J.G. Ballard - Super-Cannes

The women broke off into French, voices raised as they shared their indignation. Bourget beckoned me to the mantelpiece.

'It was generous of Greenwood to intervene. In many ways he was a decent man. But we musn't alarm them.'

'I'm sorry.' I watched the animated widows in their bombazine dresses, capping each other's memories. 'They don't seem too alarmed. Did the husbands have any idea what Greenwood was planning?'

'How could they?'

'It would explain why he took them hostage.' Before Bourget could stop me, I turned to the women. 'Madame Cordier, it's a very sad time for you and Madame Ménard. I don't want to upset you. Do you remember everything that happened on May 28?'

'Of course.' Madame Cordier composed herself like a witness in court. 'Please speak, Monsieur Sinclair.'

'Did your husband say anything about Dr Greenwood on the day before? Had he found something suspicious?'

'Nothing. Georges said nothing about Dr Greenwood.'

' Pierre told me he had many clients that day,' Madame Ménard interjected. 'He left very early for work.'

'Right. What time did he usually report to the transport office?'

'Before eight o'clock.'

'So it took an hour or so to get there?'

'No.' Madame Ménard covered her watch. 'We lived in Le Cannet.'

'A ten-minute drive? And when did he leave on May 28?'

'Six o'clock.'

'He gave himself nearly two hours? Madame Cordier – can you remember when your husband left home?'

'The same time. We lived in Grasse. A few minutes before six.'

I was about to question the women further, but Bourget took my arm. Patiently but firmly, he drew me to the balcony.

'They know nothing, Mr Sinclair.' He spoke with schoolmasterly disapproval. 'They have no idea why Dr Greenwood seized their husbands. All these questions make it difficult for them to forget.'

'Are they trying to forget? It seems to me that…'

But I paid my respects to the widows, who came to the door to see me off. For a moment, as they smiled at me, they seemed sorry to see me go.

I followed Bourget down to the entrance hall. He released the lock on his Mobylette and wheeled it into the road. Despite my challenge to his supervisory role over the widows, I sensed that he was glad to hear my questions aired. Once away from the women, his manner became more friendly.

As we walked towards the Jaguar, I said: 'They weren't too upset?'

'They needed to talk. Were you surprised by how warmly they spoke of Greenwood?'

'Very surprised. How did your brother feel about him?'

'Jacques admired him. They were due to testify together as witnesses to a traffic accident. Now the case will never be heard.'

'Who was involved?'

'A junior manager in the personnel department at Eden-Olympia. A car forced him off the road. Greenwood helped him in the minutes before he died.'

' Greenwood was in the car?'

'No. He was passing in another vehicle. Along the coast road to Juan-les-Pins. Joyriders accelerate to dangerous speeds.'

'And your brother?

'He was in the manager's car. They were friends, and often went hiking together. It's lucky that Greenwood was driving by.'

'And quite a coincidence – though not the first.' I was aware that Bourget was watching me, like a teacher with a promising pupil. Deciding to be frank with him, I said: 'On May 28, Greenwood seized three hostages. Ten thousand people work at Eden-Olympia, but he picks the two chauffeurs, knowing he may have to kill them. These are men he's helped, with wives dependent on them. He needs a third hostage, and somehow chose your brother, even though they are going to testify in court together…'

'He picked people he knew,' Bourget pointed out. 'Perhaps it was easier to approach them, rather than complete strangers. He was very disturbed, Mr Sinclair.'

'Even so.' I looked back at Madame Cordier's apartment, where the widows watched from the balcony. 'The husbands lived within ten minutes of Eden-Olympia, but left almost two hours before they needed to check in for work. Why?'

'Impossible to say. People behave in unexpected ways. My brother was an active member of the Green movement. One day he took up sport shooting. He had a game licence to hunt deer. We were amazed.'

'When was this?'

'In April, about a month before he died. He often went to the military range at Castellane. I still have his weapons and ammunition. How do you explain that?'

'I can't.' We had reached the Jaguar, in the crowded car park beside the quay. 'I'm trying to start the clock on May 28. What was your brother doing so early in the car park of the TV centre? The station doesn't transmit programmes until six in the evening.'

'Does it matter, Mr Sinclair?' Bourget put a hand on my shoulder, noticing my limp and anxious that I was overtaxing myself. 'Can I ask why you're so involved? You didn't really know Greenwood.'

'Why do you say that?'

'You're very concerned, but for a different man. David Greenwood was not a victim.'

'No… I'm not sure what he was.' I looked at the crowded quayside, with its chic young yachtsmen and their girlfriends.

'Port-la-Galère… it's charming, in its way. A curious retirement home for two chauffeurs' widows.'

'Eden-Olympia supplied the apartments. And the pensions.'

'I hope they're generous. Port-la-Galère looks rather fashionable.'

'With a certain class of Parisian.' Bourget helped me into the driver's seat, clearly relieved that I was about to start the engine. 'People come here to take cocaine and sleep with each other's wives.'

'Hardly a place for grieving widows? At the same time, there's not much danger of them talking to the wrong people. Did Eden-Olympia offer you compensation?'

'Naturally. It was substantial.'

'And you accepted?'

'Mr Sinclair…' Bourget smiled to himself and patted the roof of the car, as if urging the Jaguar to take me back to the corniche road. With his cycle clips and Mobylette he looked like a French trainspotter, but I sensed that he had thought through Eden-Olympia's involvement in his brother's death and had a larger grasp than I did of the tragedy that surrounded David Greenwood. 'The compensation…? I handed it to my brother's former wife. It waits in trust for their son. Eden-Olympia looks after everything, Mr Sinclair.'

Port-la-Galère and its secrets fell behind me as I climbed the steep incline to the coastal road. The guards at the rustic checkpoint logged the car's numberplate into their mobile radios, waiting patiently as I fought the transmission system for possession of second gear. They were dressed in the chocolate-coloured uniforms favoured by supermarket security men. When they saluted, it struck me that this would be the chosen costume of any future army ordered to pacify a civilian population, reminding it of happier days spent in the confectionery aisles.

As I drove towards Cannes a light aircraft was taking off from the Cannes-Mandelieu airport near La Bocca. I pulled onto the verge, earning a rebuke from two elderly Frenchmen whose espadrilles I almost crushed. They slapped the Jaguar's roof, but I let this pass, and watched the aircraft climb across La Napoule Bay. Layers of dust and humidity formed strata in the soft air, through which the hotels of the Croisette trembled like uneasy spectres, a dream about to collapse into itself.

I turned off the Cannes highway and followed the access roads that led to the small airport. Single-engined aircraft were parked in their green collapsible hangars, like the canopies of giant perambulators, and executive jets waited for their corporate fares by the passenger terminal. The dead chauffeurs, Cordier and Ménard, would have sat here in their limousines on countless days, staring through the wire fence and breathing the heady tang of aviation fuel. Already I was certain that they had not been David Greenwood's hostages.