The Watchers (28 page)

He went into the loge for the binoculars. He stood in the doorway, focusing the lenses till he could see it wasn’t a duvet, it was a bed sheet. And the squiggles were letters painted on the cloth. He stared at it, organizing the letters into words: ‘
Quand ma mari matrice de mari?
’

‘When will my husband die?’ He lowered the binoculars from his eyes. ‘What a very strange thing to write on a bed sheet.’

He hung the binoculars in the closet, locked the loge and hurried down the tower to the women’s choir loft. He stopped, thinking he should leave another way. Perhaps Monsieur Taroni wouldn’t like it if people saw him coming on to the esplanade from the tower door, especially after telling everyone he’d gone home. He took a side passage, crossing under the roof of the nave to a set of crooked stairs winding down to the ground. He unlocked a heavy door and stepped into the nave. Another crowd had assembled outside the gift shop. Rochat shuffled quietly so no one would notice him. He moved along the edge of the crowd, listening …

‘My Olivier had the most terrible nightmares last night. And this morning he saw the snowman on television and said, “Maman, I must see the snowman!”’

‘My daughter did the exact same thing.
C’est bizarre, non?
’

… and he heard a familiar voice shouting from the doors of the gift shop.

‘Mesdames et messieurs! I am sorry but the tower is closed.’

Rochat peeked through the crowd and saw the top of Monsieur Taroni’s head, his waving hands trying to hold back the shouting crowd.

‘What do you mean the tower is closed?’

‘We are citizens of the canton!’

‘Let us in!’

‘Mesdames et messieurs, there is a great deal of snow that we must clear away. And the Federal Office of Meteorology informs us there will be an ice storm in the next few days. We cannot allow unauthorized persons to the tower in such hazardous conditions.
Mesdames et messieurs, le beffroi est fermé
!’

Children began to cry, parents became flustered. Rochat bent as low as he could to escape Monsieur Taroni’s notice. Out on the esplanade, Lausannois huddled in groups, some looking up to the belfry, others pointing to the Palud quarter.

‘Look, there’s another one.’

‘And over there.’

Rochat worked his way to the ramparts overlooking Lausanne. Hanging from other windows of the old city, more hand-painted words on white sheets: ‘Does he return to us?’, ‘John 3:16’, ‘All is darkness without the light’.

Nearby a reporter was talking to a man in a white smock; television cameras pointed at the two of them. Lausannois gathered around to listen.

‘I’m speaking with Dr Helmut Sreiff, head of psychiatric medicine with the University Hospital in Lausanne. Doctor, what do you make of this schoolboy prank?’

‘It has obviously touched a nerve in our communal psyche. Last night there was a frightening storm, causing much damage in our area. We are, of course, fast approaching the Christmas season. The combination of these events, as well as the general feeling of uncertainty regarding the state of the world beyond our borders, fills us with conflicting feelings and emotions. It’s natural for us to search for answers that give us a sense of comfort and stability, answers that reassure us we are safe. Unable to find these answers, we are overcome with acute anxiety, leading to a mild form of communal psychosis, I would say, and therefore …’

Rochat didn’t know what the man was talking about.

He shuffled through the crowd and counted his way down Escaliers du marché.

She stretched her naked body over red silk sheets, opened her eyes.

A large room with a crackling fire in a marble fireplace. Beautiful white orchids surrounding her bed. Sheer white curtains at the windows, glowing with soft midday light. Quiet voices coming down a mirrored hall. She wrapped her body in the top sheet and slid from the bed. She floated across the room, down the hall, seeing her reflection in the mirrors. Wrapped like a goddess in a red gown. The hall opened into a large sitting room. Monsieur Komarovsky and his attendants gathered around a table, selecting from pages of hand-written correspondence. The tall one noticed her and bowed graciously. The short one with the whiskers stared at her and smiled. Komarovsky, his silver eyes now covered in dark lenses again, opened his arms. ‘Ah, the belle of the ball now awake from her slumbers.’

‘What … what time is it?’

‘It is the late afternoon, my dear. Come and sit, you must take some herbal tea.’

The tall one wheeled a china tea service into the room. Komarovsky helped her to the divan and sat beside her. ‘We’ve been reading your reviews. They call you exquisite and wonderful.’

‘Reviews?’

‘Last night, my dear, at your coming-out party, you were adored by all.’

Yes, she remembered them. How they adored her, loved her, caressed her. Her heart rushed faster thinking of them. Beautiful bodies, slipping through her fingers, like touching warm light. Komarovsky raised the cup to her lips, she sipped.

‘It tastes so sweet.’

‘An ancient potion to calm you, my dear, drink it slowly. My attendants will prepare a bath of water and oils to refresh your skin before supper.’

‘Supper? No, the deal was only one night. I’m going to Zermatt next week. I have to go home.’

She tried to stand but the floor fell from under her. Komarovsky took her hand and eased her back to the divan.

‘There, there, my dear. I have already spoken with Madame Badeaux, everything is fixed. Tonight you will dine on fresh sweetmeats to rekindle your energy. Another long night of pleasure awaits you.’

She sipped again. She felt something wonderful ooze through her blood. So warm, so lovely.

seventeen

Harper spotted them as he stepped off the train in Montreux. Two husky men with bulges under their overcoats.

They spotted him just as fast.

‘
Bonsoir
, Monsieur Harper.’

‘Have a pleasant trip?’

He gave them a recce. Twin sons of different mothers. This one’s nose itches, the other one sneezes. And built like the no-neck bulldozers outside GG’s nightclub. Must be the milk they drink in this country, Harper thought.

‘Fine. Where’s Inspector Gobet?’

‘We’ll take you to him now.’

‘It’s only a short walk.’

A conductor’s whistle blew from the next platform. Long windows of the departing train carriages stuffed with happy faces.

‘Looks like they’re having fun.’

‘That’s the Golden Line to Gstaad, Mr Harper. Skiing holidays have begun in Switzerland.’

‘The train leaves twice each day. At noon and six in the evening, on the dot.’

Harper looked at the clock above the platform: 5:59:00.

‘Hate to tell you, lads, but that train’s leaving a minute early.’

‘Not to worry, Mr Harper.’

‘He won’t leave before his scheduled time.’

Harper pulled his smokes from his mackintosh and lit up. He watched a red rubber ball of a second hand loop around the bottom of the clock and move up to the twelve. It stopped. The clocks above all five platforms stopped. All the second hands falling in line, then marching ahead as one. Electric motors wound into gear, the train pulled ahead.

‘Station clocks throughout Switzerland are resynchronized each minute, Mr Harper.’

‘They operate as one clock, so the country’s trains leave exactly on time.’

Harper nodded.

‘Or the conductor gets a big fine, I bet.’

Twin blank stares.

‘More along the lines of a lengthy prison term. We’d prefer to shoot them but capital punishment is banned in Switzerland.’

‘Shall we go? Inspector Gobet has a dinner engagement this evening, we wouldn’t wish him to be late.’

Like being escorted by Mutt and Jeff. Harper puffed on his fag, wondering where he’d heard the term ‘Mutt and Jeff’ or what the bloody hell it meant, but knowing it fit these guys like a pair of handmade gloves.

‘Lead the way, lads.’

Down some concrete steps and through the tunnels under the platforms. Everyday-looking sorts rushed for the coming and going trains. Harper followed his guides through the crowd and down the escalator to Avenue des Alpes. Mutt pointed to the right, so did Jeff.

‘This way,
s’il vous plaît
.’

‘It’s only a short walk.’

They walked along a narrow road lined with leftovers from
la belle époque
, Bauhaus boxes, post-modern sixties shite. Harper chuckled, wondering at the things one remembers from History Channel, like Bauhaus and
belle époque
, and why.

The road opened on to a small roundabout. Harper did a three-sixty of the view. Looked swell in the fading light. Whole town neatly fitted between the curving shore of Lac Léman and the cloud-scraping Alps. The white mountains looking as if they’d fallen from the sky and landed at the end of the road, next to the palm trees.

‘Palm trees, in Switzerland?’

‘Montreux has a unique microclimate, Mr Harper. Winters here are mild and sunny. You can see the locals were spared much of last night’s terrible storm.’

Harper considered the scene.

‘So the end of the world wasn’t quite as advertised.’

Mutt and Jeff stopped in their tracks, spoke …

‘The end of the world, Mr Harper?’

‘Whatever do you mean by that?’

… dead fucking serious.

‘Something someone told me last night after the storm, sounded funny. Of course I was incredibly drunk at the time.’

‘Excessive drinking can often be accompanied by hallucinations, Mr Harper.’

‘Perhaps you should consider moderating your consumption.’

‘Moderation, right.’

Mutt pointed across the roundabout. So did Jeff.

‘We’re going just over there.’

‘Where you see the Afghan Restaurant.’

Triangle-shaped building on the far corner, six floors. Forgotten laundry and satellite dishes on the balconies. Ground floor with high windows and a painted sign: ‘Faryab’.

Harper saw the Pashtun-looking clientele within, drinking Sadaf tea and smoking cigarettes. He dropped his own smoke on the ground and stomped it underfoot. He wondered how he’d know what a Pashtun looked like, or what the hell Sadaf tea even was, but knew he could smell the wretched stuff already.

‘Fine, let’s go.’

Mutt touched Harper’s elbow, Jeff pointed down.

‘
Pardonnez-moi
, Monsieur Harper, pick that up.’

‘It’s forbidden to throw rubbish in Switzerland’s streets.’

Harper picked up the butt, tossed it in a bin.

‘Of course it is.’

They moved along the roundabout. A uniformed copper stood at the side entrance of the building, a strip of red plastic tape was strung across the door. The copper saw them coming, pulled aside the tape and let them through. Narrow hall with a single bulb dangling from the ceiling and filling the passage with stark light. Raga music and the scent of grilled meat bleeding through thin walls. He saw a mailbox by the door. Names listed looked to be from countries a body would do anything to get the hell out of. End of the hall, a small brown-skinned man standing at the bottom of the stairs. He was sucking on a smoke, his hands nervous and shaking. No wonder. The cop in the cashmere coat was looming over him, pointing his pudgy finger in the small man’s face. The copper turned, saw Harper coming through the door.

‘Ah,
bonsoir
, Monsieur Harper.’

‘Inspector.’

‘This is Monsieur Amin, the owner of the café and manager of this building.’

Dark eyes, trimmed moustache, his brown skin smelling of cardamom. He spoke nervously.

‘My customers are asking questions, Inspector.’

‘And you will inform your customers that a resident in your building has suffered a fatal heart attack.’

‘You call that thing up there a heart attack?’

‘For the purposes of conversation, yes. And may I remind you this is an official police inquiry, which has revealed, in part, that you’ve been renting flats to illegal residents. I don’t have to spell out what that means for you and your family in the Canton de Vaud. I’m sure your children would find deportation to Kabul most unpleasant.’

‘I don’t want any trouble.’

‘Then you’ll do as I ask, and everything will be fine.’

‘Inshallah.’

‘In your part of the world, sir, such things may require the will of God. Within the borders of Switzerland, my assurance is all that is needed.’

Inspector Gobet opened a door into the café, Abu Marwan stepped through. The Inspector closed the door, looked at Harper.

‘Poor fellow, he’s had a terrible fright. I’m sorry I couldn’t elaborate on the telephone, Mr Harper. I appreciate you making the trip.’

‘Did I have a choice?’

‘No, you didn’t. This way, please.’ The Inspector wound up the stairs. Harper followed with Mutt and Jeff bringing up the rear. ‘I must say, Mr Harper, I’m beginning to wonder as to your social skills.’

‘Really.’

‘Indeed. Since arriving in Lausanne, you’ve made telephone contact with two foreigners. One of them, a Russian named Alexander Yuriev whom you managed to misplace. Your other telephone acquaintance has proved somewhat more interesting, one Konstantin Toda from Tirana.’

‘The night clerk from the Port Royal?’

‘The very same. Male, thirty-seven years old, lived alone except for his collection of tropical fish. He came to Switzerland fifteen years ago. He has overstayed his thirty-day tourist visa considerably. For the last six years, he’s been working at the Hôtel Port Royal. Without benefit of a work permit, I might add. Other than that he appeared a decent sort. Law-abiding, low profile, wired money to his family on a regular basis.’

They came to the second-floor landing. Two uniforms stood before an open door midway down the hall. Harper stuffed his hands in the pockets of his mackintosh.

‘Let me guess, the night clerk’s suffered a fatal heart attack.’

‘Something like that.’

The Inspector stopped at the door, he motioned the coppers aside. Harper looked in. Large aquarium on a white plastic table. Fish darting in cloudy water. Lamp in the aquarium the only light in the dark, filling the room with sickly green light. Sour smells slapped his senses. Sweat, shit, blood.