six. She turned over and let her arm drop lightly on to the space beside her. A few months ago the emptiness would have rekindled the hollow feeling and maybe even have brought tears but not now. Jean Pierre had gone and she had accepted it; she had moved on. She had left Geneva to find a new job working at the Klausman Clinic in Zurich and with it had come a new apartment, a white Volkswagen convertible and a growing new circle of friends.
Among that circle was Jeff Edelman, an American surgeon at the clinic who seemed more than a little interested in her. Lisa liked him but was in no hurry to form any close relationship. She would keep him at arm’s length for the time being — at least until the hurt healed. Besides, she suspected that he was several years younger than she was. But maybe that was a consideration of another age.
Jean Pierre had been very generous to her at the time of the break-up, a generosity born of guilt but nevertheless she had no need to seek security. She could afford to take things slowly. In her heart she had forgiven him and could even wish him well but as for the little bitch who had stolen him away… that was quite another matter.
Lisa got out of bed and opened the curtains. She basked for a few moments in the warmth of the sun coming through the glass before sliding back the door and stepping out on to the balcony. The air was already pleasantly warm. Ten floors below her she could see the sunlight sparkle on the clear blue water of the apartment swimming pool. There was only the tiniest ripple on its surface and the surrounding gardens were deserted. It looked so inviting and she did not have to be at the clinic until nine. The first lab samples wouldn’t start arriving until half past; there would be plenty of time.
She slipped out of her nightdress and padded lightly across the floor to the closet where she kept her swimsuits. Of the three in the top drawer she chose the navy-blue one-piece with the band of lighter blue running diagonally up to her left shoulder like a fork of lightning. She made it fit perfectly with her fingertips, running them round the inside of the elastic and smoothing it over her still-firm buttocks.
She examined herself in the full-length mirror door of the closet and was not displeased at what she saw. At the age of thirty-five her stomach was flat, her breasts arrogant and her hair was still jet black without assistance. She could pass for mid to late twenties. She threw a bathrobe round her shoulders, packed a towel and her keys into a duffel bag and slipped her feet inside the rope sandals she’d bought in Saint Raphael last year. She paused as she reached the door then ran back to the kitchen to switch on the electric kettle for when she came back. That would save a few minutes.
Lisa dropped the robe from her shoulders on to one of the poolside chairs and kicked her sandals underneath. She walked to the head of the pool and looked down at the water. An onlooker might have expected her to dive in but she didn’t. Lisa never dived into pools. She hadn’t done that since she was fourteen years old when she’d tried to emulate her older brother Paul by diving into the sea from the rocks near their holiday home in Brittany. She had mistimed the swell and hit her head on the bottom. The remainder of the holiday had been spent in hospital.
Lisa touched the mark on her forehead subconsciously as she walked up the side of the pool to the centre ladders and climbed down. The water was cold but she held her breath and continued to descend until the water lapped below her chin. She pushed herself away from the side and floated on her back for a few moments, gazing up at the unbroken blue of the sky, enjoying the scents from the surrounding shrubs. She turned over on to her front and started to swim up and down in a lazy crawl. It felt good to stretch her limbs.
As she started to tire, she decided on a final length of breaststroke to take her down to the shallow end. She pushed off with her feet and stayed under the surface with her hands by her sides as long as possible, rejoicing in the feeling of moving through the water like a fish but when she broke the surface she became aware of a man waiting at the end of the pool. He was wearing overalls and leaning on a rake.
‘Bonjour,’ said Lisa as she stood up, wiping the water from her eyes.
‘Bonjour Madame,’ replied the man. ‘You swim well.’
‘Merci,’ said Lisa coldly. She could not recall having seen this particular gardener before and thought his comment on her swimming prowess a little too familiar. She climbed up the steps and was surprised to see that the man had moved to the head of them. He was blocking her way.
‘Would you mind moving?’ she said.
The man looked down at her. His mouth smiled but his eyes did not. He didn’t say anything and he didn’t move.
Lisa’s throat began to tighten. The shallow end of the pool was screened from the apartment block by shrubbery. She felt afraid.
‘Are you stupid?’ she demanded. ‘I asked you to move!’
The man continued to smile.
Lisa was about to sink back down into the water when the man suddenly reached down and gripped her under her right arm. He pulled her clean out of the pool and clamped his other hand over her mouth. She was carried, kicking and struggling but completely mute into the dense shrubbery and pinned on her back. The man slowly relaxed the hand over her mouth, his eyes warning her not to scream.
Lisa was consumed by terror. ‘I have money,’ she gasped. ‘I’ll give you it. Anything you want, just don’t hurt me. Please, please, for God’s sake don’t hurt me.’
The smile returned to the man’s lips but his eyes were like stones. He turned Lisa on to her side and curled his arm round her neck to grip her chin. For a moment she could not understand what was happening but then with hellish insight it became clear. ‘Oh my God!’ she gasped. She opened her mouth to scream but the man tightened his grip and gave her neck a sudden sharp twist. He turned Lisa’s lifeless body over on to her back and left it to return a moment later with a stone. He traced out an area on her forehead with his forefinger then brought the stone down sharply on it. The death was to look like an accident: that was the agreement. Satisfied with his handiwork, he pulled Lisa’s body out of the shrubbery and slid it silently back into the water.
Paris, September 1988
Kurt Immelman left the Peripherique at the Porte D’Orleans and coaxed the Porsche through increasingly heavy traffic as he headed north on Avenue du General Leclerc. He checked his watch and saw that he had plenty of time. Professor Jaffe did not expect him until ten.
A particularly stunning young woman dressed in a close-fitting white dress crossed in front of him as he came to a halt at traffic lights. He eyed her appreciatively and smiled when she glanced in his direction. She smiled back. People had been right about Paris, he reflected. There were more beautiful women in this city than in any other and they had the poise and confidence to go with it. A woman would not have smiled back in Geneva.
Kurt had been in Paris for seven months and had enjoyed all of them. The city had style; it had an undercurrent of excitement, which acted like a drug. You missed it when you went away for any length of time. The young were constantly aware of their sexuality and used it in a sophisticated game. Smiles, glances out of the corner of the eye, apparently casual brushing encounters were the opening gambits. Dinner in left bank cafes, holding hands by the Seine and kissing in the shadow of Notre Dame came next. Making love in his apartment in Montrouge or hers in Montmartre… but maybe time was running out. On his birthday last Friday Kurt had become thirty-eight years old.
His appointment as chief plastic surgeon at the Le Monde Hospital had marked the end of a very long apprenticeship as assistant surgeon at some of the finest clinics in Europe. He was now his own boss. There would be more time for other things. Things like finding a wife, because, at thirty-eight, he was in danger of becoming set in his ways as a bachelor, a fact which his mother had pointed out to him in a letter enclosed with his birthday card. He had believed that only unmarried daughters received maternal complaints about being denied the joy of grandchildren. As an only son he had been proved wrong.
The simple truth was that since medical school he had very little time at all to consider courtship and marriage. Surgery was a demanding speciality and if you really wanted to succeed at top level it demanded all your energy and attention. Kurt wanted to succeed; he wanted to be the best. He had moved all over Europe to ensure that he worked with the best, picked their brains, studied their techniques. Now it was beginning to pay off. His reputation in the medical world was growing fast. This morning he had been called in as consultant on a case in one of the most exclusive hospitals in Paris.
The patient was the son of an Arab Sheikh who had been badly burned in a car accident. He had been trapped inside his car when it had overturned and caught fire. The notes said that the left side of the boy’s face had been severely damaged and forty percent of his torso had sustained second degree burns. His genital area was also affected. No expense was to be spared to restore the boy to as near normal as could be done.
Kurt brought the car to a halt in the parking lot at the rear of the hospital and saw the attendant walk
