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

by Catherine Cooper

  His head snaps up and he stops fiddling. ‘Yeah right, whatever. Seriously, Adam, you can fuck right off. One more word and …’ He shoves me in the chest, his pole dangling from his wrist but because he’s still clipped into his skis he doesn’t have much impact.

  I step closer to him. ‘One more word and what, little brother? We had lunch, we drank a lot. Then we went back to your room, and we fucked. She loved it. Couldn’t get enough of me.’

  I feel a sudden pain in the side of my head and realize Will has punched me. I wasn’t expecting that. ‘You liar!’ Will roars as he tries to come at me again, but he’s still fixed into his skis so he can’t move much. ‘She wouldn’t!’

  I laugh. ‘Oh yes she would,’ I sneer. He swings at me again and I shove him hard.

  This time, he falls over. By now the wind is even stronger and it’s a virtual whiteout. He scrambles to get up but he can’t so he reaches under the snow and clicks his skis off. Stupid, stupid, that was our only way down. Now he will have no option other than to wait with me, the stupid fucker.

  Freed from his skis, he launches himself at me with his full weight, pushing me backwards. I grab his jacket, judo style and hurl him behind me. He picks himself up and throws himself at my legs in a kind of rugby tackle which knocks me off my feet. I scramble up at the same time he does and launch my entire weight at his back, giving him an almighty push.

  There is a yelp, and for a few seconds I see his bright blue jacket fall through the air, over a precipice neither of us had seen, until he disappears and everything is white again.

  And then there is silence.

  59

  January 2020, La Madière, France

  Adam stays in bed the next day. I play the dutiful nurse, taking him water, herbal tea, cold flannels, and hot water bottles, anything he requests, all prettily arranged on trays. He’s so grateful that under almost any other circumstances, it would be rather sweet. And by the end of the day, he says he is feeling a little better. Not well enough to come downstairs, but well enough to try some soup. Chicken and mushroom. A thin, nourishing consommé. There’s no need for me to include my special mushrooms this time – they will have already done their work when he ‘enjoyed’ them as part of his full English breakfast. Adam needs to think he’s getting better.

  It was disappointing when serving Cameron and Adam their special mushroom risotto went awry, but it was easy enough to have a second go at breakfast – for Adam at least. And making Adam ill will damage Snow Snow’s reputation and, by extension, Cameron’s business if I play things the right way, so it’s all good. Two for the price of one.

  It was fascinating learning about mushrooms at college. The particularly amazing thing about death cap mushrooms is the way their poison works. You eat the poison, like Adam did at breakfast – and then later that day, as I expected, the diarrhoea and vomiting started. Which is pretty gross – even in a well-insulated chalet like this the other guests would have got a sense of what was going on. But they’ve all left now, thankfully. It’s been pretty unpleasant for Uncle Adam, but nothing more than he deserves. And fairly horrible for me too having to clean up after him, but I can handle that. It will all be worth it.

  After the initial sickness which comes shortly after eating the mushrooms, you get better for a couple of days. So, as I thought he would, Adam wrote off his sudden illness as stress around Will’s death, or perhaps a bout of food poisoning from something he ate at lunchtime before he didn’t visit his brother in the mortuary. There were so many dishes at lunch with so many ingredients, apparently, it wouldn’t have been beyond the realms of possibility that one of them poisoned him, Michelin star or not. Perhaps a dodgy oyster. Obviously the food poisoning can’t have come from anything I prepared, because no one else in the chalet has been vomiting, have they? It was important Adam didn’t decide he wanted to see a doctor or even go to hospital, as the poison needs time to wreak its havoc before he seeks medical attention, by which time it will be too late. It probably already is. So that’s why I have been looking after him so well. It’s made me shudder, but he’s loved it.

  A couple of days on, he thinks he’s recovering. He’s less weak now. And while I’ve been waiting on him hand and foot, I’ve also been gently reinforcing the idea of scattering my dad’s ashes here. The more I think about it, the more I don’t want my dad taken anywhere else. He’s been here since he died twenty years ago and moving him to some random place because it might be convenient for Adam seems disrespectful. I’m going to make sure I can take charge of the funeral too, to give my dad the send-off he deserves. The kind of funeral I’m sure Mama would have wanted him to have. I don’t think it will be too difficult to get my way.

  60

  January 2020, La Madière, France

  Adam

  Millie is an absolute angel, there is no other word for her.

  I’ve spent two days feeling like I was about to die. I’ve picked up the usual travellers’ bugs over the years, even had dysentery and dengue fever, but nothing has compared to this.

  It’s been a hellish couple of days, made only bearable by Millie bringing me anything I ask for, or anything she thinks might make me feel better.

  And finally, I do feel a bit better. Yesterday I managed some of her delicious soup. Today I even got up for a while and ate an exquisite omelette from a tray on my knees while I watched something on Netflix.

  The other guests appear to have left while I was in bed. I guess the roads have cleared now – I haven’t been outside, but I can see the snow has eased off. I haven’t seen Cameron either – I suppose he has other things to get on with and a bed-ridden, vomiting freeloader like me probably isn’t much of a draw for him. Millie has new guests arriving the day after tomorrow, so I am going to have to move to a different place and look at booking a flight home. But first, we need to arrange Will’s funeral.

  Millie has been amazing about this too. I guess she has had the time pressure of her new guests arriving in the back of her mind and needs me out of the way. So along with helping me to get well so I can make my journey back to Thailand, she and Matt sorted out all the paperwork with the hospital so that the body – Will – can be taken to the crematorium and we can have the service, such as it will be, tomorrow. Millie brought the papers here for me to sign – apparently in France you can’t do anything without a signature. I didn’t entirely understand the forms as they were all in French, but signing them seems to have got the job done.

  ‘Was Will a religious man?’ she asks, putting some soup down in front of me on a tray set with silver cutlery and a white napkin.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘At least, we never went to church except for hatch, match, and dispatch type things, even as children. I don’t think he’d ever have gone to church of his own accord.’

  She nods. ‘So no hymns or prayers then tomorrow, do you think?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so.’ I don’t think Will would have wanted any of that, but more than that, I want to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. We don’t need hymns and prayers prolonging the agony.

  ‘Perhaps some other music then?’ she persists. ‘Did Will have any favourite bands? Or maybe we could include a reading? A poem or a book he might have liked?’

  My head is fuzzy from lack of food and sleep, and these questions are beyond me. Plus, if I’m honest, I don’t care. Will isn’t going to know anything about it and my parents aren’t around any more, so I don’t understand who we’re actually doing this for. Don’t they say that funerals are for the living rather than the dead? And as it’s just me left, it seems like a lot of effort for no reason. But Millie is being very sweet about it all so I don’t feel I can say that without showing myself as the callous bastard I arguably am. Plus she really is very pretty and now that I’m starting to feel better and no one else is here, I wonder if I might be in with a chance.

  ‘Um … I’m not sure. It was all a very long time ago,’ I venture. And if
Will had lived he probably would have liked very different things by now hangs unsaid in the air.

  ‘You must remember some bands he liked, surely?’ she presses.

  ‘He had pretty shit taste in music, as far as I remember. He liked some of that eighties electronic stuff.’

  She nods. ‘I see. Maybe not so suitable for a funeral.’

  Suddenly I think of something which might appease her. ‘Oh! I know. He liked REM. He was rather middle of the road like that.’

  ‘OK. Any particular song?’

  For God’s sake. I appreciate her concern but can’t she leave it now? I’m not exactly on top form and I could do without this. I take a sip of my soup. It is scorching hot and delicious. ‘I don’t remember. I think he liked them all,’ I say, hoping she’ll leave it at that.

  She smiles. ‘No problem. Perhaps we can stream some and see if any ring any bells?’

  I look at her. She is gorgeous, but I am tired. ‘No, that’s OK. You choose. I don’t think he’d mind which one.’

  She gets her iPad anyway and we listen through REM’s greatest hits. In the end we settle on ‘Everybody Hurts’ and a Charlotte Brontë poem which Millie finds in a list of readings suitable for people who died young. What a thing to compile. Honestly, you can find anything on the internet these days.

  The only funeral poem I could think of was that ‘Stop the Clocks’ one from Four Weddings and a Funeral, but when I actually read the words, they didn’t seem right at all. Will wasn’t alive long enough to be anyone’s everything and it strikes me that I am probably one of only a few people who remember him much by now.

  I might be mistaken, but at times while we are doing this, Millie looks a bit tearful. She’s so sweet. After we’ve chosen the song and reading, she takes my tray away and as good as tucks me in.

  It’s been a long time since I felt so cared for.

  61

  January 2020, La Madière, France

  ‘Everybody Hurts’ – I remembered it was Mama and Dad’s song, the one Mama used to sing to me sometimes during the rare times when she was in a reasonably good place mentally. It took a while, but eventually I managed to steer Adam in the right direction, and that’s the song we chose for Dad’s funeral. I could tell he was tired and didn’t really care, so it wasn’t that hard. It’s what Dad would have wanted, I’m sure. Mama would be proud.

  62

  January 2020, La Madière, France

  Adam

  I wake with a start in the night, awash with nausea again. I stumble to the bathroom, barely making it in time.

  Oh God. I thought this had finished? After what feels like hours of my body wringing itself out, I literally crawl back towards my bed. I can’t even stand.

  At first I think I must be hallucinating, but it looks like someone is there in the darkness, in my room.

  ‘Millie?’ I rasp. No one else is still here in the chalet any more, are they? They’ve all gone home. I know Millie is kind and dutiful – she’s left me in no doubt about that over the last few days – but surely that doesn’t extend to waiting on me in the middle of the night.

  ‘Why are you here?’ I gasp. My throat feels like it’s been grated and my head is spinning. Millie lifts the covers back and I haul myself into bed.

  ‘I need to tell you something,’ she says. She snaps the bedside light on. Her face is hard and expressionless.

  ‘Now?’ I say, but it comes out as a whisper. ‘But it’s the middle of the night. And I’m not well at all. Can’t it wait till morning?’

  ‘No. You’ll most likely be dead by morning. Unconscious at least, I’d say.’

  I assume this is intended as a joke but, given the state I’m in, it seems uncharacteristically unsympathetic and in extremely poor taste. I lift my head to speak, but she holds her hand up and closes her eyes.

  ‘Don’t!’ she snaps, opening her eyes again. ‘I’m sick to death of hearing your stupid voice. I poisoned you. That’s why you’re ill. Those mushrooms you had at breakfast the other day? Amanita phalloides. Otherwise known as death cap. It’s so unfortunate that dear Cameron’s artisanal mushroom supplier made such a stupid and fatal mistake. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Not funny,’ I rasp. ‘Help me, Millie, please.’ The room is spinning and lurching. I don’t understand why she’s still making these unfunny jokes about poison.

  She has leaned in close to my ear now. ‘Do you still not get it? Don’t you know who I am?’

  I’m confused. ‘You’re Millie?’ I venture.

  She is still staring at me with a look of contempt. ‘I’m Will’s daughter,’ she states, simply.

  What is she talking about? ‘Will? Will’s dead,’ I force out. ‘He doesn’t have a daughter.’

  She straightens up and steps back away from the bed. ‘Yeah he does. Me. I’m his daughter. Do you remember my mama, Louisa, from the ski trip where you killed my dad? She got pregnant that week.’

  ‘Pregnant?’ I rasp.

  ‘Yeah. Pregnant. Then she dropped out of uni, ran up debts, never really recovered mentally – not from the pregnancy, not from the poverty, not from the shock of my dad dying. I had a shit childhood, mainly in foster care, because of you. And then Mama killed herself. All because you killed my dad.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ I whimper.

  ‘Not according to my mama,’ she says briskly. ‘She blamed you. And so do I.’

  My body heaves again but nothing comes out – there’s nothing left. Suddenly I register that perhaps she means it about the poison. She’s actually poisoned me?

  I realize what I have to do to make her help me. ‘Will isn’t your father,’ I whisper. ‘Wasn’t your father.’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ she snaps. ‘Mama told me. And I did my research. There’s almost nothing I don’t know about his so-called “accident”, about him, and about you. That’s why I came to work for Snow Snow – I wanted to mess up Cameron’s company – he also played his part in this as the ski guide who didn’t bother to keep my dad safe. Originally I was going to poison guests randomly – not kill them – perhaps a dodgy prawn here, some undercooked chicken and a bit of salmonella there. I brought the mushrooms with me, dried – some more poisonous than others. I wasn’t really planning to use the big guns, though – not initially.’

  I try to concentrate on what she’s saying but the room is still spinning and I feel like I’m about to pass out.

  ‘But then Dad’s body was found, you turned up, and my plans changed,’ she continues. ‘I was going to kill both you and Cameron that night with the mushroom risotto, because that’s what you both deserve, but then you all switched places so I had to spill the wine and smash glass over everything so that no more innocent people got hurt because of you.’

  I need to stop her. Need to get her to help me. I need to tell her. It’s my only chance.

  ‘You’ve got it wrong,’ I utter. ‘Will was infertile. Would never have been able to have children naturally.’ My chest is heaving and I can barely breathe. ‘Please, Millie, get me some help. I’m begging you.’

  There is silence for a few seconds, when all I can hear is my own laboured breathing.

  ‘What?’ she says cautiously. ‘He wasn’t infertile. How could he be?’

  ‘Cancer,’ I breathe. ‘When he was a child. Made him sterile. He probably hadn’t told your mum.’

  ‘But then …’

  Oh God. This happened. It happened. I need to tell her. Make her stop this. ‘I must be your father,’ I manage to force out. ‘Me and your mum – we had a thing. That holiday. While Will was out skiing one afternoon. Please, Millie, I …’

  She claps her hand over her mouth. ‘But she hated you. The last time I saw her, before she died. She said it was all your fault that my dad – Will – died. She called you a cunt. It was the only time I heard her use that word.’

  My body convulses again. ‘I’ll tell you everything, Millie, please …’

  ‘You’re not my father!’ she yells. I can
see tears running down her face. ‘I don’t want a man like you as my father! You’re lying!’ She puts her hands over her ears, closes her eyes, and starts shouting. ‘No, no, no! Stop saying that! You’re not my dad! You killed my dad!’

  ‘Please call an ambulance …’ I whisper, and then there is nothing.

  63

  January 2020, La Madière, France

  Millie

  It’s the day of my dad’s funeral.

  Adam is in hospital. He’s unconscious. They’re saying he might pull through, but knowing exactly how many mushrooms he ate and when, I’m pretty sure he won’t.

  Considering how long ago Dad died and his lack of living family, there is quite a good turnout for the service. Matt is here. And Didier. Cameron isn’t. He is no doubt busy dealing with the fallout from a man being fatally poisoned in one of his chalets. It’s hardly good PR, is it? I sent a few anonymous emails to some newspapers last night to make sure everyone knew about it. I wouldn’t want an incident like this to get swept under the carpet. I’m helpful like that.

  I’ve been questioned by the police of course, and will be questioned again, but I’m not worried. I’m just a silly little chalet girl after all – not a mushroom expert. I can’t be blamed if I was supplied bad mushrooms. I doubt Cameron can be either, but the publicity certainly won’t do him or Snow Snow any good.

  There is no one to give a eulogy as such, but Didier from the resort says a few words about how the mountains can give and can take away and how saddened the entire resort is that this man was taken so young. I read the Charlotte Brontë poem – I made a big deal to the funeral director of how I had helped Adam to plan the funeral and lied about how he had asked me to read the poem and to help him scatter the ashes because he didn’t want to do it by himself.