The Sanatorium(53)

“No. There were only a few guests left, and the staff who were left were helping with the evacuation.”

Elin feels a surge of despondency. No witnesses. It’s unlikely anyone saw anything. The killer probably took advantage of the fact that the hotel was being evacuated. No guests would be out there, and with only a skeleton staff. The perfect moment.

She flips her notebook to the next page. “How well did you know Adele?”

“Not very. To say hello to, maybe.” Axel shrugs. “I’ve got a family. Three children. I don’t really socialize with anyone here outside of work.”

“So you probably wouldn’t be aware of any issues she might have had?”

“No, but she’ll know more.” He gestures at a dark-haired woman at the next table. “That’s Felisa, the director of housekeeping. Adele worked for her.”

“Okay, thank you.” Elin stands, and gathers up her bag. “Do let me know if you think of anything else, even something small.”

“Wait.” Axel frowns. “There is something. It’s probably not relevant, but Adele . . . I saw her arguing with someone.”

Curiosity piqued, she sits back down. “Recently?”

“Last week. I’d been to the spa, the main pool, clearing up a spillage. Adele was at the back of the building. When I came around the corner, I heard raised voices. It was . . . heated. I remember thinking they were so caught up, they barely noticed me.”

“Did you hear what it was about?”

“I didn’t catch it. I carried on inside.” He gives a humorless smile. “I always say, don’t get involved in work things. Keep your head down.”

Elin digests his words. “Did you recognize who she was arguing with?”

“Yes. The assistant manager here. Her name’s Laure. Laure Strehl.”





42





A connection, Elin thinks, walking toward Felisa. A connection between Laure and Adele. They clearly knew each other well enough to argue about something.

Could it link to what’s happened?

Pushing the thought aside, she stops beside the table, a few feet away. “Felisa?”

The woman nods, studying Elin, the notebook in her hand. She’s slight with delicate features, perfectly arched brows tapering to two thin points. Her dark hair is arranged in a complex plait. Her skin is olive in tone. Spanish, perhaps? Portuguese?

“This is about Adele?”

Elin nods. “Is it okay if we move, for some privacy?” She gestures to an empty table nearby.

“Of course.” Felisa looks at Elin properly again, assessing. Her eyes move to the blond straggle of hair tucked behind her ears, the helix piercing. She’s heard she’s a police officer, hasn’t she? Expects something . . . different.

Elin’s used to this—she’s well aware what people say behind her back. Blokey. Too focused on her career to make the “best of herself.” Whatever that meant.

She doesn’t care; she’s always found it hard, the whole “feminine” thing.

Ever since she was little she knew that there was a world out there beyond her—a tribe of women with glossy hair and dexterous fingers that knew how to twist and tease hair into complex styles. Women who watched videos on YouTube about mastering the exact right shading technique to make their cheekbones “pop.”

Her friend Helen, a detective constable, was one of them. She’d shown Elin once, over wine and curry. A video about “contouring.” Repeated it, as if seeing it several times would make Elin understand it better, but it still felt like a foreign language. An instrument she’d never master.

She moves to the seat opposite Felisa, but before she can sit down, a guest approaches her. She’s in her late thirties, small and curvy, her dark hair wound into a loose knot. Her expression is pinched, anxious. Elin eyes her warily.

The woman steps forward; too close. She’s in Elin’s personal space.

“Excuse me, you are the police officer, yes?” Her words are strongly accented: Italian, possibly.

“Yes, I—”

“We’re worried,” the woman interrupts, throwing a glance behind her to the table on the left. “My parents . . . are older, they’re . . .” She hesitates, forehead creasing in concentration as if she can’t find the right words. “They’re struggling with this. Frightened. I think we need more information.”

Elin clears her throat. “Please, I understand the situation is a little scary, but we have things under control. There have been a lot of discussions already with local police and a plan is in place. I . . .” She senses she’s rambling, so stops.

The woman frowns, something new in her expression. Anger, Elin thinks. A normal response when someone feels scared, impotent, but it always worries her.

Anger is often unpredictable, a barrier to keeping things in check.

“Under control,” the woman repeats, clasping her hands together. Her voice is high, thin. “I’m not sure you have. People are scared. It’s not just the guests, it’s staff too. I heard a group of them talking, over there.” She jerks her arm in their direction. “About how long it will take to get people out to us. If they work here and they’re scared, how are we, the guests, meant to feel?”