‘That’s not so strange,’ said Mel. ‘Everyone our age is doing this now. There are probably two or three more people you know here you just haven’t spotted. As the man said just now, this is the place to be.’
‘He did say that, didn’t he?’
Mel stood on her toes in an effort to see over the heads. ‘Oops. Just spotted one of my clients. Speak to you tomorrow.’ With that she disappeared into the throng.
I tried to work the crowd again, but I didn’t get very far. Half an hour and only one venture capitalist’s card later I decided to call it quits.
I emerged into the cool night air feeling low. There were an awful lot of people doing the same kind of thing as Ninetyminutes, and all of them seemed pushier than me. I had read about the internet revolution in the press, but I had never seen it, felt it. And it didn’t feel right. The cautious Gurney Kroheim banker in me didn’t like it. There were a couple of people with good ideas, such as an articulate blonde woman I had spoken to who had started a company that sold cheap last-minute tickets. But most of it was rubbish. And the rubbish was getting funded.
For the last few weeks I had felt like a true entrepreneur, on the cutting edge of a new wave of technology. Now I just felt like a chartered accountant with delusions. Unlike the Chinese guy who had made the speech, I feared I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
13
July 1987, Côte D’Azur, France
Guy stared uncomprehendingly at his father standing in the doorway of our bedroom. ‘Dead? Dominique’s dead?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘How?’
Tony sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘A drug overdose.’
‘Drug... Jesus!’
‘The police are here. They want to talk to everyone. You’d better get up.’
We staggered out of bed and I struggled to gain some control of the random thoughts colliding around my brain. Dead? Suicide? Police? Drugs? Dominique? Me? Sex? Investigation? Guy? Tony?
As I followed Guy into the garden illuminated by the first chilly fingers of dawn I had a horrible feeling that everything was going to come out. Everything.
We crossed the garden and I looked up at Dominique’s bedroom and the balcony where we had made love the previous afternoon. There were lights, shadows moving around, the intermittent flash of a photographer. There was the murmur of footsteps, voices, instructions, and the sound of a vehicle sweeping into the front courtyard.
We followed Tony into the living room. Ingrid, Mel, Owen, Miguel and a couple of maids were sitting there in silence, all looking stunned. Mel had been crying. Two gendarmes in uniform stood a few feet distant, watching us idly. It was a large room, with tile floors covered in chic rugs, abstract sculptures dotted about the place and large canvases with bright splashes of colour daubing the walls. It was a room for the elegant and the sophisticated to relax in, not for a bunch of eighteen-year-olds just out of school to wait for interrogation. Not for the first time I found myself thinking, what am I doing here?
‘The police will want to ask you questions individually,’ Tony said in a monotone. ‘It should be just a formality. Nothing to worry about.’ He looked exhausted, numb. I could still smell the alcohol of the previous night on him.
‘What happened, Dad?’ said Guy.
Tony turned to his son. ‘I found her an hour or so ago. She was in bed. There was a needle on her bedside table. Heroin.’
‘Are you sure?’
Tony nodded, all his vitality gone.
He knew she took heroin, I thought. In fact, that probably explained the strangeness in her eyes. And the make-up on the inside of her forearm hiding the injection marks.
I stared up at the ceiling, at the motionless fan. A drug addict. I had had sex with a drug addict. Who was now dead. The urgent question was, what should I tell the police?
My first instinct, of course, was to lie. Or at least not to mention what had happened that afternoon. But a moment’s thought persuaded me that was a bad idea. I had done nothing wrong; or rather nothing illegal. Once I started lying to the police I would be breaking the law. And there were all sorts of ways they might find out. The post-mortem, Tony, perhaps even Ingrid. Besides, I wasn’t a good liar at the best of times, and this was the worst of times. A competent policeman would find me out in no time.
The door opened and two detectives entered. One of them signalled to Tony. They spoke in heated whispers. Whatever it was the policeman said, it shocked Tony. He looked anxiously over towards us. The detective broke away from him and approached us.
He was a tall, burly man in a baggy double-breasted suit who managed to look both tired and alert at the same time.
‘My name is Sauville. Inspector Sauville,’ he said, in good but strongly accented English. We were listening. ‘I must inform you that we believe we are investigating a murder. In a few minutes I will begin questioning each of you in turn. It is imperative that you stay here at the house today. And keep well clear from the scene of the crime. Do you understand?’
We nodded. A murder. No wonder Tony looked so shocked. I glanced at Guy. He seemed stunned.
Sauville spoke to his detectives and disappeared into the dining room. In a moment he called in Tony. One of the other detectives began to interview Ingrid. They were splitting up the work.
The interviews took a long time, especially Tony’s. When he came out he looked dazed. He spoke to Guy quickly and then disappeared.
‘What did he say?’ I asked Guy.
‘They think Dominique was suffocated with a pillow. She had taken heroin, but the police have no reason to think it was an overdose. They’ll know for sure when they’ve done the post-mortem. Dad said they think he might have done it. He’s gone to call Patrick Hoyle.’
Guy looked stricken. Both by the idea that his stepmother had been murdered and that his father might be suspected of doing it.
More police were arriving. I could see them outside, picking their way methodically through the garden. We heard movement on the stairs and we went outside into the hallway to watch as Dominique’s body was carried down and out of the house. She was covered, of course, but we could easily make out her shape beneath the sheet. A chill ran through me. I glanced at Guy, whose face was drained of all colour. Ingrid let out a tiny gasp and Mel began to weep. I put my arm round her; of all of us, she had had a particularly hard couple of days.
Then Sauville called her into the dining room. She wiped her eyes and tried to pull herself together. But she looked scared. I realized she must be agonizing over whether to tell them about Tony seducing her. Like me, she had no choice; I hoped she understood that. Meanwhile the other detective was cracking through the witnesses. I was anxious for my turn. I wanted it to be over. We talked little, but drank many cups of coffee. Ingrid stayed close to Mel, and took her up to her room after she had finished her interview. Guy looked agitated and anxious. Owen sat impassively, as if he were in a doctor’s surgery, waiting for a routine check-up. My turn came eventually, after Guy.
I got Inspector Sauville. He sat at the head of the table, a lackey by his side taking notes. He gestured for me to sit down.
‘Your name is David Lane?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘Comment?’
‘Yes,’ I said more strongly. He had only asked my name, but already I could feel my palms sweating. This was not going to be fun.
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘And you are a friend of Guy Jourdan’s?’ He pronounced ‘Guy’ to rhyme with ‘key’, just as Dominique had.