At that point a waiter appeared to take our order, so any film show was put on hold. We both liked oysters, so a dozen each. For the main course I went for langoustine, Alexei a tournedos steak. The champers was about to expire, so glasses also had to be filled. I hoped her salary really was in the silly range, because this meal would be costing her a bomb.
The food ordered, she took a smartphone from her bag and selected photos.
The first one showed Vishnevskaya, lying on his right side, taken from a low angle, his face easily recognisable. The rest, eleven in all, were general shots of the rescue, three of which included Red Suit, two full face, one left profile. She looked nearly six foot tall, well built, face sun-tanned. A silvery hat disguised any information about her hair, except that it had to be short. He expression was... pensive, might be the best description. Certainly not distressed. Rather strange, perhaps, but it didn’t prove anything.
I put this to Alexei as tactfully as possible. After all, she was standing me a feast.
“Go back to yesterday morning,” she replied, like a dog that wouldn’t let go of a bone. “Two people standing at the top of a run. What can they see?”
“Lots of snow.”
“Exactly. That’s all.”
“Except us.”
“I doubt it. We were off to one side. She’d have been looking down the run. Which was officially closed and which they’d entered illegally. She was expecting to see an empty slope and probably did. Easy to give hubby or whoever, who probably wasn’t a good skier, a little shove and off he went. No witnesses. Except us. Must have given her quite a shock when we suddenly popped up.”
“Why would she do such a thing?”
“His inheritance... discovered he had a mistress... a million reasons. Most murders are en famille.”
I reckoned the champers was going to her head, but who was I to argue. I was enjoying an expensive meal with a lovely lady, so if she was a bit nutty I could put up with it.
As we started on the oysters I merely said, “If you are right, what do you suggest we do about it?”
“You say the weather is due to break?”
“That’s the forecast. Wind and temperature are already rising. Doubt there’ll be much skiing tomorrow.”
“I don’t have to be back at work until Monday. Flight’s on Sunday. That gives us three days. To see what we can discover.”
“Like what?”
“We could start by taking a closer look at my photos. Do you have a computer?”
“Of course. Also a good version of Photoshop for our website. I cheat like hell. Pictures these days are just artist’s impressions. Like they say, ‘there’s lies, damned lies and travel brochures’. So, yea, I could Photoshop them, see if you’ve snapped anything of interest.”
“We could also visit the hospital, gendarmerie, rescue services. See if Red Suit is still in town...”
“You say ‘we’. Am I included?”
She smiled, oh so sweetly. “Isn’t it your job to help customers with their problems? Keep them happy?”
By now the oysters and champagne were no more than memories. We were well into a bottle of Chablis. My langoustines were blissful. I would do anything to keep my customers happy. Especially this one.
I think it was at this stage that we branched out into other topics of conversation. Put the world to right. Don’t remember much about it.
But some flashbacks have stayed with me.
As we left, Jacques patted me on the shoulder, whispered in my ear, “Madame est... magnifique!” His smile suggested he’d received a handsome tip. “Don’t let this one escape, Max.”
I also remember the hurricane that greeted us as we left Monsieur Hulot’s. The baby puffs had become adult sized, as the storm raced to greet us. Although the Escale was only a few steps away, it was against the wind and seemed like miles. Once inside the chalet, Alexei insisted it would be too dangerous for me to venture out again. I never disagree with a customer.
She had paid full price for one of our standard double rooms, so bed space was no problem. My sense of duty is profound and she clearly needed protecting. Alexei gave every indication of appreciating my thoughtfulness.
5
I woke at seven-fifteen, feeling great. No hangover. Must have been my clear conscience. Beside me, Alexei didn’t stir. Her hair was the dark side of blonde and just reached her shoulders. Our chalets are well heated, so she had dispensed with the lower half of the duvet and lay on her tummy, exposing a bum with nice a pair of dimples.
Taking care not to disturb the sleeping beauty, I padded out to the bathroom, thinking I should shave. Realised my razor was in a cupboard about a mile away. Did ladies keep razors to shave their armpits? Never mind. I needed to be back on home territory, so quickly dressed and scribbled a ‘thank you’ note, together with my mobile number.
Outside, the wind was a thousand banshees, the snow horizontal. No skiing today, that was for sure. Even tomorrow would be limited service, snowploughs working non-stop, avalanche danger extreme. In weather like this it became difficult keeping the road to the outside world open. We became isolated, as in an Agatha Christie play, where one of the cast is a murderer. According to Alexei, Val Fornet had its own killer, so I’d better be on my way before she again recruited me as her detective.
I crept past a couple of early-bird breakfasters, who gave me a funny look, then straight into an icy inferno. Regaining my apartment was a vicious twenty minute slog, directly into the tempest. I arrived looking like an abominable snowman and threw my outer clothes into the bath, where the clinging snow could melt and drain off.
After a hurried breakfast, I got down to some overdue admin work.
At ten-forty my mobile came to life. “Where are you?”
“Back home. Thanks for last night. Haven’t enjoyed myself so much for ages. Dinner wasn’t bad either.”
She giggled. “Likewise. It was really nice. Remember what we discussed?”
“You want to know more about Red Suit?”
“Yes. And I only have two more days. We need to get going.”
“I have some work to catch up on. Give me a couple more hours and I’m yours. Say we meet at the Pizza Parlour for a bite, then back to my place. We can start with your photos, so remember to bring your smartphone.”
I’d suggested the Pizza Parlour partly because it was cheap, at least by Val Fornet standards, but mainly because it was a convenient halfway house, a ten minute walk for both of us. We dealt with the food and were soon back at my apartment, loading Alexei’s photos onto my computer.
As I’d suspected, they didn’t tell us much more than we’d already seen on her smartphone. I magnified the images to 200% when the pixels started to show. From wisps under her hat this seemed to indicate that Red Suit’s hair was blonde. Nothing more exciting.
However, Alexei’s pictures did serve one useful purpose. I was able to print postcard-sized mug shots of both our suspects. Red Suit was easy, Vishnevskaya less so, because I didn’t want to show him as a man dying in the snow. Ten minutes with Photoshop was not entirely successful, but at least I was able to present him vertical and looking almost like a healthy human being.
Armed with the photos, we set out to see if we could discover more about our tragic couple. By now it was after three, the wind and snow both easing. Incessant use of ploughs had kept Val Fornet’s main drag reasonably clear, but side streets were clogged with the white stuff. Heavy and tiring going.
First we made for the gendarmerie, situated on the edge of town, so quite a trek. It was a modern, three-storey building with balconies on the upper levels. A welcome blast of warm air hit us as we entered. Although I was fairly well known around town, I’d usually managed to be a good boy, so had never become chummy with officers of the law. I introduced ourselves to the man in reception and explained why we were there. Had he heard about the accident?
He nodded. Said the rescue services had appreciated our help.
Could he tell us any more?
He shook his head. There did not appear to be any criminal element, so no need for the gendarmerie to become involved.
“We’d like to extend our condolences to the widow,” I said. “But don’t know her name. Or even if she is still in Val Fornet.”
The gendarme hunted for a file, found some papers, riffled through them.
“Ah, oui! Here it is. The lady you are seeking is a Madame Larsen.”
“Is she still around?”
He shrugged. “Je ne sais pas. She was staying at the Hotel Glacier.”
As we left the gendarmerie, I turned to Alexei. “No time like the present. Weather’s too bad for skiing, so we might as well take tea at the Hotel Glacier.”
She took my arm, smiled and said, “I do believe you are beginning to enjoy this.”
“I’m curious. Wouldn’t put it any higher. But I still think it was no more than an awful accident.”
“Hotel Glacier... that’s the posh place, right?”
“A Val Fornet original,” I replied, as we fought our way back to the centre of town through urban snowdrifts. “Built in the thirties, several makeovers since, but still the place to be seen in.”
“Red Suit must be well heeled.”
“Or her boyfriend.”
By the time we reached the Glacier, which lorded it over Val Fornet one block up from the main drag, I was ready for an expensive cup of tea. Here, also, I was not well known. Although Snow Supreme was prepared to deal with hotels in places that discouraged the chalet concept, France was chalet country par excellence. So in Val Fornet I was working for the rival outfit.
A century ago public rooms tended to be bigger, with high ceilings and the Glacier followed this format. The entrance hall merged into a spacious south-facing lounge, picture windows overlooking the nursery slopes, with the peaks of Haute Savoie beyond. Today our view was merely a white fog.
Going up to reception, I said, “I believe Madame Larsen is staying here?”
Behind the desk a young man in a suit, with blotchy skin and a mournful expression, eyed us suspiciously.
I took his hesitation for confirmation, so added, “Is Madame still in residence?”
“Madame Larsen should have left today,” he replied. “But as you can see...” he waved an explanatory hand, “there are problems with the road down to the valley.”
“Would it be possible to speak to her?”
“Have you not heard...?”
“We were there,” I replied. “With the rescue team.”
“Ah... in that case, monsieur, will understand that madame is prostrate with grief and not to be disturbed.”
Alexei took over. “All we ask is that you let her know we’re here. Remind her we saw the whole terrible event and wish to offer our condolences.” She added a twenty Euro note and a dazzling smile. The combined assault of bribery and seduction did the trick.
With a shy smile, the receptionist picked up the phone, saying, “I can only pass on your request. Promise nothing.”
“Of course,” Alexei gave his hand a maternal pat. “We’ll be over there having tea. Perhaps you could send us a waiter.”
A waiter appeared even before we’d selected a table, the grapevine already signalling the heady prospect of twenty Euro tips. We were shown to a prime position with normally spectacular views. Today a white-out.
The Glacier Hotel was following the example of London’s Ritz and other classy establishments in offering afternoon tea at the sort of price that elsewhere would buy a decent dinner. Tiny sandwiches filled with some sort of paste; scones with enough cholesterol to kill you, tea of your choice - which in Alexei’s case was Earl Grey - my choice being simply to follow suit. The food was unimportant. The Glacier was selling its ambience as the top spot in town.
We had been munching discreetly for about ten minutes when I spotted her in stately progress coming down the stairs: the lady calling herself Madame Larsen.
Close on six foot tall, big boned but not fat, she was wearing grey slacks and a dark embroidered top. Her hair was very blonde and very short - almost masculine. Handsome rather than beautiful. Age estimate five years either side of fifty.
She spotted us at once. I rose to greet her, shook hands, said, “A terrible business. Wondered whether there was anything more we could do.” Gestured she might like to join us.
She nodded and sat down in the spare chair.
“Feel free,” I added, pointing to the untouched food. “Too much for us. And I’m sure they can bring some more tea.”
She shook her head. “I don’t really feeling like seeing anyone, but hearing it was you... Well, the least I could do was come down and thank you.”
Her English was perfect, but slightly accented. The name Larsen suggested Scandinavian. Norwegian if it ended ‘-sen’, Swedish if ‘-sson’: I hadn’t seen it written down. But the description ‘prostrate with grief’ didn’t tally. For a person recently widowed - or unpartnered - she was remarkably controlled.
“I’m also a little curious.” The widow allowed herself the hint of a smile. “Like us, you should not have been on that black run, but the rescuers recognised you.”
I nodded. “That’s because I’m a winter fixture in Val Fornet. Work for a company that runs chalets here. Most of the permanent residents know me.” Then added pointedly, “And I would only have ventured where you saw us with a skier I knew to be competent. Like Alexei.”
Larsen - did she have a first name? - accepted the implied rebuke with a sigh. Said, “Nikolai was so keen, so insistent. I should have resisted, I realise that now. But I honestly thought he was a better skier...”
“So you were not...?”
“Married? Dear me, no. I was merely his companion. He claimed to be an expert skier. Showed me his medals. But Russia is a very flat country, where ‘expert’ usually means what we call ‘langrenn’ - ‘ski de fond’ here in France; just exercising over fairly flat ground. Nikolai had done some alpine skiing and told me he’d been bitten by the bug; wanted more. So... there we were...”
“He didn’t look a young man either,” I said.
“No, his racing days were over. But he was fit and perfectly capable...”
It was on the tip of my tongue to add ‘on the flat’, but that would have been cruel. Instead I glanced at Alexei to see if she had any questions, got a shake of the head in reply, so said,
“I believe you’ll be on your way tomorrow?”
“So they tell me. The storm should blow itself out tonight, traffic back to normal by daybreak. This is like being in prison. It’ll be good to get back to the real world.”
Alexei leant across, said, “If there’s anything more we can do to help - and I mean anything - please don’t hesitate to contact us.”
She passed over her card, which read: ‘Alexei Thomas, Financial Analyst. Morgan Durlacher Associates, Canary Wharf, London’. Also her private Docklands address, email and phone number.
“That’s most kind.”
“And mine.” I was conscious that ‘Max Bowen, European Manager, Snow Supreme’ looked less impressive.
Mrs Larsen accepted both cards, weighed them in her hand for a moment, as if pondering whether to accept, before slipping them into her pocket.
“When they told me you were here, I nearly refused to see you. Then I thought one should never reject a kindness. So here I am.” She spread her hands and smiled.
She had a gold band on her wedding finger, no other jewellery. A handsome lady. A mother figure. A grandmother figure to the younger ones.
“You two must have good jobs, obviously very busy.” She hesitated, suddenly unsure of herself. “But if one day you were able to take a short break...? Help me out again...?”
Alexei and I looked at each other, transmitting mental question marks. What was she getting at?
We were allowed no time to wonder, because Larsen was on her feet. With a big smile. Shook our hands. Prostrate with grief she was not. Sai
d,
“My name’s Gudrun. That’s all you need know. Gudrun. Perhaps one day we shall meet again.”
With that she departed the way she had come, up the stairs.
When she was out of earshot, I said, “That was weird.”
Alexei nodded. “Help her out again...? What was that supposed to mean?”
“Tells us her name is Gudrun, twice. Nothing more. No surname. No card. Nothing. But at least we now know a little about Nikolai - Mr Vishnevskaya.”
“If that’s his real name. Probably just a tale to keep us happy,” said Alexei. “Larsen..? Gudrun...? Everything she’s just said may just be a story.”
“You’re becoming paranoid. Why should she lie about that?”
“I don’t know. This whole accident thing... right from the start... nothing adds up. All hot air.”
Time to change the subject, so I said, “What’s not hot air is that I now know you work for Morgan Durlacher. I’m impressed.” It was a legendary name in the financial world.
“Like I said, I’m a figures girl,” she said, airily. “But London can wait. I’m on holiday. In Val Fornet. Where strange things are afoot. Now that Mrs Larsen - Gudrun - is on her way home, what do we do next?”
“Not a lot. The day is winding down. It’s still mucky outside. Time to prepare for the evening festivities. Which for you will be back to normal nosh in the chalet.”
“Any chance you could join us for this ‘normal nosh’? Last night was fantastic, but I don’t think even my bank account would take kindly to another beating from Monsieur Hulot.”
“If that’s madam’s desire.”
“It’s very much madam’s desire. You’re here to keep your customers happy and madam only has two nights left.”
“In that case I shall ring Brigid, Escale’s head girl, and tell her to lay another place for dinner.”
I was rewarded with a creamy kiss on the cheek. “You’re a sweetie.”
6
After finishing our second expensive feed within twenty-four hours, which this time I paid for, we went our separate ways. In an ideal world I’d now have devoted all my energies to satisfying my most demanding guest, but Snow Supreme’s chalets had not gone away. I still represented the company in Val Fornet and needed to check that everything was running smoothly. So after a quick shower I set off on my rounds.
ROAD TO MANDALAY Page 3