by Jon Steele
Mew.
‘No, you can’t come.’
Mew.
‘What do you mean who’ll feed you? Is that all you can think about at a time like this?’
Mew.
‘Oh, your litter box. Don’t worry, Teresa will feed you and clean your litter box. And thank you for reminding me about little boxes.’
He packed his vitamin box and two wool jumpers. He sat on the edge of his bed and tried to think of anything else, even though there wasn’t any space in the rucksack for anything else. Outside the balcony windows, the dungeon tower of Château d’Ouchy stood soldierlike in the fading light. Monsieur Booty jumped up on to Rochat’s lap and purred. Rochat scratched the beast’s head.
‘Did you have bad dreams last night, too?’
Mew.
He stood with the cat in his arms and shuffled to the balcony windows. He pulled a window open and smelled the cold air. Down the corniche, packs of Swiss children digging madly in the snow. Rolling fat balls of snow and stacking them into a long line of snowmen facing the lake. Topping them with stocking caps, sticking twigs in the sides for arms, using pine cones for faces. Young voices shouting, boots stomping against the cold, mothers calling the children home.
‘Marc?’
He turned, saw his mother on the bed. She was very sick, days away from being lowered into the winter ground at Cimetière Saint-Charles.
‘Hello, Maman.’
‘What are you doing at the window?’
‘I’m watching the children make snowmen and I was thinking how sad I am that you’re going away.’
‘I know, and when the time comes, I don’t know how I’ll say goodbye … but to keep you safe in this world, I have to let you go. I’m not strong enough any more to protect you.’
‘Because you’re going to die?’
‘Yes, darling, I’m going to die.’
‘Why can’t I die with you?’
‘Because your life is a miracle, and you must live for me, for all of us. Come here, let me hold you.’
Rochat climbed on the bed, laid his head at his mother’s breasts. She traced her fingers through his black hair.
‘You’re going to Lausanne and you’ll go to school and learn such wonderful things. You’ll be safe there, your father and kind people will protect you.’
‘From the bad shadows?’
‘Yes, from the bad shadows.’
‘I’m afraid, Maman.’
‘Oh, Marc, you fought so hard to come into this world, you wouldn’t give up. And you’ll never stop fighting, you’ll never run away. You’ll grow to be the bravest of them all, won’t you?’
‘How can I grow up to be brave if I’m so small and crooked now?’
‘Listen to me, darling, being brave is nothing more than standing up when you’re afraid. Will you remember that?’
‘I’ll try, Maman. I’ll try very hard.’
‘I know. Now, draw the curtains and light the candles.’
‘Are you going to make shadows on the ceiling and tell me the story of the angel coming to Lausanne Cathedral?’
‘No, not tonight. Tonight I want to give you something, a secret thing so one day an angel will know who you are. Look in my eyes, Marc, listen to my voice …’
Rochat blinked, found himself at the open window with Monsieur Booty in his arms still, the two of them staring out into the dark. The children and mothers on the now lamplit corniche were gone, only an army of snowmen left behind to stand guard along the shore, silent and unafraid.
Mew.
‘You’re right. No time for beforetimes, not now. You have your duties.’
Rochat stepped back into the flat, closed the door.
‘Where were you? Oh yes, you were sitting on the bed, thinking if there was anything else to pack.’
He shuffled to the bed and sat. Monsieur Booty jumped from Rochat’s arms and into the rucksack.
Mew.
‘I told you, you can’t go. I’m very sure Monsieur Taroni wouldn’t like the idea of a cat in the belfry, you’d eat the pigeons. They may be annoying with their poop and feathers, but that doesn’t mean they should be turned into cat food.’
He looked at the photograph on the bedside table. His mother and father standing on the Plains of Abraham. He slipped it between the jumpers, tied the rucksack closed. Then he shuffled through the flat, locking the windows and dousing the lights. He put on his overcoat and boots and headed for the door. At the hall entrance, Monsieur Booty sat blocking the way.
‘What is it now?’
Mew.
‘Of course I’ll come back.’
The beast looked at Rochat with a pitiful look.
‘Oh, all right.’
Rochat went to the drawing room and wrote a note: ‘M. Booty visiting towar. Back in 3 days.’
He left the note on the kitchen table for Teresa to find so she wouldn’t worry because Monsieur Booty wasn’t home. He shuffled to the hall closet, dug out Monsieur Booty’s travel cage. He set it on the floor, opened the gate.
‘Get in and sit.’ The beast got in and sat. Rochat closed the door and peered inside the cage. ‘Remember, you must be a polite guest in the belfry.’
Mew.
‘The timbers are very old and not your personal scratching posts.’
Mew.
‘And no eating the birds.’
Silence.
‘I said no eating the birds.’
Mew.
He tossed the rucksack over his shoulder and picked up the cat cage. He looked at himself in the mirror by the door. He stood as straight as he could.
‘Tu es le guet de la cathédrale de Lausanne, Rochat. Be not afraid.’
He stepped into the lobby, locked the two locks of the door and called for the lift. Then he went back to the door, checking both the locks the way Monsieur Gübeli had taught him. The lift came up in its iron cage and stopped. He opened the door, pulled aside the gate.
Shhhclunk.
He looked in the cat cage. ‘Are you ready for an awfully big adventure, you miserable beast?’
Mew.
‘Me, too.’
He stepped into the lift, pulled closed the gate and pressed the button with the letters ‘L-O-B-B-Y’.
‘Down, please.’
The lift heard and obeyed.
eighteen
It was him, Alexander Yuriev. Sitting at a bank of slot machines in the Casino Barrière. He wasn’t playing, he was talking. To a bloody slot machine.
Harper pulled his eyes from the photographs, looked ahead through the windscreen. White light from the headlamps of the Inspector’s Merc swallowing the dark road. Rounding bends, he watched the light fan over the lake like a searchlight.
‘What are your thoughts, Mr Harper?’
‘About what, Inspector?’
‘The photographs, of course. Sergeant Gauer had them printed from the casino’s surveillance cameras with the assistance of your acquaintance, Miss Lucy Clarke. Time codes burned in the photographs have Yuriev entering the casino at eight thirty-five Friday evening and leaving at nine o’clock. You were to meet him in Lausanne the same evening, I believe.’
‘At ten.’
‘Giving Yuriev plenty of time to leave the casino for the regular sixteen after the hour train from Montreux to Lausanne, reaching Lausanne at nine-forty. The walk from Gare Simplon to GG’s would take no more than ten minutes.’
Harper looked at the photos. Time-lapse shots. Top shots, side shots, digitally enhanced close-ups. The man’s face, as if he hadn’t slept in years. Harper slipped the photos into the manila folder, handed them back.
‘Please keep them, Mr Harper. I’d like you to study them a bit more, when you have the time.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want you to.’
The man had a way with words. Harper rolled up the folder, stuffed it in his mackintosh.
‘If you say so.’
‘How did he look to you?’
‘
Yuriev, or the night clerk?’
‘Let’s begin with Yuriev.’
‘Looks in pretty bad shape, stumble drunk leaving the place. Didn’t see him drinking in the photos. He was probably blocked before he got there. Explains his babbling at the slot machines.’
‘So it would seem. Sergeant Gauer, hit the lights, please. We must get a move on. Mustn’t keep the good Doctor waiting.’ The dark road ignited with flashing blue lights. The speed gauge rocketed to one-fifty per. The Inspector settled back in the seat. ‘One of the perks of the job, kicking on the lights and speeding so as not to be late for dinner.’
Harper replayed the Inspector’s words in his head.
‘What do you mean, “So it would seem”?’
‘Exactly what I said. Looking at the photos one would assume Yuriev was very drunk indeed. Except the blood sample from the body found in the wreckage outside Gstaad had an alcohol count of zero.’
It took a second for the penny to drop.
‘The car wreck on the mountain road, it was Yuriev’s body?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘When did you get the DNA results?’
‘I didn’t need them. I knew the identity of the victim from the beginning. I had reasons to play dumb, as it were.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘But I’m not telling.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m the policeman and you’re not.’
‘Right.’ Harper reached for his smokes.
‘No smoking in the motorcar, Mr Harper. Wreaks havoc on the leather. Had the seats specially made in Tuscany, you know.’
‘What are you going to do, Inspector, shoot me?’
The Inspector laughed.
‘No, that would be Sergeant Gauer’s duty. C’est vrai, Sergeant Gauer?’
‘Absolument, Inspecteur.’
Harper caught the sergeant’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. The kind that obeyed orders. Any orders. The Inspector leaned towards Harper as if sharing a confidence. ‘Did I mention Sergeant Gauer’s last posting was in the sniper unit of the Vatican Swiss Guard? Cracking shot with a Barrett Light .50. Hit a moving assassin at twenty-five hundred metres. Perfect headshot, right between the eyes. Sort of thing the Vatican likes to keep quiet, of course. They’d much rather the world think of our Swiss Guard as jolly fellows with plumed helmets and halberds, not the most effective mercenaries on earth.’
Harper looked out of the window. Fuck it.
Stone walls whipped by in strobes of blue light. Stone cottages in the terraced hills. Dark fields, rows of gnarled vines standing in snow. The Inspector’s voice continuing, ‘You may be interested to know this region has some of the best wines in Europe, from some of the oldest vines planted on the continent. Those stone-edged terraces were built by Christian monks in the Middle Ages …’
Harper ground down on his teeth.
‘… and that large house atop the hill with the green shutters belongs to the Dézaley family. Wonderful vineyards, perfect soil for the Chasselas grape. Makes a lovely white. The Doctor and I recently attended a rather fine dinner party there. A private birthday celebration for the President of France.’
Harper turned to the Inspector.
‘Screw the loveliness of your whites. What the hell’s going on?’
‘For a moment, Mr Harper, I thought you might let me get away with pushing you around. Didn’t you, Sergeant Gauer?’
‘Very much so, Inspector.’
Harper looked at the rear-view mirror and the sniper’s smiling eyes, then turned to the grin on the Inspector’s face.
‘You two are a barrel of laughs.’
The Inspector pulled a cigarette case from his pocket, flipped it open. Neat fags all in a row. Brown-paper-wrapped, gold-tipped filters.
‘Here, try one of these. Hand-rolled in a little shop in Paris, just behind the Ritz.’
Harper took one, the Inspector offered a light.
‘Cheers.’
‘It’s a rather rare tobacco, with a touch of North African herbs.’
Harper took a deep draw, turned away, looked out of the window again.
Strobes of blue light.
Gnarled vines.
Twisted shadows on the snow.
Darkness.
Strobes of blue light.
Gnarled vines.
Darkness.
‘How do you like the taste, Mr Harper?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The cigarette, how do you like the taste?’
‘As cigarettes go, it’s swell.’
‘I’m so glad. History writes tobacco was discovered in the Americas. Actually, it was first grown in the once lush hills of North Africa. This very tobacco is still harvested there, on a patch of land protected by the King of Morocco.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘Yes, similar to the tale of the horse. A creature native to the Americas that migrated over the land bridge once connecting the continent to Asia. The land bridge broke away to become the Bering Straits and the horse died out in the Americas. But the memory of the creature endured through the centuries, to be drawn on the walls of caves and temples. Native Americans believed their gods would return to earth on the backs of horses. So when the Christians of Spain arrived on horses, well, you can imagine the unhappy result. The natives presented the Spaniards with treasures of gold and the virginity of their daughters, while the Spaniards, in deepest Christian gratitude, slaughtered the locals in the tens of thousands and usurped their lands. An all-too-familiar tale of human history, I’m afraid.’
Harper took another deep draw from the cigarette.
‘I’m supposed to get all that from one of your flash fags?’
‘No, Mr Harper. I was simply wondering if you enjoyed the taste. The rest was whimsy, shooting the breeze. That will do with the lights, sergeant.’
The car slowed.
Splatters of icy rain on the windscreen.
‘Merde, more foul weather. I didn’t tell you everything for the simple reason I don’t know if I can trust you, Mr Harper.’
‘You can’t keep a thing like this secret.’
‘Of course I can. I practically run this country, which means I practically run Europe.’
‘Of course, how could I be so daft?’
‘Not at all. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve come up with? Find anything interesting while looking for Yuriev?’
‘You had me chasing a dead man, Inspector. What was I supposed to find?’
‘Just tell me what you’ve found.’
Harper felt the words pulled from him, like stubborn teeth.
‘A note, in the cathedral.’
‘A note.’
‘Written in Cyrillic, stuck to a board at the back of the nave.’
‘At Chapelle de Saint-Maurice, I know it. And the contents of this note?’
‘Barking mad stuff. Evil spirits and giants walking the earth. Maybe it was from Yuriev, maybe not. Judging from the photos, I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Barking mad note in a cathedral, barking mad Yuriev talking to a slot machine.’
‘I see. When do you meet with the Doctor again?’
‘Tomorrow morning, ten sharp.’
‘I’m going to ask you to do me a favour, Mr Harper.’
‘Don’t tell him Yuriev is dead, got it.’
‘Actually, I’d prefer you didn’t meet him at all. I’ll explain you’re to do a bit of work for me, off the books, as it were.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Why do you think I requested your presence at the crime scene in Montreux?’
‘Why do I think I’m not going to like the answer?’
‘Because I suspect, despite being a bit slow on the uptake, you are one who senses danger from a great distance.’
Harper lowered the window. Almost tossed the smoke. Remembered Swiss rule number whatever: No tossing ciggies on the ground. He crushed it in the door-side ashtray.<
br />
‘How long have you known about Yuriev’s killer? Or is it killers?’
‘Killers. They came on our radar twenty years ago. As you’ve seen with your own eyes, they have an appetite for the most imaginative methods of slaughter.’
‘Imaginative, that’s what you call it?’
‘In meeting the enemy, Mr Harper, it’s helpful to recognize them for what they are without the affectations of human emotion, if you wish to survive.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Geography, Mr Harper.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The killings began in Moscow, then crossed through Eastern Europe and the Balkans. We lost track for a while, till the murders began again in the Middle East and up through Italy, Germany—’
‘—Gstaad and Montreux.’
‘Would you care to run with that thought?’
‘The killers were tracking Yuriev, but why?’
‘At this stage I can only tell you Yuriev did have something in his possession, something he was trying to give the Doctor before he was killed.’
‘What is it?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Or you won’t tell me.’
‘Either way, you find yourself in the same situation.’
‘Which is what?’
‘By now the killers believe you have the thing they want. Or, at the least, you know where it is.’
‘And where would they get that idea?’
The Inspector brushed at the lapels of his cashmere coat.
‘Oh, I’m sure you can do the sums, Mr Harper.’
Corpse pinned to the wall and sliced open, eyeballs fed to the fish, mobile number scribbled next to Miss December’s pretty smile. Christ, Harper thought, the penny wasn’t just dropping, it was falling from a great height.
‘They’ve got my phone number.’
‘Well put, Mr Harper. They do, indeed, have your number.’
Harper didn’t know whether to laugh or smash his fist in the Inspector’s sees-all, knows-all mug. He looked out of the window, laughed to himself instead.
‘Do share the source of your amusement, Mr Harper.’
‘You’re a piece of work, Inspector.’
‘Do tell.’
Harper turned back to him.