Alice #2
My eyes swing back to Lorenzo’s backside, and memories of sampling his body begin to permeate my thoughts. Alice knows me too well, and I need to change tack.
“Any news on Sylvie Leblanc?”
“Good and bad,” she says, her playful face gone.
“She’s been doing well, getting better by the day.
But they had an incident at the hospital—they’re treating her at a top specialist neurology and neurosurgery hospital in London.
I don’t know the exact details, but one of the life support machines tripped and went offline during the night.
She almost went into cardiac arrest. Almost. They managed to get to her in time and stabilise her.
Someone’s with her twenty-four-seven now.
But on the upside, she came round for a number of minutes, although she was very agitated and had no idea where she was or what had happened.
She’s in an induced coma to speed her recovery, but they’re more confident that she’ll pull through. ”
I have never liked the word ‘incident’ used in this context. I especially don’t accept that a piece of equipment designed by medical technicians and tested exhaustively before being put into production solely to keep a patient alive could simply ‘trip’.
“She’s going to be okay, Gabriel,” says Alice, reading my mind.
“Good. Then maybe we’ll get some answers.”
We finish up two jugs of Negroni and a plate of cold cuts and cheese while Alice catches me up on stories from the funeral and other updates.
We laugh together like old times, and I can almost feel Albert sitting with us, pretending to read a book but rolling his eyes, tutting his disapproval, and secretly enjoying the interaction.
Far too soon, her phone rings. We hug farewell and promise to stay in touch.
I accompany her to the front door to say goodbye.
From the top step, I spot the sleek cream Bentley not far away, stationed majestically in the lane, with a uniformed driver stationed by the car door.
“Okay, look,” says Alice, turning to me at the door.
“One last thing before I go. And this, too, is strictly between you and me. The police returned Albert’s belongings to us, his clothes and the items he had on him when the accident happened.
They boxed them up before they performed the autopsy.
I know this is a little unorthodox, but I went through them.
Folded into the breast pocket handkerchief was a note on a recycled paper serviette, the type they use in Callico House’s kitchen, with the CH insignia in the corner.
Out of morbid curiosity, I suppose, I unfolded the paper and saw someone had written him a note. ”
“Saying what?”
She unclips her handbag and pulls out the folded paper, something I recognise instantly. Embroidered silk napkins were always brought out for formal events. This thick paper equivalent was used in the kitchens or when staff provided meals to rooms.
“Take a look for yourself.”
I unfold the napkin and stare at the words in beautiful cursive handwriting, the loops and embellishments of French penmanship.
Don’t call, text, or speak for now. We don’t know who we can trust. Say nothing until we can meet privately. But I tell you now, if SJP finds out we know, he will destroy us.
“Do you recognise the handwriting?”
I had witnessed handwritten notes on files from various of Albert’s colleagues. In total contrast to the often unreadable scribble of most, Sylvie’s handwriting was a thing of beauty.
“Sylvie Leblanc. This is definitely penned by her.”
“And the initials SJP?”
I search my memory but come up blank. The only colleagues of Albert’s whose names begin with S are Sylvie Leblanc and Stephan Dytrovich.
“No idea.”
“The thing is, Gabriel, I don’t know what to do.
Should I take this to the police? Or would they laugh at me, tell me it reads like a secret message between forbidden lovers?
Which it does. I suppose I could show Edward, but would he even care?
And as far as the police are concerned, the case is closed. ”
I agree with her. This is further proof that something was amiss that morning. Nishan said as much about the trail of text messages between him and Leblanc a few days before the accident. Alice is correct that the note hardly constitutes solid evidence. But then, an idea comes to me.
“Would you mind leaving this with me?”
Alice visibly relaxes and closes her bag.
“I hoped you might say that. Honestly, I’ve been carrying this around with me for the past few weeks like a dead weight, wondering what I should do.”
“It’s no longer your problem. I’ll do some digging from here, but I’m not sure what else I’ll find. What are you going to tell Edward? About your visit here?”
“I will tell him that I did my best to find you, drove down a dirt trail until the Bentley could go no farther. That I was about to step out and walk the rest of the way when I realised I had my favourite beige Jimmy Choos on. At that moment, I had an epiphany. If Gabriel wants me to find him, he can bloody well get in touch. Edward will believe every word.”
“Perfect.”
I operate the gate mechanism inside the house before stepping outside and waving her off.
The afternoon sun is golden, and at first she looks like a goddess, until she begins wobbling in her heels down the olive-lined lane towards the Bentley.
Before closing the front door, I wait until the car heads down the track.
“She is nice, this Alice,” says Lorenzo. I had not realised he was standing behind me. His hand brushes mine and I close my eyes briefly, unable to hide a smile.
“She is. And, more importantly, I believe her,” I say before turning to him.
“Teresa called. She is on her way back with il dottore. They will be here very soon and need to speak to both of us. Shall we pretend to keep searching for the book?”
“No,” I reply, noticing the afternoon light beginning to wane. “But while it’s fresh in my mind, do you have a computer I can use? I want to check something.”
Lorenzo leads me to the kitchen, where he says he keeps his tablet. He flicks through a couple of screens, opens a browser, and hands me the device. I find what I am looking for without much trouble.
Details of the medical conference Albert and his friends were due to attend are still available online and show the original agenda. I scroll through each day’s events but see nothing that jumps out at me.
But then I notice a highlight of the conference on the evening of day two, Saturday—a panel discussion on the development of a new combination super vaccination, which not only provides six-in-one immunisation against common diseases such as tetanus and diphtheria but also provides protection against influenza and coronavirus.
More importantly, the drug is touted as relatively inexpensive to produce, store and administer, and is considered a godsend for all nations, including developing countries.
Six people are listed as participating in the discussion, all with a string of letters after their names. Two are from the World Health Organisation, one from the US Centers for Disease Control, while two names I instantly recognise are Sylvie Leblanc and Stephan Dytrovich.
But the last name of the person accredited with having led the trials and of pushing various governments to commit to funding the project is one I am unfamiliar with.
Professor Sergio Jaroslav Puchinsky.
“Is there a problem?” asks Lorenzo from behind me.
I decide to share what I’ve found with him and quickly explain what Alice told me. When I show him the napkin message with the initials and the name on the screen, he nods slowly but says nothing.
“The problem is, Lorenzo, what the hell am I supposed to do with this information?”