The Sanatorium(48)

Looking again at Adele’s face, her expression, the look in her eyes, takes on a new meaning. It’s an expression of fear, Elin thinks. Of abject terror.

Adele was scared because she knew what was about to happen.

She’d have felt the weight of the sandbag pulling her down, sensed the water closing around the mask, seeping beneath the plastic to reach her eyes and mouth. She’d have frantically moved about on the bottom of the pool, using the precious breath she had left trying to break free. Holding her breath until she could hold it no longer, involuntarily inhaling the water, until drop by drop it replaced the air in her lungs.

Elin tries to gather her thoughts.

Who would do something like this, and why? There would have to be a pretty strong motive.

Her mind starts churning it over, thinking of next steps. Whom to speak to. The questions she’ll ask. But then reality hits. She has to remind herself: This isn’t my case. The police will be here soon. She has to leave it to them.

Elin hears someone behind her, clearing their throat. “Please,” she says automatically, “keep back. We need to keep the scene clear.”

But the footsteps keep coming.

Turning, she’s poised, ready to be more forceful.

Lucas Caron.

The angry words of warning slip away under the scrutiny of his gaze.

He’s taller than in the photographs; his black technical jacket is pulled taut over broad shoulders, but he isn’t bulky. This is a functional fitness, from hours spent outside actually doing a sport rather than pumping iron in a gym. Once again, she imagines him halfway up a mountain. Hanging off a cliff.

Through a messy curtain of hair, he looks toward the body, his features tightening. He rubs a hand across his beard, flecked with snow. This close, there’s no doubting his connection to Cecile. The physical resemblance is unnerving.

“Lucas Caron.” He holds his hand out.

Elin shakes it. His palm feels calloused. Rough.

“Elin Warner.” She gestures down at the snow-covered decking. “I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t really be walking here. I’m trying to preserve the scene for the police.”

Lucas’s gray eyes lock on hers. “That’s what I need to tell you. The police . . . they aren’t coming.” His voice is low, urgent. “There’s been an avalanche. The road is blocked. They can’t get through.”





38





The avalanche is about half a mile down. One of the drivers has been there to take a look, says it’s about fifteen feet high. They’ll be able to clear it, but it could take a few days.” Lucas tugs up the hood of his jacket. The movement momentarily obscures his face, but Elin’s already seen the flare of panic in his eyes.

“They can’t clear it any quicker?”

“Not easily.” His expression is grim. “It’s a dry avalanche. Not just snow. It’s literally stripped the mountain—trees, rocks, vegetation. It’s a monster.”

“Why is it so hard to clear?”

“These avalanches . . . they’re incredibly violent. The force of the fall acts like a grinder, dividing the snow into finer and finer particles. By the time it comes to a stop, the snow is so densely packed that you can’t use a blower, as the debris gets caught in the machine.” He clears his throat. “It’s the movement too. The avalanche warms a tiny layer of the snow, creating a liquid that freezes, so the avalanche isn’t just compacted, but set like concrete.”

“And there’s no other way to get to town?”

“No. The only other way is by helicopter, but the wind’s too strong. They won’t take one up in this. It’s not safe.”

Elin digests his words, the impact of what he’s saying finally hitting home. They’re on their own.

Glancing back down at the body, a steady beat of trepidation sounds out in her gut.

“Are you able to help? Until they get here?” Lucas shifts from foot to foot. “There are only a few guests left, but we have a lot of staff too. I can’t take any risks.”

Elin senses him taking stock of the situation, of her. For the first time she can see the innate confidence of a businessman, a shrewdness at odds with the laid-back appearance. He’s used to being in control, she thinks, watching him. Giving orders.

“I can’t. I don’t have any jurisdiction here.” Nor at home, Elin thinks, biting down on her bottom lip, already regretting the lie she’d told.

“But you can help, surely? While we wait for them?” Lucas glances around him, his expression set—too set, as if he’s masking his panic. “This, it’s not something anyone here could . . .” He trails off, as if the magnitude of what he’s facing is overwhelming him.

Elin feels a sharp pang of sympathy; he’s in over his head. A possible murder on his premises, when they hadn’t been open long . . . The hotel’s reputation is at stake. He wants to do things the right way. Damage limitation.

“I honestly don’t know what I can do. Switzerland has different procedures, protocol.”

“It can’t be that different, surely?” His voice has an edge. “The basics.”

Elin wavers. “Let me call the police,” she says finally. “If they’re happy for me to be involved, then I’ll see what I’m allowed to do in these circumstances.”