The Winner Stands Alone

‘No need to touch.’

Savoy runs his eyes over the girl's naked body. He knows quite a lot about her now - Olivia Martins, the daughter of Portuguese parents, currently going out with a young man of no fixed profession, who is heavily into Cannes nightlife and is, at that moment, being interrogated at a police station some way away. A judge issued a search warrant for his apartment and they found some small flasks of THC (tetrahydrocannabinol, the main hallucinogenic element in marijuana, and which can be taken dissolved in sesame oil, which leaves no smell and has a far stronger effect than when the substance is absorbed through smoke). They also found six envelopes each containing a gram of cocaine, and some bloodstains on a sheet which is now on its way to a laboratory for tests. He's probably, at most, a minor dealer. He's already known to the police, having spent a couple of spells in prison, but never for physical violence.

Olivia was lovely, even in death. Her dark eyebrows, that child-like air, her breasts … ‘No,’ he thinks, ‘I mustn't go there. I'm a professional.’

‘I can't see anything,’ he says.

The pathologist smiles, and Savoy finds his smugness slightly irritating. The expert points to a small, purplish, almost imperceptible mark between the girl's right shoulder and her neck. Then he shows him another similar mark on the left-hand side of her torso, between two of her ribs.

‘I could begin by giving you the technical details. Death was caused by obstruction of the jugular vein and the carotid artery while, simultaneously, similar pressure was being applied to a particular sheaf of nerves, but so precisely that it caused the complete paralysis of the upper part of the body…’

Savoy says nothing. The pathologist realises that this is not the moment to show off his knowledge or to make jokes. He feels rather sorry for himself. He works with death on a daily basis and spends each day surrounded by corpses and grave-faced people. His children never tell anyone what their father does, and he has nothing to talk about at supper parties because people hate discussing what they perceive to be macabre topics. He sometimes wonders if he hasn't perhaps chosen the wrong profession.

‘…in short, she was strangled.’

Savoy still says nothing. His brain is working very fast: how could someone possibly be strangled on Boulevard de la Croisette in broad daylight? Her parents had been interviewed, and they said that their daughter had left the house that morning with the usual merchandise - illegal merchandise, it must be said, because street vendors pay no taxes and are, therefore, banned from trading. ‘Although that's hardly relevant now,’ he thinks.

‘The intriguing thing about this particular case,’ says the pathologist, ‘is that in a normal case of strangulation, there are marks on both shoulders, that is, in the classic scene in which the attacker grabs the victim round the throat and the victim struggles to get free. In this case, only one hand, or, rather, one finger stopped the blood reaching the brain, while another finger paralysed the body, rendering her incapable of fighting back. This requires a very sophisticated technique and a detailed knowledge of the human body’

‘Could she have been killed somewhere else and carried to the bench where we found her?’

‘If so, there would be other marks on her body. That was the first thing I looked for, assuming she was killed by just one person. When I found no marks, I looked for any indication that she had been grabbed by the wrists or ankles, if, that is, we were dealing with more than one killer. But there was nothing to indicate this; indeed, without wishing to go into more technical detail, there are certain things that happen at the moment of death which leave traces in the body. Urine for example, and…’

‘What are you saying?’

‘That she was killed where she was found and that, judging by the fingermarks on her body, only one person was involved; that since no one saw her trying to run away, she clearly knew her killer, who was seated on her left side; and that her killer must be someone highly trained and with an extensive knowledge of the martial arts.’

Savoy nods his thanks and walks quickly to the exit. On the way, he phones the police station where the boyfriend is being interrogated.

‘Forget about drugs,’ he says. ‘We have a murder on our hands. Try and find out what the boyfriend knows about martial arts. I'm coming straight over’

‘No,’ says the voice at the other end. ‘Go straight to the hospital. I think we have another problem.’

1.28 p.m. (#ulink_9d33ef34-8ff9-55f0-be45-7bf1c2fa956a)

A seagull was flying over a beach, when it saw a mouse. It flew down and asked the mouse:

‘Where are your wings?’

Each animal speaks its own language, and so the mouse didn't understand the question, but stared at the two strange, large things attached to the other creature's body.

‘It must have some illness,’ thought the mouse.

The seagull noticed the mouse staring at its wings and thought:

‘Poor thing. It must have been attacked by monsters that left it deaf and took away its wings.’

Feeling sorry for the mouse, the seagull picked it up in its beak and took it for a ride in the skies. ‘It's probably homesick,’ the seagull thought while they were flying. Then, very carefully, it deposited the mouse once more on the ground.

For some months afterwards, the mouse was sunk in gloom; it had known the heights and seen a vast and beautiful world. However, in time, it grew accustomed to being just a mouse again and came to believe that the miracle that had occurred in its life was nothing but a dream.

This was a story from her childhood, but right now, she's up in the sky: she can see the turquoise sea, the luxurious yachts, the people small as ants below, the marquees on the beach, the hills, the horizon to her left, beyond which lay Africa and all its problems.

The ground is approaching fast. ‘It's best to view humankind from on high,’ she thinks. ‘Only then can we see how very small we are.’

Ewa seems bored, either that or nervous. Hamid never really knows what's going on in his wife's head, even though they've been together for more than two years now. Cannes, it's true, is a trial for everyone concerned, but he can't leave the Festival any earlier than planned. Besides, she should be used to all this because the life of her ex-husband hadn't been so very different, with suppers to attend, events to organise and having constantly to change country, continent and language.

‘Was she always like this or is it that she doesn't love me as much as she did at first?’

A forbidden thought. Concentrate on other things, please.

The noise of the engine doesn't allow for conversation, unless you use the headphones with the microphone attached. Ewa hasn't even picked hers up from the hook beside her seat. Not that there's any point asking her to put them on so that he can tell her for the thousandth time that she's the most important woman in his life and that he'll do his best to make sure she enjoys the week at this her first Cannes Festival. The sound system on board is set up so that every conversation can be overheard by the pilot, and Ewa hates public displays of affection.

There they are, in that glass bubble, just about to touch down. He can see the huge white car, a Maybach, the most expensive and most sophisticated in the world. Even more exclusive than Rolls-Royce. Soon they'll be sitting inside, listening to some relaxing music and drinking iced champagne or mineral water.

He consults his platinum watch, which is a certified copy of one of the first models produced in a small workshop in the town of Schaffhausen. Women can get away with spending a fortune on diamonds, but a watch is the only piece of jewellery allowed to a man of good taste, and only the true cognoscenti knew the significance of that watch, which was rarely advertised in the glossy magazines.

That could be a definition of true sophistication: knowing where to find the very best even if other people have never heard of it, and producing the very best too, regardless of what others might say.

It was already nearly two o'clock in the afternoon, and he needed to talk to his stockbroker in New York before trading opened on the stock exchange. When he arrived, he would make a call - just one - with his instructions for the day. Making money at the ‘casino’, as he called the investment funds, was not his favourite sport; however, he had to pretend to be keeping an eye on what his managers and financial engineers were up to. He could rely on the protection, support and vigilance of the sheikh, but nevertheless he had to demonstrate that he was up to date on what was happening.