The Fear Index

minute, Jen, would you?’ She slipped away and went over to the door. ‘Inspector Leclerc?’
    ‘Madame Hoffmann.’ Leclerc shook her hand politely.
    She noticed he had on the same clothes he had been wearing at four in the morning: dark windcheater, a white shirt now distinctly grey around the collar, and a black tie that he had knotted unfashionably close to the thick end, just as her father always did. The stubble of his unshaved cheeks reached up like a silvery fungus towards the black pouches beneath his eyes. He looked utterly out of place. One of the waitresses approached with a tray of champagne, which Gabrielle assumed he would refuse – wasn’t that what policemen did when they were on duty: refuse alcohol? – but Leclerc, brightening, said, ‘Excellent, thank you,’ and took the glass cautiously by the stem, as if he feared he might break it. ‘That’s very good,’ he said, taking a sip and smacking his lips. ‘What is it? Eighty francs a bottle?’
    ‘I couldn’t tell you. My husband’s office arranged it.’
    The photographer from the Tribune came over and took their picture standing side by side. Leclerc’s windcheater gave off the musty smell of ancient damp. He waited until the photographer had moved away and then said, ‘Well, I can tell you forensics obtained an excellent set of fingerprints from your mobile telephone and from the knives in the kitchen. Unfortunately we can find no matches in our records. Your intruder does not have a criminal record, in Switzerland at least. Quite the phantom! Now we are checking with Interpol.’ He seized a canapé from a passing tray and swallowed it whole. ‘And your husband? Is he here? I can’t see him anywhere.’
    ‘Not yet. Why? Do you want him?’
    ‘No, I came to see your work.’
    Guy Bertrand sidled over, plainly curious. She had told him about the break-in. ‘Is everything okay?’ he asked, and Gabrielle found herself introducing the policeman to the owner of the gallery. Bertrand was a plump young man dressed from head to toe in black silk – Armani T-shirt, jacket, trousers, holistic Zen slippers. He and Leclerc regarded one another with mutual incomprehension; they might have been different species.
    ‘A police inspector,’ repeated Bertrand, in a tone of wonder. ‘You would be interested in The Invisible Man , I think.’
    ‘ The Invisible Man ?’
    ‘Let me show you,’ said Gabrielle, grateful of an opportunity to separate them. She led Leclerc over to the largest exhibit, a glass case lit from beneath in which a full-size nude man, apparently composed of pale blue gossamer, seemed to hover just above the ground. The effect was ghostly, disturbing. ‘This is Jim, the invisible man.’
    ‘And who is Jim?’
    ‘He was a murderer.’ Leclerc turned sharply to look at her. ‘James Duke Johnson,’ she continued, rather pleased to have elicited this reaction, ‘executed in Florida in 1994. Before he died, the prison chaplain persuaded him to donate his body for scientific research.’
    ‘And also for public exhibition?’
    ‘That I doubt. You’re shocked?’
    ‘I am, I confess.’
    ‘Good. That’s the effect I wanted.’
    Leclerc grunted and set down his champagne. He moved closer to the glass case and put his hands on his hips, staring at it intently. His stomach flopping over his trouser belt reminded her of one of Dalí’s melting watches. He said, ‘And how do you achieve this impression of floating?’
    ‘Trade secret.’ Gabrielle laughed. ‘No, I’ll tell you. It’s quite simple. I take sections from an MRI scan and trace them through very clear glass – two-millimetre Mirogard, the clearest you can get. Only sometimes instead of using pen and ink I use a dentist’s drill to engrave the line. In daylight you can hardly see a mark. But if you shine artificial light on to it from the right angle – well, that’s the effect you get.’
    ‘Remarkable. And what does your husband think of it?’
    ‘He thinks I’ve become unhealthily obsessed. But then he has obsessions of his own.’ She finished her glass of champagne. Everything seemed pleasantly heightened – colours, noises, sensations. ‘You must think we’re a pretty strange couple.’
    ‘Believe me, madame , my work brings me into contact with people far stranger than you can even begin to imagine.’ Suddenly he turned his bloodshot eyes upon her. ‘Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?’
    ‘Go ahead.’
    ‘When did