The Sanatorium(57)

“They were sent directly to me.” Behind him, snow hits the window in an angry splatter, making them all turn to look at the glass.

“And apart from the protesters, you have no idea who might have sent them?”

“No.” Lucas looks genuinely bewildered. He gestures to the letters. “Do you think these are linked to what’s happened?”

“It’s too early to say.” Elin’s still working it through in her mind.

If they are linked—how? What could Adele’s death have to do with this?

“Do you mind if I take them?”

He shakes his head, hair coming loose from behind his ear, briefly concealing his features.

Putting the letters inside her bag, Elin stands up. “One final thing. I was told yesterday about the remains of a body being recovered from the mountain.” She deliberately pauses, waiting for their reactions.

“Yes.” Lucas stiffens. “But we don’t yet know who it is. From what the police said, it doesn’t sound recent.”

The hairs on her arms stand up on end. “So they don’t have any idea who it is?” Elin makes sure not to mention what she’s heard. She wants to know how far he’ll take it.

The question hangs in the air. Lucas hesitates, mouth opening then closing. “No.”

Elin absorbs his words. Why would Margot know, but not Lucas? Surely the police would have told him?

He has to be lying. This is his childhood friend who’s been found, a friend he was professionally involved with, a friend so close, his disappearance derailed the opening of the hotel.

Why lie? What exactly is he trying to hide?



* * *



? ? ?

Her phone rings as she’s leaving Lucas’s office.

“Miss Warner, it’s Berndt. Are you free to talk?”

“Yes, it’s fine. I’m alone.” Elin walks down the corridor toward the lifts. “Have you found something?” She cringes at the hesitation in her tone; it’s as if she’s questioning herself.

What’s wrong with me?

But she knows what the answer is: Lucas’s lie—it’s shaken her. She can’t get her head around what it might mean, the implications.

“Not exactly.” He sounds tired. “We’ve completed a search on the names you’ve provided using RIPOL, our database, but nothing of particular interest has come up, not for Valais, in any case.”

“What does ‘particular interest’ mean?” Elin shifts from foot to foot, confused: Is he referring to background information? Any active or closed investigations?

“I can’t say more because of data protection, but so you’re aware, we’ve found nothing that makes me think that you or anyone else is in any danger from someone on site currently. However”—there’s a brief pause—“I have a further request. In Switzerland, procedure for searching for people on our databases is more complex than in the UK. There’s a central database, but we can only access it by canton.”

“By canton?” What does he mean? Confused, she flushes, her palm sweaty around the phone. She can feel self-doubt chipping away at her—a negative, taunting voice inside her head. Amateur. Out of the game too long. Impostor.

“Yes,” Berndt replies. “It means someone could have a criminal record in a neighboring canton, or county, such as Vaud, but it wouldn’t show here, in the canton of Valais.” He hesitates. She can hear a phone ringing in the background. “I can make a request for each canton, but it must be for specific information about a person of interest.”

Processing what he’s said, she stops a few steps before the lift. “So I need to flag up any people who might be significant to the inquiry and then you can request more information?”

“Yes, but so you’re aware, each request needs to be approved by the prosecutor. I’ll try to hurry it through, but it might take a little time.”

“Okay. And Laure? The CCTV? Phone records?” Elin tries to keep the impatience from her tone. She doesn’t like this feeling of impotence—not being the one in control, knowing exactly what’s going on.

“We’ve checked the CCTV for the station. No one matching Laure’s description got off a bus or boarded the funicular, either late that night or at any time during the following day. We’ve checked local taxi firms, too, and no one’s picked her up from the hotel in over a month. We’re still waiting on the phone providers.”

“And the psychologist?”

“We’ve left messages. It shouldn’t take long.”

“Okay,” Elin replies as confidently as she can, but part of her feels like she’s floundering. At the moment she doesn’t have anything relating to Laure’s disappearance or Adele’s death.

No evidence. No eyewitnesses. No motive. She’s in the dark.

As she says good-bye, a text comes through from Will, telling her that he and Isaac are having dinner in the lounge.

Staring into space, her vision clouds, and clearer, more defined images take its place.

Images of Adele.

All she can think about is the look of horror in her eyes. What it must have felt like to sink below that water and know that you were never coming back up.





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