I tried to get the attention of the red badges, I really did. I managed to exchange cards with one harassed woman before being elbowed out of the way by the wedding-gift American. But otherwise, nothing. You had to be very pushy to get attention. Most of the green badges were expert attention-seekers. They left me way behind.
I retired to the gents. Standing next to me was a man in a suit. I didn’t look up at the face, but I saw the lapel. A red badge. Now, if I were a true entrepreneur I would have no compunction about foisting myself and my elevator pitch on a man while he was urinating. It was then that I discovered something about myself. I wasn’t a true entrepreneur. I kept my eyes down.
The suit next to me moved. ‘David? David Lane?’
I looked up at his face. ‘Henry, how are you?’
It turned out I knew the owner of the badge. Henry Broughton-Jones had trained with me as an accountant. He was a tall man with thinning fair hair brushed back above a high forehead. His father was a gentleman farmer in Herefordshire, and you would have thought Henry would have been happier in an agricultural college than a big firm of accountants, but in the end he had done rather well. When I had left the firm he had been one of the rising stars groomed for eventual partnership.
‘Hassled,’ he said. ‘Severely hassled. I’ve never been to one of these before. I thought it would be a good place to look for deals, but I can barely fight them off. Here, let’s get a drink.’
We left the gents and grabbed a couple of glasses of wine. Within thirty seconds they’d spotted the red badge and were circling. Henry glowered at them. ‘Do you mind?’ he growled. ‘This is a confidential conversation here.’
‘So you’re a venture capitalist, now?’ I said.
‘Yes. Orchestra Ventures. I’ve been doing it for three years now. Left soon after you. It’s quite jolly. Crazy days, though. And you? I see you’ve gone over to the ranks of lunatic entrepreneurs.’
‘A soccer website,’ I said. ‘It’s called ninetyminutes.com.’ A hunted look appeared in Henry’s eyes. I made a quick decision. I didn’t want to spook my only venture-capitalist friend. ‘Don’t worry, we don’t need any money at the moment. I’m just here to “network”, whatever that means.’
‘Thank God,’ said Henry, relaxing.
We talked for several more minutes. He told me he was married and had two small children. They were just about to buy a cottage in Gloucestershire. I told him Gurney Kroheim was miserable and I was well off out of it. We exchanged news about mutual acquaintances and then he couldn’t fend off the green badges any longer. Just as he was being dragged away, he thrust his card into my hand. ‘Look, if you do need any money, give me a call.’
‘Will do, Henry. Good to see you.’
I fingered his card, smiling to myself, and fetched another glass of wine.
After half an hour or so, a Chinese-American in a checked shirt and neat chinos climbed up on to a table and gave a gung-ho speech about how we were in the middle of something big. The most significant technological change to hit the world in the millennium. Right here. Right now. Tomorrow’s movers and shakers were here in this very room. Then the scrum continued as the crowd moved and shook.
I circled, looking for that rarest of species, an unattended red badge. I couldn’t see one, but I did see another face I thought I recognized. I moved closer.
She looked about thirty-five and she was wearing a blue suit with her hair scraped severely back. Downward-sloping lines edged her mouth, but her lips wore a familiar pout.
‘Mel?’
She turned to me and blinked for a second before she placed me. ‘David!’ She smiled and proffered her cheek for a kiss. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I’m working for a start-up. An internet company. Soccer website.’
‘You’re not? Not you? The chartered accountant!’
‘I am,’ I said, grinning. ‘With Guy.’
‘No! I don’t believe it.’
‘It’s true. And it’s going well. Although we need some investors pretty badly.’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’ said Mel, surveying the crowd. ‘I’m amazed you’re working with Guy. You know, after what happened in Mull and everything.’
‘That was seven years ago.’
‘Yes, but still.’
‘He’s changed.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Mel looked doubtful.
‘He has. Have you seen him recently?’
‘Not since then. In fact, I’ve more or less forgotten about him.’
‘Probably not a bad thing,’ I said. ‘Anyway, what are you up to? Still a lawyer?’
‘Yes. The only people wearing suits here are lawyers. Still at Howles Marriott. It’s going quite well, actually. I’m not a partner yet, but perhaps soon.’
‘I never had you pegged as a corporate lawyer.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have imagined you as a dot-commer. It’s a miracle I recognized you with that hairstyle.’
‘You haven’t changed much,’ I said. It was a lie. Mel had aged more than seven years, but that’s not the kind of thing you say to an acquaintance. It was the kind of thing I would tell Guy, though.
‘Rubbish,’ she said. ‘I’ve even got the odd grey hair now.’
It was true, she had. I remembered her hair as it used to be when she was eighteen, dark, with a streak of blonde. Now the streaks were grey.
‘Have you seen Ingrid?’ I asked.
‘No. Not since then,’ she replied, the enthusiasm leaving her voice.
‘Oh.’
We were silent. Both of us remembering.
Mel breathed in and sighed. She still had a fine chest, I couldn’t help noticing. Something else to tell Guy.
‘Have you any clients here?’ I asked.
‘Two or three.’
‘Can they pay their bills?’
Mel grinned. ‘So far. I’m betting the Internet will be the next hot market for lawyers. I’ve got about half a dozen internet clients at the moment. I reckon at least one of them will make it. And that could mean lots of legal work in the future.’
‘Sounds like a good strategy,’ I said. We sipped our wine. ‘Um. I wonder …’
‘Yes?’
‘This may sound a bit cheeky. But would you mind having a quick look at our shareholders’ agreement? The firm who drew it up are entertainment lawyers Guy knows from his acting days. I’m not sure it’s quite right.’
‘No problem,’ said Mel. ‘Fax it to me tomorrow. I’ll tell you what I think. And no charge. Here’s my card.’ She handed me one.
I gave her mine. ‘One of Qwickprint’s finest,’ I said. ‘It’s funny I bumped into you. You’re the second person here tonight I know.’
‘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.
‘That’s right. We go to the same school in England.’
‘When did you arrive here in France?’
‘Two days ago.’
‘I see.’ He paused and leaned back in the dining chair. It creaked. For a moment I was worried he would break it. ‘David?’
‘Yes?’
He swung forward. ‘What were you doing at about one o’clock yesterday afternoon?’
He knew. The bastard knew. I’d have to tell him now. My mouth was dry and I hesitated.
‘Hein?’ He was a big man, and leaning forward he seemed even bigger.
‘I was, er … with Mrs Jourdan.’
The policeman exchanged glances and a twitch of the lips with his sidekick. ‘And what were you doing with her, David?’
I was, that is, we were, well …’ I squirmed.
‘Yes?’
‘We were having sex.’
‘Ah.’ A smug smile of triumph crossed the policeman’s face. He thought this was funny. ‘Tell me more.’
So I told him the whole sordid story, and it did seem sordid that early in the morning when told to a policeman in slow English. I told him about overhearing Dominique shout at Tony the night before, and my suspicions about Tony and Mel, and Dominique’s motivation for seducing me.
‘Did you see or hear anything last night?’
‘No. I went to bed pretty early. About ten. It took me a while to get to sleep, maybe an hour or two. Then I slept until Mr Jourdan woke me up this morning.’
‘And Guy?’
‘He went to bed the same time as me.’
‘Did you hear him get up in the night?’
‘No.’
‘No other no
ises outside?’
‘Nothing woke me till this morning.’
‘I see.’ Sauville paused, studying me. He was probably just thinking of his next question, but I found the silence unnerving. At last he spoke. ‘When you were with Madame Jourdan yesterday, did she seem suicidal?’
I thought before answering. ‘No. Quite the contrary. She seemed animated, excited. I think she was enjoying her revenge on her husband.’
‘And you? How did you feel about being manipulated in that way?’
‘Actually, it made me quite angry,’ I said. Then I hesitated, worried I had put my foot in it. ‘Of course, not angry enough to murder her or anything.’
The inspector dismissed my comment with a contemptuous wave of his hand. ‘What about Guy Jourdan? What was his opinion of his stepmother?’
I paused. I was still a schoolboy. I didn’t want to get my friend into trouble with the authorities. I tried to think through the angles.
‘Just answer the question honestly,’ Sauville commanded.
I did as I was told. ‘I don’t think he had ever met Dominique before this week. I think he didn’t like the idea of her. He called her a bimbo and a tart.’
‘I see. Not nice things to say about your stepmother?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But as I said, it wasn’t her he didn’t like. It was the idea of her.’
‘Very philosophical. And the younger brother? Owen?’
‘I have no idea what Owen thinks about anything. I doubt if anyone has.’
The large policeman raised his eyebrows. Then he leaned back once again in his chair. ‘Bon. Thank you for your cooperation, David. But I must ask you to remain here until we have concluded our investigation.’
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