'You've known everything about Eden-Olympia and done nothing?' I gestured at the antique mirror. 'It's another Alice world – corporate profits are higher than anywhere else in Europe and the people earning them are going mad together.'

'Only in a way…' Penrose raised his voice, placing a professional distance between us. For the first time I knew that he had always seen me as a patient. 'Mad, no. Though one or two of them are a little odd.'

'Odd? Their idea of fun is beating some Arab pimp half to death.'

'But there's nothing vicious in it. You have to understand that these attacks are set tasks, assigned to them as part of a continuing programme of psychotherapy.'

'Assigned by whom?'

'Their case officer. As it happens, myself.'

'You planned the Cardin robbery? The road-rage attacks, the ratissages – they're all your idea?'

'I plan nothing. I'm merely the doctor in charge.' Penrose's eyes had almost closed as he contemplated his responsibilities. 'The patients decide what form their therapy projects will take. Luckily, they show a high degree of creative flair. It's a sign we're on the right course. You don't realize it, Paul, but the health of Eden-Olympia is under constant threat.'

'And you prescribe the treatment?'

'Exactly. So far it's been remarkably effective.'

'What is the treatment?'

'In a word? Psychopathy.'

'You're a psychiatrist, and you're prescribing madness as a form of therapy?'

'Not in the sense you mean.' Penrose studied his reflection in the mirror. 'I mean a controlled and supervised madness. Psychopathy is its own most potent cure, and has been throughout history. At times it grips entire nations in a vast therapeutic spasm. No drug has ever been more potent.'

'In homoeopathic doses? How can they help what's going on here?'

'Paul, you miss the point. At Eden-Olympia, madness is the cure, not the cause of the malaise. Our problem is not that too many people are insane, but too few.'

'And you fill the gap – with robberies, rapes and child sex?'

'To a limited extent. The cure sounds drastic, but the malaise is far more crippling. An inability to rest the mind, to find time for reflection and recreation. Small doses of insanity are the only solution. Their own psychopathy is all that can rescue these people.'

I listened to Penrose's dreamy voice, addressed as much to the mirror as to myself. Controlling myself, I said: 'There's a problem, though. It's wholly criminal. Who else knows about this?'

'No one. It's not the sort of breakthrough you can write about in the psychiatric journals. It may seem a rather extreme form of therapy, but it does work. Levels of overall health, resistance to infections… all have markedly improved, at the cost of a few abrasions and the odd case of VD.'

'I can't believe it…' I watched Penrose smiling his most benign smile, clearly glad to lay out the truth for me. He ran his fingertips across his teeth, tasting his nail-quicks, a mix of arrogance and insecurity. I thought of David Greenwood, the idealist with the children's refuge, and at last understood why he wanted to kill Penrose. I asked: 'Did Greenwood know about this?'

'In general terms. He often sat in that chair while I held forth over our chess games.'

'And he approved?'

'I hope so. Poor man, he had problems of his own.' Penrose leaned forward and touched my hand, trying to steady my resolve. 'Paul? You've made a decision?'

'Of course. I'll see the British consul in Nice and take his advice. The French authorities need to be told about this.'

'I understand…' Penrose seemed disappointed in me. 'But let me fill in the background. If that doesn't change your mind I won't stand in your way. Fair enough?'

'Go on.'

'First, I'm sorry you were so close to the exercise at the Cardin Foundation. Frances Baring has always been a law unto herself.'

Penrose spoke soothingly, and the warring elements in his face, the lax mouth and alert eyes, at last seemed to be synchronized.

'These robberies and outbreaks of violence – you might think the senior managers at Eden-Olympia are in a state of deep mental deterioration.'

'I do. There's no doubt about it.'

'In fact, that isn't the case. By any objective yardsticks, compared with the health of executives in Manhattan, Zurich and Tokyo, the physical and mental well-being of the five hundred most senior people at Eden-Olympia is extremely high. Visit the clinic – it's virtually empty. Almost no one ever falls ill, though they spend hundreds of hours a year in under-ventilated passenger jets, exposed to God only knows what infections. It's a great tribute to the architects of Eden-Olympia.'

'I've read the brochures.'

'Everything they say is true. However, it wasn't always so. When I came to Eden-Olympia four years ago it was approaching a crisis. On the surface, all looked well. These huge companies had successfully relocated themselves, and everyone was delighted with the housing and leisure facilities. But below the surface there were some very serious problems. Almost all the senior people were constantly ill with respiratory complaints. They were plagued by bladder infections and abscessed gums. A healthy executive would fly toNew York and back, and spend the next week in bed with some opportunist fever. We carried out careful tests of resistance levels and were amazed by how low they were. Yet everyone said they liked Eden-Olympia and enjoyed living here.'

'Were they sincere?'

'Absolutely. There was no malingering, no secret disaffection. Yet chief executives and main-board directors stumbled into work with persistent viral complaints. Worse than that, they all reported a loss of mental energy. Decision-making took longer, and they felt distracted by anxieties they couldn't identify. Chronic fatigue syndrome haunted the place. We checked the ventilation systems and water supply, we looked into radon emissions from the deep-site work. Nothing.'

'The malaise wasn't physical – it was all in their minds?'

'Yes… though to be exact, the two had fused.'

Penrose lay back, his large body relaxed in its leather sling. I could see that he was keen to be frank with me, and confident that he could convert me to his cause. For the first time, a strain of idealism lit his unwavering eyes, a commitment to his patients that went far beyond professional concern. Watching his little smirks and ingratiating grimaces, I knew that nothing would be gained by challenging him. The more freely he spoke, the more he would incriminate himself.

He smiled at the sun, talking in an almost rueful tone. 'When I came here, Paul, I thought Eden-Olympia was the anteroom to paradise. A beautiful garden city, everything town-planners have been working towards for centuries. All the old urban nightmares had been dispelled at a stroke.'

'Street crime, traffic congestion…?'

'Minor irritations. The real problems had simply been left out of the blueprint. And that's a little worrying. Whether we like it or not, Eden-Olympia is the face of the future. Already there are hundreds of business and science parks around the world. Most of us – or at least, most professional people – are going to spend our entire working lives in them. But they all suffer from the same defect.'

'Too much leisure?'

'No. Too much work.' Penrose flexed his arms, and then allowed them to settle themselves. 'Work dominates life in Eden-Olympia, and drives out everything else. The dream of a leisure society was the great twentieth-century delusion. Work is the new leisure. Talented and ambitious people work harder than they have ever done, and for longer hours. They find their only fulfilment through work. The men and women running successful companies need to focus their energies on the task in front of them, and for every minute of the day. The last thing they want is recreation.'