Casanova (7 page)

The diesel engine pulled easily, even on the steepest slopes and I began to enjoy the constant winding of accelerate, brake, accelerate. Just as my rhythm was displaying all the balance of an Icelandic rally driver, the road straightened and I was there.

The village was compact as though squashed by the enormity of the mountain. Shops, restaurants and hotels lined the main road and for some reason made me think of a Wild West town from an old cowboy movie. I half expected to see the town Sheriff step through a pair of swinging saloon doors and rub his silver star with pride. What I actually saw, of course, were people dressed in thick, colourful skiwear. Some of them walked with that unmistakable gait caused by the rigidity of their ski boots, some carried boards and walked easier because their boots were soft, some balanced their skis on their shoulder and almost everyone wore a hat of one type or another.

The gauge inside my warm car showed the outside air temperature was minus five degrees Celsius. That was cold enough, even at this level, to need a hat. Higher up the mountain on the ski slopes where there would be a wind chill factor, not wearing a hat was not an option, not if you liked your ears and wanted to keep them.

The main road was long and narrow, lined on both sides with iced snow; it ran across the mountain through the village and rose gradually all the way. The sat nav was indicating my arrival. I was almost at the farthest end of the road before I saw the hotel sign. I slowed and looked. There was parking down the side and to the rear. I continued on, deciding to drive to the end and come back. I wanted to see the rest of the village to get my bearings and to look at the chalets beyond the main lift. The road swung in a u-turn, which the surveyor had designed for the buses to make an easy return. Beyond the bus stop and the lift was a track that turned beside apartment blocks and then continued beyond. I drove on towards the dense area of fir trees and a dozen or so large ski chalets built into the steep slope. I stopped the car and reversed into an access track between the trees. It was much quieter at this end of the village away from the shops and the restaurants. I realised people only came this far, beyond the lift and apartments, if they were staying in or working at one of the chalets.

My phone rang. It was young Miss Marple.

‘Have you got any news?’

‘No, not yet, but Lyon have begun the database search.’

‘I should learn to be more patient,’ she said.

‘I’ll call you as soon as there’s any news.’

‘Yes, of course, thanks. Where are you?’

I didn’t know what kind of telephone system she had so I answered truthfully. ‘I’m in Switzerland, working on a case.’

‘Nice—the glamour of Interpol,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Maybe you should consider applying.’

She gave a huffy laugh.

‘Yeah, maybe,’ she said. ‘Okay, I’ll wait to hear from you.’

We ended the call. She obviously didn’t have anything new her end so I hadn’t needed to ask the question.

I drove back to the hotel and parked at the rear. Inside, I checked-in and went to my room. The hotel was small and friendly; top quality with an expensive Gallic feel. The staff spoke French, which was the language in that part of Switzerland, near to the border with France.

The bed in my room was big and comfortable. I sat on the edge and then let myself fall backwards. I closed my eyes and thought about Charlotte. I opened my eyes and decided to call her. I used my
pay as you go
phone.

‘We’ve just arrived,’ she said.

‘When can I see you?’

‘Later; I’m getting a ride to the ski shop to collect the equipment, and I’ll ask the driving service to return it to the chalet. I’ll call in on you at your hotel. I want to see your bed.’

‘It’s big and comfortable,’ I said.

‘Good,’ she replied. We ended the call.

I opened my bags but I didn’t bother to unpack. Back in reception, the girl behind the counter gave me my ski pass. It was like a credit card with a registered chip. She explained to me in French how it worked. All I had to do was keep it in my jacket pocket to get automatic wireless access to the lifts.

Outside, the high street was busy. I felt the raw coldness of the thin air and zipped my new fleece higher. It was part of my new ski wardrobe from the bag Bazzer and Hoagy had supplied.

After a short walk along the high street, I found the ski shop. At street level, it was just a clothes shop. I went in and saw there were two floors. They kept the skis below, down a wooden staircase.

An assistant fitted me with a decent pair of rental skis and a good pair of boots. He handed me a chart and asked me to indicate my height and weight. I pointed on the chart and he nodded and then adjusted the bindings.

I left with the boots hanging from one hand, poles from the other and the skis flat together balanced over my shoulder. I stored my equipment back at the hotel and returned to my room.

I took a shower, ordered tea from room service and waited for Charlotte. It wasn’t long before she knocked on the door and I let her in.

‘Have you spoken to home yet?’ she asked.

‘Yes, briefly; Casanova has been confirmed as the one responsible for the hole, but there’s nothing new on his location.’

‘So there’s nothing for you to do except wait. Have you got your skis yet?’

I didn’t answer and instead said, ‘Can I come for dinner?’

Charlotte seemed surprised and said, ‘Yes, all right, if you want to.’

She was wrong about me not having anything to do except wait. Dinner was an excuse to visit her catered chalet. It would give me the opportunity to take a close look at her neighbourhood.

‘Canapés aren’t being served for another two hours,’ she said, and then looked at the bed. ‘You’re right, it is big.’ She jumped on it and bounced up and down as though she had
a springy tail. ‘And comfortable too,’ she added.

‘Don’t break it,’ I said.

She stopped bouncing and widened her eyes. ‘Let’s test it properly,’ she suggested.

Sometime later, we left the hotel and went out onto the main street. It was snowing. A layer already covered the road and the pavement. Tyre tracks from the cars showed as two black lines running away into the distance. It was colder than before. The air temperature was heading down faster than Casanova’s share price.

We both took our gloves from our pockets and pulled them on. Wearing our hats, thick coats and boots with good treads, Charlotte took my arm and we walked slowly along the path. She held on firmly, unsure about how slippery it might be.

An impenetrable covering of heavy grey cloud pushed down and tried its hardest to block out what was left of last light. The shops, bars and restaurants, and hotels had all switched on their lights and it was impossible for it not to affect all except for the most hard or cynical. The village had a mountain charm and exclusivity. I could almost feel Charlotte’s happiness radiating from her body where she pressed against me.

‘If this keeps up, the skiing tomorrow will be excellent,’ she said. ‘Fresh powder snow is the best.’

‘Can we call in on Mrs. Casanova on our way? I asked.

Charlotte turned sharply and looked at me. ‘So that’s why you wanted to come for dinner,’ she said.

‘Have you seen her yet?’ I asked.

‘No, not yet,’

‘Do you know which chalet she’s in?’

‘Yes, it’s just behind ours.’

‘Good; well, it’s still early enough for a social call and I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you; it can’t be easy for her.’

I felt Charlotte concede. ‘Yes, very well, but just a quick visit.’ There was a pause and then she asked, ‘You don’t think Mr. Casanova is there, do you?’

‘No, but I think he’s been in contact, and if I’m right Mrs. Casanova will be anxiously waiting to hear from him again. If he is in danger, and the dead girl back in London suggests he just might be then it’s better for everyone if I get to him quickly before anyone else does.’

Charlotte’s eyes were still on my face. ‘You think he’s in real danger?’ she asked.

‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘With a large amount of money missing and a strangled girl laid out on a cold, hard slab I think there’s every possibility.’

Charlotte continued to hold my arm even though she was, by now, perfectly sure footed. The snow fell with a heavy silence and the light dwindled into sinister shapes and pools of darkness. We walked out of the village, between the parked cars and onto the track. The firs loomed above us like black unloved Christmas trees and our boots crunched on the newly fallen snow. It was quieter away from the village and the shadows seemed to stretch and loom with baleful intent. We walked on and I could feel the cold mountain air in my lungs. Charlotte held me tighter still and said, ‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’

I didn’t respond to her voiced knowledge of the calendar.

‘Have you bought me a Christmas present?’ she asked.

I thought of my expensive Swiss wristwatch and realised I hadn’t even considered Christmas presents.

‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ I said. ‘It’s not Christmas yet.’ This response proved enough to achieve a change of subject.

‘What are you going to do when you find Casanova?’ she asked.

I thought of Bradshaw and the ST.

‘Get him to tell me everything he knows and then I’ll decide,’ I said.

Charlotte fell silent. She hugged me closer and we walked with the snow gathering on our hats and around our shoulders like white shawls.

The chalets were close and we were soon there. Charlotte pointed and said, ‘This one is ours.’

It was wooden with a sharp pitched roof and all the windows glowed yellow with a warm light. We walked beyond the corner and then turned and went down a slope. I changed my step, and moved my weight to avoid the soles of my boots from slipping. I felt Charlotte do the same. She kept hold of my arm and pulled on it. I almost slipped and she giggled. The slope flattened and we followed a path marked by a line of ground lamps that stuck up above the snow. Another chalet appeared with two lights at the door and the same warm glow from the windows.

‘It’s this one,’ Charlotte said.

I knocked on the door with my gloved knuckles and Charlotte pushed the doorbell. A young woman answered. Charlotte gave her a friendly smile and said, ‘Hello, I’m Charlotte, is Alice at home?’ The young woman smiled back at Charlotte and then looked at me. ‘He’s my bodyguard,’ Charlotte said.

‘Who is it?’ A woman’s voice asked from inside.

‘Charlotte and her bodyguard,’ replied the girl in a strong French accent. Alice Chester appeared behind the girl, saw Charlotte and smiled happily. ‘Come in, come in,’ she said.

We knocked the snow off and went inside. I closed the door. We took off our gloves, hats and coats. The French girl was evidently the chalet hostess and she hung our things on a row of wooden pegs.

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘No, thank-you, we’re not going to stop. We just called to say hello, as we’re neighbours.’

‘Oh, thanks, that’s nice of you.’

The two daughters were sitting on the sofa, quietly reading. They were already dressed for bed.

I didn’t see any point in being reserved, so I asked, ‘Have you heard from your husband at all?’ Just for a moment, there was a flicker in her eyes and then it was gone and she replied, ‘No, still nothing. I’m so worried for him.’