by Jon Steele
‘Did I say something bad?’
‘No, you said something really lovely but … I’m not an angel, Marc.’
‘Non?’
‘I’m as far from an angel as it gets.’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘It means I’m a prostitute, I sell my body for money. Lots and lots of money.’
Rochat thought about it.
‘Like Marie-Madeleine?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not the angel Maman told me about?’
‘What?’
‘Maman told me an angel would come to the cathedral. It’s not you?’
‘No.’
‘But if you’re not an angel who’s lost, why are you in Lausanne?’
‘I was in trouble with Uncle Sam and the IRS. Now I’m on the run from those men you saw. I was sold into white slavery as a sex slave, Marc. Believe me, I’m no angel.’
Rochat thought about it some more. He didn’t know who her uncle was or what an IRS was but he was very sure about those men she ran away from.
‘Maybe you don’t know you’re an angel but those men from the bad shadows know and that’s why they want to buy you. I’m very sure no one can buy angels.’
She reached over, took his hand.
‘There’s only one angel I can see in the cathedral, Marc, and it isn’t me.’
‘Maybe you don’t know you’re an angel because angels are only made of light. That’s what Monsieur Rannou said.’
‘Marc—’
‘And maybe you don’t know you’re an angel because you’re so lost.’
… you’re so lost, so lost, so lost …
‘I do feel lost, Marc. I feel very lost.’
He stared at her hand touching his for a moment. Her skin felt warm. He looked up at her.
‘Then the cathedral is where you belong. It’s where you ran to. You didn’t go anywhere else because once you saw the lantern from your window. You said you saw the lantern. And you ran to the cathedral because you knew it was the only place for you to hide.’
… to hide, to hide, to hide …
Katherine saw Rochat’s green eyes in the light of the candles burning in the nave, so wanting to believe she was an angel. And she felt her own heart, so wishing it was true.
‘Maybe I could imagine I was an angel, just for tonight. It’s such a lovely thing to imagine, it really is. Can we go for a walk, Marc? Can we walk through the cathedral, with all the candles burning?’
‘Aren’t you sleepy?’
‘No, I’m not sleepy. Let’s go for a wonderful walk. I’ll be the lost angel and you can take me around the cathedral and we’ll look for all the other angels hiding in the cathedral.’
‘And I’ll light the lantern and we can blow out all the candles.’
‘Yeah, we’ll blow out the candles, one by one. And we’ll pretend we’re putting all your beautiful angels to sleep.’
… angels to sleep, angels to sleep, to sleep …
twenty-eight
The sun rose over the Alps and set afire the ice-covered peaks above Évian. The fierce light reflected back across the lake straight into Harper’s eyes. He turned away, watched the clock next to the bed flip to eight o’clock. The Inspector’s drug-induced stupor finally easing. Harper thought he should order coffee, eat something maybe, shake off the numbness in his arms and legs. Then again, the waitress with the gun might shoot as quick as she’d bring him a croissant.
He pulled himself up and dropped his feet to the floor. He stumbled across the room and sank into a chair, saw the bottle of red plonk on the table. He opened it and poured, watching the deep red colour swirl in the glass. He drank it down, remembered the Inspector’s prophecy: Mr Harper’s missed his supper and he’s in for a rough night. A full-bodied red will do him wonders.
He poured another glass, remembered some more.
Came back to the hotel just after one.
No coppers waiting for him.
Thought he was clear till he opened the door of his room.
Pitch black inside.
Light from the hall revealed someone had been in the room and shut off the telly and turned down the bed. Two Swiss chocolates lay perfectly on the pillow.
‘Bollocks.’
Something slammed into his back and shoved him in the room and up against a wall. Blunt steel digging at the back of his neck, a woman’s voice spitting venom.
‘You should’ve chosen a film with a longer running time, monsieur.’
‘Any recommendations, mademoiselle?’
‘Ben Hur. Three hours and twenty minutes.’
A quick roundhouse kick caught the back of Harper’s knees and dropped him to the floor. Another kick to his shoulder knocked him upright. He was looking up the death end of a pistol. The waitress with the gun on the trigger end.
‘Where did you go, monsieur?’
‘Went for a walk, I needed a pack of smokes.’
Her knee smashed into his face and sent him to the floor. Then a swift kick to his bruised ribs.
‘Fuck!’
She grabbed his collar and pulled him upright again and set the gun at his head.
‘S’il vous plaît, monsieur, where did you go?’
‘This is all very impressive, mademoiselle, but could we just get to the bloody point?’
The desk lamp switched on from across the room. The cop in the cashmere coat sitting comfortably, Mutt and Jeff standing behind him.
‘Speaking of the bloody point.’
‘Good evening, Mr Harper, nice to see you looking so well. We were enjoying your romp through the park when the town’s CCTV cameras shut down. Unscheduled service, it seems.’
‘Unscheduled? In this town?’
‘A minor inconvenience that will not be repeated. No matter, as I suspect you’re about to tell us what you were up to.’
‘Told you. Went for a walk, needed a pack of smokes.’
‘Yes, rather fond of evening strolls myself. Good for the digestion. By the way, where would I find Katherine Taylor?’
‘Get stuffed.’
The Inspector raised one eyebrow.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me.’
‘Mr Harper, you seem to forget that I’m with the police.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
The waitress with a gun threw another roundhouse kick. Harper caught her ankle midflight and pulled hard. She hit the floor, rolled and was back on her feet with the gun at his head in the blink of an eye.
‘Now that was really impressive, mademoiselle.’
The Inspector cleared his throat.
‘Officer Jannsen, that will be quite enough. I’m sure Mr Harper would prefer to take a seat on the bed.’
She held out her hand and pulled him to his feet. He towered over her.
‘So, Officer Jannsen is it?’
‘Oui, monsieur.’
‘Enchanté, and suppose you make yourself genuinely useful, love, and get us a cup of tea.’
She turned to the Inspector, he nodded.
‘Would you be so kind, officer? The Earl Grey, I think. And if you’d bring a bottle of good Lavaux. Mr Harper’s missed his supper and he’s in for a rough night. A full-bodied red will do him wonders.’
‘Tout de suite, Inspecteur.’
She left the room. Harper sat on the bed.
Mutt closed the door and rested his back against it. Jeff eased to the other side of the room. Both of them opening small notebooks and writing. The Inspector rose from the chair, took his cigarette case from his cashmere coat. He crossed the room, offered one of his gold-tipped fags to Harper.
‘Now, why don’t you tell us about your evening with Miss Taylor?’
‘Didn’t see her, didn’t talk to her.’ Harper took a smoke, set it to his lips. ‘Anyone got a match?’
Mutt stepped in with a lighter, Jeff dropped an ashtray on the bed. They retook their positions as the Inspector picked up one of the choco
lates on the bed pillow.
‘You don’t mind, do you? I have a weakness for Swiss chocolate.’
‘Take two, Inspector, they’re small.’
‘One’s quite enough, thank you.’ He walked back to his chair, unwrapped the chocolate, popped it in his mouth. ‘In that case why don’t you tell us what you were doing while you were out not seeing Miss Taylor.’
‘Actually, I was thinking about skipping town on the next train.’
‘I see you’re still here.’
Harper inhaled deep puffs, exhaled clouds that floated about the room.
‘Couldn’t get a ticket. Skiing holidays and all.’
‘Yes, well, one must book ahead this time of year.’
The Inspector waited in silence, he watched Harper smoke.
Mutt and Jeff continued to make scratching noises in their notebooks. A quiet knock at the door. Mutt opened it. Officer Jannsen wheeled in a serving trolley. China pot, cups and saucers, milk and sugar, bottle of Swiss red wine. She poured two cups of tea, set one on the table next to the Inspector.
‘Thank you, officer.’
‘Volontiers, Inspecteur.’
She served a cup to Harper, bowed and left the room. Harper turned to the Inspector.
‘Nicely trained, that one.’
‘Her first year on the task force, keen to do well. I hope she wasn’t too rough on you. She was terribly aggrieved you got the jump on us. I thought it an opportunity to see how her enhanced interrogation techniques were coming along. How would you rate her?’
‘Nice smile, vicious kick.’ He raised his cup and breathed in the bouquet, took a long sip. ‘And she makes a decent cuppa. She’ll go far in your gang.’
‘Happy to hear it. I think it effective to have attractive young women do the dirty work. Greatly reduces the time in getting to the facts of the matter when dealing with truculent sorts, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘If you say so.’ Harper took another long sip, watching the Inspector watch him like a cat waiting to pounce. ‘Something else on your mind, Inspector?’
‘Just wondering if you enjoy the taste of the tea? Special house blend, you know.’
‘Don’t tell me, here’s the part where we shoot the breeze about the evil Spaniards on their horses, slaughtering their way into the New World. Followed by a bit of whimsy about the King of Morocco and his tobacco patch. Or was it the other way around?’
‘In fact, this is where you describe the nature of your relationship with Miss Taylor.’
‘I hardly know her.’
‘That wasn’t my question. I asked about the nature of your relationship.’
‘Our relationship?’
‘“Di immortales virtutem approbare, non adhibere debent,” and so on.’
Harper took a draw on the cigarette.
‘If you’re asking me if I’ve known Miss Taylor in the biblical sense, the answer’s still no.’
‘I am relieved. Attachments with women of her sort, not the healthiest of things for our sort.’
‘What makes you think I’m one of your sort?’
‘Well, you’re here, aren’t you?’
‘Never knew you to talk in riddles, Inspector.’
‘Believe me, Mr Harper, I’m not. Where and when did you meet Miss Taylor?’
Harper felt one of those ‘get stuffed’ moments rising from his guts but couldn’t find the wherewithal to say the words.
‘LP’s Bar, a few days ago, she bought me a beer and I took her newspaper. We also had a drink on Place de Saint-François at the Christmas fête the same night. She went home alone. I saw her in LP’s again last Tuesday evening. She was waiting for a high-priced client. No idea who so don’t ask. That’s all there is to it.’
‘I’m told you gave her a maquette of Lausanne Cathedral while at the bar.’
Harper set his cup in the saucer, drew on his smoke. ‘And I see you had a chat with the polite bartender at LP’s.’
‘Indeed. He was most helpful in spite of you advising him to lie to us. For future reference, Mr Harper, the locals find such behaviour quite unnatural. They’re just not very good at it.’
‘So you knew what I was up to. Why didn’t you catch up with me at Miss Taylor’s flat?’
‘Because I had every confidence you’d return to tell us all about it.’
Harper sipped at the tea.
‘All right. I picked up the maquette in the cathedral gift shop the day I discovered Yuriev’s note. Had no real use for the bloody thing so I gave it to Miss Taylor when I saw her in the bar that evening, right after I slipped my business card inside.’
Inspector Gobet raised the other eyebrow.
‘Your business card?’
‘That’s right, the one pinned to the wall next to what was left of Madame Badeaux.’
‘And for the record, why didn’t you identify Miss Taylor’s voice on the answering machine, knowing she was involved with the killers?’
‘You telling me you didn’t already know who she was or what sort of trouble she was in?’
‘Of course I did. But I’d still like to know why you didn’t identify her voice?’
‘Didn’t like the tone of yours.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Set up people to die, Inspector, you should at least be polite about it.’
Harper took another sip of tea, huffed on the Inspector’s cigarette. He dug a set of keys from his mackintosh, tossed them to Mutt.
‘Keys to her flat, lads. Number two, Rue Caroline, rooftop flat. Have fun sorting which key is which. Place is a wreck but I kept my prints off things. And there’s an oily patch on the floor in the sitting room, near a broken lamp. Careful you don’t slip.’
Mutt and Jeff stopped writing, shot a look at the Inspector. Harper’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
‘Let me guess, you’ve heard that one before. Let’s try this one. A witness saw two men outside her building in the early hours of Thursday. One short with a small beard, goatee most probably, wore a black suit. Other one was tall and thin in some kind of pyjama outfit. Black, Oriental maybe.’
Harper read the looks on the coppers’ faces.
‘My, seems we’ve heard that one too.’
‘It would be helpful if you gave us the name of the witness, Mr Harper.’
‘Not on his life.’
‘What?’
‘Let’s just say I’d rather not see an innocent person slaughtered.’
‘You’re being most unhelpful, Mr Harper.’
Harper took another long draw on the cigarette.
‘Don’t take it personally, Inspector, but for a country with only a handful of wilful homicides a year, bodies are dropping like flies in this place.’
‘Mr Harper, you don’t seem to understand what’s going on in Lausanne.’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t.’
‘Right, you’re the policeman, I’m not.’
‘It’s more complicated than that.’
‘What’s complicated? You’re the good guys, they’re the bad guys. Or are the lines a little less clear, other way around, maybe?’
‘I’m not quite sure what you mean.’
‘Then I’ll spell it out for you, Inspector. You’re as bent as they come.’
Mutt and Jeff stepped towards Harper. The Inspector kept them in place with a quick glance before returning his attention to Harper.
‘Perhaps you’d care to share with us the manner of your thinking, Mr Harper.’
‘Back to the manner of my thinking routine, are we? Fine, goes like this. A rain of shite is about to come crashing down on your cashmere coat.’
‘Do tell.’
‘You told me your task force had been tracking the killers when it was Yuriev you really wanted. Or rather, whatever the fuck it was he smuggled out of Moscow. My guess is you got it off him before he ended up in a ditch.’
‘Are you suggesting I had something to do with Alexander Yuriev’s death?’
‘And what, do you suppose, is it that I obtained from Yuriev?’
‘Knowing you, some gadget to rule the fucking world.’
‘Surely you can do better than that.’
‘All right, how about a performance-enhancing drug with severe psychotropic effects?’
‘And what would I want with such a thing?’
‘I told you, rule the fucking world.’
The Inspector removed a fluff of lint from his coat.
‘Mr Harper, may I remind you that the fool does not become wise through the repetition of his folly.’
‘You’ve got it back to front, Inspector.’
‘Do I?’
‘It’s “If the fool would persist in his folly, he would become wise.”’
‘Of course. William Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, yes?’
‘No bloody idea.’
‘No? Something you heard then. History Channel, perhaps.’
Harper felt himself wobble.
‘What did you say?’
‘It wasn’t important. Let’s stay with your manner of thinking.’
‘Manner of … thinking.’
‘Yes, I fail to understand Miss Taylor’s role in my grand scheme to “rule the fucking world”, as you put it.’
‘Miss Taylor … she’s … she’s a direct connection to Simone Badeaux. That’s why the killers want her alive, and why you want her dead.’
‘You’re beginning to imagine things in a very serious manner, Mr Harper. You should be careful. I’m not sure you can handle it.’
Harper shook his head.
‘No? Then imagine this. Legendary courtesan with a client list that’d bring down several European governments, she was your bloody front.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You practically run this country, you practically run Europe. No wonder. You’re blackmailing Europe with one hand and cashing in on every crooked scam with the other. And the profits are hiding in Simone Badeaux’s bank accounts to the tune of forty million. The killers have it all on paper, ready to share with Euronews, along with pictures of Madame Simone’s mangled corpse. The killers want to make a deal. Give us what Yuriev smuggled out of Russia or we let the world know what an upstanding pig you are, courtesy of Miss Taylor. How am I doing?’