J.G. Ballard - Super-Cannes

'Their uniforms are actually costumes?'

'In effect. If you want real crime, go to Nice or Cannes La Bocca. Robbery, prostitution, drug-dealing – to us they seem almost folkloric, subsidized by the municipality for the entertainment of tourists.'

'Unthinkable at Eden-Olympia,' I agreed. 'All the same, there was one tragic failure.'

'Dr Greenwood? Tragic, yes…' Zander pressed a scented hand to his heart. 'Every moment I spend in this chair I feel the tragedy. His behaviour was criminal, but of a kind beyond the reach of the law or police.'

'What happened to Greenwood? No one seems able to say.'

'Speak to Wilder Penrose. A bolt of lightning streaks through a deceased brain. Within minutes seven of my colleagues are dead. Men and women who gave everything to Eden-Olympia. Death stalked us all that morning, with a rifle in one hand and a box of dice in the other.'

'The killings were random?'

'There's no doubt. Nothing linked the victims to their murderer.'

'Except for one thing – they were his patients. Greenwood may have believed they had some fatal disease.'

'They did. But the disease was inside Greenwood 's mind.'

Zander leaned his plump chest across the desk, lowering his voice.

'We at security were heavily criticized. But how could we predict the behaviour of someone so deeply insane? You knew him, Mr Sinclair?'

'He was a colleague of my wife's in London. He seemed rather… idealistic.'

'The best disguise. There are many brilliant people at Eden-Olympia. For a few, their minds are lonely places, the cold heights where genius likes to walk. Now and then, a crevasse appears.'

'So it could happen again?'

'We hope not. Eden-Olympia would never survive. But sooner or later, who can say? We are too trusting, Mr Sinclair. So many glass floors and white walls. The possibilities for corruption are enormous. Power, money, opportunity. People can commit crimes and be unaware of it. In some ways it's better to be like Nice or La Bocca – the lines are drawn and we cross them knowing the cost. Here, it's a game without rules. One determined man could…'

He seemed to stare into himself, then made an obscene gesture at the air and turned to me. 'You want my help, Mr Sinclair?'

'I'm interested in exactly what happened on May 28. The route Dr Greenwood took, the number of shots fired. They might give me a clue to his state of mind. As an Englishman I feel responsible.'

'I'm not sure…' Zander's hands fretted over his gaudy desk ornaments. 'Violent assassins renounce their nationality as they commit their crimes.'

'Could I talk to the next of kin?'

'The wives of the deceased? They returned to their home countries. Grief is all that's left to them.'

'The office staff? Secretaries, personal assistants?'

'They've suffered enough. What more can they tell you? The colour of Greenwood 's tie? Whether he wore brown or black shoes?'

'Fair enough. An overall report of the incident would help me. I take it you prepared one?'

'One? A hundred reports. For the investigating magistrate, for the Prefect of Police, for the Minister of the Interior, six foreign embassies, lawyers for the companies…'

'So you can lend me one?'

'They're still confidential. International corporations are involved. Claims of negligence may be brought against Eden-Olympia, which of course we deny.'

'Then -'

'I can't help you, Mr Sinclair.' For the first time Zander sounded like a policeman. He studied the scar on my forehead and my still-bruised ear. 'Does violence intrigue you, Mr Sinclair?'

'Not at all. I try to avoid it.'

'And your wife? For a few women…'

'She's a doctor. She's spent years in casualty wards.'

'Even so. Some people find violence is a useful marriage aid. A special kind of tickler. You're so involved with the Greenwood murders, but I'm sure your motives are sincere. Sadly, you are wasting your time. All conceivable evidence was tracked down.'

'Not all…' I took the three spent bullets from my pocket and rolled them across the desk. 'Rifle bullets – I found them in the garden at our villa. One was lying on the floor of the swimming pool. How it got there is hard to work out. For what it's worth, I don't think the hostages were shot in the garage.'

Zander took out a silk handkerchief and vented some unpleasing odour from his mouth. He stared at the bullets but made no attempt to examine them. 'Mr Sinclair, you did well to find them. My men told me they made a careful search.'

'You could match them to Dr Greenwood's rifle.'

'The weapon is held by the Cannes police. It's best if we don't involve them again. Other traces of Greenwood will appear. The greater a crime, the longer its effects poison the air. Have you found anything else?'

'Not at the villa. But there are one or two odd things going on at Eden-Olympia.'

'I'm glad to hear it.' Zander opened a window and let in the warm air, which he inhaled in short but hungry breaths.

Recovering his poise, he turned to escort me to the door. '"Odd things"… I'd almost lost hope for our business park. Good news, Mr Sinclair. Keep your eyes open for me…'

'I will. Now, the hostages…'

'Mr Sinclair, please…' Zander put an arm around my shoulders, reminding me of the strength that an overweight body can hide. 'The dead no longer care where they were shot. Tell me about your young wife. Is she enjoying her stay with us?'

'Very much.' I stepped through a side door into the corridor, where a woman assistant was waiting. 'She works far too hard.'

'Everyone does. It's our secret vice. She needs to play a little more. You'll have to find some new activity that amuses her. There are so many interesting games at Eden-Olympia…'

His mouth began to purse again, showing the pink lining inside his black lips, but his eyes were fixed upon the three bullets that lay on his desk.

An almost drugged air floated across the lake, a rogue cloud that had drifted down the hillside, carrying the scent of office-freshener from a factory in Grasse. I walked along the water's edge, attracting the attention of two security men in a Range Rover parked among the pines. One watched me through his binoculars, no doubt puzzled that anyone in Eden-Olympia should have the leisure to stroll through the midday sun.

Between the security building and the Elf-Maritime research labs was an open-air cafeteria, a facility intended to soften the public face of the business park and give it a passing resemblance to an Alpine resort. Tired after my meeting with Zander, I sat down and ordered a vin blanc from the young French waitress, who wore jeans and a white vest printed with a quotation from Baudrillard.

Zander had told me nothing, as I expected. Even his silences provided no useful clues. By now, nearly six months after the event, a relieved Eden-Olympia had erased David Greenwood from its collective memory, filing the tragedy in some administrative limbo assigned to earthquakes and regicides.

I thought of Zander: thuggish, bisexual and corrupt, qualities no doubt essential for any successful police chief. I could smell his aftershave on my right hand, and was tempted to walk to the water's edge and wash the scent away, but disturbing the surface would probably trigger a full-scale alert. Yet Zander was a potential collaborator, the only person I had met who saw the flaw at the heart of Eden-Olympia. Given the absence of an explicit moral order, where decisions about right and wrong were engineered into the social fabric along with the fire drills and parking regulations, Zander's job became impossible. Crime could flourish at Eden-Olympia without the residents ever being aware that they were its perpetrators or leaving any clues to their motives.