The Sanatorium(49)

Lucas pulls his phone from his pocket. “You need to call 117, the main police switchboard number. Every call goes through there first.”

She does as he says. The call is answered almost instantly.

“Bonjour, Police. Comment vous appelez-vous? Grüezi Polizei, Wie isch Ihre name bitte?” The voice is male, formal.

Heat rushes to her cheeks, her juvenile fear of speaking another language kicking in. “Hello, I—”

“Yes, I speak English,” the man interrupts. “How may I help?”

“My name is Elin Warner. I’m at the hotel Le Sommet near CransMontana. I think you’ve already spoken to the owner of the hotel about the situation. I wanted to see if I could help.”

“Help?” he repeats, his voice clipped, wary.

“Yes. I’m a detective, in the UK police force. Mr. Caron has asked me to assist as the police can’t reach us. I’m concerned because the scene is quickly deteriorating. I don’t know how much evidence I’ll be able to salvage, but I’d like to try.”

A pause before he speaks again. “Okay, one moment. I will put you on hold.”

Frowning, Lucas looks at her. “What are they saying?”

Elin moves the phone away. “Nothing yet. I’m on hold.”

“Madame Warner, are you there?” The police officer is back on the line.

She brings the phone back to her ear. “Yes.”

“I have asked the question about your assistance to my sergeant. We need to discuss, and then I’ll call you back.”

Elin says good-bye and hands the phone back to Lucas. “They’ll let me know. Either way, my instinct is that we need to do something immediately. It shouldn’t interfere with the police work.” Time is of the essence, even when the victim is dead—snow washes away evidence, fibers, hairs. Memories start to fade. “The first priority is to preserve as much of the scene as possible. It’s vital we protect any evidence. No matter how small.”

Her words sound more confident than she feels. Elin stares into the choppy depths of the pool with a feeling of despair. This is going to be an uphill struggle, the worst crime scene you could probably get: in constant flux, wind and snow collecting on top of other snow, eclipsing potential evidence, people already trampled over the scene, around the pool.

“What do you need?” Lucas clears his throat.

Elin steals a sideways glance at him, watching as his gaze, once again, moves to the woman’s body. This time she notices a new emotion flicker across his features, an emotion she can’t decipher.

Embarrassment?

It’s possible. The grim reality of a death affects people in myriad ways.

“We need rope to put up a rough cordon around the pool. I know most of the guests have gone, but it’s a reminder to the staff.” Elin’s mind starts churning over protocol. “I can use my phone to take photographs, then I need to scour the pool area, bag any evidence.” She hesitates. “If you have any plastic gloves, sealable bags, sterile equipment, like tweezers, it would be helpful.”

“I’m sure we’ve got most of what you need. It might be rudimentary, but . . .” Breaking off, Lucas beckons over several members of staff.

“I’ll also need a full list of everyone who is still in the hotel. Guests, staff.”

“No problem,” Lucas replies. “It’s all written down.”

Elin reaches into her pocket, and pulls out her phone. Where should she start with the photographs?

Adele’s body.

The gusting wind is already changing the scene; depositing snow on Adele’s features, tugging at her clothes. But before Elin can start, a voice: barely audible against the sound of the wind.

“I’ve found something.”





39





Turning in the direction of the voice, Elin can see a female member of staff a few feet ahead, her hand trembling in the air.

Elin carefully skirts the side of the pool, walking toward her. As she gets closer, she can see that the woman’s young—early twenties at the most. Her hair’s scraped back from her face, revealing brown, haunted eyes.

When Elin stops beside her, the woman’s hand lowers, finger pointing toward the decking.

Elin’s gaze pulls downward. She instantly notices the glass box beside her, half concealed by the legs of a chair.

A sudden, liquid feeling of dread. She knows, from the woman’s expression, that whatever this is . . . it isn’t good.

“I saw it, when I started walking back.” The woman’s voice cracks, a hand coming up to her mouth.

Elin nods and crouches down to examine the box. It’s not dissimilar to the display boxes all around the hotel: made entirely of glass, not more than a foot and a half in length.

A fine layer of snow is covering the surface, but a section of the glass has already been cleared, presumably by the woman—fingertip marks streaked through the fine-powder snow.

Elin starts at the half-revealed contents, her stomach contracting.

Fingers. Three fingers.

The flesh is a horrible grayish white, marked with dark smears of blood.

These must be Adele’s.

Elin’s hands start trembling, her stomach still churning.

Deep breaths, she tells herself, feeling the eyes of the others on her. Steeling herself, she crouches lower, carefully blowing the rest of the snow away.