He leaned against the parapet, dislodging flakes of white cement into the rain gutter. A few inches from his knee a hole had been crudely drilled into the parapet. A second puncture, like a crater on a lunar map, marked the cement a foot away.

'Bullet holes…' I joined Halder and pointed to the puncture points. A third aperture was filled with a plug of Ciment Fondu.

I looked back at the entrance and imagined the disoriented guards opening fire at Greenwood as he ran to the stairs.

'Halder, there was shooting here.'

'That's right.' Halder watched me examine the bullet holes. 'There was quite a firefight.'

' Greenwood shot back?'

'He got off a few rounds.'

'Was he wounded?'

'Wounded?' Halder frowned at the sun, pondering the exact meaning of the term. 'No, you couldn't say he was wounded.'

I knelt down, and with my fingers explored the rain gutter.

The shallow gulley ran to a drainage vent six feet away. The zinc surface of the down-pipe gleamed in the sunlight among the debris of leaves and book matches. I felt the polished metal with my hand. The surface was covered by a hatchwork of lines incised by an abrading power tool. I remembered the concrete floor near the pumphouse of the swimming pool, marked by the same fine abrasions. The drainage vent had been carefully scoured, as if to erase the shadow of the desperate man who had paused here.

'Mr Sinclair…' Halder was standing close to me, a hand reaching for the parapet. 'It's getting hot out here…'

The sweat streamed from his face and arms, as if his body was releasing all its fluids in an attempt to wash away a virulent toxin. He swayed from the parapet and searched for the Range Rover, ringing the ignition keys like a blind man with a bell.

'Halder…?'

'I'm ready. We'll go now. Where's the car?'

'It's there. In front of you.'

I started to follow him, but his head was lolling on his shoulders. I could sense the roof deck tilting in his eyes while the paintwork of the Range Rover reached its melting point. Halder leaned against the car, his hands pressed to the hot surface as if sinking into soft tar.

I opened the passenger door and stepped behind him, then caught his shoulders when he fainted into my arms.

22 The Confession

'Frank…? head between your knees… you're fine now.'

I drove the Range Rover onto the floor below, and stopped in the cool shadows among the parked cars. I steadied Halder against the seat, and let the icy breeze from the air-conditioning system play across his face.

'Mr Sinclair…?' With an effort he focused his eyes. 'I blacked out for a few seconds. Was it hot up there?'

'Like a furnace.' I searched for a radiophone. 'I'll call for a paramedic.'

'No.' Halder took the phone from me. 'I need a minute to cool off. I guess too much light on anything isn't a good idea.'

He grimaced to himself, accepting the embarrassment he had caused. The roof had been hot, but repressed emotions had played a stronger role. I waited as Halder recovered his poise, and thought of the bullet holes in the parapet.

David Greenwood's murder spree had ended on the exposed deck above our heads, when a faulty magazine had saved the Frenchwoman from becoming his last, unintended victim. The clocks in Eden-Olympia had stopped for two hours as the deranged doctor moved on, rifle in hand, the silence of death around him.

When he killed his victims he had probably heard nothing, not even the shots from his rifle. But on the roof of the car park a nervous guard had returned fire, and then Greenwood was back in real time, the sounds of police sirens and helicopters filling his head.

Halder adjusted the air-conditioning fan, and watched the sweat evaporate from his shirt. Trying to recover his self-possession, he removed the keys from the ignition lock. He waited for me to leave the driving seat, but I sat back, my hands gripping the wheel.

'Frank, you've been a huge help. Showing me the route in detail, and the scene-of-the-crime photos. It was good of you, but why do it?'

'I liked Greenwood. It's as simple as that. I wanted you to see it all from his point of view. Something happened on May 28, something that wasn't right.'

'And affected you badly. That's what our tour has really been about – you, not Greenwood.'

'Not exactly.'

'Zander knows you're here. He authorized the photographs.'

'Zander and Dr Penrose.'

'Why Penrose?'

'He was interested to see how you'd react. Looking the truth in the face, not some fantasy garbled together from rumours and maids' gossip.'

'So they assigned you to keep an eye on me. When did this start?'

'After you went to Riviera News. The manager's secretary called us. I was to pick you up there.'

'So that's why Meldrum kept me talking. You followed me to Antibes-les-Pins and Port-la-Galère. I'm surprised I didn't see you.'

'Among all those chic suntans? Not so chic as mine.' Halder patted his cheeks, trying to force the blood into his face. 'I parked on the corniche road. A security man tipped me off when you were leaving. He used to work at Eden-Olympia.'

'And now he's keeping an eye on the widows. Making sure they don't talk too much to amateur detectives. But why trail me to the Rue Valentin? Zander didn't know I'd be there.'

'I was working in my own time, Mr Sinclair. I heard from the other guards that a special action was booked for last night. I was concerned for you. When you took off after the girl I thought you might get into trouble.'

'I did. I can still feel the truncheons…' I felt my bruised shoulder, wondering how to explain to Halder the confusions of middle-aged sexual nostalgia. 'What were Zander and his posse doing in the Rue Valentin? Anything involved with David Greenwood?'

'Nothing. The Rue Valentin is one of their favourite workouts. They can beat the shit out of a few whores and transvestites and feel good about it. I guess that's better than raping the Third World.'

'That sounds a little harsh. You don't much like Eden-Olympia. Why not make things up with your father and go home?'

'Home?' Halder turned to stare at me, as if I had announced that the earth was flat. ' America isn't my home. My mother comes from Stuttgart. I'm German. Do you know Germany, Mr Sinclair?'

'I was stationed at Mülheim for three months. A great country. The future is going to be like a suburb of Stuttgart.'

'Don't knock it. I had a great time there. My mother worked at the base PX. The Air Force looked after her when my old man left for the States. He denied paternity and resigned his commission. I was friends with all the American kids and went to the base school until some of the parents complained. My mother really scared hell out of the general's wife.'

'She sounds a character.'

'One tough German Frau. The last of the old-style hippies. She taught me to masturbate when I was twelve, and how to roll a joint. I want her to come out here as soon as I get promotion.'

'I'm sure you will. They treat you with a lot of respect.'

'I want more. Places like Eden-Olympia have very high estimates of people. That means something when you're at the bottom of the ladder.'

'Remember that when you reach the top. All that rarefied air. There must be a temptation to feel like God.'

'God?' Halder smiled into his elegant hands. 'The people here have gone beyond God. Way beyond. God had to rest on the seventh day.'

'So how do they keep sane?'

'Not so easy. They have one thing to fall back on.'

'And that is?'

'Haven't you guessed, Mr Sinclair?' Halder spoke softly but with genuine concern, as if all our time together, the extended seminar he had been conducting with full visual aids, had been wasted on this obtuse Englishman. 'Madness – that's all they have, after working sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. Going mad is their only way of staying sane.'