The Sanatorium(81)

Sliding her notebook toward her, she reads through the brief statements she’d got from the staff and guests after Adele’s murder.

Have I missed anything vital? Some other connection between someone I’d spoken to and Laure and Adele?

But as she sifts through her notes, she’s struck, once again, by how straightforward the statements are. Everyone’s alibis are in order, nothing flagged as suspicious or noteworthy leading up to Adele’s death.

The only thing she can go on is what she’s deduced so far. She needs to write it down, get it straight in her head. She starts with the crimes:


—Two female victims, both working in the hotel, similar ages


Listing everything she’s found out about both Laure and Adele, she starts with Adele:


—No issues with friends, family, her ex. No current partner. (NO OBVIOUS MOTIVE)


—No problems at work apart from the broken friendship with Laure (Axel overheard argument between them, Felisa confirmed issues between them)


Next, she thinks through everything she knows about Laure. A longer list:


—The argument on the phone the first night (possibly to burner phone)


—Laure’s second phone—who did the burner phone she was calling belong to?


—Laure’s relationship with Lucas. Specifically: the letters she sent him & the photographs she had of him. Had the relationship started up again recently?


—The e-mails to the journalist referring to hotel’s alleged corruption/bribery


—Laure’s argument with Adele


Next, she moves on to the crimes themselves:


—Both probably sedated prior to the murders taking place


—Different MO for each (drowning/knife wound inflicted to neck) but bodies reflect the same signature


Putting her pen in her mouth, she chews, staring at what she’s written.

Her eyes keep circling back to one word: signature.

She needs to think about this, dissect it. Not every crime has one, and if it does, the signature is what holds the meaning; it’s the personal imprint of the killer.

It isn’t essential—not something that’s actually required to commit the crime, so its only purpose is to fulfill the emotional or psychological needs of the killer. It comes from deep within their psyche, perhaps reflecting a fantasy they might have had about their victims.

The key element of a signature is that it’s always the same, a pattern, because it stems from the fantasies or desires that have evolved for years before they murdered their first victim.

So what can the signature here tell her?

Picking out the four key elements of the signature again, she writes them down:


—Glass display box


—Digit removal (and then placed in display box)


—Bracelet around digits


—Mask strapped over victim’s head. (Perpetrator also wearing mask.) Mask seems to be one used in the sanatorium for treatment of TB.


Elin stares at what she’s written, her mind spooling through it, when one thought catches, snags.

A jolt: What if I’ve been concentrating on the wrong thing?

What if she’s been so focused on the personal relationships, the dynamics among the people here, that she’s missed something vital?

The medical element.

Putting the files into context with the signature—the mask, the amputations, the use of the display box—it’s obvious.

Adrenaline surges through her. She feels like kicking herself. This is it, isn’t it? The part she’s been missing.

This isn’t about the hotel at all. It’s about the past, what the hotel used to be.

The sanatorium.





65





Still looking down at the page, Elin doesn’t notice the door opening, or Will coming up behind her.

Putting his hand on her shoulder, he squeezes. “Hey. Didn’t you get my message?”

“I replied, didn’t I?”

“Not that one, I sent one about the weather.”

“In another world, sorry.” She tilts her head toward him, and kisses him. “What’s happening?”

“I watched the local report on TV with some of the staff. The snowfall is going to get worse over the next few hours. The avalanche risk is huge.”

Elin looks outside. Snow is coming down relentlessly. More than a blizzard—an onslaught. The drifts around the window seem to be getting bigger by the minute. The sight goes right through her, and she feels her stomach knot.

“Could there be another one here, like before?”

“They think it’s possible . . .” he says anxiously. “The sheer volume of snow in such a short space of time—” He leans against the desk. “So how did it go with Isaac?”

“Pretty badly. He started blaming me, then himself . . .” Elin glances back at her notebook. The words on the page are swimming again. She rubs at her eyes. They’re gritty, sore. “Would you mind going to check on him in a bit? See how he’s doing? It might be better coming from someone else.”

“Of course.” Will looks at her. “And what about you? Have you had anything to eat or drink since you got back to the room?”