I trust you are having a good time, wherever in the world this finds you on your travels. For too long you’ve been tantalizing me with your lovely messages. I love that very very sexy picture you sent me yesterday. I feel a truly wonderful connection between us and cannot wait to finally meet you! When do you think that might be? I’m now settled into my glorious new beachfront house in Brighton where I have some very lovely celebrity neighbours. Please tell me it won’t be long?
She typed her reply.
My very sexy Rowley!
I agree, even though we’ve not yet met I feel massively in touch with you, too, and just love how you think. I really do! And I love how you make me feel just by reading your words! I plan to be back in Brighton just as soon as I’ve finished my business commitments here in New York — or, as I’ve been told how to pronounce it like the locals, Nooo Yawk! Each time I think of you I think of a beautiful expression I once read, written by an Indian poet. ‘The path of love is narrow, and there is not room for two people on it, so you must become one.’ That’s how I feel about us.
She signed it with a row of kisses and sent it. Then she carefully filed his email and her reply into a folder titled Charities Local, which was buried inside another folder marked Charities. Just in case, somehow, Walt had ever found his way into her computer. Not that there had ever been much likelihood, as he wasn’t particularly computer savvy.
She logged off, closed the lid and sat still for some minutes, gathering her thoughts, getting her story together. Slipping out of the dressing gown she’d worn back from the spa, she pulled on a sweater and jeans and tied back her hair. She decided against putting on make-up, wanting to look pale and distressed.
She took the lift down three floors and walked towards the reception desk. As she approached, she saw a young, fair-haired man standing by it, dressed in a blue fleece jacket with the word Gendarmerie in white across the back of it.
The receptionist, to whom she had spoken several times during their short stay, was holding a phone in her hand, and replaced it as she saw Jodie.
‘Ah, Mademoiselle Bentley,’ she said, looking uneasy. ‘I was just calling your room.’ She pointed to the police officer. ‘This is Christophe Chmiel from the Courchevel Gendarmerie — he wishes to have a word with you.’
‘What — what about?’ She turned to the policeman, feeling a genuine prickle of anxiety.
He gave her a concerned smile and spoke in good English. ‘Mademoiselle Bentley, is it possible please I have a private word with you?’
‘Yes — yes, of course. Is this about my fiancé, Walt? I’m really worried about him — we got separated skiing this morning, up at the top in the white-out — and I’ve not seen him all day. Please tell me nothing’s happened to him? I’ve been waiting all afternoon for some news, I’m at my wits’ end.’
The receptionist spoke to the officer in French. ‘Voulez-vous utiliser notre bureau?’
‘Oui, bien, merci,’ he replied.
The receptionist led them behind the counter into a small office with two computer screens, several filing cabinets and two swivel chairs. Then she closed the door behind them.
The police officer gestured to one of the chairs and, looking as weak and anxious as she could, Jodie sat down. ‘Please tell me Walt’s safe, isn’t he?’ she asked.
He pulled out a small notepad and looked at it, briefly. ‘Mademoiselle Bentley, is your fiancé’s name Walt Klein?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And you last saw him at what time today?’
She shrugged. ‘About ten o’clock this morning. We took the cable car up to the top of the Saulire. The visibility was terrible but he was keen for us to be up early to get the fresh powder before it was skied out.’
He gave her a dubious look. ‘You are both good skiers?’
‘Yes — he’s better than I am — he’s an expert — I’m a bit nervous because I don’t know this resort very well yet. But we were told the weather was improving. We couldn’t see a damned thing at the top, but there were some other skiers who were in the cable car with us. I saw them ski off and thought the best thing would be to follow them. Walt told me to go first, in case I fell and he could help me. So I set off, trying to keep up with the others, but they shot off ahead of me, going too quickly. I stopped and waited for Walt but he never appeared. Do you know where he is? I’ve been terrified he’s had an accident. Please tell me he’s all right.’ She began crying.
Chmiel waited for her to compose herself. ‘We are just trying to establish exactly what has happened,’ he said, then asked, ‘What did you do when your fiancé did not appear?’
‘We’d agreed to phone each other and, if we couldn’t get through, we’d head down to the Croisette and wait for each other there, and in a worst case, we’d come back to the hotel and meet here. Then I realized that, stupidly, I’d not brought my phone, so I skied on down to the Croisette.’ She sniffed and dabbed her eyes.
‘And you waited for him?’
‘I waited an hour.’
‘And you weren’t concerned?’
‘Not at that point, no. It’s pretty easy to lose someone in a white-out, and he and I come from rather different skiing cultures.’
‘Cultures?’
She took some moments to compose herself. ‘I’m so worried about him. He’s always skied in places like Park City and Aspen — American resorts where they have powder all the time. I don’t like skiing in zero visibility but it didn’t bother him, so long as there was fresh powder. He knew I hadn’t been that keen to go out today, so I figured he’d found himself some great virgin snow, and reckoned I’d be just as happy to come back here and enjoy the pool and have a massage.’
The officer nodded. ‘Mademoiselle Bentley, I am very afraid to tell you, but this afternoon a body was found at the bottom of the sheer side of the Saulire—’
‘Oh God, no!’ she cried out. ‘No, please no, please no! No, no, tell me it’s not Walt. Please tell me!’
‘This face — this is not possible to ski — not even for off-piste experts — it is only used by the paragliders. The identification we have is two credit cards and the gentleman’s ski-lift pass. It is looking to us as if he must have perhaps mistaken the tracks. The name on the credit cards is Walter Klein. The ski-lift pass was issued by this hotel.’
‘Can you describe him?’ she asked, tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘I have not myself seen him yet. I am told he is a gentleman perhaps in his seventies, with white hair, quite tall and a little heavy build.’ He looked at her quizzically.
She began sobbing. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God, no.’
‘I’m sorry to ask you this, but would you come with me to Moûtiers to identify the body?’
She crumpled, burying her face in her arms. After some moments she fell silent, wary of overdoing it.
5
Tuesday 10 February
Roy Grace had been hoping to get home early, in time to help Cleo bath Noah and put him to bed with his favourite picture-book story. Instead he had been chained to his desk all day, with Glenn Branson, exchanging phone calls and emails with an English-speaking police officer, Bernard Viguet, in the Lyon, France, office of Interpol.
On his desk in front of him lay the email Glenn had brought in earlier, that had come from an officer in the Lyon Gendarmerie addressed to the Senior Investigating Officer of Operation Haywain, the continuing enquiry into the missing suspected serial killer, Dr Edward Crisp.
It stated that a sex worker in the city had gone missing two days ago, after being seen getting into a car late at night in the red-light district. A fellow prostitute, who had been shy to come forward at first, had raised the alarm. She had caught a glimpse of the man in the car, and he resembled the image of Crisp that Grace had circulated through Interpol. The colleague had given a description of the car, and the part of its registration plate that she could recall. It matched a rental car that had been hired from Hertz, and subsequently returned, by an Englishman called Tony Suter.