pleasant enough, but … Jane, I’m sorry you’re upset.’

      ‘I’m all right.’ Jane took a clip from her purse. Staring hard at Penrose, she smoothed her shoulder-length hair and secured it in a defiant bunch. ‘You’re sure no one was killed here?’

      ‘Absolutely. Everything happened in the garage. They say it was over in seconds. A brief burst of shots. Heart-rending to think about.’

      ‘It is.’ Jane spoke matter-of-factly. ‘So the garage …?’

      ‘Virtually rebuilt. Scarcely a trace of the original structure. Talk it over with Paul and let me know tomorrow.’

      ‘Jane …?’ I touched her cheek, now as pale as the white walls. Her face was pointed, like a worried child’s, and the spurs of her nasal bridge seemed sharp enough to cut the skin. ‘How do you feel?’

      ‘Odd. Don’t you?’

      ‘We can move. I’ll find a hotel in Cannes.’

      Penrose took out his mobile phone. ‘I’ll get Halder to drive you to the Martinez. We have several guest suites there.’

      ‘No.’ Jane brushed me aside, and took the phone from Penrose. ‘I’m too tired. We’ve both had a long drive. We need time to think it through.’

      ‘Good. You’re being very sensible.’ Penrose bowed in an almost obsequious way. Despite his concern, I was puzzled by his behaviour. He had deliberately concealed from us the crucial fact that David Greenwood had lived in this house and died within its grounds. No doubt Penrose had feared, rightly, that Jane would never have accepted the post at Eden-Olympia if she had known.

      I examined the chairs and tables in the sun lounge, pieces of department-store furniture in expensive but anonymous designs. I realized that Jane was as much the hired help as Halder and the security guards, the murdered chauffeurs and maintenance man, and was expected to keep her sensitivities to herself. Ambitious dentists did not complain about the poor oral hygiene of their richer clients. I remembered Halder’s sceptical gaze as he lounged by the Range Rover, making it clear that we were lucky to be admitted to this luxury enclave.

      Penrose said his goodbyes to Jane and waited by the pool as I found my walking stick. He had replaced his sunglasses, hiding the sweat that leaked from his eye-sockets. In his creased linen suit, with its damp collar and lapels, he seemed both shifty and arrogant, aware that he had been needlessly provocative but not too concerned by our reactions.

      Joining him, I said: ‘Thanks for the tour. It’s a superb house.’

      ‘Good. You’ll probably stay. Your wife likes it here.’

      ‘I’m not sure.’

      ‘Believe me.’ His smile drifted across his face like a dismasted ship, detached from whatever he was thinking. ‘You’ll be very happy at Eden-Olympia.’

      I walked Penrose down to the avenue, and waited while he called the nearest patrol car.

      ‘One thing …’ I said. ‘Why did you tell Halder that I was a pilot?’

      ‘Did I? I hope that wasn’t indiscreet.’

      ‘No. But you made a