The Watchers (15 page)

Katherine set her elbow on the newspaper, rested her head in her hand. Tossed him a little-girl pout for added effect.

‘What’s the matter, ego take a battering?’

‘Just saying the man is a polite bartender.’

‘Oh, I get it. Stiff upper lip and all. Tell you what, I’ll give you what you want if you can even tell me what it’s worth.’

‘What are we talking about, exactly?’

‘You’re a big boy, take a wild guess.’

Harper reached for the newspaper, pulled it slowly from under her arm, dropped fifty francs on the bar.

‘That should cover it, don’t you think?’

‘Hey, excuse me?’

‘Actually, I don’t believe I will. Goodnight, Miss Taylor.’

Rochat watched the detectiveman take the newspaper and his glass of beer and walk from the bar to a small table in the corner. The woman sat alone, running her fingers through her hair, as if combing it. She took a hairclip, pulled her long hair to the back of her neck. Rochat could just see her profile, but not enough to tell if she was the angel he’d imagined in the night.

‘Turn just a little so I can …’

Bells chimed three times from the Hôtel de Ville. Rochat looked at the clock above the fireplace. Big hand on the nine, little hand almost touching eight.

‘Oh, no, Rochat! You’re late!’

He hurried from the shadows, raced across Rue du Grand-Chêne and on to the pedestrian bridge, pulling at the ramp and flying over Place de l’Europe.

‘Everyone at Café du Grütli will be saying, “Where is Marc Rochat? It’s past seven thirty!”’

He shuffled quickly across Rue du Grand-Pont, up Rue Pichard, following the up and down cobblestones of Saint-Laurent to Place de la Palud.

‘You’re
le guet de la cathédrale de Lausanne
, you must be punctual in all things.’

He shuffled over the cobblestone of the square till he was staring at the numbers ‘1726’ carved in the low stone wall of Lausanne fountain. Streams of water gushed from dragons’ mouths and splashed in a dark pool. A stone lady stood on a pillar, high above the dragons. She held a sword in one hand, scales in the other, and her eyes were closed, as if she was thinking very hard about something.

‘That’s what you should do, Rochat, you should close your eyes and concentrate on your duties. You shouldn’t let your imaginations run away with your brains. You’re being very silly.’

The bells of the Hôtel de Ville chimed four times for the coming hour. Rochat looked up the wood steps of Escaliers du marché to the top of the hill where, above the bare chestnut trees and red-tiled rooftops of the old city, the belfry of Lausanne Cathedral stood in the glare of floodlamps.

‘Go ahead, say it. I know what you think.’

Gong! Gong! Gong …

Rochat listened to Marie-Madeleine’s voice scold him for his behaviour.

Running through the streets like a madman! Barely enough time for your dinner! People will talk!

‘Yes, yes, I know. I’ll hurry with my supper and come to the tower. Yes, yes, I know.’

Harper read it again.

FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN IN DEADLY ROAD ACCIDENT

Claims life of Russian tourist

Special to
24 Heures

6 December 2010. The Swiss winter season claimed its first victim when a driver lost control of his vehicle and drove through a wall of ploughed snow. The accident occurred 30 kilometres north of Montreux on the mountain road to Gstaad. After crashing through a snowbank, the vehicle then tumbled down a deep ravine and burst into flames.

Frédéric Zeller, a 36-year-old computer programmer from Blonay, was quick to photograph the accident with his cellphone and transmit the scene to Swiss authorities. Police received the image of the burning car and reacted quickly with fire crews and emergency helicopters. By the time the rescue crews arrived at the scene, a metre of snow had fallen making their work difficult and dangerous.

Lt Pierre Berclaz of the Swiss police said one body was found in the wreckage. The body was burned beyond recognition. Lt Berclaz said it would be some time before proper identification could be made. Lt Berclaz would not confirm the identity of the victim, saying only that the victim appears to be a Russian tourist travelling alone in Switzerland.

‘This is an unhappy but all-too-frequent occurrence. Many foreign visitors drive at speed, unaware that winter roads, even if appearing clear, are often covered with a thin layer of ice this time of year. The result can be catastrophic.’

Lt Berclaz added Swiss authorities take every precaution in maintaining mountain roads.

‘We are second to none in the world with regard to winter road clearance. But the sad fact is, no amount of care can replace common sense in driving.’

He would not comment on one rescuer’s statement to
24 Heures
that several empty bottles of alcohol and gambling chips from Casino Barrière in Montreux were found in the wreckage. But Lt Berclaz did say tests would be carried out to check the blood-alcohol levels of the victim. Neither would he comment on whether the car had been rented to a Russian tourist.

Lt Berclaz took the opportunity to remind citizens of the country’s strict drink-driving laws. More alcohol in the bloodstream than that found in a single glass of wine will be judged as Driving Under the Influence. Severe fines and loss of driving privileges will be the result.

The victim’s remains were flown by helicopter to University Hospital in Lausanne for identification.

Harper stared at the photos.

One: Swiss computer geek posing with his high-tech cellphone with a wide grin on his face. Two: Grainy photo from the cellphone. Car in flames, black smoke. Headline again: Storm claims life of Russian tourist, thirty klicks north of Montreux, bottles of vodka and casino chips found in the wreckage, deep ravine … Bollocks.

He dug his mobile from his jacket, dialled Miss Barraud’s number. Need to be put through to the Doctor. Her tone more than a little dismissive in explaining the Doctor presently dining with King Juan Carlos of Spain at Le Raisin in Cully.

‘Put me through, fellow co-worker, now.’

Few minutes later the Doctor picked up. Most embarrassing to have the telephone ring, Mr Harper. Could this not wait? Harper gave him a rundown anyway. The Doctor considered the info for three seconds.

‘And?’

‘Sir, we need to talk to the Swiss police, tonight, tell them what we know. Get them on side so they let us know the identity of the victim, soon as possible.’

‘Mr Harper, excusing oneself from the presence of His Majesty the King of Spain to answer a telephone call is the nadir of royal protocol. Returning to the table to announce one must leave to make a statement to the Swiss police is … well, it isn’t done.’

Harper looked at the photos.

‘Sir, I’m looking at these photos, and I have a gut feeling this wasn’t an accident.’

‘Are you saying you believe Yuriev was in that car and he was murdered?’

‘I’m saying, given your instructions to me, you might want to know who’s in that burning wreck, and why, before the goddamn press does.’

Harper listened to the sound of silence for a solid minute.

‘Leave it with me, Mr Harper. Be in my office tomorrow morning, eight a.m., sharp.’

Harper finished his freebie beer. He folded the newspaper, thinking he should give it back to Blondie, apologize for being rude. Even if she was a snot-nosed brat. He scanned the bar. Blondie was gone.

Katherine took the lobby lift down to the spa, booked a shiatsu massage for Wednesday, walked out of the back of the hotel to a small street with no one around. She opened her bag and found the Cohiba cigar tube. She unscrewed the cap and pulled out a joint. She lit up, drew a deep toke.

‘What a fucking prick.’

She took a slow walk down the dark street, rounded the corner at Café Bavaria. She thought about going in for the dinner she’d missed, but decided she’d rather get way stoned. She strolled through an underground passage. Fluorescent lights turned the world weirdly blue. Gave a nice tint to the posters advertising last year’s Jazz Festival in Montreux. The drawing was cute. Little guy in a pork pie hat standing at the edge of the lake, playing his crooked trumpet Dizzy Gillespie style. Down in the blue water under the waves, pretty mermaids all in a row, grooving on the music. Katherine smoked half the joint, smashed it out and slipped the roach back in the cigar tube.

‘That’s what I want to be. A fucking mermaid and live under the sea.’

The escalator at the end of the passage rose to the centre of Place Saint-François. Halfway up, she realized the square had been turned into a winter wonderland. Fairy lights in the bare trees, wood chalets below selling scarves and cakes and candles and toys. Fondue huts, dozens of wineries with open bottles, and much pouring and raising of glasses. Laughter and medieval music drifting through the cold night air.

‘Fa la la, this is more like it.’

She wandered through the happy crowd and looked at the displays of Christmas gifts. Maybe some hand-knit hats and gloves for her sister and the kids. Maybe some sweaters for Mom and Dad. Maybe Mom and Dad would open their presents this year. Seeing their darling girl’s naked ass in
Playboy
had been bad enough. Knowing she’d turned it into a profitable enterprise was like the end of the world. Not that the parental units ever said the W word. But they saw the beachfront condo and the expensive car, the designer clothes and the no real job to pay for it all.

Katherine stopped at a display of scents and perfumed oils. An African woman behind the counter explained the magic wonders inside the little bottles. This one healed the mind, this one healed the body, this one the soul. Katherine picked up the soul-healing potion and gave it a sniff. Lilacs, she hated fucking lilacs. The African woman watched Katherine turn up her nose.

‘Mademoiselle does not care for the scent?’

‘You know he was such a fucking prick.’

‘Mademoiselle?’

‘Never mind.’

Katherine returned the bottle and walked away.

Drums rolled and horns sounded as men and women in medieval costume worked their way through the crowd and formed a wide circle. Jugglers tossed rings and bowling pins to acrobats on stilts, a man dressed as an executioner swallowed swords and fire. Then came knights in shining armour, clanking over the cobblestones. Then fair maidens in high pointed hats and flowing gowns, blushing behind long handkerchiefs. Drums rolled again as guards with spears marched from the edge of the square. The crowd made way and the guards led a donkey cart carrying a fool. Black cloak, black cloth boots, black floppy hat on his head. His face twisted into grotesque shape, his scrunched-over body complete with hunchback. The fool opened a burlap sack, tossed sweets into the air. The crowd cheered and raised their glasses in salute. The fool jumped from the cart, danced in little circles, kissing every girl he could get his hands on. The crowd cheered even louder, till the fool spun in slow circles with his finger to his lips to hush the proceedings. The crowd fell quiet, waiting. The fool smiled with an impish grin and, with a quick turn, he pulled a lantern from under his cloak and hopped about like a frog.

‘
C’est le guet! C’est le guet! C’est le guet
!’

The crowd howled with laughter, raised their glasses again. The fool grabbed a glass from one hand and drank it down. The music quickened and the fool began to spin round faster and faster, grabbing glass after glass and drinking them down till the music stopped and he fell in a lump to the ground.

A flute played to the soft strains of a lute, and the prettiest of the fair maidens came forward and knelt near the fool. She took his hand, gently raised him to his feet and they danced. A slow and lovely dance, the fair maiden smiling as the fool changed before her eyes from the twisted hunchback with the grotesque face to a handsome man of charming grace. The music slowed to a stop. The fair maiden presented the fool with a piece of lace. He bowed and pressed the lace to his lips.

Loud applause and shouts of ‘Bravo!’ filled the square. The players removed their hats and worked the crowd for tips. The young man playing the fool stopped in front of Katherine. She opened her bag, dropped fifty francs in his black hat.

‘
Merci, mademoiselle
!’

‘No problem, it isn’t mine.’

‘
Pardon?
’

‘Nothing. Hey, your Quasimodo act was wonderful.’

‘
Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle
. You are American?’

‘Yeah, but I live in Lausanne near Pont Bessières, and you know what? I’ve got a great view of the cathedral and some nights I see this guy in the bell tower. He’s got a lantern, like you, and he goes around the tower shouting something.’

‘
Ah, oui. C’est le guet, mademoiselle
.’

‘Le what?’

‘
Le guet
. The watcher, you say in English. Each night he carries the lantern around the tower and calls, “
C’est le guet, il a sonné l’heure
!”’

‘For real? What does it mean?’

‘No one knows. It’s just the way of things in Lausanne.’

‘Cool. Does he have a hunchback too?’

‘I have never seen him, I only know he is there. But it is very good luck to see him, mademoiselle. You must make the wish next time. This is also a very old tradition. All the children in Lausanne are taught this in school.’

Katherine took a hundred-franc note from her bag.