Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(7)
Estanguet edged closer. “This is a woman? How could this be a woman?”
Agnes glanced at the mound of ice, biting her tongue. It was unwise to share her opinion that it was probably a doped-up society girl. “Definitely a woman. I saw her face.”
Blanchard used a small tool, first measuring the thickness of the ice, then cracking the hood back from the woman’s head. Ice scattered in the wind. He ran his hand across her skull and neck.
Estanguet looked so ill he distracted Agnes from her preoccupation with Carnet and the cold. They should have taken the doctor’s bag from the man and sent him indoors to get warm. He didn’t need to see this. She took his elbow and pressed her flashlight into his hand, indicating the direction of the chateau. He shook his head, seemingly unwilling to leave until there were answers, and she sympathized. For a novice there was something both horrible and fascinating in the scene: the dead body both an object and a human. Very different from her years with financial crimes.
Petit emerged from the whiteout and Agnes noticed that he was still absently patting at his coat and waist. That boded ill for the missing radio, and with the phones dead any communication with the outside world. She glanced around. They were isolated on this node of land below the cliff. She should have opted to go home when she had the chance. The weather put even Sybille’s company in a pleasant light.
Blanchard spoke over his shoulder, squinting into the wind. “No evidence of a head injury. You can see how she fell away from the bench, not against it.” He brushed falling sleet from the body. “Face forward. Damage to her cheekbone probably from the fall and not before, broken bone but no bruising. The blood wasn’t flowing anymore. Maybe she had a seizure or some other medical condition? I can’t see anything else until we get more of this ice off her.” He rubbed his hands together and put his gloves back on. “Merde, it’s cold out here. Too early to tell if she died of natural causes. Who did you say found her? She’s not familiar to me. Does anyone know her?”
Petit spoke up. “Julien Vallotton stumbled on her and called us. He gave us her name, she’s not local.”
“No matter. How do you want to handle it?”
They all turned to her and Agnes wanted a cigarette more than she wanted to breathe: wishing Carnet wasn’t here, and furious that the road to the village was impassable, although if she made it to the top of the cliff the highways would be closed by now. No phone, no way out, and no way to consult with Bardy. She didn’t need this on her first day on his team. Why hadn’t he made it here? She moved nearer the protection of the canvas walls, willing herself to focus, remembering a snowstorm early in her marriage. The joy of two days trapped at home together with George. Happier days that should have lasted forever.
“Completely frozen to the ground,” Blanchard called over his shoulder. “That’s one way to establish time of death. Take a few of this,” he motioned to Carnet, who was using his camera phone to document the scene.
Agnes turned to Petit and gestured to Estanguet. “Take him inside.” For a moment she was tempted to use the excuse of impending frostbite to join them and leave Carnet in charge. Only the memory of George stopped her. He’d been her biggest supporter from the day she applied to the police force, insisting she had good instincts and they’d be lucky to have her. She wouldn’t let him down, even now.
“I’ll look at the storm pattern,” Blanchard said. “We’ll do better to get her up and out of here quickly. Sad to think she might have taken a tumble and died, although probably not the only one tonight.”
He chipped away at the ice, uncovering first the dead woman’s face, then her coat-clad torso. When he reached the legs, Agnes shivered again. The long thin skirt had fallen to the side and the woman’s bare legs, incongruous with the boots, looked cold. She wished they would hurry and cover the body again, but she didn’t say anything, knowing that the woman was beyond feeling just as her husband had been.
It had been cool that day, a cloudy gray day typical of Lausanne in autumn. The ambulance driver had covered George before she could look, angering her and later making her grateful. There had been so many people around, watching and judging. Later she understood the sand on the road was there to absorb blood. That day she had seen only the outline of her husband’s covered form, the flash of emergency lights, and the chatter of horrified pedestrians. It had started to drizzle and Carnet was there, encouraging her to leave. Other officers pulled her toward a waiting car, asking if her children were with her; could they call someone to come for her; was her purse still in the café? They had talked and talked, to her and over her head, and all she wanted was to see George for herself, to remember every detail. She remembered tiny things like the rip down the sleeve of his jacket where his arm wasn’t quite covered by the sheet. A shame, for he loved that coat. It was the same today. The body was clad in a beautiful dress irreparably damaged by the ice, the coat torn. She looked up.
“Her coat wouldn’t have torn like that when she fell.” She stooped near the doctor and Carnet joined her. Together they shielded the body. The wind had shifted again and ice seemed to arrive from all sides.
“You’ve got good eyes,” Carnet said. “The slit looks new, made by something sharp, a knife maybe, doesn’t look like a snag on a nail. Could have been cut before she put it on.”