The Chalet: the most exciting new debut crime thriller of 2020 to race through this Christmas

by Catherine Cooper

  47

  January 2020, La Madière, France

  Ria

  ‘What were you thinking?’ I hiss when Cameron plonks himself down at my table, snow falling off his jacket and on to my already-soaked jeans. ‘Why are you inviting that guy to our chalet? He’s going to recognize us, you know. We were lucky to get away with not going to prison all those years ago, and now you’re …’

  Cameron holds his hand up in that awful patronizing way he does, always has done. ‘Stop it. None of this was my idea. The resort’s head honcho is apparently fretting about a dead body turning up here, and thinks we all need to be seen as caring and sharing. And as I have the best properties, he asked if I would host. I could hardly say no, could I? How is that going to look? I’ve got a business to run here and I need to keep key resort people onside.’

  I can’t believe his tone. Or his expression. How can he be so calm?

  ‘But he doesn’t have to stay with us, does he?’ I counter, trying to keep my voice low – which is no easy feat when I feel like screaming. ‘It’s all right for you, you can stay out of the way, but me? “Oh hi, yeah, it was my fault your brother died. Mine and my colleague’s. Sorry about that. Hope your short stay in this luxurious chalet while you identify his body makes it all better.” Brilliant. That’s not going to make for awkward dinner time conversation at all.’

  Cameron puts his face up so close to mine I can smell his coffee breath. ‘Firstly – he wasn’t meant to be in your place, but there’s a problem with the only spare chalet I have at the moment so I can’t put him there. With some punters unable to leave the resort when they planned to and others miraculously getting through despite the roads being closed – seemingly just to piss me off – everything’s full to bursting point apart from your chalet. Which, as an aside, I seem to remember you are staying in this week free of charge while Hugo checks out if it’s good enough for his precious company. So, I’m terribly sorry if it’s inconveniencing you, the dead man’s brother turning up and bunking in with you, but you’ll have to put up with it.’

  I flinch as flecks of Cameron’s spit land on my face as he speaks.

  ‘Secondly, we spent about ten minutes with this man, two decades ago. Do you remember what the weather was like that day? It was almost as bad as it is now. We were wearing goggles and hats, as was he. We were all twenty years younger. He was in a coma for days afterwards, and apparently remembered nothing about the accident. Do you think you would recognize him now? I certainly wouldn’t. So why would you think that he’d recognize us?

  ‘Besides, our names were in the press at the time, as I recall,’ Cam continues. ‘If the dead man’s brother had any interest in pursuing us, he could have done so back then. But he didn’t. So why do you think he’d a) recognize us or b) want to do anything about it even if he did? It was a tragic accident that happened a long time ago. He lost his brother. Boo hoo. End of story.’

  ‘Don’t you feel any remorse for what we did?’ I ask hoarsely.

  Cameron sits back. ‘No. We didn’t do anything. Those boys shouldn’t have asked to ski that kind of slope in those conditions. They over-estimated their skiing ability. Or, to be more accurate, they lied about their skiing ability. They shouldn’t have been there at all. If they had been honest about their level or, to give them the benefit of the doubt, hadn’t over-rated themselves, we wouldn’t have taken them off-piste that afternoon and there wouldn’t have been an issue. It was their behaviour that was unsafe, not ours.’

  ‘Simple as that?’ I counter. ‘Our behaviour was hardly gold standard. And,’ I lower my voice, ‘we lied too. It wasn’t only them. We lied to rescue, to resort staff, to the police, by extension to the dead man’s family, to everybody. If we’d alerted rescue as quickly as we said we did, or even stayed closer to the men so they hadn’t got lost instead of us trying to out-ski each other, the brother who died might have been saved. That’s way worse than someone making out they’re a better skier than they are.’

  Cameron snorts. ‘We hardly lied. We adjusted a few timings in our statements. It doesn’t amount to murdering someone. It was an accident. The investigation said so. And I’m happy to go with that.’ We sit in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Is that it, then?’ Cameron asks.

  There is a pause. Around us people are laughing, chatting, eating, drinking. Everything carrying on as normal while I feel as though my whole world is falling apart.

  ‘Why did you stay here?’ I ask.

  Cam shrugs. ‘It’s my home. It’s where I’m happy. I went away for a few years because the tour ops were all steering their clients away from Skitastic and I had to wind it up, but by the time I came back, no one remembered who I was. It was already old news even a few years on. Almost everyone who had been in the resort when we were here had moved on to other places, other lives. No one has been here as long as me now. A lot of people come to the mountains, and once in a while, someone dies. It quickly becomes old news. No one wants to think about it. People come here on holiday or for a season or two, forget about their normal lives, have fun, ski, drink too much, shag a ski instructor maybe. No one wants to think about death. Hardly any of the people here today know about what happened all those years ago, nor would they care, if the body hadn’t resurfaced.’

  There’s another pause.

  ‘Why didn’t you stay here?’ Cam asks.

  ‘You know why,’ I hiss. ‘I couldn’t bear it after what happened. I only came back this week because – well – because you made me.’

  He smirks. ‘Yeah, handy you working in events like that, sending that mailshot out to all the chalet companies – including mine – when you set up your little enterprise. Been useful for us both over the years, hasn’t it? To give you credit where it’s due, you’ve sent some good clients my way.’

  ‘Not out of choice,’ I whisper. ‘As you know. You blackmailed me. I’d never have contacted Snow Snow if I’d known it was your company.’

  Cameron responds with that awful bark of a laugh. ‘Ha! Should have done your research then, shouldn’t you? It’s especially convenient now you’re married to Mister big-shot Hugo,’ he continues. ‘You were always so scared about people finding out about the accident. I’d have been stupid not to use that to my advantage, wouldn’t I? You can see that, surely?’

  I shake my head. My face feels hot but I’m determined not to let him see me cry.

  ‘But I’ve been a good boy this week, haven’t I?’ he continues. ‘I’ve kept to our agreement and haven’t let on about your past. Or even that we know each other – that it’s down to you and me and our friendship that you’re all here, enjoying my lovely chalet.’

  ‘We are not friends. You threatened me,’ I say in a low voice. ‘You said I had to get Hugo to take your chalets on or you’d make it known what happened that day. You’d make sure I took the blame, given your contacts now that you’re such a big noise out here.’

  He laughs. ‘I never said you had to marry Hugo – that was up to you.’ He looks me up and down. ‘You still look all right, in spite of pushing forty. I’m sure the promise of a blow job or something for gormless, grateful little Hugo would have sufficed.’

  ‘I didn’t marry Hugo because of you,’ I whisper, but even as I say it I know it’s only half true. It just seemed easier at the time. I could give Cameron what he wanted – make sure he didn’t tell anyone about my past and stop worrying about how to pay the rent every month – all in one fell swoop. I’d even read articles about Hugo before I went to that party at the Natural History Museum, to work out what kind of man he was and what approach would suit him, giving me the best chance of getting Cameron off my back. I didn’t go in planning to marry Hugo, far from it, but when that was the way things went, it seemed like the answer to all my problems.

  No one wants to work with an events manager who has killed someone, or to be their friend or lover, for that matter. It’s bad enough living with what I’ve done myself – the idea of it b
ecoming common knowledge was, and still is, unbearable.

  ‘None of my business why you got married – I don’t give a shit anyway,’ Cameron says. ‘You can play happy families with Hugo or cut his dick off for all I care, as long as he takes the chalets onto his books. After this business with the body turning up, sales might need an extra push.’

  I surreptitiously swipe my hand across my face as, in spite of my efforts, tears brim. Cam rolls his eyes.

  ‘For God’s sake, Andrea, this happened twenty years ago! No one cares. Move on.’

  ‘I care,’ I say hoarsely. ‘And don’t call me that.’

  He snorts. ‘Oh yes, it’s Ria now, isn’t it?’ he says sarcastically. ‘Ria Redbush. No longer ski bum Andy Jones – she’s long gone. Classy Ria Redbush married to posh boy Hugo. A whole new life for a whole different person. Well, good for you for caring. I don’t. You’ll just have to cope with your new house guest being there as best you can. And, for what it’s worth, I won’t be skulking in the shadows and staying away. I’ll be coming to dinner, offering my condolences and all that. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to be scared of, and neither have you, though obviously it’s suited me well over the years for you to feel that you have. Grow some balls. I’ll see you later.’

  I can barely face going back to the chalet, but can hardly stay away forever. I sneak in the back door and creep up to our room. Shrugging off my sodden outer clothes, I lie down on the bed and shut my eyes tight.

  A while later the bedroom door opens.

  ‘Darling?’ Hugo sits down on the bed. ‘Thank God you’re back. I was worried about you, out in this weather. How’re you feeling?’

  I open my eyes. ‘Not brilliant. I’ve got a raging migraine and feel totally exhausted.’ I sigh. ‘Perhaps I’m coming down with something. I’m sorry about earlier. I needed to be … by myself.’

  Hugo pats my leg absentmindedly. ‘That’s OK – I’m glad you’re back safe and sound. Though I still think you shouldn’t have gone out in this weather, especially if you’re not feeling well,’ he scolds, though good-naturedly. I feel a rare pang of love for him. Poor Hugo. He deserves so much better than me.

  ‘Are you coming down for dinner?’ he continues. ‘Millie wants to know.’

  I’m famished, but there’s no way I’m going downstairs and sitting through dinner with the dead man’s brother. I may not be able to put off meeting him the whole time I’m here, but there’s no way I can face it today.

  I’ve barely been able to think about anything else since I found out he was coming, fretting about what to do. Avoid him? Come clean? Or smile sweetly and hope for the best?

  Cameron is right, of course. I don’t remember what he looks like. Chances are he won’t recognize us. But even if he doesn’t, I still know that we killed his brother. I can’t just sit at the same table as him, making polite conversation.

  I sit myself up, trying to look weak. ‘I think I’d rather stay up here, if you don’t mind. But perhaps you could ask Millie to send me up some soup or something? I wouldn’t mind something simple to eat, but I’m not really up to sitting at the dinner table.’

  He kisses my forehead. ‘Of course. I’m sure she won’t mind. I’ll miss you though.’

  I squeeze his hand. ‘That’s sweet, Hugo. I’ll miss you too.’ I almost mean it.

  48

  January 2020, La Madière, France

  It’s a massive shock, my dad’s body turning up, and I react the only way I know how, the same way I’ve always done – I put on a fixed smile and carry on. Though I do go back to cutting myself when I can manage a moment alone, even though I had pretty much weaned myself off the habit. It gives me a momentary release from the horror and awfulness of what is going on around me, and from the memories of my childhood. No one notices – it is easy to hide the scars when you’re as used to it as I am.

  I never got to meet my dad while he was alive, so I figured the least I could do would be to pay my respects now that he was dead. I would like to see his body and spend some time with him. It’s a poor substitute but it feels important.

  It’s very difficult to get time to myself but as soon as I manage a free couple of hours I head down the mountain to the hospital to see if I can see my dad. My French is far from brilliant but, even so, I’m sure the woman understands that I’m saying I am the dead man’s daughter. But she says that without my passport and various other bits of paper and ID there’s no way I can see his body. Which is ridiculous – do they have random people turning up the whole time to try to look at dead bodies which are nothing to do with them? As far as I can understand, she then says something about his brother, who will be coming out in the next few days. Perhaps I should speak to my uncle if I want to see the body, she tells me.

  So I say ‘Merci, madame’, though really I want to say ‘merci pour rien’ or ‘fuck you, bitch’, then I go outside and take some deep breaths. Seeing my dad is not the most important thing now. Taking revenge on my uncle for what he did, avenging my mama – that is what matters. But to carry out my plan – and it comes to me in a flash as if it was destined to happen this way – I need to make sure I have easy access to my dad’s killer, the person who ruined Mama’s life. So on my way back to the chalet I find Matt and tell him I overheard Cameron on the phone saying he would like to offer the dead man’s brother accommodation in one of his chalets. I add that he’d be embarrassed and annoyed if he knew I’d mentioned it and suggest he pretends the tourist office guys had asked him – I know how these things work in ski resorts after all. I look up at Matt through my eyelashes and touch his arm, suggesting maybe he and I could meet for a drink somewhere later. I’ve seen how he’s been salivating over Ria this week – it’s obvious he’s gagging for anyone he can get. I don’t care what I have to do for him – quiet drink, blow job, shag, whatever it takes. I need Uncle Adam close by.

  Then later I go to Chalet Alpaca – Matt said he thought it was the only one that was free. It isn’t hard to find. I pull my sleeve down over my hand to break a window, let myself in and turn some taps on full blast. I’ll pop back later to make it look accidental. Even if Cameron is offering somewhere for free, I can’t imagine there’s any way he’d want a guest of his staying in a chalet which is less than perfect.

  Fortunately, there is a spare room in our chalet, which is apparently the nicest in the resort. It could hardly be better.

  49

  January 2020, La Madière, France

  Hugo

  Ria is still claiming to be unwell. I know I’m not exactly the most perceptive of men, but there’s definitely something going on. She’s refusing to come down to dinner again, claiming a migraine, which isn’t a condition she’s ever suffered from to my knowledge. And I’d like to know where she went when she stormed off in this weather. Was she meeting someone? Matt, maybe? Simon? Or was he still here in the chalet when she went? I think he was. I can’t remember. All this strangeness is making my head hurt.

  Then again, perhaps Ria is still annoyed about our argument about children, though I thought that had been resolved. I love her with all my heart, I do, but sometimes she is very difficult to read.

  As usual, Millie has gone all out for dinner and the champagne is flowing, but there’s a weird atmosphere. Annoyingly, Cameron is here again. He’s droning on about how fantastic his chalets are compared to all the other ones in the resort and every time he opens his mouth to speak I’m treated to the sight of red and black fish eggs coating his tongue and even flying out of his mouth now and again. It’s disgusting.

  Simon is guffawing and nodding at everything Cameron says and Cass is sitting on the sofa with her eyes glazing over.

  Poor Cass. Simon has pretty much ignored her on this trip. Again I wonder if he and Ria have a history I don’t know about. But I can hardly ask her, the way she is at the moment.

  We sit down for dinner. The starter is foie gras, and Cameron is wanging on about its provenance, as if anyone cares. Cass is s
taring into space. Adam is trying and failing to look interested in what Cameron is saying.

  I suddenly envy Ria, alone in our room, not having to listen to Cameron. Maybe I should have ducked out of dinner too.

  50

  January 2020, La Madière, France

  Dinner is risotto. Mushroom risotto. The rice is arborio, and I’m told most of the mushrooms come from a local grower, probably not because his mushrooms are any better than the ones in the supermarket, but so that Snow Snow can use words like ‘artisanal’, ‘hand-picked’ ‘locally foraged’ and the like in their brochures. Such a load of bollocks.

  Risotto is a quick and easy dish, with no great magic to it. People act like you have to be an expert to get it right but you don’t; you buy the ingredients, tip them in and stir. Any idiot can do it. I fry the ‘artisanal’ mushrooms with garlic, onion, and few herbs (fresh, obviously) in a pan before tipping in the rice and stock which I made from leftover chicken earlier in the week – no stock cubes allowed here. Then it’s just stir, stir, stir.

  Meantime, I heat up the now-reconstituted mushrooms which I put on to soak earlier, carefully picked and dried while I was still at catering college. We learned loads of useful stuff there – not only about how to prepare dishes, but also how to forage for food, how to prepare it, what’s safe to eat and what isn’t. It’s amazing the range of edible foods you can find in the wild in the UK, even in cities.

  I had to go a little further afield for mushrooms, but there are woods and forests easily accessible even on the London Underground. It became part of my weekend routine, getting up early and going out to the woods before the day really got started. Often I’d see no one at all; at most a dog walker or two.

  And depending on the time of year, I’d find all sorts of different varieties you’d have to pay a fortune for in the supermarkets: ceps, morels, and the like. I became adept at identifying the good and the bad, and my various foster mothers and later, flatmates were always delighted with my haul.