ROAD TO MANDALAY

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ROAD TO MANDALAY Page 4

by Rolf Richardson


  There were no catastrophes to report and by seven-thirty I’d arrived at the last one on my list: Escale. I introduced myself to those who didn’t know me, then settled down to aperitifs and dinner. Conversation naturally turned to the recent fatality, for which Alexei had agreed to publicly support the official version, that it had been an unfortunate accident: no mention of her lurid conspiracy theory.

  It was an opportunity for me to remind everyone that mountains are not like your back garden. As our guests had paid good money to have fun, I didn’t overstate my case; made no mention of the fact that during a winter season deaths in the Alps now regularly topped the century mark, a figure that would surely go on rising as ever more skiers flooded the slopes.

  That was only deaths. Serious injuries were also substantial, but the tip of this iceberg surfaced only occasionally when some celebrity, like racing driver Michael Schumacher, hit a rock and then the headlines.

  One could come to grief in all sorts of ways. Avalanches and falling down icy slopes were the most dangerous, but these usually happened only off-piste. The worst that could normally befall those that stayed on the straight and narrow was to end up on crutches, leg in plaster. A broken leg is usually assumed to be the result of excessive speed, but this ain’t necessarily so: one of our guests managed it while stationary, just toppled over awkwardly while admiring the view.

  A crowded piste isn’t the place to be hanging about anyway. If you want to take a breather, do so away from the action, because reckless skiing is becoming endemic. Try this in the States and your ski pass may be impounded, but Europe tends to be more lenient, so keep well clear of the possible speed freak; leave him to crash into some pylon or tree alone, not taking you with him.

  If you think you can relax once you’re on a ski lift, think again. A drag lift on a steep and icy slope can offer much innocent amusement, because if one skier comes off he may domino-dislodge those lower down. The wooden T-bar, now rarely seen, was wonderful for this because if the tandem was being ridden by new and incompatible skiers, one large the other small, the imbalance often spilled them onto the slope.

  Chair lifts must surely be safe? Well yes, as long as they are checked properly before being shut down for the night. A popular alpine story is of the man who spent an enforced night stationary high above an icy valley. Next morning, as the first customer to reach the top station, he was very cold and very dead.

  The most bizarre incident I can recall was when I heard human sounds under my skis. We had been coming down a gulley that in summer was a small stream, but in winter became frozen and covered in snow. It was thawing fast and a snow bridge had collapsed, dropping a skier into the water below. Invisible but voluble. He got away with nothing worse than a cold bath.

  The wine flowed. Round the dinner table alpine war stories became ever louder and less likely. It was approaching eleven when Alexei gave me a surreptitious nod. Tomorrow was her last day and the weather men had promised a resumption of normal service. I also made my apologies and followed her up. As Snow Supreme’s Manager it was my job to keep our clients happy. However tough that might be.

  7

  I did indeed have a tough night. But I’m not one to complain. Next morning I suggested it would be pointless to rush off. Although sun was forecast by midday, the light was still flat and awkward for skiing. What’s more, after a heavy snowfall it took time to set off known avalanche points and make the area safe. Distant thumps indicated that the pisteurs were already out bombing dangerous corniches. The resort would open up again only slowly. Best wait until after lunch.

  Which begged the question how Alexei might occupy herself before lunch. She was leaving tomorrow, so this was our last chance. While she was still around, we might as well see if there was more to be done in our Gudrun investigation.

  The hospital could only tell us that Vishnevskaya had died from a fall: which we already knew. Same for the rescue services. But there was one other possible line of enquiry. We were sitting up in bed drinking our morning tea before surfacing for breakfast, when I asked, “Do you have your own skis?”

  “No. I rent. Why?”

  “Good skiers usually have their own equipment.”

  “I used to. Still have my own boots, because they’re more personal: every foot is different. But travelling with skis is not much fun; and with many airlines charging extra, it’s expensive. By renting you get the latest technology. They’re always dreaming up new wonder skis.”

  I added, “If you’re really fussy, you can even change those rentals according to conditions. One pair for powder, another for the piste.”

  “Wouldn’t go that far,” she said. “But why do you ask?”

  “I was wondering whether Vishnevskaya was using his own equipment. If not, might the skis he’d been using give us a clue?”

  “Like what?”

  “Don’t know. But something made him fall. Maybe it was common-or-garden incompetence: a ski de fond champion out of his depth on an alpine slope. Maybe it was something else.”

  “How do we find out?”

  “Try the rental shops. If a customer killed himself using their equipment, they’d be sure to remember.”

  “Not if Red Suit returned the skis without telling them.”

  “Not then,” I agreed. “But let’s see.”

  There were half a dozen ski rentals in town, so after breakfast we started a search. Drew blanks with the first two, but at Super Rentals we got lucky.

  “Yes, that was awful,” replied the girl in the shop. “The gendarmerie asked us to put the skis to one side so they could check them out. We’ve heard nothing more, so it can’t have come to anything.”

  “Do you still have them?”

  The girl went hunting around at the back, returned after a minute carrying a pair of skis.

  Grinning, she said, “Lucky you. No one has got round to putting them back with the rest of our gear.”

  She placed them on the counter: a pair of Rossignols, waisted, not too long, standard thing for piste bashing. I inspected them, seeking inspiration. Finding none.

  “Can you see anything?” I asked.

  The rental girl shook her head. Hesitated. Said, “You say he fell without his skis? They’d released okay?”

  “Hundred percent sure. When his companion joined us she was carrying both of them.”

  “That’s impossible. At least with this release setting. Look.”

  Rental staff spend their lives fitting out skiers, so she had spotted what I had missed. The release on these skis was set very high. Too high for them to have come off. There were only two possibilities: either they were not Vishnevskaya’s skis or else the release setting had been changed since the accident.

  When humans started travelling on snow they just attached the toes of their boots to wooden planks, leaving the heels free for normal walking movement. With anything more than a gradual down slope they would go into a Telemark turn, one ski way in front of the other, back leg bent and heel high. Telemarks can still be occasionally seen as a cult retro style.

  But for Alpine skiing on steep slopes they soon discovered that the only way to establish proper control was to lock the whole foot, including the heel, onto the ski. Long wooden planks exert considerable leverage, so if you fell the first thing to snap tended to be not the wooden plank but the human leg.

  Enter the release binding, designed to free ski from boot before the human leg snapped. Easy in theory, not so easy in practice, because humans come in all sorts of weights, sizes and skiing abilities. Ensuring that the mechanism does not release in a normal turn but does its job when it has to is a delicate balance, which even the professionals don’t always get right; a racer coming down the Hahnenkamm on one ski because a binding has pre-released has happened and is always good for a laugh - unless you are the racer concerned. I prefer to start off on the loose side and tweak the settings up if I start to pre-release.

  There was no arguing about the skis we were now loo
king at. As the girl in Super Rentals put it, even a giant would never come adrift from his skis with these settings. Vishnevskaya was not a small man, but neither was he a giant.

  “Are you sure these were the ones you rented to Mr Vishnevskaya?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “As far as I can tell.”

  “And you haven’t altered the setting?”

  “We’d obviously check and fit them for our new client. But I don’t think these have been touched.”

  I thanked Super Rentals for their time and we left.

  “Another mystery,” said Alexei when we were outside. “Too many mysteries for my liking.”

  “You think Gudrun loosened Vishnevskaya’s ski settings, so that when he started to turn on a steep slope they came off? Then tightened them again afterwards - too much as it turns out - to hide what she had done?”

  “It would explain things.”

  “I still think you’re being paranoid,” I said.

  Alexei did not reply. I could feel a sulk coming on, so added, “Sun’s coming out. Pistes will be opening up. Time for some action on the slopes.”

  Incipient sulk vanished, to be replaced by a smile. “You’re right. Where shall we go?”

  “Have to be just you. Remember, I’m a working man.”

  “But see you this evening?”

  “Of course. If I’m invited.”

  “Consider yourself invited. Drinkies at Escale. Whenever you can manage after six.”

  8

  We didn’t have fixed changeover days at our chalets, but weekends were the natural time to come and go, so for many of our guests it was end of holiday. Apart from the last couple of days, the weather had been spectacular, so there was much whoopee to be made. Chalet Escale was festive.

  Alexei told me she’d enjoyed a great final afternoon on the slopes. Should have been bubbling with the rest of them. But as the evening wore on, I sensed a certain lack of fizz. When we’d finished eating and everyone was settling down to some serious drinking - wine was free and limitless - she suddenly said, “Let’s go somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “A bar. Not too far. And quiet. I’d like to talk.”

  A quiet bar in Val Fornet was something of a contradiction in terms but there was one, only minutes away, which might fit the bill: Brenda’s, run by a Scottish couple, Mac and, yes, Brenda. It faced a double handicap, being new this season and situated a little off the beaten track. With many of Val Fornet’s skiers long time devotees, who gravitated to the same bars and restaurants year after year, Brenda’s was having a struggle. It would probably be quiet and I’d be doing them a good turn by giving them our business.

  Brenda’s looked about one third full, which was better than usual but still not great for a weekend evening. We were greeted effusively by Mac, a tubby little fellow in a chequered shirt, like the patron of a Wild West saloon. The bar did easy chairs rather than stools, nice and comfy, and soon we were tucked up, each with a glass of wine.

  “I’m frustrated,” announced Alexei, when we were settled.

  “Does madam wish to file a complaint against Snow Supreme’s general manager?”

  That produced a smile. She patted my hand, replied, “Don’t worry. I’ll be giving him a six star rating on Trip Advisor.”

  “Trip Advisor only does five stars.”

  “Exactly. His efforts have been beyond the call of duty.”

  “So what’s madam’s problem?”

  “First we see someone fall down a slope when he shouldn’t have been there.”

  “We shouldn’t have been there either.”

  Ignoring me, she continued. “Then his companion appears, apparently unconcerned even thought the poor fellow is dying. Starts muttering to him in Russian...”

  “He was Russian.”

  “They cart him away. He expires. We manage to track down his companion, who again doesn’t seem bothered. Tells us she is not his wife, just a ‘companion’, whatever that might mean. We offer our condolences. No tears. All very composed. We then give her our cards with renewed offers of help. We get no information in return, just a nice smile and a request to call her Gudrun. What the hell are we supposed to do with that! We’re unlikely to see her again and don’t know her address. In fact, we know damn all about her except... she’s Gudrun. And maybe Larsen, if that is indeed her proper surname.”

  “Forget it, Alexei,” I said. “This is obviously bugging you, but pursuing it will only make you even more... frustrated.”

  But she pressed on remorselessly. “We then discover the dead man’s ski releases have been tampered with.”

  “We don’t. We’re guessing.”

  “How else do you explain the fact that they are now set so tight they won’t even release for a giant...”

  “Stop it, Alexei! Shut up!” It came out so loud that Mac at the bar cast us a hurried glance.

  But it had its effect. It did stop her.

  “I’m sorry.” She finished the wine in her glass in one gulp. “I think I need another.”

  I gestured to Mac, who came over: “All okay?”

  “Sure. We had a rather stressful experience, so...”

  “I heard.”

  “You have?” I shouldn’t have been surprised. The Val Fornet grapevine worked at the speed of light.

  Mac put a hand on Alexei’s shoulder. “These things happen. Don’t let it upset you.”

  Mac had reasonably assumed Alexei was upset, rather than frustrated. I didn’t enlighten him, just ordered another round.

  The refills arrived. Alexei simmered down. We sat for a few moments in silence.

  At last I ventured, “Anyway, I hope you’ve had a good holiday?”

  She brightened, visibly shaking off her frustration. “Of course. It’s been wonderful. Mostly fantastic weather. An interesting experience: which I’m now going to forget! And you...”

  “Glad to have been of service.” I was being deliberately flippant. It would be a wrench to see Alexei go.

  Girlfriends didn’t come along too often in my line of work. What was that word again? Peripatetic. It was difficult enough for me, moving from snow in winter to sea in summer. For other halves it was even more fleeting, because clients rarely stayed more than a fortnight, often, as with Alexei, only a week. This time circumstances had made the experience particularly intense. Well, I presume it was the circumstances...

  “Must keep in touch,” I heard her say. “Exchange cards when we get back. Do it properly, so both of us know. Not like Gudrun.”

  I agreed we should.

  “You’re home again in May?”

  I nodded. “Leave here end of April, then have a month off before setting sail for Naxos.”

  “Naxos? Where’s that?”

  “Like I told you, in summer I work for the warm weather version of Snow Supreme. It’s called Sea Supreme and is... well, supreme in the Greek islands. Naxos is pretty central in the Cyclades group. Mykonos in one direction, Santorini the other. Several other islands only an hour away by ferry. We have accommodation on most of them. Pay us a visit. I’ll give you a good price. And the usual personal service.”

  “Tempting devil! Trouble is Morgan Durlacher, who pay my bills, also tempts me with big bonuses. So summer... we’ll see. But if you’re back in Richmond during May we’ll be in the same city and I do get some time off.”

  “I’ll give you a buzz. Just make sure you don’t hook a millionaire while I’m not looking.”

  “I should be so lucky!”

  We made the most of our last few hours in Val Fornet, but when she had gone I quickly came down to earth. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I had a nasty feeling that for one young lady, London’s megabucks would be prove more attractive than fading memories of a ski bum. Perhaps I was overly pessimistic, but I convinced myself I would not be seeing Alexei Thomas again.

  9

  LONDON. MAY.

  I’d been home about week, catching up on local gossip
and putting my flat in order. While I was away it was let out at absurdly high rates, but tenants didn’t always leave it in tip-top condition. I’d contrived to almost forget Alexei, when an email popped up on my computer.

  “I know who Vishnevskaya is!!! Let’s talk. I’m free next weekend, so let me welcome you to Docklands. XXX.”

  I accepted for Saturday. A light lunch, to be followed by a Docklands exploration walk, dinner and stay the night. I would be seeing Alexei again.

  Three days later, another email. This one completely unexpected:

  “I would like to thank you both properly for your help in Val Fornet. I now have a proposition, which may take some time to discuss. I realise Ms Thomas is busy during the week and that you go away again at the end of the month. Saturdays are difficult in some locations because of weddings, so I have placed options for either of the last two Fridays in May: dinner, bed and breakfast at the Cliveden hotel near Maidenhead. These options will not remain open for long, so please let me have your replies asap.

  My highest regards. Gudrun.”

  I replied at once that I’d be seeing Ms Thomas tomorrow and we’d make our decision within a couple of days. Alexei and I would have plenty to talk about.

  10

  I didn’t own a car. There seemed little point. For much of the year I was away and London was about as car-hostile as it gets. So from Richmond I took the tube to Canary Wharf, then the Light Railway to Island Gardens. From there it was a five minute walk to the Thomas residence in St David’s Square, at the bottom end of the Isle of Dogs, where the River Thames takes a big U-turn south.

  This had once been the beating heart of the world’s biggest empire, a forest of cranes unloading goods to feed and clothe what was then the world’s richest country. But the empire had crumbled and the Luftwaffe had gone to work with bombs. Finally the back-breaking work of stevedores had given way to containers. Docklands had re-invented itself as a financial centre, with some very desirable residential property, much of it modern, thanks to the aforementioned Luftwaffe.

 

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