J.G. Ballard - Super-Cannes

'That doesn't sound like Eden-Olympia.' Jane pressed my head against her breast and began to explore my scalp. 'Awful man – I can see he upset you. He might have been lost.'

'He was looking for something. He thought I was David Greenwood.'

'Why? There's no resemblance. David was fifteen years younger…' She broke off. 'He can't have met David.'

I rotated my chair to face Jane. 'That's the point. Why would David have any contact with a small-time Russian crook?'

Jane leaned against the desk, watching me in a way I had never seen before, less the tired house-doctor of old and more the busy consultant with an eye on her watch. 'Who knows? Perhaps he was hoping to sell David a used car. Someone from the rehab clinic might have mentioned his name.'

'It's possible. Doctors doing charity work have to mix with a lot of riffraff.'

'Apart from their husbands? Paul, these bullets – don't get too involved with them.'

'I won't…'

I listened to the lift doors in the corridor as Jane's colleagues left the clinic after their day's work. Somewhere a dialysis machine moved through its cleaning cycle, emitting a series of soft grunts and rumbles, like a discreet indigestion. The clinic was a palace of calm, far away from the pumphouse and its bullet-riddled sack. I gazed through the cruise-liner windows at the open expanse of the lake. A deep shift in the subsoil sent a brief tremor across the surface, as a pressure surge moved through a ring main. Proud of Jane, I said: 'What an office – they obviously like you. Now I see why you want to spend your time here.'

'It was David's office.'

'Doesn't that feel…?'

'Strange? I can cope with it. We sleep in his bed.'

'Almost grounds for divorce. They should have moved you. Living in the same villa is weird enough.' I gestured at the filing cabinets. 'You've been through his stuff? Any hints of what went wrong?'

'The files are empty, but some of his records are still on computer.' Jane tapped a screen with her pencil. 'The La Bocca case histories would make your hair curl. A lot of those Arab girls were fearfully abused.'

'Thanks, I'd rather not see them. What about the children here? Is there a lot of work for you?'

'Very little. There aren't many children at Eden-Olympia. I don't know why they needed a paediatrician. Still, it gives me a chance to work on something else. There's a new project using the modem links to all the villas and apartments. Professor Kalman is keen that I get involved.'

'Fine, as long as they don't exploit you. Is it interesting?'

'In an Eden-Olympia kind of way.' Jane played distractedly with the bullets, as if they were executive worry-beads supplied to all the offices. 'Every morning when they get up people will dial the clinic and log in their health data: pulse, blood-pressure, weight and so on. One prick of the finger on a small scanner and the computers here will analyse everything: liver enzymes, cholesterol, prostate markers, the lot.'

'Alcohol levels, recreational drugs…?'

'Everything. It's so totalitarian only Eden-Olympia could even think about it and not realize what it means. But it might work. Professor Kalman is very keen on faecal smears, but I suspect that's one test too far. He hates the idea of all that used toilet paper going to waste. The greatest diagnostic tool in the world is literally being flushed down the lavatory. How does it strike you?'

'Mad. Utterly bonkers.'

'You're right. But the basic idea is sound. We'll be able to see anything suspicious well in advance.'

'So no one will ever get ill?'

'Something like that.' She turned and stared at the lake. 'It's a pity about the paediatrics. At times I feel all the children in the world have grown up and left me behind.'

'Only at Eden-Olympia.' I reached out and held her waist. 'Jane, that's sad.'

'I know.' Jane looked down at the bullets in her palm, seeing them clearly for the first time. She pressed them against her heart, as if calculating the effect on her anatomy, and with a grimace dropped them into the ashtray. 'Nasty. Are you going to hand them in?'

'To the security people? Later, when I've had time to think. Say nothing to Penrose.'

'Why not? He ought to know.' Jane held my wrist as I reached for the bullets. 'Paul, stand back for a moment. You'd expect to find a few bullets in the garden. Seven people were killed. The guards must have been in a total panic, shooting at anything that moved. Stop putting yourself in David's shoes.'

'I'm trying not to. It's difficult, I don't know why. By the way, I'm sure David didn't shoot the hostages in the garage. I had a careful look inside.'

'But Penrose told us the garage had been rebuilt.'

'It wasn't. I'll show you around.'

'No thanks. I'll stay with Professor Kalman at the colorectal end of things. So where did David shoot the hostages?'

'In the garden. One probably died against the pumphouse doors. A second was shot in the pool.'

'Bizarre. What was the poor man doing – swimming for help?'

Tired of talking to me, Jane rested her face in her hands. She tapped a computer keyboard, and a stream of numerals glimmered against her pale skin.

'Jane…' I held her shoulders, watching the screen as it threw up a list of anaesthetics. 'I'm badgering you. Let's forget about David.'

Jane smiled at this. 'Dear Paul, you're so wired up. You're like a gun dog waiting for the beaters.'

'There's nothing else to think about. Lying by a swimming pool all day is a new kind of social deprivation. Let's drive down to Cannes and have an evening on the town. Champagne cocktails at the Blue Bar, then an aïoli at Mère Besson. Afterwards we'll go to the Casino and watch the rich Arabs pick out their girls.'

'I like rich Arabs. They're extremely placid. All right – but I have to go back and change.'

'No. Come as you are. White coat and stethoscope. They'll think I'm a patient having an affair with his glamorous young doctor.'

'You are.' Jane held my hands to her shoulders and rocked against me. 'I need time to freshen up.'

'Fine. I'll get some air on the roof and bring the car round to the entrance in twenty minutes.' I leaned across her and pointed to the computer screen. 'What's all this? I saw David's initials.'

'Eerie, isn't it? You're not the only one finding traces of the dead.'

'"May 22"…' I touched the screen. 'That was a week before the murders. "Dr Pearlman, Professor Louit, Mr Richard Lancaster… 2.30, 3, 4 o'clock." Who are these people?'

'Patients David was seeing. Pearlman is chief executive of Ciba-Geigy. Lancaster is president of Motorola's local subsidiary. Don't think about shooting them – they're watched over like royalty.'

'They are royalty. There's a second list here. But no times are given. When was it typed in?'

'May 26. It's a list of appointments waiting to be scheduled.'

'But David was a paediatrician. Do all these people have children?'

'I doubt if any of them do. David spent most of his time on general duties. Paul, let's go. You've seen enough.'

'Hold on.' I worked the mouse, pushing the list up the page.

'"Robert Fontaine… Guy Bachelet." They were two of the victims.'

'Poor bastards. I think Fontaine died in the main administration building. Alain Delage took over from him. Does it matter?'

'It slightly changes things. Only two days beforehand David was reminding himself to arrange their appointments. A strange thing to do if he planned to kill them. Jane…?'

'Sorry, Paul.' Jane switched off the screen. 'So much for the conspiracy theory.'

I turned away and stared across the lake, expecting another seismic shudder. 'He was still booking them in for their check-ups. All that cholesterol to be tested, all those urinalyses. Instead, he gets up early in the morning, and decides to shoot them dead…'