Super-Cannes

'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 point of it.'

'Halder is a difficult man to impress. He has the special kind of snobbery that servants of the rich often show. As your security man it's important he take you seriously. I thought it might break the ice.'

'It clearly did. Is he an amateur pilot?'

'No. His father was in the US Air Force, stationed at a base near Mannheim. The mother was a German girl working in the PX. He abandoned her and the baby, and now runs a small airline in Alabama. He was one of the few black commissioned officers. Halder's never met him.'

'An airline? That's impressive.'

'I think it has two planes. For Halder, flying is confused with his wish to confront his father.'

'A little pat?'

Penrose playfully punched my shoulder, a hard blow that made me raise my stick to him. He stepped out of my way and signalled to an approaching patrol car. 'Pat? Yes. But I'm not speaking as a psychiatrist.'

'Are you ever?'

With a stage laugh, Penrose drummed his fist against the roller doors of the garage. He swung his large body into the passenger seat of the Range Rover, sprawling against the driver. The sound of his mocking cheer, good-humoured but derisory, was taken up by the vibrating metal slats, a memory of violence that seemed to echo from the sealed garage, eager to escape into the warm August air.

Jane had left the sun lounge and was sitting by the computer in the study, choosing a new screensaver. I limped towards her, already tired by the spaces of the large house. Jane raised a hand to me, her eyes still fixed on the screen. Alone in this white room, she seemed at her prettiest, a charming ingénue in a modern-dress version of a Coward play. I leaned against her, glad to be alone with my sane young wife.

'What was all that, Paul? You weren't hitting him?'

'As it happens, he punched me.'

'Vile man. Are you all right?' She took the walking stick and pulled up a chair for me. 'Speaking of punches, Dr Wilder Penrose was a bit below the belt.'

'Not telling us straight away about David? That's obviously his style – watch out.' I sat beside Jane, and stared at the complex patterns that revolved like a Paisley nightmare. 'What did you make of him?'

'He's an intellectual thug.' Jane massaged my knee. 'That set-to over our bags with Halder. And the nasty way he stared at the African salesmen. He's racist.'

'No. He was trying to provoke us. Visitors from liberal England, we're as naive as any maiden aunt, an unmissable target. Still, he's your colleague now. Remember that you have to get on with him.'

'I will. Don't worry, psychiatrists are never a threat. Surgeons are the real menace.'

'That sounds like hard-won experience.'

'It is. All psychiatrists secretly dream of killing themselves.'

'And surgeons?'

'They dream of killing their patients.' She rotated her seat, turning her back to the computer. 'Paul, that was a weird afternoon.'