The Sanatorium(83)

She’s still wearing her uniform, but the effect is probably the opposite of what she intended. Rather than give the impression that the hotel’s running normally, its hip, casual formality seems faintly ironic—the name badge sitting abruptly askew the final, macabre touch.

“You’re sure this is okay?” Elin gestures to the door.

Cecile gives a short nod. “If you think it will help.”

“I don’t think we have any option. It’s our only lead.” It’s true, Elin thinks. She’s just spoken to everyone about their whereabouts the previous night and this morning. Their alibis were either solid or currently unverifiable. If people were saying they were alone in their room, she doesn’t have any way of proving whether they’re telling the truth or not.

It bothers her, the fact that she’s so blind in this, but without a team, CCTV, all of the usual detailed cross-checking for inconsistencies, she can’t do anything else. She’s reached the limit of her capabilities.

“Fine.” Cecile’s voice is dry, matter-of-fact, but Elin can hear the strain. Celine raises her key fob to the door and it opens with a click; Elin follows her inside.

It smells the same as she remembers—that particular musty odor of old paper, undisturbed dust. Again, the clutter is overwhelming: piles of boxes burying other boxes. Grimy bottles, jars. A battered microfiche machine. Filing cabinets stuffed full of paper.

But despite the mess, the chaos, she can’t help feeling that something about the room looks subtly different.

Cecile’s watching her. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know. Do you think anyone might have been in here recently?”

“I doubt it. This room is never really used.”

“Laure told me you’d planned at the beginning to feature this as part of the hotel. An archive.”

“Yes. Laure started curating it with the archivist before the project got pulled.”

“Why did it get pulled?”

There’s a pause, as if she’s debating how to reply. “Lucas couldn’t make up his mind if it worked,” Cecile says finally. “He decided in the end that it didn’t fit, that guests wouldn’t want the graphic details of what went on here.”

“What do you mean by ‘graphic’?”

“Some of the tuberculosis treatments were basic, to say the least. People thought patients came here simply for the fresh-air cure, sitting out on the terraces, taking advantage of the sunlight, but that was only a part of it.”

“But Laure said the treatment was mainly environmental.”

“Not all of it.” Cecile gives a tight smile. “One of the treatments was a pneumothorax—collapsing the lung. They did this by either introducing air into the pleural cavity, or permanently collapsing it by removing part of the rib cage. Some of the methods were even more rudimentary. In one, they used a mallet to collapse the lung tissue.”

“I didn’t know.” Elin can’t help picturing it—a lurid, graphic image.

“A lot of people don’t.” Cecile’s voice is measured. “It wasn’t always successful. Despite the treatments, a lot of people died here over the years. I think Lucas thought some people might find it unpalatable.”

“Do you agree?” Elin’s voice is clipped. It rankles, not what Cecile’s saying but how she’s saying it. Lucas said. Lucas thought. It’s all coming back to him. His control.

“Yes.” Her expression is inscrutable. “I think he’s right. The guests might like the idea of staying in an old sanatorium, taking photos for social media, but the details? What really went on?” Cecile shrugs. “I’m not so sure.”

“Does what he says always go?” The words are out before Elin can stop them.

Stupid words, because of course he has the veto. He owns this place. The big decisions are his to make.

Cecile looks at her sharply, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

Mentally kicking herself, Elin decides she has to simply ask her outright. There’s no time to mess around.

“I overheard you, in the corridor when we came down from the penthouse. You were trying to persuade Lucas to tell someone something.” Elin hesitates, nerves flickering in her chest as she wonders if she’s pushing it too far. “He didn’t sound happy about it.”

Cecile’s silent. Several beats pass, then she nods.

“It’s to do with the body that was found on the mountain. Daniel’s body.”





67





Lucas’s friend, he works at CURML, the University Centre for Forensic Medicine in Lausanne. Daniel’s remains went there. What he said . . . it sounds like there are similarities with the other murders.”

“In how he was killed?”

Cecile nods, her foot nudging the matting. Tiny pockets of dust cloud the air.

As it clears, Elin glances down; a sudden jolt. There it is again: the outline of a thought; blurred edges, but it’s gone before she can grasp it.

“Daniel was dismembered.” Cecile’s features tense. “Worse than Adele and Laure, but similar. The body was partly preserved by the snow, but he doesn’t think it’s recent.”

Elin doesn’t reply, deep in thought. There’s a big chance this links to what’s happened to Adele and Laure, yet one thing bothers her: this crime, in all probability, happened several years ago, around the time of Daniel’s disappearance, so why would there be such a delay if they were connected?