'The guests are here,' I shouted into Frances 's ear. 'But where are the hosts?'

'This kind of party doesn't have hosts.' Frances ran a hand over my dinner jacket. 'Time for me to go to work, Paul. I hope you find Jane. If you don't, you can take me home…'

She plunged into the crowd, immediately equipping herself with an entourage of intrigued males. Finding my bearings, I realized that she was trying to avoid a far more serious admirer who had seen her arrive. Moving unsteadily down the steps from the upper terrace was Pascal Zander, helped by the ever-watchful Halder, mobile radio in hand. The security chief wore a dinner jacket and tie but seemed dishevelled, and had clearly been forced to dress in a hurry. He was sweating freely, and gazed around the terrace like a vaudeville performer who had emerged through a trap-door and realized he was on the wrong stage.

'Halder…' I caught his arm. 'Is Jane here?'

'Mr Sinclair…?' Surprised to see me, Halder stared at my dinner jacket, eyes running along its worn seams and English cut. He searched my face, concerned that I was trying, unconvincingly, to impersonate someone else.

'Halder, my wife…?'

'Dr Jane? She arrived two hours ago. I think she went home.'

'Was she tired?'

'It's possible. It was a long movie.' Halder's reply was evasive. 'She needed to… rest.'

'But she's all right?'

'I'm not a doctor, Mr Sinclair. She was fine.'

A heavy hand slapped my back. 'Of course she's fine…' Pascal Zander swung towards us and collided with Halder. Steadying himself, he swayed against me like a docking blimp. 'I saw her five minutes ago.'

'At the Villa Grimaldi? Good.'

'Not good for me.' Zander gave a tolerant shrug. 'You should see her, Mr Sinclair. She's a fine doctor.'

'I know she is.'

'You know?' Zander turned an unsteady eye on me, distracted by the dinner jacket I wore. 'Yes, you're her husband. I telephone her every day. We talk about my health.'

'Is anything wrong?'

'Everything is wrong. But not with my health. Jane looks after me, Mr Sinclair. She takes my urine, she tests my blood, she looks in my private places.'

'She's very thorough.'

'She's a serious woman.' Zander leaned against me, and whispered hoarsely into my ear. 'How can a man live with a serious woman? She lacks one thing – no bedside manner.'

He squeezed my shoulder in his large hand, then steadied himself and inhaled the night air. He was bored and drunk, but not as drunk as he pretended, and well aware that Halder was watching him like a guard dog on another master's leash. For all his craftiness, I was surprised that this corpulent beach Beria had been appointed Eden-Olympia's acting head of security. Tactical indiscretion was his forte.

'People at Eden-Olympia play too many games,' he confided, taking my arm and drawing me to the edge of the terrace, where the band and the fireworks were less noisy. A group of police chiefs' wives had begun to sashay to the music, dancing around their tolerant husbands, but Zander dismissed them with a wave. 'I have to be their amah, their nounou, calling them from the garden. When their noses bleed, I have to wipe them. When they soil their behinds, I clean them. They don't like me for that.'

'You know where they hide their toys?'

'Dangerous toys they're not old enough to play with. Wilder Penrose is turning them into children. That's not clever, Mr Sinclair. If someone went to Tokyo or New York and explained the games their people are playing here… what would they think about that?'

'I imagine they'd be concerned.'

'The good name of their companies… Nissan, Chemical Bank, Honeywell, Dupont. They would pay a lot to keep their good name.' Zander pointed to a group of magistrates standing nearby, judiciously silent as a waiter filled their champagne flutes. 'We should leave crime to the professionals. They're happy to work for us, but psychiatrists they don't trust. Psychiatry is for children who wet the bed…'

'Talk to Penrose. He'll be interested to hear it.'

'He has political dreams. In his mind he's a new Bonaparte. He thinks everything is psychology now. But his own psychology – that's the problem he doesn't face.' Zander fingered the lapels of my dinner jacket, as if intrigued by the stitching. 'You've worked hard, Mr Sinclair. You've found so much about your friend. The tragic English doctor…'

'Little you didn't know already.'

'I tried to help you. Was Halder useful?'

'As always. He could run a guided tour for the tourists. He's given himself a starring role in the last act.'

'That I heard. He's very ambitious – he wants my job.' He waved to Halder, who was watching him from across the swimming pool. 'A nice boy – he thinks he's German like I think I'm a Frenchman. We're both wrong, but my mistake is bigger. To the French he's a nègre, while I am an Arab…' He stared bleakly at the party, and then rallied himself, his awareness of his own corruptibility giving him confidence. 'We can help each other, Mr Sinclair. Now that you work for me.'

'Do I?'

'Naturally. Come and see me, I'll tell you more about Dr Greenwood. Maybe about your neighbours…'

He left me and swayed through the crowd, affable and devious in a way I found almost likeable.

Halder and I were not alone in keeping watch on the security chief. On a third-floor balcony of the Villa Grimaldi stood Alain Delage, fastening the cufflinks of his dress shirt as he gazed over the crowded terraces. Beside him was Olivier Destivelle, the elderly banker who had succeeded the murdered Charbonneau as chairman of the Eden-Olympia holding company. Together they followed Zander's progress as he wandered through the guests, slipping an arm around every woman who smiled at him. Destivelle spoke into a mobile phone, and he and Delage withdrew into the high-ceilinged room behind them. Despite Halder's assurance, I was certain that Jane was still somewhere within the Villa Grimaldi, as Zander had told me.

I climbed the steps to the upper terrace and strolled towards the entrance, where signs pointed to the cloakrooms. A flunkey in a brocaded uniform guarded the staircase, flicking the elastic bands of his white gloves.

'Toilettes?'

'Tout droit, monsieur.'

The door of the women's cloakroom opened, and a young German actress emerged, her mobile nostrils moving like hoses around her upper lip, hoovering up the last specks of powder. She exchanged quips with the flunkey, and let him admire her décolletage.

I walked to the staircase and climbed the deep maroon carpet.

I had reached the half-landing when the flunkey turned from his inspection and shouted: 'Monsieur, c'est privé…'

Careful not to break step, I called down: 'Monsieur Destivelle? Troisième étage?'

He saluted and let me go, too bored to follow me up the stairs.

I paused on the first floor, and strolled past the lavish public rooms with their gilt ceiling liners and empire furniture. In the dining room the tables were already laid with breakfast cutlery. A pantry door opened, and kitchen staff shouted above the blare of music from the terrace. A waiter sang to himself, setting silver cruets on a trolley, ignoring me when I returned to the staircase.

The next floor appeared to be disused, teak barriers shutting off the unlit corridors. I moved up the steps to the third floor, where the landing opened into a large reception suite, chandeliers glowing from the high ceiling. Voices, masculine and multilingual, sounded nearby. In a side chamber a lacquered table was laid with maps and aerial photographs, and I stopped to examine a detailed projection of the Var plain between Nice and Grasse. Ground leases marked out in red crayon defined the planned expansion of Eden-Olympia into a vast urbanization larger than Cannes itself.

In front of me, open connecting doors gave onto a formal drawing room. A television set stood on a blackwood table, watched by a man in evening dress sitting on a gilt chair. Without turning, he raised a hand and beckoned me into the room. I walked towards my reflection in the mantelpiece mirror, crèpe tie hanging from the soft collar of Frances 's shirt like a poet's cravat.