Robert Harris: The Fear Index

Hoffmann looked back at Leclerc. ‘Did you catch him?’

‘Unfortunately he was gone by the time our patrol arrived.’ Leclerc flicked back through his notebook. ‘It’s strange. He seems simply to have walked in through the gate and walked out again. Yet I gather you need two separate codes to access the gate and the front door. I wonder – was this man known to you in some way, perhaps? I’m assuming you didn’t let him in deliberately.’

‘I’ve never seen him before in my life.’

‘Ah.’ Leclerc made a note. ‘So you did get a good look at him?’

‘He was in the kitchen. I watched him through the window.’

‘I don’t understand. You were outside and he was inside?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry – how could that be?’

Haltingly at first, but with growing fluency as his strength and memory returned, Hoffmann relived it all: how he had heard a noise, had gone downstairs, had discovered the alarm turned off, had opened the door, seen the pair of boots, noticed the light shining from a ground-floor window, worked his way round the side of the house, and watched the intruder through the window.

‘Can you describe him?’ Leclerc was writing rapidly, barely finishing one page before turning it over and filling another.

Gabrielle said, ‘Alex…’

‘It’s all right, Gabby,’ said Hoffmann. ‘We need to help them catch this bastard.’ He closed his eyes. He had a clear mental picture of him – almost too clear, staring out wildly across the brightly lit kitchen. ‘He was medium height. Rough-looking. Fifties. Gaunt face. Bald on top. Long, thin grey hair, pulled back in a ponytail. He was wearing a leather coat, or maybe a jacket – I can’t remember which.’ A doubt swam into Hoffmann’s mind. He paused. Leclerc stared at him, waiting for him to continue. ‘I say I’ve never seen him before, but now I come to think of it, I wonder if that’s so. Perhaps I have seen him somewhere – a glimpse in the street, maybe. There was something familiar…’ His voice trailed off.

‘Go on,’ said Leclerc.

Hoffmann thought for a moment, then fractionally shook his head. ‘No. I can’t remember. Sorry. But to be honest – you know, I’m not trying to make a big deal of it – I have had an odd feeling of being watched just lately.’

Gabrielle said in surprise, ‘You never mentioned anything to me about it.’

‘I didn’t want to upset you. And besides, it was never anything I could put my finger on, exactly.’

‘It could be that he’s been watching the house for a while,’ said Leclerc, ‘or following you. You may have seen him in the street without being aware of him. Don’t worry. It’ll come back to you. What was he doing in the kitchen?’

Hoffmann glanced at Gabrielle. He hesitated. ‘He was – sharpening knives.’

‘My God!’ Gabrielle put her hand to her mouth.

‘Would you be able to identify him if you saw him again?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Hoffmann grimly. ‘You bet.’

Leclerc tapped his pen against his notebook. ‘We must issue this description.’ He stood. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said. He went out into the hall.

Hoffmann suddenly felt too tired to carry on. He closed his eyes again and leaned his head back against the sofa, then remembered his wound. ‘Sorry. I’m ruining your furniture.’

‘To hell with the furniture.’

He stared at her. She looked older without her make-up, more fragile and – an expression he had never seen before – scared. It pierced him. He managed to smile at her. At first she shook her head, but then – briefly, reluctantly – she smiled back, and just for a moment he dared to hope the whole thing wasn’t that serious: that it would turn out to be some old tramp who had found the entry codes on a scrap of waste paper in the street, and that one day they would laugh about it – his knock on the head (a fire extinguisher!), his mock heroics, her anxiety.

Leclerc came back into the drawing room carrying a couple of clear plastic evidence bags.

‘We found these in the kitchen,’ he said, resuming his seat with a sigh. He held them up. One contained a pair of handcuffs, the other what looked to be a black leather collar with a black golf ball attached to it.

‘What’s that?’ asked Gabrielle.

‘A gag,’ replied Leclerc. ‘It’s new. He probably bought it in a sex shop. They’re very popular with the S and M crowd. With luck we may be able to trace it.’

‘Oh my God!’ She looked in horror at Hoffmann. ‘What was he going to do to us?’

Hoffmann felt faint again, his mouth dry. ‘I don’t know. Kidnap us?’

‘That’s certainly a possibility,’ agreed Leclerc, glancing around the room. ‘You’re a rich man, that’s obvious enough. But I must say that kidnapping is unheard of in Geneva. This is a law-abiding city.’ He took out his pen again. ‘May I ask your occupation?’

‘I’m a physicist.’

‘A physicist.’ Leclerc made a note. He nodded to himself, and raised an eyebrow. ‘That I did not expect. English?’

‘American.’

‘Jewish?’

‘What the hell has that got to do with it?’

‘Forgive me. Your family name… I only ask in case there may be a racist motive.’

‘No, not Jewish.’

‘And Madame Hoffmann?’

‘I’m English.’

‘And you’ve lived in Switzerland for how long, Dr Hoffmann?’

‘Fourteen years.’ Weariness once again almost overtook him. ‘I came out here in the nineties to work for CERN, on the Large Hadron Collider. I was there for about six years.’

‘And now?’

‘I run a company.’

‘Called?’

‘Hoffmann Investment Technologies.’

‘And what does it make?’

‘What does it make? It makes money. It’s a hedge fund.’

‘Very good. “It makes money.” How long have you been here?’

‘Like I said – fourteen years.’

‘No, I meant here – here, in this house?’

‘Oh…’ He looked at Gabrielle, defeated.

She said, ‘Only a month.’

‘One month? Did you change the entry codes when you took over?’

‘Of course.’

‘And who apart from the two of you knows the combination for the burglar alarm and so forth?’

Gabrielle said, ‘Our housekeeper. The maid. The gardener.’

‘And none of them lives in?’

‘No.’

‘Does anyone at your office know the codes, Dr Hoffmann?’

‘My assistant.’ Hoffmann frowned. How sluggishly his brain moved: like a computer with a virus. ‘Oh, and our security consultant – he checked everything before we bought the place.’

‘Can you remember his name?’

‘Genoud.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘Maurice Genoud.’

Leclerc looked up. ‘There was a Maurice Genoud on the Geneva police force. I seem to remember he went into the private security business. Well, well.’ A thoughtful expression crossed Leclerc’s hangdog face. He resumed his note-taking. ‘Obviously all the combinations will need to be changed immediately. I suggest that you don’t reveal the new codes to any of your employees until I’ve had a chance to interview them.’

A buzzer sounded in the hall. It made Hoffmann jump.

‘That’s probably the ambulance,’ said Gabrielle. ‘I’ll open the gate.’

While she was out of the room, Hoffmann said, ‘I suppose this is going to get into the press?’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘I try to keep my name out of the papers.’

‘We’ll endeavour to be discreet. Do you have any enemies, Dr Hoffmann?’

‘No, not that I know of. Certainly no one who’d do anything like this.’

‘Some rich investor – Russian, perhaps – who’s lost money?’

‘We don’t lose money.’ Still, Hoffmann tried to think if there was anyone on his client list who might possibly be involved. But no: it was inconceivable. ‘Is it safe for us to stay here, do you think, with this maniac on the loose?’