‘What about those two women over there,’ Stevie raised her chin in their direction. ‘The well-groomed women with the diamonds and the designer jeans . . .’
‘Where?’
‘Sitting by the entrance, late twenties, early thirties, perfect hair— one’s blonde the other dark.’
Paul darted a quick glance in the direction Stevie had indicated.
‘Oh yes. Their names are Tara and Tatiana—I’m not sure which is which.
They come together every year: Swiss finishing school, jobs in London, up here husband-hunting every season. There are a few like them. They move their activities to the Riviera in summer.’
‘Is it that hard for them to “capture” these husbands?’ Stevie asked, amused. ‘They’re very attractive women . . . but I suppose love can elude anyone.’
‘They’re after a mega-rich husband, Stevie. They won’t look at anyone else.’
The waiter brought the wine. Paul waited until he left the table
before continuing. ‘Those girls want to be treated like princesses—literally to have everything done for them and be showered with expensive gifts and be flown around the world on a private jet. But the trouble is, the decent fellows can sense it and stay away. Those men are not flash enough for these girls anyway. The playboys and oligarchs who are like that, well, they want the eighteen-year-old supermodel from Vladivostok who looks stunning and is kept happy with furs and handbags.’ He took a small sip of his wine. ‘Why would those men want a demanding woman who is clearly after marriage, and whom they would see as past her use-by date anyway?’
‘That’s a rather awful way to put it, Paul.’
‘Perhaps I seem a bit harsh, but I see the girls ever year at the hotel. I see how they behave towards anyone who isn’t “someone” to them. Those women are the architects of their own unhappiness. I find it hard to feel sorry for them.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Paul, but in my experience matters of the heart are usually very complicated.’
Stevie here was thinking acutely of her own confusion over men—Joss. Paul knew the whole story but was too tactful to bring it up directly.
Paul took another careful sip of his wine and looked at Stevie.
‘Oh, I would agree with you on matters of the heart, but we are talking about matters of the wallet. Those are rarely complicated.’
Stevie studied the women for a moment, noticed how their eyes darted to the door every time a new face walked in, the way they watched the room and not each other as they spoke. Paul was right.
‘So,’ Paul pressed his fingertips together, as was his habit. ‘What business brings you to St Moritz?’
Stevie hesitated. Paul was an invaluable ally but she felt uncertain about disclosing the name of her clients, even to him. It wasn’t very professional.
Paul smiled. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll guess and we can talk hypothetically. That would be alright, wouldn’t it?’
Stevie nodded, relieved.
‘So, my guess would be you are here to look after Douglas Hammer and Sandy Belle, who are undoubtedly coming in for the polo and Yudorov’s party. I make this guess based on an article that was front page in our local village magazine last week that proudly announced these same facts.’
‘If you were right, Paul, I’d have to be on the look-out for all sorts of troublemakers, wouldn’t you say? After all that publicity?’
Paul agreed. ‘Certainly anything that couple does makes a splash—especially in a small resort—and there are always people out to try to hitch a ride on someone else’s fame.’
‘Moths to the flame of fame.’ Stevie smiled. ‘That’s true. Perhaps there’s more truth to the description “cult of celebrity” than we realise.
They have a lot of followers.’
‘How can I help?’
Stevie thought once more about what a kind man Paul was. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open at the hotel, Paul. Even rumours can be useful, unusual arrivals or behaviour, and especially people who ask lots of questions about specific individuals. I’d be interested in hearing about them.’
Paul turned the stem of his wine glass with delicate fingers. He seemed to be on the verge of telling Stevie something, his mouth opened then closed, his eyes left hers and sought the bread basket.
‘What is it, Paul?’
‘Oh, nothing. I had something to tell you but it completely slipped my mind . . . old age I suppose!’ He laughed.
Stevie shook her head. ‘Silly creature.’ Paul was not yet forty.
Stevie slipped her key into
the lock of her hotel-room door. She felt suddenly very tired and longed for the goose-down pillows and duvet that waited for her inside.
As she walked through the door, she sniffed the air. It was a habit she had. You could always tell what had been going on in a room by its smell, even if there was no physical evidence. So she sniffed automatically, and stopped. Sniffed again.
There was the distinct smell of cigarettes. Not of cigarette smoke, which could have wafted up from somewhere, but of nicotine. It was the scent of a heavy smoker. It was a hotel, maids came and went, it could easily have been one of them . . . but there was the tang of alcohol mixed with it, stale alcohol. Maids didn’t smell like that.
Was someone in the room?
Adrenaline pumped in and woke her right up. She could see the whole room from the door. It was empty.
She peered through the crack between the hinges holding the door to the wall. No one behind the door.
The bathroom door was open. She inched forward so that she could see the whole bathroom reflected in the large mirror.
Empty.
The base of the bed reached the floor. No one could fit under there.
The closet.
If anyone was in the room, the closet was the only place they could be. Stevie bent carefully and slipped her knife out of the special sheath on the inside of her boot. Its balanced weight in her hand gave her confidence.
A maid passed by her open door and Stevie called out to her.
‘Excuse me, signorina. Would you do me a great favour and hang my coat in the closet? It weighs a tonne and I sprained my wrist on the ice earlier today.’ She spoke clearly, making sure her voice could be heard by anyone hiding in the room.
‘But of course.’ The young woman dutifully took Stevie’s coat from her. She headed for the closet, Stevie at her heels, the knife pointed and ready to be rammed, if necessary, into the shoulder of anyone hiding there.
The maid flung the door back and hung the coat in the empty closet. She turned. ‘Is there anything else, signora?’
Stevie quickly hid the knife behind her back. ‘No, thank you. Very helpful.’ She gave the girl a five-franc coin and closed the front door behind her.
She was still certain someone had been in her room. The smell was all wrong. A burglar? It was unlikely—this was Switzerland. But you never knew . . .
Stevie moved to her underwear drawer. She arranged her panties, bras and socks in a specific pattern every time she unpacked. To the casual observer it wouldn’t be noticeable, but she would immediately be able to tell if anyone had moved a thing. She opened her drawer.
The pattern had been disturbed. Someone had searched it. She felt an icy shiver of fear.
Could still be a curious maid, her reason reminded her, but she didn’t believe it. Like a cautious robot she drifted to the bathroom.
The maid had done her room before she left for dinner. The bed was already turned down, the slippers in their place on the floor . . .
But her
nécessaire
had definitely been touched. It had moved from the perfect position she had placed it in, carefully nestled under the shelf.
It was slightly askew. Someone had searched her room and didn’t want her to know it. Who?
She poured herself a whisky from the minibar, added a splash of water and sat back on the bed. The most likely answer was still a maid or maintenance worker—faulty light bulb or some such requiring attention. She rang down to housekeeping and was assured no one had been in and no maintenance work had been ordered.
She put the phone down and sipped her drink.
Could David Rice still have her under surveillance? It was possible, but would his men do a room search if they were just keeping an eye on her safety? Could it be someone who had seen her with the Kozkovs in Moscow? But whatever for? She was no longer involved. Her ineffectiveness in resolving the matter would surely protect her from interest.
That left Yudorov’s security detail. His people would have had the skills to enter the room unnoticed, search invisibly (almost), and they had a motive. They might feel they needed to find out more about the Hammer-Belles’ ‘security overseer’ for their own protection: Was she who she claimed to be? Was she armed? Did she have any links to Yudorov’s enemies?
Stevie felt a rush of anger and quickly shook it off. No point.
Anger restricted consciousness and clouded thinking. As intrusive and rude as it was, Yudorov had to be cautious. He had a lot of enemies.
Enormously rich Russians invariably did. Anyway, his spies wouldn’t have found much of interest.
She had taken her knife with her. One passport was with the front desk, the other in her pocket. Her underwear, well perhaps that might have been of some interest . . . She smiled at the thought of thugs sniffing about her panty drawer, looking for dangerous secrets and contraband weapons.
Let them look to their heart’s content. There was nothing to find.
She checked that the front door was locked, jammed a chair under the handle for extra peace of mind and fell into a deep sleep.
The phone rang at ten
minutes past one, startling Stevie out of a dream about elves on a beach.
‘Hello?’ she croaked into the receiver.
‘Stevie, it’s Paul. I’m sorry to wake you, but I thought you might want to know sooner rather than later.’
‘Know what, Paul?’ Stevie was trying to shake the sleep from her mind.
‘Well, at dinner you asked me to tell you if anyone asked questions about specific individuals?’
Stevie was suddenly wide awake. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, I was talking to one of my receptionists, Evi, who has just finished her shift. I mentioned that she should keep a lookout for anyone making detailed inquiries about our guests or other high-profile personalities in town—nothing serious, just passing the word around.’
‘Good thinking, Paul, but who was asking?’
‘One of the Russians who is staying in the suites on the eighth floor, name of Sergei Lazarev.’
‘The ones with all the girls?’
‘Exactly. Evi speaks some Russian and Mr Lazarev approached her and handed her two hundred francs. Apparently he wanted to know if the Hammer-Belles were going to be at the polo. He said he was a big fan of theirs. Evi refused the money of course and told him she was, unfortunately, unaware of the names of the invitees.’
Stevie felt a rush of adrenaline.
‘Please, Paul, can you scan Lazarev’s passport photo and send it to me?’
‘I’ll do it now.’
Stevie re-examined Lazarev’s portrait over
breakfast, committing the face to memory: rectangular with pale, pitted skin; short dark hair.
Nothing remarkable, except that the ears had unusually large and fleshy lobes.
Stevie had sent the picture to Josie last night with instructions to find out what she could. Whoever this man was, he wouldn’t get near the couple, Owen Dovetail would make certain of that.
Stevie poured a cup of scalding black coffee and dipped a slither of burnt toast into her boiled egg. She hoped she would find the time to catch up on a little sleep before Yudorov’s party that night. It would not be the sort of affair that finished before dawn and she would have to be alert.
The polo match, the grand
final of the Cartier Polo World Cup on Snow, was to take place on the frozen surface of Lake St Moritz, at the foot of the village.
Tents for the horses and spectator marquees were already humming with organisers, grooms, sponsors and security. The excitement, always high during the four-day tournament, was at its most feverish.
The day was grey and icy but completely still. Stevie had dressed in her leather trousers and she was grateful for their warmth.
The spectators began to arrive, some in their own cars, the more important ones in chauffeured Maybach limousines. Standing by the field, Stevie pulled out her mini-binoculars—always useful for impromptu safaris, or the opera—and scanned the faces. Growing cold, she decided to walk the venue, glad for the chance to get her bearings before the crowds arrived.
There was only one exit for vehicles and that was manned by the
Kantonspolizei
. The venue was open but largely inaccessible due to the vast frozen lake it sat on. Any approach was very clearly visible and would draw attention.
If anything were being planned, she guessed it would happen in amongst the crowds. This would prevent the police or security
from firing a gun or getting a clear view. The most dangerous time was during arrival and departure, when arrangements were in flux.
As the couple was arriving by helicopter, straight onto the grounds, Stevie guessed it was more likely that an attempt would be made on departure. She would make sure Dovetail had confirmed independent transport to Yudorov’s chalet. The chauffeured limousines were a security risk.
Stevie stood and watched for a moment as the polo ponies in their heavy blankets were led around by grooms in thick jackets, hats and scarves. It must feel fantastic to gallop through the snow, she thought, a bit like riding in the soft sand.
At ten past ten the heavy thudding of rotor blades up the valley announced the arrival of the Hammer-Belles. The helicopter hovered over the car park, the downdraft creating a blizzard of snow and freezing air that blasted the waiting press that had gathered like flies behind the security cordon. Stevie shielded her eyes.
Out jumped Owen Dovetail. Stevie was extremely glad to see him. Nothing bad could happen when the sturdy Welshman was on the case. He was highly competent, utterly dedicated and she trusted him with her life.
A second man leapt out. He was quite stocky—huge in fact— wearing wraparound sunglasses and head-to-toe camouflage. He looked like an action-man figurine. Stevie assumed this was the Hammer-Belles’ own man. He held up his hand to help Sandy out of the cabin.