16 Widows and Memories

'For ever' was a difficult concept to grasp along this everchanging coastline. Port-la-Galère, where the chauffeurs' widows now lived, lay between Théoule and Miramar, five miles to the west of Cannes. I set out along the beach road from the Vieux Port towards La Napoule. A midnight storm had covered the sand with driftwood carried across the water from the Îles de Lérins, where legend had imprisoned the man in the iron mask for ten years in the grim Ste-Marguerite fortress.

By contrast with its gloomy cells and triple bars, Antibes-les-Pins was a most civilized detention centre. Isabel Duval was, after all, free to leave at any time. I imagined this rather proud and strained woman moving among the holiday-makers in the streets of Juan-les-Pins, staring into the windows of the boutiques as she held tight to her memories of David Greenwood. Her apartment at Antibes-les-Pins was a decompression chamber, where the explosive forces set off on May 28 were allowed to leak away.

If anything, Isabel Duval was still suffering from rapture of the deep. Her picture of the shoplifting and car-stealing doctor, exploited by orphans and drug addicts, was the reverse of the haloed image that bereaved spouses usually created. Her desperate listing of Greenwood 's petty failings was an attempt to fix his reality in her mind before it faded for good. The shoplifting at the Gray d'Albion was probably part of the same recklessness that Jane had shown in the tabac near the Majestic Hotel. The commandeering of the car, unlike my own light-headed prank, might well have been the reflex of an exhausted doctor alerted by his mobile phone to yet another medical emergency.

At La Napoule I crossed the motor bridge over the marina complex and drove into the hills of the Esterel. A few cork trees and umbrella pines had survived the forest fires, but most of the hillsides were bare, exposing the red porphyry to the sunlight, the ancient rocks so porous that they resembled immense rust-spills, the waste tips of past time.

Port-la-Galère would be more modest, I assumed, a survival of the old Côte d'Azur, an unspoilt fishing port with cobbled quays and net-strewn jetties. Here the chauffeurs' widows would eke out a modest living gutting dorade and boiling crayfish, close-mouthed about their husbands' years at Eden-Olympia.

My problem was to persuade them to speak freely to me. I remembered the ampoule of pethidine in my jacket pocket, which I had taken from Jane's valise, intending to show it to Wilder Penrose, a possible clue to Greenwood 's state of mind.

The widows might appreciate the sedative drug, ready to try anything that would free them from the stench of the quayside.

Théoule was so discreet that I almost failed to notice the resort, an enclave of luxury houses rented by fashion designers and media academics. I passed a tracked excavator digging a trench along the kerb of the corniche road, laying the land lines for a cabletelevision contractor. Rather than sit on their balconies with an evening drink, enjoying one of the world's most striking views, the owners of these exclusive villas preferred to slump in the dark of their rumpus rooms, watching Hitchcock films and English league football.

I overtook the excavator, and turned left at a sign that advertised 'Port-la-Galère' in rustic lettering. Beyond the guardhouse an asphalt road curved around the hillside towards another gated community. The villas and apartment houses had been designed by a latter-day Gaudi, the walls and balconies moulded into biomorphic forms that would have pleased the creator of the Sagrada Familia. Not a dorade was being gutted, nor a crayfish simmered. The marina was filled with yachts and powerboats, sleek multihulls fitted with the latest satellite-navigation gear that would steer the owners painlessly towards similar luxury berths at Portofino and Bandol. I edged the Jaguar between the parked Porsches and Land-Cruisers. At the waterside cafés a Parisian smart set in weekend yachting rig chattered against a backdrop of chandlers furnished like boutiques and boutiques furnished like chandlers.

Madame Cordier and Madame Ménard, the chauffeurs' widows, were cut from plainer cloth. We met as arranged in Madame Cordier's second-floor apartment, shielded from the sea by the coiled extrusions of yellow plaster that formed the balcony railings.

The widows were in their mid-forties, watchful and circumspect women with faintly north African features, the daughters, I guessed, of pied-noir parents who had left Algeria in the 1960s.

They were dressed in black, almost certainly for my visit. On the telephone Madame Cordier had spoken in a halting English, no doubt learned from her dead husband, strong on traffic and parking tips, and assumed that I was a member of the Eden-Olympia inspectorate. Seeing my casual sportswear, she warily shook my hand, suspecting that the finance department at Eden-Olympia had made an unwise lunge into informality.

Fortunately, Philippe Bourget, the brother of the third murdered hostage, was also present. A slim young man with the pensive air of a doctoral student, he taught at a lycée in Mandelieu and was a fluent English speaker. He had driven to Port-la-Galère on the Mobylette cooling itself in the downstairs hallway.

Trying to ignore the Parisian chatter below the balcony, I expressed my deep regret over the tragedy. Then, deciding to jump in with both feet, I said to Bourget: 'Please explain that my wife is a doctor at Eden-Olympia. We were close friends of David Greenwood.'

The women's chins rose, and I expected a show of hostility.

But they nodded without emotion. Madame Cordier, a tall and strong-faced woman, beckoned me to a chair, and then slipped away to prepare tea. Madame Ménard, a more placid and reserved figure, watched me with a slowly waking smile, her hands quietly gesturing to each other.

'I'm glad,' I said to Bourget. 'I was afraid they might not want to see me.'

'They know you weren't involved.' Bourget studied me, as if estimating my likely sympathies and intelligence. 'You and your wife were in England at the time?'

'Thankfully. We arrived in August. The longer we're here the stranger everything seems. It's impossible to believe that Dr Greenwood shot your brother.'

'I agree.' Bourget spoke matter-of-factly. 'Does that surprise you?'

'It does. Coming from you, it counts for something. Are you saying Greenwood may not have killed his victims?'

'Not exactly. He killed the first seven who died. Sadly, there's no doubt about that.'

Madame Cordier arrived with her tea tray. The widows turned to gaze at me, their faint smiles floating above the scent of camomile.

'What about the hostages?' I asked Bourget. 'Your brother and the two husbands? Did he…?'

'Kill them?' Bourget hesitated, one hand touching the air as if searching for a blackboard. 'It's hard to decide. Perhaps not.'

'What makes you doubt it?'

'It's a question of character.'

'You don't think Greenwood could have shot three men in cold blood?'

'It's unlikely. Still, we have to accept the court's decision.'

He shrugged forbearingly, and stared at a framed photograph of Monsieur Cordier on the mantelpiece.

'Did you meet Greenwood?' I asked him.

'No. But my brother often spoke of him. He was an engineer at the TV centre. Greenwood sometimes made health-and-safety broadcasts.'

'He knew Greenwood?' Without thinking, I handed my teacup back to Madame Cordier. 'I thought Greenwood seized the hostages at random. What about the husbands? Had they met him?'

'Yes.' Sitting forward, Madame Ménard spoke up strongly.

' Pierre met him many times. Five, six, more times…'

'And Georges.' Madame Cordier nodded vigorously. 'They saw him together.'