The Hike(59)

‘Not a good journey, then?’ Paul said, trying to lighten the mood.

The man stared at him. Frowned. His eyes scanned Paul’s bashed face, travelled down to his filthy t-shirt, his scraped and bruised arms. They’d given him a blanket earlier, but he’d taken it off when he’d come into this stuffy, windowless room. He had it draped on the back of the chair now, acting as a cushion against the hard plastic.

‘Probably not as bad as yours, by the look of you.’ The man reached across the table, offering a hand. ‘Matthew Dobbs. I’m a Diplomatic Services Officer with the British Embassy in Bern.’ He pulled his hand away, and flipped open his briefcase. He was still staring at Paul as he sat back down. ‘So . . . Captain Pigalle says your friends are missing. Want to tell me what’s happened?’

‘Do you know if they’ve sent out a search party yet?’

Dobbs shook his head. He looked annoyed. ‘No. From what I’ve been told, the pair of you have been refusing to cooperate. I’m really not sure I understand what’s going on here.’ He took a notepad out of his briefcase, followed by a silver pen. He clicked the end a couple of times, turned it upside down and peered at the nib. Then he scribbled on his notepad until the ink started to flow. ‘So . . . the woman you’re with. She’s your wife?’

Paul nodded.

‘Let’s start with your names, shall we?’

‘I’m wondering why they’ve insisted on separating us. We’re not under arrest . . .’

Dobbs looked up from his notepad. ‘Pigalle’s a suspicious sort. He acts like the type who can’t be bothered coming in to work, but underneath it, he’s taking everything in. He told me he had a funny feeling about the situation right from the start. Couldn’t understand why you were refusing medical help and being cagey about what happened.’

Paul put his elbows on the table. ‘Look . . . Cat speaks a bit of French, but—’

Dobbs started writing. ‘Cat? With a C or a K? Short for Catherine, I guess?’

‘Yes. Yes. It’s Catherine Baxendale. I’m Paul. Same surname.’ He sighed. ‘We wanted to make sure nothing got lost in translation.’

The embassy man looked up, his face pinched. ‘Pigalle speaks fluent English, Mr Baxendale.’

Paul felt a cold sweat start to form on his back. He’d thought he was calm, and the man opposite the flustered one. But they seem to have changed positions. He’d expected the embassy representative to be supportive, but now he was looking as suspicious as Pigalle.

‘I’d like to see my wife.’

‘Of course. She’s talking with my colleague at the moment, but once we’re done we’ll all head back through to the bigger room and hopefully get something to eat. I’m bloody starving.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I like to eat every three and half hours. Keeps my blood sugar in check.’

Paul hadn’t eaten since the second chewy sandwich they’d been given earlier, and he had no appetite at all now. He just wanted this over with. He wondered how Cat was getting on. She’d seemed resolute when he’d last seen her about half an hour before. Ready to tell the people who could help them their version of the truth. They’d rehearsed it as much as they could, sitting on those steps outside, waiting for the police station to open. They’d gone over and over it again and again, Cat doing a role-play where Paul had to state several times what had happened on the hike. She’d coached him on his emotions, making sure that he was going to be believed. He’d offered to do the same for her, but she’d assured him that she was fine. It was all in her head. She’d had far longer to prepare for this than he had, she insisted, even if the plan had changed somewhat.

Dobbs was clicking his pen on and off again, his eyes still fixed on Paul. Paul swallowed. A small voice whizzed into his head and he had to blink several times to make it go away. You could just tell the truth, the voice taunted. Maybe that’s what Cat is doing right now . . .

No, he thought, shaking his head. No. Cat will stick to the plan.

‘Is everything OK, Mr Baxendale? It looks like you’re having a conversation with yourself there.’ Dobbs had stopped clicking the pen and was still staring at him intently.

Paul felt beads of sweat break out across his brow. He was far too hot, all of a sudden. A fever, maybe. An infection setting in. Just tell the truth, the voice in his head chirped, more insistent now.

Paul put a hand to his brow. It felt clammy. He closed his eyes slowly. Opened them again. ‘There was an accident. They fell—’

Dobbs sat up straighter. ‘Who fell?’

‘Ginny. Cat’s sister. She was feeling faint, and she slipped, and . . .’ He paused. Rubbed his eyes with his fists. ‘Tristan tried to help her, but it was no use. We couldn’t even see how far she’d fallen.’ He took his hands away from his face and fixed his gaze on Dobbs. ‘We had no way of getting help.’

Dobbs frowned. ‘You couldn’t call for help? You were on the Argentine, is that right? That’s what Pigalle told me. The signal is usually fine there. I’ve done that hike myself.’

Paul sucked in a breath, felt it catch in his throat. ‘We all left our phones in the car. We were using a map. Cat thought it would be more fun.’

Dobbs bit his bottom lip. Sighed. ‘Bit irresponsible, don’t you think?’