‘I need you to do something. Don’t look for now, but there’s a woman at a table behind me. Auburn hair, wears kid gloves.’
‘Lucy Clarke, I know her very well.’
‘When you get a chance tell her I was drunk. Anyone else asks about me, tell them the same thing. Don’t tell them anything else, especially if it’s the police.’
The polite bartender coughed worriedly.
‘Monsieur, this is Switzerland. Citizens do not lie to the police.’
‘Stephan, for another two hours, make believe you don’t live on planet fucking perfect.’
‘
Pardon
?’
‘Ask Miss Clarke, she’ll tell you all about it. For the moment, Miss Taylor’s flat. Where is it? And tell me she just happened to give you a spare key for safe keeping.’
Katherine wrapped herself in the black cloak and sat on the steps of the loge.
She watched Rochat shuffle along the south balcony with things to return to the winch shed and listened to him talk to Marie-Madeleine each time he passed.
With Monsieur Buhlmann’s grill it was, ‘Because you’re too noisy for dinner, that’s why.’ With the hotplate and power cables he said, ‘What do you mean you haven’t been properly introduced? She helped clean pigeon poop from your head, you silly old bell.’ And with the wood box he’d used for a table it was, ‘When she’s ready to go, that’s when.’ Finally, Katherine heard Rochat lock the shed and shuffle by the great bell with, ‘No, she’s our guest, guests don’t do the dishes after dinner.’ Then he jumped on to the south balcony just in front of her.
She smiled.
‘Marie-Madeleine feeling a little left out of all the fun?’
‘She’s not used to anyone being in the tower at night besides me and Monsieur Buhlmann.’
‘I don’t know, Marc. I think she might be jealous. Maybe she thinks I’m going to steal you away from her.’
‘That’s why I haven’t told her about the girl.’
‘What girl?’
‘A girl Monsieur Buhlmann wants me to meet at Christmas lunch. She lives on a farm and milks cows.’
‘Hey, are you cheating on us already?’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘It means between the bells, me and the farmer’s daughter, you’re quite the ladies’ man.’
Rochat scratched his head, not really sure what that meant either.
‘It’s almost nine o’clock, I have to work now.’
‘OK.’
Katherine scooted to the side and Rochat shuffled by her and into the lantern-lit loge. She watched him light candles and set them on shelves and ledges. The small room was suddenly aglow in warm light. Rochat sat at the table, pulled open the door of his lantern and blew out the flame. He pulled his floppy hat down on his head and stared at the unlit lantern.
‘Marc?’
‘
Oui
?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Working.’
Katherine got to her feet and came into the loge, sat so the lantern was between them.
‘Why did you blow out the lantern if you’re going to use it in a second?’
‘Because I couldn’t light it if it was already lit.’
‘So when do you light the lantern?’
‘When Marie says.’
She looked at his face, the way he was concentrating on the candle stub in the lantern.
‘What are you doing now?’
‘I’m imagining something.’
‘What?’
‘Candles.’
Katherine looked around the loge, counted twelve burning candles.
‘Which ones?’
‘Not these candles. Other candles, somewhere else. There’s lots of them and it looks nice.’
She rested her head in her hands, looked at him through the lantern.
‘You know, the night I first saw you in the tower, I thought you were a night watchman with a flashlight.’
‘I don’t think it would work.’
‘What wouldn’t work?’
‘A flashlight, it’s not the same.’
‘What’s not the same?’
‘Flashlights are for looking. Fire is for seeing things.’
‘Oh, that makes sense, I guess.’ She yawned and stretched. ‘Man, I’m so tired.’
‘You sleep a lot.’
‘Yeah, I know. Must be the air up here, just knocks me out. I need to lie down.’
‘
D’accord
.’
Katherine hung her black cloak on an iron spike, slipped off her boots and woolly jumper and climbed on to the bed. She pulled the heavy duvet over her body.
‘Marc?’
‘
Oui
?’
‘When you go to work, could you leave the door open? That way I can see you and your lantern when you come back.’
‘I can leave the door open.’
The timbers creaked and groaned.
GONG! GONG! GONG …
Katherine felt the sound of the great bell pulse through the loge as if it was rocking her to sleep. And as the ninth strike sounded she watched Rochat light the lantern and shuffle outside. She heard him move around the tower. His voice calling the hour to the east, north, west. Then his crooked shape appeared just outside the door where he faced Lausanne, the lake and the sleepy mountains on the far shore, raising his lantern of firelight into the night.
‘
C’est le guet! Il a sonné l’heure! Il a sonné l’heure!
’
Harper punched in the code, the door popped open, he stepped inside.
Marble floor, Chinese tables and vases, fresh flowers. Mailboxes on the wall, one name per floor. Taylor, top gaff.
He sorted through the keys trying to remember the order of entry.
Numeric code opens the street door, red key opens the private lift that takes you up seven floors to a private lobby. Unlock the double doors with the white key to a small atrium, close the door behind you and punch in a second numeric code to deactivate the alarm, unlock the last door with the blue key. A bit like breaking into a Swiss bank, Harper thought. He slipped the blue key into the lock, opened the door.
‘Of course, a long dark hall.’
He reached for the light switch but stopped. He dug through his mackintosh, pulled out his own keys with the mini-torch on the end.
‘Let there be light.’
He twisted it on, pointed it into the dark.
Antique side table to the right. Mom and Dad photos, photos with a woman and three kids. Woman in the photo looked like Blondie a bit, sister maybe. Another shot, Blondie in a sculptor’s studio, half naked and a glass of wine in her hand. Attractive woman in I’m-a-serious-fucking-artist overalls next to her. Stephan’s girlfriend maybe. Next picture confirmed it. Hippie artist bird with the out-of-uniform polite bartender lounging on a divan. Miss Taylor fitting nicely between them. The three of them looking stoned and very friendly.
Harper walked on, his mini-torch leading the way.
Guest room to the left. Big windows with balconies overlooking the lake and mountains. The room was empty but for some unpacked cardboard boxes. Further down the hall, an arch opened to a kitchen. High-tech aluminium chair kicked back from a lucite table, rest of the chairs tucked neatly underneath. Harper stepped in. Stainless-steel everything. Appliances, pots and pans, double-barrelled sink. Sink held one wine glass with a trace of red, one plate with a few breadcrumbs, one coffee cup, one teaspoon. He looked in the trash can. Two empty yogurt containers, that’s it.
Swinging doors led to a dining room. Glass shelves with antiques, the expensive kind. Antique oak table and chairs, a never-been-used feel. Dining room opened on to a large sitting room. Harper worked his way back through the kitchen and down the hall. A guest bath to the right. Baskets full of soaps and shampoos from the Lausanne Palace Hotel, a few towels bearing the hotel’s monogram. Further down the hall a wide arch opened into a crescent-shaped sitting room. Curving floor-to-ceiling windows opened on to a garden terrace and a million-euro view of the lights of Lausanne and the mountains across the dark lake, sitting like snow-capped silhouettes against the starry sky.
He stepped in, scanned the dark with the torch.
Plush Italian leather sofas and chairs, Oriental carpets on the floor, huge LCD screen on the wall with a flash stereo kit to match. There was a pedestal with a sculpture of a woman’s form in bronze, Blondie’s form most probably. He panned the torch, saw a shattered table lamp on the floor, chunks of a crystal ashtray near the wall. He raised the torch to a nasty dent in the plaster wall.
Nearby, an antique backgammon table turned on its side. Black and white discs scattered over the floor, the dice had come up double six. Something black under the table. Harper kicked it into the open. Taser gun, both probes fired. Patch of clear oil on the floor. He touched it, rolled it in his fingertips, no scent. Across the room, next to a glass coffee table, a large furry lump on the floor.
‘If you’re the watchdog, you’re doing a crap job of it.’
He walked closer. Fido was a mink coat. He held the collar close to his face, he could smell her scent. He checked the pockets, something pricked his finger. He pulled his hand from the pocket, saw a small shard of glass in one fingertip. He shook the coat, fine pieces of glass fell to the floor. Wasn’t crystal, it was window glass. Harper panned the torch across the windows in the sitting room. Nothing broken in this place. He laid the coat back on the floor, shone the torch around the rest of the room.
Glass coffee table splattered with lipsticks and bits of make-up, a packet of condoms and a Cohiba cigar tube. He unscrewed the tube. It was stuffed with high-grade dope. He saw her handbag on the floor. He knocked it over with the tip of his shoe and her gold cigarette case tumbled on to the floor. The embedded diamond sparkled in the light of the torch.
‘Found it, now what?’
He picked up the case, slipped it in his mackintosh. He checked the handbag again. No wallet, no mobile, no keys. Rest of the sitting room looked undisturbed. Harper went back to the hall.
Closets along the walls, he checked them one by one.
The woman had lots of designer clothes, many with the sales tag still on them. There were a shitload of shoes, as well as a complete set of Louis Vuitton luggage in descending sizes. No pieces missing. Open door at the end of the hall, bright light within. He stepped slowly to the door. Her scent grew stronger. He leaned around the corner. Master bedroom, overhead light switched on and the light reflecting off the sliding glass doors to the garden terrace, making the bedroom appear twice as big as it was. He switched off his torch and stepped into the room.
Mirrored closets along one wall, one of the closet doors left open. Dresses tossed about the floor and bed. Harper walked across the room to the en suite bathroom. Oak armoire, art deco sinks and fixtures, antique bath the size of a small car. More stolen soaps and towels from the Lausanne Palace. Nothing looking used for days.
He turned back to the bedroom.
Except for the scattered dresses on the bed and floor, nothing seemed out of place. He walked to the bay window, checked the antique dressing table. Hairbrush, combs, perfumes. He opened the drawers. Make-up, assorted creams, LP’s bar ashtray with a half-smoked joint.
Harper closed the drawer and walked to the bed. Like a normal bed. No mirrors on the ceiling. No hooks for the whips and chains. Not a handcuff in sight.
He pulled open the bedside table drawers.
Hand creams, another LP’s ashtray with a fat joint on standby, operations manual and charger for an X26 taser gun. He dug for his own smokes and lit up, half tempted to huff one of Mademoiselle’s spliffs. Might clear up one or two things. He walked in circles, following his thoughts.
She had cash, lots of it. She was a pothead but no sign of hard drug use, though she was addicted to all things designer. She liked to steal towels and ashtrays from the Palace Hotel. She never had dinner guests, not to mention stay-over clients. Never used the flat for business. It’s where the kid lived.
Right.
She comes home. Comes home, hell. Her voice on the answering machine, terrified. She came here from somewhere else, somewhere she was escaping from. Somewhere she had to break a window to get away from maybe. Gets home, calls Madame Badeaux for help. Someone’s waiting for her or comes in after she arrives. Argy-bargy in the sitting room. Someone gets zapped with the taser gun. She runs away, leaves everything.
No, too easy, no one gets away from these killers.
They let her go. Why?
Because they want someone or something else. Blondie with the stars in her eyes was a sideline … maybe.
He walked to the dressing table again and touched her brush, her combs, the long strands of blond hair. He picked up a bottle of perfume and smelled the cap, remembering her at Place de Saint-François. Drinking
vin chaud
, giggling, thinking Lausanne was like living in a fairy-tale. Then the ‘but why’ hit him. Because the fairytale was a trap she’d been lured into, just like him. And just like him, she had nowhere to run.
‘So where the hell is she?’
Harper saw himself in the mirror, her perfume bottle in his hands. Sad sod that you are, he thought. Sniffing her mink, sniffing her perfume. What’s next, boyo, her knickers in the cupboard?
Ten bells rang out over Lausanne.
Harper’s eyes refocused in the mirror. He saw the reflection of the bright room in the windows at his back. Beyond the glass he saw something moving in the night.
‘Bloody hell.’
He set the perfume bottle on the dressing table, reached over and hit the light switch. The room went black. He slid open the glass doors and stepped on to the terrace. Across Pont Bessières, above the old city, Lausanne Cathedral stood in a blaze of light as if hiding in plain sight. Only thing giving it away was the spark of light rounding the belfry tower.
‘Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of Saint Clement’s.’
Rochat shuffled quietly into the loge. He set the burning lantern on the table and hung his overcoat and hat behind the door. He made a cup of tea and sat at the table. He picked up a pencil and went back to the drawings in his
l’ange de lausanne
sketchbook. He brushed away leaded dust and smoothed the lines of his drawing of the angel as she lay wrapped in the duvet and sleeping.
He had filled one page with detailed studies of her hands. Her fingers were long and pretty, almost touching someone or waiting for someone to touch her. Another page was filled with her shoulders and neck peeking from the duvet, the smooth curves emerging and swelling and then sinking down to a swanlike neck. Two more pages were filled with drawings of her face. The bandage was hidden from Rochat’s eyes and, as he drew her, she looked the way he first imagined her in the windows above Rue Caroline. The perfect shape of her nose and gentle lines of her chin, her long blond hair falling down over her sleeping eyes.