He peered through his high-powered binoculars raking the landscape ahead of where the vehicle had disappeared. Two gigantic pillars of rock hung over the rough path forming a natural canopy. He waited, expecting it to reappear, but there was no sign of the bike. It seemed to have evaporated into thin air.
The path was an extension of a narrow road through a village about a kilometre away. Nestled against the mountain it was almost invisible to climbers higher up. Just a couple of rustic chalets and a goat pen. The tarmac road ended just beyond this point and narrowed into little more than a dirt track. Without a trail bike it would be impossible to get higher up the tortuous path. The only other way up was on foot. It was the first week of November. Already, a layer of icy snow crackled underfoot. A heavy snowfall would make it even more difficult.
He followed the stone-strewn path keeping up a steady pace on the uneven surface. Suddenly, a shot echoed across the slopes. Instinctively, he ducked and dived for cover behind a large boulder. It wasn’t meant to kill him. He knew a skilled marksman could have easily picked him off in the open. No, this was a warning. Two more shots rang out, pinging off the rock, sending slivers of stone flying into the air.
He swept the area with his binoculars. A sudden movement caught his eye about three hundred metres above him. A figure clothed in black wearing ski glasses. There was something familiar about the way he moved as he scrambled up the slope: a certain sinewy litheness. Suddenly, he stopped and looked down, hands planted on his hips. Conrad was almost certain it was the man he had seen in the hotel. With a final glance over his shoulder he was gone.
Warily, Conrad cut across to an isolated chalet on the outskirts of the village.
“Guten tag!” he called to a man busily stacking logs against the side of his chalet. “Stocking up for the winter?”
“Ja, before the big snows come.”
“I expect a lot of visitors stay up here in the clinic in the summer months.”
Bemused, the villager grinned and scratched his head. Tourists, he thought contemptuously.
“No, there’s nothing here. Some years ago there was a hotel and restaurant up there.” He pointed in the direction of the rock formation Conrad had spotted. “It changed hands many times, but it wasn’t very successful. The last owners started to build an ice hotel for tourists. They burrowed deep into the mountain, but the project soon shut down after two young skiers were killed. There’s nothing left of it except a shell of broken timber. Since the avalanche walkers never go up there. It’s too dangerous.”
Conrad rejoined the main signposted path and climbed steadily for another hour until he reached the Schilthornbahn at Berg. The cable car was locking into position to disgorge its passengers when he approached the station. Following the crowd on board he pushed his way into a corner, pressed in by a group of excited Japanese girls. The gondola rattled over the cable as it left the station. The girls screamed hysterically and covered their eyes, not daring to look at the precipitous drop to the valley floor.
He scanned the surrounding mountains as the cable car slowly descended, straining his eyes for any sign of a building that might house a clinic. Nothing except snow and rocks. A slight bump heralded their arrival at Mürren. He caught the train to Grütschalp down to Lauterbrünnen where he had left his car. Tomorrow he would hire a trail bike.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Shropshire, England
Dr Barnett lifted the sheet covering the body. Wallace sucked in his breath when he saw the mutilated face. Someone had taken a knife to her. Whoever did it was a sadistic bastard, or didn’t want her to be recognised for some reason. He stared at the partially-clothed, bloated corpse. Sightless eyes wide open, stripped of dignity. An image of his daughter studying for a degree in London floated in front of his eyes. A thrill of fear swamped his chest. Quickly, he pushed the thought out of his mind.
“Huge bristols,” DC Baker smirked near his shoulder.
Fists clenched, Wallace whirled round, his face red with fury. For a split second the pathologist thought he was going to punch the DC. Startled, Baker took a step backwards almost losing his balance.
“In future you’ll treat victims with respect. Is that clear?” Wallace hissed through clenched teeth. “Now, get out of my sight before I forget I’m your superior officer! I’ll deal with you later!”
He bent over the corpse, quickly zipped up the body bag and signalled to the SOCOs. For a few minutes he gazed out over the fast-flowing water watching it slap against the bank. Heavy rains had swollen the river, flooding the area on both sides. The ground was soft and squelchy underfoot. A furrow of deep mud indicated where the body had been dragged up the bank.
“Who found the body?”
“Some kids out riding their bikes,” Dr Barnett replied. “They spotted it from the path, lodged in that partially sunken tree… frightened hell out of them.” She pointed to a detached cottage, about two hundred yards away, with lawns sloping down to the river edge. “Apparently, they were heard screaming from that house back there.”
Wallace gingerly squelched through the mud to examine the spot. It was a fresh break. The tree had obviously come down the night before during high winds. The body had snagged in the branches preventing it from floating downstream.
“I’ll call you in the morning about the post mortem,” Dr Barnett said.
“How about dinner tonight, Jo?” Wallace murmured, struggling back to her side.
“I thought you had a girlfriend? Maggie, isn’t it?”
“Ex-girlfriend. She left a note before she jetted off to New York; says she sees more of the pilot than she does of me. No strings, scout’s honour,” he pleaded. “Come on, what do you say?”
“All right, pick me up at eight, as long as it’s somewhere outside town.”
Wallace had been plucking up the courage to ask Jo out ever since Maggie had dumped him. Their relationship was never going anywhere. He supposed he should feel guilty about it, but all he felt was relief. He realised with a start that he had never really loved Maggie. She was just a comfortable habit he had acquired after his wife had run off with her boss. A slight thrill of anticipation coursed through him. He was looking forward to his dinner date.
On the way back to Shrewsbury, he reflected on the information forwarded from Interpol. A body had been found floating in the Seine near the Isle de Citè in Paris, completely naked. It had turned out to be a drunken student bent on a late-night swim. Another had been dragged out of Lake Geneva. Now he was waiting for an up-to-date report from his old friend, Ernst Dreher, his counterpart in Geneva, but it was unlikely there was a connection with the murders on his patch.
*
Settled in a bay window overlooking the river, Wallace tucked ravenously into his steak.
“This is lovely, Ben,” Jo said looking around the room.
She hesitated to say romantic, but it was. Subdued lighting, pristine white tablecloths; deep-pile carpets muffling the steps of waiters. A log fire crackling in the grate, bathing diners in a rosy glow. It was perfect.
“I always come here when I want to chill out over a quiet meal,” Wallace mumbled through a mouthful of meat. “Hardly anybody at the station comes here. Most of them prefer the pubs or a curry house.”
They continued their meal in companionable silence. Jo looked at him as she sipped her glass of Rioja. Brooding dark looks, green eyes; he really was quite attractive. She shook herself mentally. Pity he’s a policeman. Her relationship with her ex-husband, a superintendent in the Metropolitan Police, had ended acrimoniously. They had both been wrapped up in their own careers, barely noticing they had drifted apart until it was too late. Tentatively, Wallace reached out and covered her hand with his own then quickly withdrew it. It was too soon to start a new relationship, especially while he was so involved with his investigations. His thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of his mobile phone. “DCI Wallace,” he said quietly. He listened intently for a few minutes then snapped his phone sh
ut. Before he had chance to speak, Jo’s phone rang. She raised her eyebrows as she stuffed it back into her handbag. Wallace cursed under his breath, a scowl darkening his face. They were going to the same place.
*
Wallace pushed aside the plastic strip doors and edged into the post mortem room. Jo Barnett was huddled over the corpse of the girl they had found the day before.
“You’re off the hook with that one over there,” she commented, inclining her head towards another body under a sheet on the far side of the room. “Massive heart attack brought on by excessive alcohol intake plus a mixture of Class A drugs.”
“This one wasn’t strangled as I told you yesterday. There are marks on the throat, but it turns out that wasn’t the cause of death. The knife slashes on her face were carried out after she had been drowned. Whoever murdered her will have scratches – deep ones. There’s a substantial amount of skin and blood under her fingernails. We also found something else.” She held up a tweezers.
“Take a look. You’ll need this.”
Wallace took the outsized magnifying glass and squinted at the sample. It looked like a strand of something. In fact it was several tiny strands. Two were definitely hair. The others could have been fabric. It was difficult to say until forensics looked at them.
“I’ll get it off to the lab,” Jo said, shooing him out of the door. “Get some sleep. If you keep on the way you’re going you’ll be under one of these sheets: you too, Butler.”
Wallace’s shoulders sagged. They had both been up all night. For a moment he felt slightly detached as though his head was floating somewhere above his body. Butler drove home very sedately, too tired to drive at his normal speed.
He was almost asleep when they crunched up his driveway. They screeched to a halt sending chippings flying from the wheels. He tumbled out on wobbly legs, barely acknowledging Butler’s parting wave. Stumbling to the living room, he threw himself on the sofa, fully dressed, and sank into blissful sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Bernese Oberland
Conrad parked the car and trailer he had hired and unloaded the scrambler. Fingers of light pierced the sky in the east. He glanced at his watch – 07:00 hours. It would be light in fifteen minutes. Gunning the engine he lurched up the mountain trail that led high up into the mountains away from Berg.
At intervals he stopped to survey the landscape. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a couple of chalet-type inns before the trail veered off. When he reached the highest inn the trail looped back to join another that also led up to Berg. He dismounted, went inside and ordered some hot chocolate. The rosy-cheeked woman scurried off and quickly returned with his drink.
“The air is so clear up here,” Conrad said. “No wonder people come here for their health.”
“Ja, they come in summer, along with walkers and climbers, usually to private chalets on the lower slopes. In winter we are usually snowed in. We close the hotel and move to our chalet near Mürren. There’s nothing beyond here.”
Conrad nodded. If there was a facility higher up in the Alps, it was unlikely to be anywhere near the cable car route to Schilthorn where it could be seen by hundreds of tourists.
He continued riding the trails, stopping occasionally to survey the landscape or an isolated gummi hut. The terrain was much rougher now with a lot of loose shale. When the engine stalled and died, almost throwing him off, he decided to climb higher on foot.
Concealing the bike behind some rocks, he set off at a steady pace. It was a beautiful morning. Overhead, a white sun glittered in an azure sky illuminating the snow-capped peaks. Far below, little clusters of houses clung to the grass draping to the foot of the mountain. It was so still and quiet.
Suddenly, he heard the faint drone of an engine. The dark shape of a helicopter appeared in the distance flying perilously close to the peaks. Conrad followed its shadow on the snow until it dropped behind an enormous outcrop of rock and disappeared from sight. He waited for it to reappear again, but the sky around him remained empty except for a few scudding clouds that had swept in over the mountains.
It has to come back up, he thought, there’s nowhere for it to go. If it had crashed he would have seen the smoke. It must have landed somewhere up there high above him. He calculated it was at least another two hours arduous trek to get to the point where it had disappeared. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time to complete his investigations and get back down to the foot of the mountain before dusk.
His breathing became more laboured as he climbed higher into thinner air. His main objective was to reach that part of the trail that ran parallel with the Berg cable car station. He was sweating profusely even though it was a cold, crisp day.
Shortly after midday, he decided he was close enough to the spot. Concealed behind rocks he swept the area with his binoculars, swinging up and across at an angle. Nothing but boulders, sparse grass and a few spindly pines clinging to the steep slopes. He scanned the mountain again, panning over what appeared to be whitish-grey stones on a patch of grass.
“What the hell… ?” he said aloud. He blinked and refocused the lenses. “My eyes are playing tricks on me. Goats! It can’t be!”
Except for that one patch of snow-pocked, level grass, it was all stone with sheer outcrops of rock falling away from it. Surely, goatherds wouldn’t climb this far up to tend them, especially in November, when there was more plentiful grazing lower down. Besides, it was the only patch of grass to be seen amongst a blanket of white.
He tried to fit the pieces together. Goats on a patch of grass; odd, very odd indeed. Studying a map outlining all the mountain paths, he circled the area where he had seen the animals. It was directly under where the helicopter had gone down. Beneath the goats, a barely visible trail dropped down about two hundred metres. It came to an abrupt end above an outcrop of rock and shale that had collapsed, spreading into a landslide of rubble that tumbled down the slopes.
Suddenly, a cutting wind swept across the slopes. He shivered. The temperature was dropping. Dark, ominous clouds floated across the sun creating a temporary twilight. He had to start his descent if he was to get back to the motorcycle and off the mountain before sunset. With any luck Sasha would have come up with the aerial photographs he asked him to get. That would give him a better idea of how the helicopter managed to disappear into thin air.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Bernese Oberland
Guests crowded at the lift doors muttered impatiently when the green indicator light paused. It was on its way down, stopping at every floor. Conrad glanced at his watch… seven thirty. Half an hour before his meeting with Sasha. It was quicker to take the stairs. Reaching his room he checked the fine, cotton thread he had placed between the door and the frame. It was still there. A precaution he had taken after being spotted on the mountain by the man who had jumped into the taxi with Ethan Bateman. Conrad had been wearing wrap-around snow glasses and a neck warmer pulled up over his face. He didn’t think he had been recognised, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
He quickly showered, rubbing vigorously at his arms and legs. His muscles were aching after riding the trail bike and the strenuous uphill walking. So far he had learned nothing concrete, but his gut feeling told him there something significant on the mountain. All he had to do now was get back up there and find out exactly what was going on.
Dressed casually in black trousers and a dark-red cashmere sweater, he strolled into the bar. He found a secluded corner where he could sit with his back to the wall and watch the entrance. Five minutes later Sasha sauntered in, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room. He smiled when he spotted Conrad waving at him. Women stared and whispered, returning his sensual smile, their thoughts written on their faces.
“Sasha old chap, glad you could make it,” Conrad said, loudly enough for other guests to hear him. “I couldn’t believe it when I bumped into you yesterday. It’s been a long time. Are you here on holiday?”
“Unfortunatel
y, it’s work. We’re filming a new series. I think it’s what you British call a ‘soap’.” He laughed, exposing even white teeth.
Conrad felt as though they were under a microscope. Every movement was being monitored by surrounding guests. Ironically, the exposure helped. They were just two old friends enjoying some time together. When they had settled with their drinks Conrad related the sighting of the helicopter.
“It was very strange. It just dropped into the mountains and didn’t reappear. For a split second I thought it had crashed, but I would have seen the smoke. It must have landed.”
“How could it land in the Alps, especially between the summits of the peaks?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Would you say it was normal for goats to be grazing that high up?”
“It’s not unusual to see goats in Switzerland,” Sasha chuckled.
“About a dozen of them were grazing on a large patch of grass. The peculiar thing is there wasn’t a building in sight, not even a gummi hut. Doesn’t it seem a bit strange that animals were simply left there to fend for themselves? There’s more to this than meets the eye. I’m going back up there.”
“I’ll come with you. I know these mountains like the back of my hand. At this time of year the Alps can be unpredictable and treacherous.”
Conrad was about to protest then remembered that Sasha had been a serious mountain climber since his teens. Dressed in full mountain gear and snow glasses his face had smiled out of all the glamour magazines.
“Okay, you win,” he replied, swallowing the last of his drink. “Let’s get some dinner then we can take a look at the aerial pictures.”
*
Back in Conrad’s room they spread the photographs over the bed. Delving into his laptop case he pulled out a magnifying glass. Carefully, they studied the trails and slopes looking for clues.
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