The Sanatorium(77)
“What about the road?”
“The area around the avalanche is still impassable. We’ve got people working it on foot, but it’ll take several days.”
“And there’s really no other way?” she persists, the tension she’s feeling cutting her words short.
Several beats pass. “Not safely, no.” Berndt sounds embarrassed. “The Groupe d’Intervention are highly trained, but they’re not qualified high-mountain guides. The best-case scenario is that we get to you tomorrow, unless the weather forecast changes.”
“So we’re on our own.” Her voice falters. Once again, self-doubt taunts her: I can’t do this. I’m not capable.
“I’m afraid so.” There’s a hesitation before he speaks again, his voice low. “Elin, please listen. Now that someone else has been killed, the protocol we’ve advised is extremely important. Everyone needs to stay together. No exceptions.”
“Okay.” Elin’s voice wobbles. She wants to cry—proper tears. This isn’t how it’s meant to be. She wanted to have this under control.
“I’ll call you when I know more about the forecast.” Berndt clears his throat. As he says good-bye, Elin’s eyes are drawn once again to the lift, to Laure.
Reality hits like a door slamming in her face.
No one’s coming. Not now, not in a few hours.
Laure’s dead and they’re stuck here—no way in, no way out, no idea what’s coming next.
She’s often thought about this, the risks of a crime in a remote location. How vulnerable people would be, how much damage could be inflicted in a short period of time.
Her mind flickers to the terror attacks in Norway in 2011. Anders Breivik, a right-winger on a rampage, shot at teenagers gathered on the island of Utoya during an annual summer camp. The island’s remote location meant that by the time police had reached them, sixty-nine people had already been massacred.
She can’t help wondering: What would the killer here be capable of given the chance?
Her chain of thought is broken. Lucas’s voice: “Hey, look at this.”
She glances up, and sees Lucas by the lift, crouching down beside the glass box.
“What is it?” Walking over to him, Elin is tense, acutely aware of him accidentally touching anything, compromising any evidence. “Please,” she says, getting closer, “don’t touch the box directly.”
“This bracelet here . . . there’s something on it. It’s faint, but I think they’re numbers.” Lucas tips his head sideways. “Engraved. Like the bracelets by Adele’s body.”
Elin kneels down beside him.
“This one.” Lucas points to the bracelet on the left. “Look.”
He’s right.
Five numbers, lightly etched into the metal, so faint you might miss them at first glance.
Elin stares; a lurch of realization.
This means these numbers are significant, surely?
“You think they’re important?”
“Yes.” Elin’s gaze moves back to the box, the next bracelet.
She needs to photograph the numbers, write them down, compare them to the ones she found on the three bracelets near Adele’s body.
Positioning her phone, she’s about to take a photo when, in the corner of her vision, she catches a movement: Lucas looking over her head toward Cecile.
They exchange a glance before Lucas turns away, his expression troubled.
61
Sure you’ve got everything?” Will pushes at the door leading from the penthouse into the stairwell.
“I think so.” Elin hesitates, casts one final look toward the lift, to Laure. “I don’t think there’s anything else I can do.”
Before they’d left, she’d taken some final photographs of the scene and of the glass box containing the bracelets, made sure the power was switched off for the lift, but she’d found herself lingering longer than she needed to.
It was instinctive: she hadn’t wanted to leave Laure alone in there, isolated.
As Will closes the door behind them, she’s stricken again with guilt. She can’t shake the feeling that she’s failed Laure somehow—missed something vital that might have prevented this.
“I’ll get some tape up there later. Cordon it off. Cecile’s going to block access through the corridor.” Elin stops, registering the expression on Will’s face. He’s looking at her, but his eyes are distant, like he’s thinking about something else. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you make of those two? Lucas and Cecile?” He lowers his voice. “There’s a funny vibe there.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know. I’m probably reading into it, but how they were speaking to each other—it felt strained.” He starts down the first step, hand grazing the metal railing. “Must be weird, brother and sister, working together—”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence.
Elin can hear voices. The concrete walls of the stairwell are acting like an echo chamber, funneling the sound upward so it’s impossible to tell where exactly they’re coming from: it could be two floors down or four.
She peers over the rail. The stairway is dark and the concrete steps dappled in shadow. Two people are standing at the very bottom of the staircase. Only the tops of their heads are visible, but Elin recognizes them immediately.