The Anvil (2 page)

‘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.

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 towards him. The man glanced at his windshield then became aggressive. ‘No permit, no parking,’ he said.

Kurt eyed the man with distaste. He had an intense dislike of petty officialdom. ‘I’m here at Professor Jaffe’s request,’ he said, getting out the car.

The man stiffened at the name Jaffe. ‘You are Doctor Immelman?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘The Professor said you would be coming. You are to go directly to the seventh floor.’

Immelman nodded and walked towards the front door. He was wondering what Jaffe would be like. He had never met him.

The elevator was smooth and fast. The doors slid back silently and Immelman stepped out into a seventh floor corridor. He almost tripped over a tool bag, which had been left by an engineer who was working on the other elevator. The man’s legs were visible in the opening: he was working on the roof of the car. A triangular metal stand held a card saying that the elevator was temporarily out of service.

Kurt turned away and started to look for an indication of where Jaffe would be found. His name did not appear on the staff board. He walked slowly along the corridor until he met a nurse coming the other way.

‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Professor Jaffe.’

‘Not on this floor Monsieur,’ replied the girl. ‘Professor Jaffe’s unit is on the second floor.’

‘The second!’ exclaimed Kurt. What on earth was the fool in the car park talking about? He returned to the elevators and found that the engineer had moved to the one he had come up in. The metal sign seemed to be placed ambiguously between both cars.

‘Is it all right to use this one now?’ Kurt asked, pointing to the second elevator.

The engineer did not turn round. He was rummaging in his toolbag and crouched over it with his knees splayed apart but he did answer, ‘Oui.’

Kurt got in and pressed ‘2’. It was the last conscious thing he ever did. The elevator parted company with its counterweight and pulley wheels and plunged straight down the shaft. A scream had barely left Kurt’s lips when the car smashed into the concrete base and an eerie silence ensued. There was no explosion, no fire, just a single horrific crash then silence. High above, the engineer gathered his tools, removed his sign and left the building by the fire escape.

Max Schaeffer held out his right hand in front of him and saw the shake in it. He brought it down and rested it on his knee. It was no good, he needed a drink. This had become the single overriding factor in his life since Geneva. At the beginning everyone had been understanding but people were people. There was a limit to how far good will could be stretched even where wives were concerned. Janine had stood by him through the nightmares and the inability to hold down a job but the drinking had proved too much for her. In the end she had left him too.

The initial shock of her leaving forced him into an attempt to pull himself together. He had signed in to a clinic for the treatment of alcoholism and spent three months drying out, clinging to the hope that Janine might come back to him. When it was over he found that she needed something more than promises. She insisted that he find a job as proof of his commitment before she would even consider returning.

Looking for a job in research with a history of alcoholism was not the easiest thing Max had ever done. Employers seemed sympathetic, particularly in view of his earlier research career when he had proved himself as a talented, maybe even brilliant, developmental chemist. But when it came to gambling research budgets on a reformed lush they inevitably fell at the final hurdle. Then came the offer of the Spanish job.

Spanish science was still in the act of catching up with the rest of Western Europe after being resurrected after a long period of stagnation under Franco. Keen to establish its own pharmaceutical division, a large Spanish chemical company had decided to take a risk on Max, hoping it would be a short-cut to catching up with the Swiss based giants. They had furnished him with a well-equipped laboratory, a staff of fourteen and a generous budget to carry out basic research in the broad area of cardiology. Heart pills were big business.

Janine came back to him and they moved to Madrid. It seemed like a perfect new beginning. They had a nice apartment; they enjoyed the Madrilenean lifestyle of tapas bars in the early evening and dining late. They walked in the Parque Retiro on Sundays and laughed a lot but things did not stay that way. The Spanish company grew impatient and started to pressurise Max for results. He could not convince them that basic research took time. His bosses were accountants not scientists.

Increasing pressure from above led to Max working all the hours that God sent. This in turn led to complaints from Janine that he never spent any time with her. Eventually something had to give. Max was driven back to the bottle and Janine left him again. It could only be a matter of weeks before his small staff stopped covering for him and his research would be wound up. The abandoned project would be used by the accountants as a tax loss.

Max poured himself a large gin and threw it down his throat. It had the effect of stopping the shake in his hands and he immediately felt better. He felt ready to bluff his way through another day.

The Castellana was overhung with exhaust smoke as Max walked to where he kept his car. The sun was just above the fug; he could feel its warmth but this morning there was a temperature inversion over the city. It would remain shrouded in mist and fumes until it cleared. He rounded the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. The car had gone. He rubbed his forehead in a nervous gesture as he anticipated the time and effort involved in reporting the theft to the police but then he remembered. The car had not been stolen at all. It had been picked up by the garage for servicing as arranged a few days ago. He smiled at his stupidity but the smile faded as he conceded that alcohol was destroying his memory. He walked back to the Castellana and hailed a cab.

The morning passed without incident until his senior post-doctoral assistant brought in the results of the latest series of experiments. They were all negative. Max threw the papers down on his desk and cursed. ‘Not a single damned compound,’ he complained. ‘Not one out of how many?’

‘One hundred and eleven Señor,’ replied the post-doc.

Max repeated the figure and cursed again.

‘Maybe there is a problem with the basic idea?’ suggested the man tentatively.

Max turned on him with venom. ‘How dare you!’ he stormed. ‘There is no problem with the basic idea! The problem lies with the clowns I have to rely on to carry out the work!’

For a moment it looked as if the man might be ready to answer back but the moment passed and he left the room to continue his work. Max’s anger evaporated to be replaced by remorse. He slammed the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘What’s the use?’ he sighed. ‘What’s the bloody use?’ They had tested one hundred and eleven compounds without finding anything remotely useful. Their last chance had just gone. If they had come up with just one which showed the possibility of being therapeutically effective it might have kept the bean counters off his back a little longer but now his fate was sealed. Max put his jacket back on and went out for a drink. He didn’t come back until four in the afternoon. When he did there was a note on his desk. It requested that he contact the company’s research director right away.

The meeting between Max and the research director was brief and acrimonious. It could only have had one outcome. Max cleared his desk and was escorted from the building. He decided to walk back to his apartment; it was five miles but he had to clear his head and think about what he was going to do now. If only he had Janine to help him. At least life would have some meaning. He felt sure he could straighten himself out if only he had Janine. He would try once more to persuade her. First thing in the morning he would go to the travel agent and get himself on a plane back to Geneva. He would talk to her face to face and tell her that he felt sure they could work something out. He looked at his watch. There would actually be time to catch the travel agent this evening if he got a move on and if his car had been returned by the garage. It had.

He cursed as he was held up at the second set of traffic lights in a row. He over-revved the engine and squealed the tyres at take-off only to see the third set of lights start to change against him. His right foot hesitated then slammed down hard on the accelerator. He charged through the intersection then swung the car hard over to join the southbound traffic on Serrano, the broad avenue leading into the heart of Madrid. The outer lane cleared and Max moved out into it. He accelerated and was doing nearly fifty miles an hour downhill when he saw the lights at the foot of the hill change to red. He cursed and put his foot on the brake. Nothing happened.