J.G. Ballard - Super-Cannes

I circled the car park and stopped outside a small single-storey building like a general store in a mock-up of a Wild West frontier town. These were the offices of Nostalgic Aviation. The nose and cockpit section of a 1970s jet bomber was mounted on blocks beside the entrance, the equivalent of a cigar-store indian or a rusting cigarette machine. The showroom was filled with aviation memorabilia – helmets, parachutes and radio gear from the Cold War period, piston heads and propellers, several ejector seats and a radial engine.

The store had closed for the afternoon, and an almost tangible melancholy hung over everything, gathering the same dust as the model aircraft strung from the ceiling, the same sediment of past time that fell from the memories of old pilots and cloaked this miniature museum. The gyrocompasses and Strategic Air Command fuselage art – 'SAC Time', with naked blonde and priapic nuclear bomb – were fossils embedded in the past, like my old Harvard in the hangar at Elstree, as distant from the executives boarding the Nice shuttle as trilobites encased in prehistoric shale.

I stepped into the Jaguar, another rolling museum of itself, left the airport and drove into the industrial suburb of La Bocca. As the wheels struck the disused railway lines embedded in the road I remembered another dream that had died here, within earshot of the aircraft that patrolled the beaches of Cannes and Juan-les-Pins, advertising the discount furniture sales and speedboat auctions that helped to define the future of the new Côte d'Azur.

The children's refuge at La Bocca, to which David Greenwood had devoted so much time, lay between the freight depot of the SNCF and a cluster of run-down tenements that offered temporary housing to Maghrebian workers. The two-storey building had gothic windows and a steeply pitched roof, and was the schoolhouse of a teaching order of African nuns. The dozen nuns, black sisters from former French colonies, had welcomed Greenwood 's offer to provide medical care for the girls in their charge. After May 28 the municipal authorities had closed the refuge, and the twenty girls were now in foster homes.

'It was unsuitable for them to stay,' Sister émilie, a middle-aged nun from Dahomey, explained as she unlocked the doors and led me into the schoolhouse. 'Journalists came every day, television cameras, even tourists…'

'I understand. It would be dangerous for them.'

'Not for the girls. You never had daughters, Mr Sinclair? You can control one thirteen-year-old. Two girls control each other. But twenty? Impossible. No man would be safe.'

The girls, she explained, were orphaned or abandoned daughters of migrant workers, and keenly interested in the bright lights of the Croisette. The dayroom on the ground floor was furnished with lumpy sofas and chairs, armrests scorched by cigarette burns.

A crucifix hung from the wall, along with a Raphaelesque reproduction of the Saviour's undernourished face and uplifted eyes, the image of a tubercular sexual fanatic that must have appealed to the girls who lay around gossiping and smoking their cigarettes.

Greenwood and Dominique Serrou had paid the salaries of two helpers and a cook. Only the generous funds donated by Eden-Olympia allowed the impoverished teaching order to educate the girls and provide them with books and a computer.

'Such kind people. They gave everything and took nothing. In the end…' Sister émilie clapped her hands, as if the multiple killings had been an inexplicable accident.

'Did Dr Greenwood get on with Dr Serrou?'

'Were they… intimate?' Sister émilie paused on the creaking stairs. 'No. Anyway, not here. They didn't ask for my permission. Dr Greenwood was very young, and very tired.'

'There were no disagreements? Over running the refuge?'

'Never. Busy people have no time to disagree. They were committed to their work.'

The dormitory on the second floor had been divided into barrack-style cubicles, each with three beds. The mattresses were bare, strewn with old scent bottles, broken mobile phones and music CDs.

Sister émilie stared patiently at the debris, clearly eager to sweep everything into the nearest rubbish bin.

'The police told me to touch nothing. So…'

'Maybe the girls will come back one day?'

'It's possible.' The prospect seemed to cheer her. 'Your wife is a doctor, Mr Sinclair?'

'A paediatrician, like Dr Greenwood.' Embarrassed by the nun's hopeful gaze, I could only say: 'She has many responsibilities…'

I opened the wooden lockers behind the beds, filled with a clutter of shoes and spent cosmetics. From a peg hung a miniskirted cocktail dress with zebra stripes, an electric eyesore that could only have been worn within the lurid imagination of a twelve-year-old.

On the shelf below was a pair of fishnet tights.

'Those girls…' Sister émilie averted her gaze. 'They had so many clothes.'

'Dr Greenwood was generous with pocket money?'

'Too much. He was sorry for the girls. Dr Serrou gave them one hundred francs, then another hundred francs…' She shuffled to the door. 'You stay and look, Mr Sinclair. Maybe you can find something about your friend. Poor Dr Greenwood…'

When she had gone I stood among the cubicles, inhaling the still potent scent of young women's bodies. Supervising the troubled teenagers would have required heroic patience. By day Greenwood could check their health, prescribe vitamin supplements and hand out his Alice books, but at nightfall the girls would dress up in their finery and dial the immigrant bars in La Bocca, shrieking as they teased the mystified construction workers.

I imagined the high jinks in this shabby dormitory, like the tricks that Jane and the women doctors at Guy's played on the unwary housemen. Remembering how Jane had scuffed through the wards, fingers stained with nicotine, I picked up the zebra frock and the dusty tights. I felt a curious affection for the unknown teenager who had worn them. She would soon forget the earnest English doctor, smiling through his fatigue, who had tried to introduce her to the White Rabbit and the Red Queen.

I left the dormitory and crossed the landing into a high-ceilinged room that had been Greenwood 's office. The bare desk was flanked by empty medicine cabinets and Arabic posters warning against the dangers of alcohol and tobacco. Jane had told me that Greenwood was treating some of the girls for venereal complaints, and I tried not to think of the childhoods from which he had rescued them.

I sat behind the desk, and imagined myself dispensing medicines and affection to the girls, until the day when tiredness and despair suddenly fused, and tore up all scripts and scenarios. La Bocca was a long way from Cannes, but separated by a universe from Eden-Olympia.

I opened the desk drawer and took out a mounted photograph that I assumed had hung from a nearby wall. David Greenwood stood in the centre of a group portrait, his blond hair and pale English face lit like a flag among the suntanned Cannoises. He seemed slightly drunk, not from alcohol but exhaustion, his broad grin failing to mask his unfocused gaze.

Beside him was a handsome woman with a quirky and defensive smile, fair hair hiding one cheek, whom I had last seen outside the American Express offices in Cannes. Frances Baring leaned against Greenwood 's shoulder, clearly trying to support him. Her eyes were fixed on his face with an expression of concern, less like a lover about to bestow a kiss than a mother helping a child to swallow a difficult morsel.

Around them stood a confident group of Eden-Olympia executives, familiar to me from the press cuttings Charles had sent. I recognized Michel Charbonneau, chairman of the Eden-Olympia holding company; Robert Fontaine, chief executive of the administration; and Guy Bachelet, the security head. Danger seemed far from their minds as they raised their glasses to Greenwood. They posed for the camera in a large, gilt-ceilinged room furnished with formal Empire chairs, like the antechamber to a presidential suite. Together they seemed to be celebrating a notable achievement, perhaps a large and unexpected donation to the refuge. Yet, apart from Frances Baring, no one was aware that David Greenwood was at the end of his tether.