The Sanatorium(82)
Beneath the desk, her foot jigs up and down. “No. I was planning to, after I spoke to Isaac, then I got stuck on this. Haven’t had time.”
Will sighs, reaching up to ruffle the back of his hair. “Look, I know you’re set on working on this, but you’ve got to look after yourself. What happened up there . . .”
Elin meets his worried gaze, gives a quick a nod of assent.
“Tea?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Coffee?” Will raises an eyebrow. She can see the determination in his eyes. He’s dogged like this. Uncompromising. It’s why every building he designs is feted, wins awards. He’s capable of sitting, for hours, fiddling with a particular element of a design to get it exactly right.
“Okay, thanks.” She forces a smile.
Will walks over to the coffee machine, and puts a cup under the nozzle. “So what are you doing now?”
“Going through the memory stick we found on Laure.”
Switching on the machine, he raises his voice above the sound of the water boiling. “And?”
“There are some files from a psychiatric clinic in Germany, dating back to the 1920s.”
“What’s in them?” The water’s boiled. Now the coffee: a low rumble as it’s forced through the machine into the cup.
“That’s the interesting thing.” She watches the staccato trickle of coffee into the cup. “All of the information is redacted. Names, medical history, treatments. Everything.”
Will frowns, putting the coffee in front of her. “Why would Laure have those?”
“I don’t know. I called the clinic, tried to find out what they might contain. That’s where it gets interesting. The one file I asked about was deleted. The woman I spoke to put down the phone pretty quickly. She sounded thrown.”
He catches her eye. “So not a coincidence, then?”
“I don’t think so.” She takes a sip of coffee. He’s right; she did need something: the hot, bitter liquid immediately pushes through the fog in her head.
“Have you told Berndt about the files?”
“No. I haven’t even told him about the memory stick. I meant to, but . . .” She trails off, hearing the flimsy excuse. She hadn’t meant to, not really. She wanted to follow it up herself—lead, take action. “I don’t think I can now. If he knows I’ve called the clinic without asking them . . .”
Will frowns. “You think he’d stop you investigating?”
“It’s possible. They’ve only authorized me to carry out the most basic investigation.” She hesitates. “I honestly don’t think I can cross-check every action I take with them. We haven’t got time.”
“And you’ve got no other way of finding out what’s on the files?”
“No, but I did find something significant.” Raising a finger to the file on the screen, she points to the patient number. “There’s a number on the file, one of the only things that isn’t redacted.”
“A patient number?”
“Yes. It matches the number on one of the bracelets in the display box from Adele’s murder.”
“So these files”—he raises an eyebrow—“they connect with the killings?”
“Yes.” She’s unable to keep the excitement from her voice. “I think they tell us something. Bring everything together.”
“But if you don’t know what’s in them . . .”
“It doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we know they connect to the killings, and that we know what they are.”
He frowns. “You’re losing me.”
“The fact that they’re medical files, it’s got to be important. Until now, I’ve been thinking in terms of the hotel, the relationships among the people here as a potential motive for the murders, but I think that’s wrong. I don’t think it’s about the hotel at all. I think it’s about what it used to be.”
“The sanatorium?” Will pulls up a chair. She’s got his attention now.
“Yes. Think about how the murders were staged, the props. The mask, the display box, the bracelets . . . it’s like the killer is trying to draw our attention to something.” She jabs at the screen again. “It’s the hotel’s past, isn’t it? Its clinical past, the sanatorium. These medical files, when they’re dated, they connect it.”
“That makes sense,” Will says carefully, “but where do you go from here?”
“I need to check everyone’s alibi. See if there are any inconsistencies. I can’t check CCTV as it’s down.”
“But what if everyone has an alibi? You still don’t have any other concrete leads.”
Elin picks up her coffee, takes a long drink. “I’ve been thinking about that. Laure must have got these files from somewhere, mustn’t she?”
“Somewhere here?”
“The archive room. It’s the one place in the hotel that hasn’t been modernized. If all this is about the hotel’s past, I think I’ve got to take another look in there.”
66
Cecile is already standing by the door to the archive room as Elin arrives. Her expression is tense, the dark shadows looming beneath her eyes now bruiselike in their intensity.