seriously endangering himself, I’ll have him back home and tucked up in bed with Mummy within fifteen minutes. And that’s a promise. And now,’ he said, looking over her shoulder, ‘if I’m not mistaken, here comes our dear old goose, with his feathers half plucked and ruffled.’
He was on his feet in an instant. ‘My dear Al,’ he said, meeting him halfway across the corridor, ‘how are you feeling? You look very pale.’
‘I’ll be a whole lot better once I’m out of this place.’ Hoffmann slipped the CD into his overcoat pocket so that Gabrielle could not see it. He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Everything’s going to be fine now.’
THEY MADE THEIR way through the main reception. It was nearly half past seven. Outside, the day had turned up at last: overcast and cold and reluctant. The thick rolls of cloud hanging over the hospital were the same shade of grey as brain tissue, or so it appeared to Hoffmann, who was now seeing the CAT scan wherever he looked. A gust of wind swirled across the circular concourse and wrapped his raincoat around his legs. A small but egalitarian group of smokers, white-coated doctors and patients in their dressing gowns, stood outside the main door, huddled against the unseasonable May weather. In the sodium lighting their cigarette smoke whirled and disappeared amid flecks of raindrops.
Quarry found their car, a big Mercedes owned by a discreet and reliable Geneva limousine service under contract to the hedge fund. It was parked in a bay reserved for the disabled. The driver – a heavyset and mustachioed figure – levered himself out of the front seat as they approached and held a rear door open for them: he has driven me before, thought Hoffmann, and he struggled to remember his name as the distance between them closed.
‘Georges!’ He greeted him with relief. ‘Good morning to you, Georges!’
‘Good morning, monsieur .’ The chauffeur smiled and touched his hand to his cap in salute as Gabrielle climbed into the back seat, followed by Quarry. ‘ Monsieur ,’ he whispered in a quiet aside to Hoffmann, ‘forgive me, but just so you know, my name is Claude.’
‘Right then, boys and girls,’ said Quarry, seated between the Hoffmanns and squeezing the nearest knee of each simultaneously, ‘where is it to be?’
Hoffmann said, ‘Office,’ just as Gabrielle said, ‘Home.’
‘Office,’ repeated Hoffmann, ‘and then home for my wife.’
The traffic was already building up on the approaches to the city centre, and as the Mercedes turned into the Boulevard de la Cluse, Hoffmann fell into his habitual silence. He wondered if the others had overheard his mistake. What on earth had made him do that? It was not as if he usually noticed who his driver was, let alone spoke to him: car journeys were passed in the company of his iPad, surfing the web for technical research or, for lighter reading, the digital edition of the Financial Times or the Wall Street Journal . It was rare for him even to look out of the window. How odd it felt to do so now, when there was nothing else to occupy him – to notice, for example, for the first time in years, people queuing at a bus stop, seemingly exhausted before the day had properly begun; or the number of young Moroccans and Algerians hanging around on the street corners – a sight that had not existed when he first came to Switzerland. But then, he thought, why shouldn’t they be there? Their presence in Geneva was as much a product of globalisation as his was, or Quarry’s.
The limousine slowed to make a left. A bell clanged. A tram drew alongside. Hoffmann glanced up absently at the faces framed in the lighted windows. For a moment they seemed to hang motionless in the morning gloom then silently began to drift past him: some gazing blankly ahead, others dozing, one reading the Tribune de Genève , and finally, in the last window, the bony profile of a man in his fifties with a high-domed head and unkempt grey hair
He was on his feet in an instant. ‘My dear Al,’ he said, meeting him halfway across the corridor, ‘how are you feeling? You look very pale.’
‘I’ll be a whole lot better once I’m out of this place.’ Hoffmann slipped the CD into his overcoat pocket so that Gabrielle could not see it. He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Everything’s going to be fine now.’
THEY MADE THEIR way through the main reception. It was nearly half past seven. Outside, the day had turned up at last: overcast and cold and reluctant. The thick rolls of cloud hanging over the hospital were the same shade of grey as brain tissue, or so it appeared to Hoffmann, who was now seeing the CAT scan wherever he looked. A gust of wind swirled across the circular concourse and wrapped his raincoat around his legs. A small but egalitarian group of smokers, white-coated doctors and patients in their dressing gowns, stood outside the main door, huddled against the unseasonable May weather. In the sodium lighting their cigarette smoke whirled and disappeared amid flecks of raindrops.
Quarry found their car, a big Mercedes owned by a discreet and reliable Geneva limousine service under contract to the hedge fund. It was parked in a bay reserved for the disabled. The driver – a heavyset and mustachioed figure – levered himself out of the front seat as they approached and held a rear door open for them: he has driven me before, thought Hoffmann, and he struggled to remember his name as the distance between them closed.
‘Georges!’ He greeted him with relief. ‘Good morning to you, Georges!’
‘Good morning, monsieur .’ The chauffeur smiled and touched his hand to his cap in salute as Gabrielle climbed into the back seat, followed by Quarry. ‘ Monsieur ,’ he whispered in a quiet aside to Hoffmann, ‘forgive me, but just so you know, my name is Claude.’
‘Right then, boys and girls,’ said Quarry, seated between the Hoffmanns and squeezing the nearest knee of each simultaneously, ‘where is it to be?’
Hoffmann said, ‘Office,’ just as Gabrielle said, ‘Home.’
‘Office,’ repeated Hoffmann, ‘and then home for my wife.’
The traffic was already building up on the approaches to the city centre, and as the Mercedes turned into the Boulevard de la Cluse, Hoffmann fell into his habitual silence. He wondered if the others had overheard his mistake. What on earth had made him do that? It was not as if he usually noticed who his driver was, let alone spoke to him: car journeys were passed in the company of his iPad, surfing the web for technical research or, for lighter reading, the digital edition of the Financial Times or the Wall Street Journal . It was rare for him even to look out of the window. How odd it felt to do so now, when there was nothing else to occupy him – to notice, for example, for the first time in years, people queuing at a bus stop, seemingly exhausted before the day had properly begun; or the number of young Moroccans and Algerians hanging around on the street corners – a sight that had not existed when he first came to Switzerland. But then, he thought, why shouldn’t they be there? Their presence in Geneva was as much a product of globalisation as his was, or Quarry’s.
The limousine slowed to make a left. A bell clanged. A tram drew alongside. Hoffmann glanced up absently at the faces framed in the lighted windows. For a moment they seemed to hang motionless in the morning gloom then silently began to drift past him: some gazing blankly ahead, others dozing, one reading the Tribune de Genève , and finally, in the last window, the bony profile of a man in his fifties with a high-domed head and unkempt grey hair
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