The Sanatorium(28)

Questions ricochet through her head.

What could it be? How is it connected to Laure?

Elin pulls open the French doors. As cold air floods the room, she tries to get her thoughts in order. Logic says that Isaac’s explanation for the blood made sense; that whatever he pocketed was private, unconnected with Laure’s supposed disappearance, but it still gnaws away at her: If he’d deceive me like this, then what else is he capable of?

The truth is, she has no idea. Elin knows nothing about him, his relationship with Laure. She’s only skimmed the surface of his life these past few years—filtered scraps of information he’d thrown their way.

His life before he left the UK is clearer—his degree from Exeter in computer sciences, the year off training to be a ski instructor. He came back to the UK, did a postgrad the following year. After completing his research, he worked at the university, taught for a few years, and then moved to Switzerland in 2016.

Since then?

A blank. Whole chunks missing.

Elin pulls her MacBook from her bag. She places it on the desk, flips it open.

Sitting down, she types some key words into Google. Isaac Warner. Switzerland.

The results appear. A few lines down, something interesting: a ski school in CransMontana. Isaac’s name, listed under “Staff.”

Elin clicks on the link. In the seconds that follow, a thumbnail image of him appears. It’s a headshot, all tan and wraparound sunglasses. A few lines of information: Part-Time Instructor, graded as BASI Level 2. Specializes in teaching children, beginners.

Fine, a part-time job, but what about the lecturing?

Going back to the main search page, she types more specific key words: Isaac Warner, computer sciences, University of Lausanne.

Elin skims the first few results. Still nothing referencing the university.

Has she got the name wrong? She doesn’t think so; he mentioned it several times. So why isn’t it showing up?

Alarm bells are sounding in her head, but she silences them. She mustn’t judge. Mustn’t jump to conclusions.

Elin tries again. This time, she goes straight to the university website. Clicking through link after link, she finally finds the departmental page for computer sciences.

Under “Staff”: a list of names; more thumbnail photographs.

None of them is of Isaac.

She forces her eyes to focus, looks again. Nothing.

Lifting her eyes from the screen, Elin picks up her phone with a sense of dread, aware of something spiraling: one thing leading to another, picking up momentum.

What she’s doing . . . this probing, it’s wrong, an invasion of his privacy because of some unsubstantiated idea, but she has to know. Know if what he did in the room just then was an aberration, a one-off, or if Isaac still ran true to form.

If Isaac still lied.

As the university switchboard connects her to the computer sciences department, nerves are prickling her stomach. She’s put on hold. Tinny music plays, a foreign, unfamiliar tune. Midbar, the music breaks. “Bonjour, Marianne Pavet.”

Elin’s unprepared, scrabbling for the right words. “Hello, this is . . . Rachel Marshall. I have the résumé of a Mr. Isaac Warner. I was wondering if someone from the department could give me a reference?”

Marianne cuts her off in heavily accented English. “No, no reference. I’m not able to give a reference.” There’s an awkward pause.

“Please. He’s listed your department.”

A sigh. “Look, I’m not sure why Mr. Warner would give our name as a suitable reference. He was dismissed last year.”

Elin sucks in her breath. “Dismissed? Are you sure we’re talking about the same person? Isaac Warner?”

“Yes, he was dismissed.” The voice is brusque now, impatient.

“Can I ask what for?” Her heart is pounding.

Another lie: his job was the excuse for not coming to their mother’s funeral, wasn’t it?

There’s a weighty silence.

“Intimidating other members of staff. I’m sorry. That’s all I’m prepared to say.”

There’s a click. The line goes dead.

Elin puts the phone on the desk. What should I do next?

She has to work out if there’s more to this, and if Isaac won’t tell her the truth, she’ll have to ask someone else.

But who? Who here knew both Isaac and Laure?

Her thoughts flicker to the murmured conversation and laughter that Laure had shared with Margot, the receptionist at the spa. They’d seemed friendly enough . . .

But the thought of speaking to her behind Isaac’s back triggers a cold stab of fear.

She closes her eyes and hears echoed threats.

Only babies tell and you’re a baby.

Tell tell tit your tongue will split.

Her head is throbbing.

Do that again and I’ll kill you.





23





Come for a proper tour? Your partner’s already had it.” Margot smiles, her face half concealed by the large computer screen in front of her. “He’s got the pool to himself.”

“Not exactly,” Elin replies, the door to the spa closing behind her with a soft thunk. “I wanted to have a quick chat.”

Margot’s eyes flicker over, her mouth stretching into a little O of surprise.