by Jon Steele
‘What was it, this thing he wanted to give me?’
‘No idea, but whatever it is, it feels like trouble.’ Harper glanced at the pile of papers in his lap, he sifted through some pages. ‘Gambling, alcohol, the accident. The man’s life fell apart in rather spectacular fashion. There’s no telling what he’s involved in.’
‘Do you think he might be dangerous?’
‘Not sure, that’s why I set a meeting with him.’
‘Where?’
‘Lausanne.’
‘Yuriev is in Switzerland?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Harper opened his file. A sheaf of papers fell out on his lap; he sorted through them, laid one on the Doctor’s desk. ‘This came attached to his last email. It’s a photograph of Yuriev standing on the Montreux corniche.’
‘My God, he looks awful, but it’s him. I’d say his drinking has all but destroyed his liver. Is that a newspaper in his hands?’
‘24 Heures. Date and headlines prove the photo was taken the same day as his last email, Friday morning, the day he telephoned my office.’
‘How did he sound?’
‘At his wits’ end. I’m not sure he’s at all mentally stable.’
The Doctor swivelled his chair to the wall of glass, stared out at the fog.
‘What happened at this meeting?’
‘He didn’t show up.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘In our phone call, I told him you were out of the country, that you had delegated the matter to me and that he had no choice but to trust me. Oddly enough, that seemed to calm him down. He said he was staying at a small hotel in Montreux, I offered to take the train and meet him. He said he’d come to me, said he knew a safe place to meet in Lausanne. We made arrangements to meet the same night.’
‘Where?’
‘Where, sir?’
‘Yes, Mr Harper, where?’
Harper squirmed in his seat.
‘GG’s.’
‘Where?’
‘It’s a nightclub, sir. Strip club, actually.’
‘You were conducting IOC business in a strip joint?’
Harper wondered if this might be a good time to hand over his pocketful of receipts. Then again, maybe not.
‘Wasn’t my call, sir. And I thought any counter suggestion might scare him off. He seemed to know the place rather well, gave me specific directions, in fact. For whatever reason, he didn’t make it. I called his hotel in Montreux, but he’d checked out, taken his luggage. I did some digging around, hotels, casualty departments. Yesterday, last night, I checked every strip— nightclub in Lausanne, just in case.’
‘In case of what?’
‘As I said, sir, he sounded increasingly desperate.’
The Doctor sighed, sat with his own thoughts a moment.
‘This lab report about a potion must be a delusion. I mean, look at the scribble. Poor man is exhibiting symptoms of alcohol-induced paranoia. He needs institutional help before it kills him.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You don’t seem convinced, Mr Harper.’
‘It’s his emails, sir.’
‘Mr Harper, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but are you not reading too much into the emailed ravings of a broken man?’
‘It isn’t what’s in them, sir, it’s what happened to them.’
The Doctor closed the lab report and settled back in his chair.
‘Let’s have it, Mr Harper.’
‘Yesterday evening I tried contacting him, but every email account came back marked “no such address”. I called one of the IOC computer people, asked her about it. She said Hotmail accounts are kept active for thirty days after they’ve been cancelled, as protection against internet fraud. Yuriev used nine accounts in less than two weeks, they’re gone.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither did the bird in computer support. She said—’
‘Mr Harper, the IOC has very specific rules regarding proper forms of address for female co-workers. “Bird” is not one of them.’
‘Yes, sir, sorry. My female co-worker, Miss Storries, said there’s either been a near-to-impossible worldwide glitch in the Hotmail network, or Yuriev is a gold medallist in computer hacking.’
‘Are you suggesting Yuriev is involved in perpetrating fraud on the IOC?’
‘I’m suggesting Yuriev, or someone he works with, or maybe someone following him, knows how to cover their internet tracks in a suspicious, if not illegal, manner. Seems reason enough to bring in the police.’
‘The police?’
‘Whatever Yuriev’s up to, there’s every chance he’s a scandal about to be delivered to your doorstep.’
For the second time in the morning, the Doctor blanched. He leaned over his desk, rubbed his temples. Harper watched him. Long overnight flight one side of the desk, brutal hangover on the other. Not pretty.
‘You’re right, Mr Harper, of course. The tabloids would have a field day with “IOC” and “scandal” in the same headline, especially with the London games but nineteen months away. They wouldn’t care that the wretched man was in need of clinical help, nor about the truth. You haven’t told anyone else of this business?’
‘My instructions were to report to you alone. Much to the displeasure of my co-worker, Miss Barraud.’
The Doctor looked up, smiled, nodded with approval.
‘I see why Guardian Security recommended you for this job.’
Harper wondered if he should mention the part about being in such a drunken stupor when he got the call, he had no idea who Jay Harper was, or what qualified him as a freelance security specialist with Guardian Services Ltd. Then again, so far so good.
‘Thank you, sir.’
The Doctor stood, Harper stood as well.
‘You must forgive me, Mr Harper. I’m having Sunday brunch with the British Ambassador. Security arrangements for the London Games are nearing Orwellian proportions. Their Home Office is now suggesting strip searches of athletes from all Muslim countries before each competition. Madness reigns. As far as Yuriev, give him forty-eight hours.’
‘Sir?’
‘I’m sure he’ll turn up. When he does, tell him I’ll meet him. Arrange a meeting, somewhere discreet. Preferably not a strip club. We need to get him off the streets and into a hospital. Keep me advised of any developments.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll keep looking.’
The Doctor shot him an unmistakable glare.
‘Don’t just look, Mr Harper. Find him, before the goddamn press does.’
six
The funicular train, two cars long, rolled up the dark tunnel and pulled into the underground station at Flon. Rochat made himself ready, and when the doors slid open he jumped quickly onboard and took his favourite seat near the big window. Two old ladies stepped onboard a few seconds later. Rochat stood, pulled off his hat and bowed.
‘Bonjour, mesdames, and welcome aboard La Ficelle!’
The ladies took seats at the far end of the car and searched through their handbags so as not to notice him. Rochat saw his reflection in the window. Hair still growing sideways from his head, smudges of dirt on his face, pigeon droppings on his black overcoat. He looked like a tramp who’d slept in a gutter. Rochat was sure his appearance must be a great shock to the little old ladies. There were no tramps in Lausanne. Besides, the gutters were spotless.
‘Excuse my appearance, mesdames. I was cleaning the bells.’
The old ladies cringed at the unwelcome information. Rochat sat, scratched his head, found a feather in his hair at the precise moment the ladies were eyeing him to make sure he was keeping to his seat.
‘You see, it’s my day off but I was confused because last night …’
His words were lost in the whirring of motors as the funicular rolled back down the tunnel towards Ouchy. Rochat tugged his floppy hat down on his head to hide his messy hair, thinking what a strange night it had been.
He saw himself in beforetimes, in the belfry, loo
king through the binoculars at a man standing on Pont Bessières and thinking the man must be a detectiveman because … because he couldn’t remember why. Then raising the binoculars and seeing a woman appear in the window above Rue Caroline. She was surrounded by the brightest light and brushing her long blond hair. Not seeing her face, just the gentle line of her profile. And remembering he wished she’d turn just a little so he could see her face. But she didn’t turn around and the light went black and she disappeared. And then hurrying back in the loge and pulling one of his sketchbooks from the shelf, grabbing a pencil and drawing quickly as if chasing an imagination. And stopping, feeling the drawing wasn’t right, turning the page, trying again and again till finally his hand slowed and his fingers smoothed the lead streaks and lines, and the most beautiful face he’d ever seen was looking back at him.
He stared at her, quietly, for the longest time. Afraid to move lest she disappear from the page. And finally hearing his voice in the quiet.
‘She looks like an angel.’
The funicular jolted to a stop at Gare Simplon. Rochat blinked and found himself in nowtimes. He watched a crowd of people climb onboard with suitcases and backpacks. Two more stops, a few people got off, more people got on. None of the passengers chose to take the empty seat next to Rochat. They huddled in groups and pretended not to see him.
At Ouchy, the end of the line, Rochat remained seated. His crooked leg and twisted foot made it difficult to move through crowds. Passengers going up the hill to Flon were boarding by the time Rochat disembarked. They gave him plenty of room to pass. He shuffled out the station and into the cold wind ripping off Lac Léman.
‘Home again, home again, jiggity jig.’
Rochat crossed Rue du Lac to the corniche where waves crashed into the stone jetty. He felt icy spray on his face. He looked at the fog hovering over the lake like something fluffy. He hurried along a stone path through tall evergreen trees to where the weather-teller lived in a glass dome. It had lots of brass wheels and dials and arrows. Rochat studied the numbers. He shuffled to the kiosk to see Madame Chopra and give her the weather report, as he did every Sunday. She had brown skin and a red dot on her forehead.
‘Bonjour, Marc. You are very late today, where have you been?’
‘I forgot to come home last night, madame, because I imagined I saw an angel above Rue Caroline.’
‘An angel, how nice for you. You have such an exciting life, Marc. I always think of you in the cathedral at night and say what an exciting life that Marc Rochat must have. I saved you the London Sunday Times, would you like it now?’
‘Oui, merci. And could I have my bag of popcorn, too?’
‘Of course, Marc. What do you think of this fog? Very strange, don’t you think?’
‘The weather-teller says the fog will go away this afternoon, but it’s going to stay cold for a few days and snow is coming soon.’
‘Thank you for telling me, Marc, I was wondering. I always count on you to give me the weather report on Sundays. Here are your things. I’ll see you next Sunday. I am worrying to not see you at the usual time. I am always telling people, you can set your clock by Marc Rochat.’
‘Oui, madame.’
‘And I hope Monsieur Booty enjoys the Sunday Times.’
‘He will, madame, because it lasts all week at the bottom of his kitty litter.’
Madame Chopra laughed.
‘That will make Mr Murdoch very happy.’
Rochat laughed too, even though he didn’t know who Mr Murdoch was. But Rochat was sure he must be very nice if he was a friend of Madame Chopra. He tucked the newspaper in his overcoat so it wouldn’t get wet. He shuffled to the small harbour of bobbing sailboats, sat on a low concrete wall and dangled his boots over the side. He watched masts sway back and forth in the wind. They made clanging sounds, like tiny bells. He fed popcorn to the ducks and swans sheltering amid the boats.
‘Well, Rochat, another very busy week comes to an end.’
‘Excusez-moi.’
Rochat turned to a man standing behind him. The man’s face had wrinkles and lines but didn’t look old and he was staring at the top of Rochat’s head as he spoke. He spoke with a British accent.
‘Pardon. Où est le terminus pour le … le …’
‘I speak English, monsieur.’
‘Actually, I wanted to practise my French. It’s rather bad.’
‘It isn’t that bad.’
‘No, I’m pulling your leg.’
Rochat looked at his misshapen foot, so did the man. ‘Crap, sorry. Listen, the ferry to Évian, it’s down here somewhere, isn’t it?’
‘Oui, monsieur. Through the trees and past the weather-teller.’
‘Is it working today?’
‘Oui, and it says the fog is going away by this afternoon but it’s going to stay cold all day and snow is coming.’
‘No, the ferry, I mean. Is it working today? Looks choppy as hell out on the lake.’
‘The ferry works all the time, monsieur. Except when there’s a bad thunderstorm. Then orange warning lights flash everywhere on the lake. One long, three short.’
‘Warning lights. One long, three short.’
‘Everywhere on the lake, but not today. Only in summer.’
The wind snapped. The man pulled at the collar of his coat and then shoved his hands in his pockets.
‘Nippy, isn’t it?’
Rochat watched the man, the way he tied the belt around his coat and shoved his hands in the pockets of his long brown coat, a coat with straps on the shoulders. It was him, the detectiveman he saw in the night, standing on Pont Bessières.
‘I know you, monsieur, I’ve seen you before.’
‘Doubt it. I’m new to Lausanne, and it’s my first time to this part of town.’
Rochat looked at the man’s coat again.
‘Non, I’m very sure it was you. You were trying to solve a mysterious mystery, but you were looking the wrong way.’
Rochat watched the detectiveman smile.
‘I was, was I? Not the first time, I’m sure. So, that way to the ferry?’
‘Past the weather-teller, monsieur.’
‘Past the weather-teller, got it.’ The detectiveman watched the birds bobbing for popcorn in the water, circling under Rochat’s boots, waiting for more. ‘Those ducks look like they’re freezing their feathers off.’
‘Non, monsieur, I watch them every Sunday and they keep their feathers on all year, especially when it’s cold. Would you like to feed them some of my popcorn? It’s fun.’
‘I’m sure it is, but I’d best be going. Thanks for the information. Nice talking to you.’
‘Au revoir, monsieur. Bonne journée.’
The detectiveman turned and walked towards the trees. He turned back, pointed to the top of his own head.
‘Mate, you’ve got something up here, on your hat. I think it belongs to one of your friends.’
Rochat reached up, found a feather and a small glob of pigeon poop.
‘Oh dear, Rochat, your hat needs a bath, and so does the rest of you. And your coat, too. Allez.’
He rinsed his fingers in the lake and shuffled across the road to the Hôtel de Léman. It was a funny building, half hotel and half flats, and it sat over the funicular station and there was a small clock tower on top. And there was a plaque near the building’s entrance that said a man who wrote books once lived here but he was dead now.
Rochat punched in a secret code and shuffled into a lobby of tall mirrors. He checked his hat for feathers and pigeon poop. He opened his mail box and found a postcard from his doctors in Vevey reminding him of his appointment on Monday, a small newspaper from Migros with pictures of food and lots of numbers, an official notice from the Canton de Vaud regarding new rules for sorting rubbish. Rochat studied the notice carefully. There were lots of pictures showing what trash went where. Fines would be enacted to ensure c-o-m-p-l-i-a-n-c-e. Those in violation would have their personal details registered. Rochat wa
sn’t sure about some of the words, but other words meant ‘write names down’. Swiss police did that on buses and trains in Lausanne to people who didn’t have tickets.
He rang for the lift, waited for it to come down in its iron cage. It was very old, from nineteens of centuries Madame Rolle told him when he moved in. When the lift stopped he pulled an iron grate to the side and stepped into a gilded compartment with a small crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He pressed the button marked R-o-c-h-a-t.
‘Montez, s’il vous plaît.’
The lift obeyed and rose four floors and clunked to a stop.
‘Merci beaucoup.’
He slid open the gate and shuffled into a small hall of two doors. One door went into the hotel, the other to his flat. He heard the scratching of a fat cat’s feet on polished wood beyond his door.
‘Hello, it’s only me, you miserable beast. And stop scratching the floors.’
He opened the door locks and jumped in his flat. There was a big sign on the back of the door: ‘LOCK UP!’ But sometimes he forgot and sometimes he found strangers from the hotel who had got lost and walked straight into his flat. Sometimes they were standing at the big windows of the sitting room admiring the view of the dungeon tower of Château d’Ouchy from one window or the corniche and Lac Léman all the way to the Alps above Montreux from another. Sometimes he even found strangers unpacking their bags or looking in his icebox machine. Rochat was always polite, telling the strangers he was very sorry, but this wasn’t their room, it was his house. He thought it important to be polite. The funny building with the hotel and flats was his, given to him by his grandmother and father before they died.
‘Monsieur Booty! Where are you, miserable beast?’
And each month on number fifteen day, Monsieur Gübeli, the man with the bald head and glasses on his nose who’d brought him to Switzerland, came to the flat and sat at the kitchen table for a cup of tea. He’d open his briefcase and there’d be lots of papers to sign. The papers were confusing but Rochat’s father told him to always trust Monsieur Gübeli, so he did. On the day he learned he owned the building atop the funicular station, Rochat asked Monsieur Gübeli if signing so many papers all the time meant he was rich.