Robert Harris - The Fear Index

‘Oh, come off it, Alex! Don’t start on this again. It’s you who bought everything – I know it is.’ She tried to wriggle free.

‘No, listen.’ He shook her again. Dimly he recognised that his fear was making him aggressive, and he tried to calm down. ‘I promise you. It’s not me. The Darwin was bought in exactly the same way – a cash transfer over the internet. I bet you that if we go back in there right now and get Monsieur Bertrand to give us the purchaser’s account number, they’ll match. Now you’ve got to understand that although the account may be in my name, it’s not mine. I know nothing about it. But I’m going to get to the bottom of it, I promise you. Okay. That’s it.’ He released her. ‘That’s what I wanted to say.’

She stared at him and began slowly massaging her elbow. She was crying silently. He realised he must have hurt her. ‘I’m sorry.’

She looked up at the sky, gulping. Eventually she got her emotions back under control. She said, ‘You really have no idea, do you, how important that exhibition was to me?’

‘Of course I do…’

‘And now it’s ruined. And it’s your fault.’

‘Come on, Gabrielle, how can you say that?’

‘Well it is, Alex, you see, because either you bought everything, out of some kind of mad alpha-male belief that you’d be doing me a favour. Or it was bought by this other person who you say is trying to mess with your mind. Either way, it’s you – again.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Okay, so who is this mystery man? Obviously he’s nothing to do with me. You must have some idea. A competitor of yours, is he? Or a client? Or the CIA?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Or is it Hugo? Is this one of Hugo’s funny public-schoolboy japes?’

‘It isn’t Hugo. That’s one thing I am sure of.’

‘Oh no, of course not – it couldn’t possibly be your precious bloody Hugo, could it?’ She wasn’t crying any more. ‘What exactly have you turned into, Alex? I mean, Leclerc wanted to know if money was the reason why you left CERN, and I said no. But do you ever stop to listen to yourself these days? Two hundred thousand francs… Four hundred thousand francs… Sixty million dollars for a house we don’t need…’

‘You didn’t complain when we bought it, as I recall. You said you liked the studio.’

‘Yes, but only to keep you happy! You don’t think I like the rest of it, do you? It’s like living in a bloody embassy.’ A thought seemed to occur to her. ‘How much money have you got now, as a matter of interest?’

‘Drop it, Gabrielle.’

‘No. Tell me. I want to know. How much?’

‘I don’t know. It depends how you calculate things.’

‘Well try. Give me a figure.’

‘In dollars? Ballpark? I really don’t know. A billion. A billion-two.’

‘A billion dollars? Ballpark? ’ For a moment she was too incredulous to speak. ‘You know what? Forget it. It’s over. As far as I’m concerned, all that matters now is getting out of this bloody awful town, where the only thing anyone cares about is money.’

She turned away.

‘What’s over?’ Again he grabbed her arm, but feebly, without conviction, and this time she wheeled on him and slapped him on the face. It was only light – a warning flick, a token – but he let her go at once. Such a thing had never happened between them before.

‘Don’t you ever,’ she spat, jabbing her finger at him, ‘ ever grab hold of me like that again.’

And that was it. She was gone. She strode to the end of the street and rounded the corner, leaving Hoffmann with his hand pressed to his cheek, unable to comprehend the catastrophe that had so swiftly overtaken him.

Leclerc had witnessed it all from the comfort of his car. It had unfolded in front of him like a drive-in movie. Now, as he continued to watch, Hoffmann slowly turned around and made his way back towards the gallery. One of the two bodyguards standing with their arms folded outside had a word with him, and Hoffmann made a weary gesture, apparently a signal that he should go after his wife. The man set off. Then Hoffmann went inside, followed by his own minder. It was perfectly easy to see what was happening: the window was large and the gallery was now almost empty. Hoffmann went over to where the proprietor, M. Bertrand, was standing, and clearly began to berate him. He pulled out his mobile phone and waved it in the other man’s face. Bertrand threw up his hands, shooing him away, whereupon Hoffmann seized him by the lapels of his jacket and pushed him back against the wall.

‘Dear God in heaven, now what?’ muttered Leclerc. He could see Bertrand struggling to free himself as Hoffmann held him at arm’s length, before once again shoving him backwards, harder this time. Leclerc swore under his breath, threw open his car door and hauled himself stiffly out into the street. His knees had locked, and as he winced his way across the road to the gallery, he pondered yet again the harshness of his fate: that he should still have to do this sort of thing when he was closer to sixty than fifty.

By the time he got inside, Hoffmann’s bodyguard had planted himself very solidly between his client and the gallery’s owner. Bertrand was smoothing down his jacket and shouting insults at Hoffmann, who was responding in kind. Behind them the executed murderer stared ahead impassively from his glass cell.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Leclerc, ‘we shall have no more of this, thank you.’ He flashed his ID at the bodyguard, who looked at it and then at him and very slightly rolled his eyes. ‘Quite. Dr Hoffmann, this is no way to behave. It would pain me to arrest you, after all you have been through today, but I shall if necessary. What is going on here?’

Hoffmann said, ‘My wife is very upset, and all because this man has acted in the most incredibly stupid way-’

‘Yes, yes,’ cut in Bertrand, ‘incredibly stupid! I sold all her work for her, on the first day of her first exhibition, and now her husband attacks me for it!’

‘All I want,’ responded Hoffmann, in a voice that struck Leclerc as quite close to hysteria, ‘is the number of the buyer’s bank account.’

‘And I have told him it is quite out of the question! This is confidential information.’

Leclerc turned back to Hoffmann. ‘Why is it so important?’

‘Someone,’ said Hoffmann, struggling to keep his voice calm, ‘is quite clearly attempting to destroy me. I have obtained the number of the account that was used to send me a book last night, presumably in order to frighten me in some way – I’ve got it here on my mobile. And now I believe the same bank account, which is supposedly in my name, has been used to sabotage my wife’s exhibition.’

‘Sabotage!’ scoffed Bertrand. ‘We call it a sale!’

‘It wasn’t one sale, though, was it? Everything was sold, at once. Has that ever happened before?’

‘Ach!’ Bertrand made a sweeping gesture.

Leclerc looked at them. He sighed. ‘Show me the account number, Monsieur Bertrand, if you please.’

‘I can’t do that. Why should I?’

‘Because if you don’t, I shall arrest you for impeding a criminal investigation.’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’

Leclerc stared him out. Old as he was, he could deal with the Guy Bertrands of this world in his sleep.

Eventually Bertrand muttered, ‘All right, it’s in my office.’

‘Dr Hoffmann – your mobile, if I may?’

Hoffmann showed him the email screen. ‘This is the message I got from the bookseller, with the account number.’

Leclerc took the telephone. ‘Stay here, please.’ He followed Bertrand into the small back office. The place was a clutter of old catalogues, stacked frames, workman’s tools; it smelled of a pungent combination of coffee and glue. A computer sat on a scratched and rickety roll-top desk. Next to it was a pile of letters and receipts, skewered on a spike. Bertrand moved the mouse across his computer screen and clicked. ‘Here is the email from my bank.’ He vacated the seat with a pout. ‘I may say, incidentally, I don’t take seriously your threats to arrest me. I co-operate merely as a good Swiss citizen should.’