by Peter James
‘How are you feeling, Meeses Curtis?’
‘OK, thank you.’
‘You have the ribs broken, and the leg?’
‘Two ribs, and my ankle.’
‘I hope you do not mind, I would like to ask you some questions?’ he said.
‘No, of course.’
He pulled up a chair near the bed, and sat down, placing his cap in his lap. ‘It is a bad thing, to get caught in an avalanche. We try to make safe on the pistes, but when people going away from the marked routes, without a guide—’ He raised his hands in the air.
‘Yes.’
‘You know – this place where you were, there was no way down? If you ’ad not been taken wiz the avalanche, you would have moz certainly been killed. You could not have skied down further. Impossible to ski. Why did your ’usband take this route, down this couloir?’
‘It wasn’t my husband. It was Andreas.’
‘Andreas?’
‘A business colleague of my husband’s. A Swiss. He claimed he knew the area well.’
He frowned. ‘I do not understand.’
Something in the policeman’s face unsettled her. ‘He lives in Montreux and skis in Zermatt a lot, he told me.’
‘Who is Andreas?’
‘Andreas Berensen. He’s a director of the Fürgen-Zuricher Bank, based in Montreux.’
‘I don’t think so, Meeses Curtis. The ski patrol helicopter see you at the top of the slope, juz before the avalanche. There were only two people.’
‘Myself and Andreas. My husband was behind us. We got separated, you see, in the mist.’
He shook his head. ‘Only two people,’ he said firmly, raising his voice a fraction.
She felt a sudden frisson of fear. ‘There were three of us—’ Her mouth twitched into a nervous smile. ‘There were three of us. Andreas was trapped with me – dead. I’m sure he was dead; his eye was all—’ She saw the strange expression on the policeman’s face and faltered.
He stared down at his hat, then up at her. ‘Are you trying to make a joke with me?’
‘A joke?’ She flared in anger. ‘A joke? You think I’m joking? That I think this is funny?’
He stood up and walked over to the window. ‘You come from London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice city. I was there. On holidays. I visit Scotland Yard. Good. Very efficient, Scotland Yard. Always raining in London, yes?’
‘Not always.’
He sat down again and placed his hat in his lap. ‘You were skiing down this mountain with your husband and with Andreas Berensen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Broken two ribs; and you have the multiple break of the ankle?’
‘Yes.’
‘Otherwise you are all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Concussion?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I think perhaps concussion. Concussion or you are making jokes – or making excuses? You are trying to make blame on someone other for your stupidity.’
Her face was smarting. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you?’ He thumped his chest, angrily. ‘Me, I understand. Every year people dead in the mountains, stupid peoples, who ignore the piste markings, who think they can go off the piste without having to pay for the guide.’
‘I’m sorry – I really don’t understand what you are saying.’
He glared at her, furious now. ‘I think you understand, Meeses Curtees; I think you and your husband understand very well.’
She closed her eyes. Riddles. Riddles. Was this some crazy new riddle? Some new game? ‘Could you please explain to me exactly what you are saying? What you are insinuating?’
He drummed his fingers on his hat, then stopped abruptly and looked directly at her. ‘Andreas Berensen, director of the Fürgen-Zuricher Bank . . . You and your husband were skiing with this man, yes? He was your guide, yes? You tell me this and your husband tell me this, yes?’
‘Yes. Christ, he was buried with me in the avalanche. We were under the snow together. He’d – he must have fallen on his ski tips. His eye was gouged out. He was trapped with me – dead.’
‘There was no one with you. I have spoken with the men who rescued you: nothing. They said there was no one with you when they found you. I have spoken to the Fürgen-Zuricher Bank, Meeses Curtees.’ He looked at his hat then at Sam again and shook his head. ‘They don’t know any man of this name. They have never heard of Andreas Berensen. There is no one called Andreas Berensen who lives in Montreux. There is no one in Switzerland who is a director of a bank with this name. There is no one in Switzerland who even has a passport in this name.’ He tapped his hat. ‘You know why, Meeses Curtees? Because he does not exist, that is why.’
48
‘Dead men don’t climb out of avalanches, Sam.’
But dreamers wake up from dreams, she thought, glancing round the restaurant. Four businessmen sat at the next table studying the lunchtime menus. Although it seemed empty, there was an air of expectancy about the place. It was still early. In half an hour it would be full, Julio would be turning away the punters with a smile, a raised eyebrow, a humble peasant shrug. Scusa. Sorry. So sorry.
Ken leaned forward, in his crumpled denim shirt, studying her face carefully, and broke a roll in half, spraying crumbs over the tablecloth. The waiter swept the Orvieto from the table and poured it into their glasses with flourish, as if he was watering a couple of plants.
Ken shook out a cigarette and tapped the tipped end hard on his watch. ‘Richard saw him swept away?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were trapped with him?’
‘I – thought so.’
‘And he was above you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So the rescuers would have dug him out first?’
She nodded.
‘And they saw nothing?’
She picked up her glass and drank some wine. ‘No.’
He lit the cigarette, inhaled, and slowly blew smoke out of his nostrils, rolling the cigarette around between his finger and thumb at the same time. ‘So you imagined it?’
Her brain did not seem to want to work, did not seem to want to tackle the problem; the insides of her head felt flat, inert. ‘Andreas must have been swept off the precipice – I suppose – and I was just imagining I was trapped with him. The bash I had on my head – perhaps that’s what – it’s just that it—’
Tiny crows’ feet appeared either side of Ken’s eyes as he smiled.
She shrugged. ‘It seemed so real.’
‘Being buried in an avalanche – must have been very frightening.’
‘It was freaky. I thought I was going to die. I really thought, you know, that was it. When I saw his face – Andreas – I felt – I—’ She glanced down at the table cloth, then across at the door where a knot of people were standing; Julio was helping a short fat man off with his coat, with clinical efficiency, as if he was peeling a large orange.
Ken raised his glass. ‘It’s good to have you back. I’ve missed you.’
‘It’s good to be back – I’ve missed—’ She hesitated and blushed, and glanced away; she heard the clink of their glasses, and took a mouthful of wine, cold, steely, then winced as it touched a cracked filling.
‘When are you planning to come back to work?’
‘After lunch.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m serious. I’m starting again this afternoon. Ten days in a Swiss hospital is enough sitting around. I’m pretty nippy on my crutches.’ She smiled. ‘And I don’t want Claire getting my job.’
He sniffed his wine, took a large sip, drew on his cigarette and carefully knocked the ash into the ashtray. He studied the tablecloth thoughtfully, then looked up at her. ‘Claire’s left.’
Sam stared at him, numb with surprise. She shivered, feeling cold, suddenly. Cold, damp; she wondered for a moment whether the heating was on in the restaurant. She eyed him carefully.
‘Left? Claire?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘How – when?’
‘She never turned up the day after your avalanche. I got a note two days later.’
‘What – did it say?’
‘Nothing. “I regret that I shall not be able to continue working for you.” Signed, Claire Walker, brackets, Miss.’
‘That was all?’
‘Uh huh – really dumped us in it – you were right – I should have listened to you. The bloody cow.’
‘And she hadn’t said anything to you before?’
‘Nope.’
‘How on earth have you been coping – I mean – so you’ve had no one there—?’
‘Drummond’s been a good lad. We’ve got by.’
‘Bloody bitch. God, she might have waited until I’d come back. You’ve always treated her fairly – just to walk out like that—’
He drew hard again on his cigarette, nodding, and blew the smoke away from her. ‘That’s staff, isn’t it?’ He picked up his glass and leaned back. ‘So what’s Richard going to do about his money?’
‘He says the bank – in Montreux – is lying. He’s had several meetings during the past few months with Andreas, actually at the bank – there’s no question he was a director. It was obviously all part of the covering of tracks – it’s been a bit too thorough – it seems that Andreas covered the tracks a little too well.’
‘So Richard’s hoist on his—?’
She nodded. ‘His money has vanished. Gone.’
‘What’s he going to do?’
‘He’d set all this up because he thought he was going to lose his job and that he might have his accounts frozen. But it looks as though that won’t happen now – the case against him is being dropped. His solicitor told him last night.’
‘What’s the reason?’
She raised her eyebrows, and smiled a thin smile. ‘Richard’s not sure. It seems that one of the key prosecution witnesses has vanished.’
Ken looked hard at her, then dug his hand into his breast pocket and pulled out a buff envelope. ‘This one?’ He handed it across to her, and she took it, her eyes locked on his, frowning.
The envelope was not sealed; she slid her fingers inside and pulled out a black and white photograph, which she laid down on the tablecloth. It was a page of a book divided into three panels, a large one at the top and two smaller ones beneath. She glanced up at Ken and down again. Then she saw him. The bottom right hand panel. She leaned down, closer and felt a creeping sensation up the back of her scalp.
She saw the hand first, the small deformed hand, with just a thumb and little finger, the middle three fingers missing; then the face, the cold, rather correct face, with the high forehead, the fair hair neatly groomed either side of the head but thinned to a light fuzz on top. The only thing different was that he was wearing spectacles, round, metal rimmed, that had a dated look to them. He was standing in front of a building, in a suit with all three buttons done up, and looked as if he was unhappy about the picture being taken.
‘Andreas,’ she said. ‘That’s Andreas.’
‘How old is your Andreas?’
‘Late forties – early fifties.’
‘This one would be about ninety-five, if he was still alive. He hanged himself in a prison cell in Lyons in 1938.’
Her legs hit the underneath of the table, jolting it; her head suddenly felt boiling hot and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick. She put her hands flat on the table for support.
‘I was watching a documentary on the box a couple of weeks ago, about evil, and black magic, and they showed a picture of this bloke – the hand – it reminded me of your chap you told me about.’
‘Who is he, Ken?’
‘Claus Wolf. He was a very weird German – heavily into black magic – got involved in several covens around Europe in the Twenties and Thirties. He had something going in Italy and got kicked out when Mussolini had a clean up, and moved to France. He married someone equally weird and they got into ritual sacrifice killings. He was arrested in Lyons, in 1938, on several murder charges, but his wife, Eva, who was eight months pregnant, fled, and is believed to have come to England, posing as a Jewish refugee. They had a four-year-old son she had to leave behind, who was eventually adopted by relatives in Switzerland.’
‘And he’s Andreas?’
‘There can’t be too many people with the same deformity.’
‘This was all in the programme?’
‘No. I know the producer – at the Beeb – so I rang him and asked if he had any more gen – and he had a word with the researcher – and let me have the photo.’
She sat in silence for a moment, staring at the cold arrogant face. ‘It’s Wednesday, today.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Claire said she’s always there on Wednesdays.’
‘Who?’
‘Bloomsbury – can we go to Bloomsbury?’
Ken stopped the Bentley outside the Whole Mind and Body Centre and Sam hobbled in. The woman with the pulled-back hair and pulled-back face was sitting behind her cash register.
‘I’d like to see Mrs Wolf.’
‘She’s not here,’ the woman said, with virtually no movement of her lips.
‘I thought she always was on Wednesdays.’
‘She’s ill.’
‘Do you know when she’ll be here next?’
‘She’s very ill. I don’t know if she’ll ever be back.’
‘I need to see her.’
‘She doesn’t want to see anybody.’
‘Is it possible to have her address?’
‘No,’ said the woman. ‘It is not possible.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Go away. Just get out, go away; don’t come back. We don’t want you here again.’
Sam hesitated. ‘I – it’s very important – I must—’
The woman half stood up, and for a moment Sam thought she was going to lunge at her. She backed away, stumbling, tripped on the doorstep and dropped a crutch. She leaned down, scooped it up, and looked again at the woman, who was standing upright now, her face filled with hatred, and hurried outside. She climbed into the Bentley, shaking, her face smarting. Ken put her crutches on the rear seat then closed her door. ‘Any joy?’
‘Christ, they’re strange in there. She’s ill and they don’t think she’s coming back – and they wouldn’t give me her address.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘I think I know it,’ he said.
Sam looked at him in amazement. ‘How? What do you mean?’
He started the car, without speaking.
‘What do you mean, Ken?’
He raised a finger, and eased out into the mid-afternoon traffic.
They crawled up Tottenham Court Road, then turned left into Marylebone Road. She watched the lights and the silver flying spur mascot on the bonnet blankly, her mind fogged, unfocusing, a part of her still in the icy underground tomb. They went up the ramp of the Paddington overpass, and she glanced again at Ken, trying to find some clue in his expression. They turned off towards Shepherds Bush, came to the end of the expressway and joined the slow heavy traffic.
They went through Acton and into Ealing. Ken stopped twice and checked the A–Z, and they navigated a maze of back streets, finally stopping outside a crumbling Victorian mansion block.
He opened the door for her and helped her out of the car. ‘I’ll come with you, be your minder.’
‘How do you know this is—?’
‘I don’t; but I think I’m right.’ They looked at the names on the entryphone. It was written in pencil and faded so badly it was barely legible. ‘2 Wolf’ was all it said.
She looked at Ken again, puzzled. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I think you will.’
She was about to press the buzzer, but Ken stopped her and, instead, pressed one for another flat.
‘Harry? That you Harry?’ said a grumpy old woman’s voice.
‘Parcel – special delivery,’ Ken said, then the latch buzzed a
nd he pushed open the front door, holding it for Sam.
The corridor was dark and dank and smelt of boiled cabbage; the linoleum on the floor had rucked up and was uneven to walk on.
‘Wait here,’ Sam said. ‘It’ll be better on my own.’
‘You sure?’
She nodded and carried on into the gloom. She squinted at the first doorway on the right, which was number 1, then reached the far door, smelled a strong smell of cats, and saw the faded brass number 2 on the door. She hesitated for a moment, and listened. Somewhere behind her she could hear a television turned up much too loud. She glanced around, and pressed the buzzer; there was a grating metallic rasp which echoed around. Then a long silence. She was about to ring again, when she heard footsteps, firm, quick.
The door opened, and Claire stared out at her.
Sam blinked in disbelief.
Claire.
Claire staring at her, matter-of-factly, no trace of surprise.
As if she had been expected.
Sam stumbled back, confused. ‘Claire?’ she said.
‘Why have you come here?’ she said, icily.
‘I – I thought – I – I wanted to see Mrs Wolf.’
‘My mother has had a stroke and can’t see anyone. Go away and leave us alone.’
‘Your mother?’ Sam shook her head, trembling. ‘Your mother?’
‘She had the stroke when she saw her son fall in the avalanche. She saw it all.’
‘Saw it?’
‘My mother sees a lot of things.’
‘Where did he fall?’
‘He went over a drop, fell a long way down, then through deep snow and onto a frozen lake. They will find him in the spring.’
Sam stared at her, unable to speak.
‘You’ve killed both of her sons. Isn’t that enough for you? Why don’t you leave my family in peace now?’
The door closed firmly and she heard the sound of the safety chain. She stood in silence too shattered to move.
‘Sam? You OK?’
She saw the red glow of Ken’s cigarette. Slowly, she hobbled down the passage towards him.
‘OK?’
She stopped in front of him. ‘You were right,’ she said. She tried to read his face in the dim light, then she heard a noise that sounded like a door handle behind her, and turned fearfully. But there was nothing.