One by One(95)

It’s clearly impossible to go back to the chalet as long as it’s a crime scene, so I accept with some relief the police’s offer of accommodation at a hotel in St. Antoine le Lac. It is only when I arrive, plastic bag of belongings in my hand, that I realize what this offer means.

It’s where they have put everyone. Topher. Rik. Miranda. Danny. Carl. Tiger. Even Inigo.

In fact it’s Inigo that I see first when I step through the door into the reception area, and my mouth falls open.

“Inigo!”

I pull out my earbuds, and he turns from where he is inexpertly attempting to sort out internet access with the French-speaking receptionist. When he sees me, he flushes a deep unflattering red, so dark it’s almost purple. The flush doesn’t suit him, and it tones down his extraordinary good looks into something approaching normality.

“Um, excusez-moi, please,” he says, awkwardly to the girl behind the counter. “Un moment. Je—I mean—I need to—God, Erin, what must you—let me take your bag.”

He gestures at the crutch I’m using, at my ankle in its surgical boot, and grabs for the plastic bag I’m holding in my free hand.

“It’s okay,” I say, laughing, though the situation isn’t really funny. “My ankle’s fine. I mean—it’s not fine, it’s broken, but I can walk again now that I’ve got a cast.”

“No but still,” he says wretchedly. He ushers me over to the 1970s woolen couch in the corner of reception and we sit down, facing each other, like awkward guests on a talk show. For the first time I see that he has a surgical dressing on his forehead, and two black eyes. Has he been in a fight? “Erin, you must have thought—you must think—I mean, God, I was a total idiot. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” I say, taken aback.

“For going off and leaving you all like that! I had no idea that Liz—that she—”

“Inigo, it wasn’t your fault!”

“But it was. I mean not Liz—but if I hadn’t been such an idiot with the phone call Ani might still, she might still—”

He stops, and I realize that he’s very close to crying, and is trying desperately to master himself. I also realize that I have no idea what he’s talking about. In fact I have no idea what the story is with Inigo at all. What did happen with the phone call? Why did he run off?

“Inigo, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say more gently. “What happened? Did you fake that phone call, after all? Why?”

“What?” It’s his turn to look taken aback. “No! God no! How could you think such a thing?”

“Then why did you run away?”

“I told you! I left a note—because I made such a stupid mistake.”

I suppress a sigh of irritation and wonder, not for the first time, whether Inigo was ever actually that good as a PA. How did Topher put up with him?

“Yes, but you never said what the mistake was,” I spell out. “We all thought—” And then I stop. Inigo flushes again, even deeper this time, but he puts his chin up.

“I know. You all thought it was me. That’s why I had to leave—to put things right. The mistake—God, I was so dumb. I told the police we were at Chalet Blanche-Neige.”

For a minute I don’t understand. Then my mouth falls open. I have a sudden, vivid flashback to Inigo on the phone to the police. Yes… okay… Chalet Blanche-Neige.

Blanche-Neige. Snow White. Perce-Neige. Snow drop. An easy mistake to make for someone who didn’t speak French. But one that was fatal for Ani. Oh, Inigo, you idiot.

“I know Chalet Blanche-Neige,” I say slowly. “It’s about ten miles away, over the other side of the valley. Of course. Of course, that’s why the police never came. You told them the wrong place.”

Inigo nods, in miserable assent.

“It was such a stupid fucking mistake. And I realized the next day what I’d done, and I kept trying to get through to explain, but the line was just dead,” he says brokenly. “So I knew the only thing I could do to try to put it right was ski down to the town, to tell the cops in person what had happened and where we were. So I left. I know it was stupid but I just felt so—so ashamed, and I wanted to put things right. I knew if I told anyone what I was doing they’d try to come and I didn’t want them to, I didn’t want to put anyone in danger because of my mistake. But instead—” He gulps, and I see tears brimming in his eyes. I know he is thinking, as I am, of Elliot, and of Ani, both of whom might still be alive if the police had come that afternoon, if they had known where to look. “Instead I got lost, skied into a tree, and woke up in hospital.” He touches his forehead, the surgical bandage I saw when we sat down. For the first time I notice the rawness of the skin on his cheeks and fingers, the blackened tips of his ears, where frostbite must have set in. “If only I hadn’t—” His voice breaks. “If I didn’t—”

“Inigo, you couldn’t have known,” I say softly. “It was a mistake—just a terrible mistake.” These are words people have been saying to me for months, years now. You couldn’t have known what would happen, when you suggested skiing off-piste. It’s not your fault. It was just a mistake—just a terrible mistake.