Becwethan (The Leopold Dix Thrillers Book 1)

by mark mctighe

  “So” Rufus paused for thought. “That could be the puzzle then. Did she blame him? If so why? And was she right to do so? But your dad’s body was never found, a climbing accident is all you’ve ever told me.”

  “It was rarely discussed, whenever I pushed for information grandmother would just clam up” I said. “But there is a way we could find out a great deal more...... pass me the photos.” A collection of some 20 black and white photos had been jumbled up in the files. Maybe some had accompanied the letters, but they looked older than that, they had probably come over with my mother’s belongings in 1962. “I’ve tried to put them into some kind of order; think this is the oldest”. The first picture was very grainy. It showed an old man with a pitchfork standing in front of a chalet. You could just make out ‘Chalet Rothorn’ chalked on the old timbers.

  “He looks just like you dad, and what a cool pad, just check the backdrop”.

  Rufus was right the vista was stunning, five snow clad peaks visible just behind the chalet and judging by the long grass and pitchfork it was the height of summer.

  “If they’re still snow covered it must mean they’re 4000m plus.” Rufus said.

  “It’s typical of you, I’m showing you a picture of one of your relatives, probably your great grandfather, and all you’re looking at are the mountains.”

  “Yeah, but he’s long gone and those babies are still there; do you recognise them?”

  “I think some of the other shots are clearer” I said as I spread the photos out on the table.

  The pictures were all of the same chalet, in some the sign had been repainted, log piles were emptying and moving, and faces changing; but the one beautiful constant was the mountains.

  “Rufus I know you’re looking at the mountains, but please just for one second look at the chalet, that’s what grandmother left to me this morning. We know exactly where it is, I’ve even got the address, so we’ll get the maps out and find the mountains in a minute.” Rufus went straight upstairs to where the maps were always kept for our trips, minutes later returning with the whole section on Switzerland.

  “Which valley? Which village?”

  This was a man on a mission, who could suddenly see an indefinite climbing holiday, with free accommodation.

  “Don’t get too excited, your mother will never buy this”.

  After years of climbing trips in Europe, chalets were a very familiar structure to me. Six large upright timbers supported this chalet, suspending it a metre or so off the ground. Each of these six legs had a large circular stone atop to prevent rats, mice and the likes from entering it. The windows always small, to minimise heat loss, a worn open timber staircase of 4 steps took you to the front door; the wood black.

  “Rufus, I’m not even sure if it’ll still be standing, it’s 1971 since anyone lived there.”

  Despite the uncertainty I could feel the excitement in the house that night, maps out all over the floor, photos of chalets and mountains and above all a sense of place, a sense of belonging. The papers said the Grimentz chalet was built by my family in 1690, the best part of 10 generations of the Von Arx family and now it’s ours; “shit” I shook my head in disbelief

  “Found it. Have you climbed in Val d’Anniviers dad?” The room fell silent.......... “No... You’re joking, that’s Gustav’s patch.......He’s in that valley; I’ve got an address somewhere. I fumbled through my address book, all thumbs; “shit,..... Fuck.... Come on..... Yes here it is he’s in Pinsec.” Gustav was a friend and old climbing buddy, I’d pretty much lost touch over the last five years or so, but occasional cards from mountain locations around the world let me know he was still alive and climbing.

  “Here we are, Grimentz, it’s at 1600m.” Rufus drew a thin pencil line around Grimentz, then scanned back to look at the various peaks on offer; Besso, Zinal Rothorn, Dent Blanche, Jesus Christ you can get up the Weisshorn from this side, from Zinal.” This had just made Rufus’s day, bugger the book collection, his dad had a Swiss chalet within striking distance of one of the great mountains of the Alps.

  We ordered in an Indian, uncorked a bottle of wine, and talked about how things might change for the two of us.

  “Tell you what dad, I could help rebuild her, make her liveable, do some climbing. Maybe Gustav’s got a job? You should think about taking that sabbatical they’ve been offering you, knock this place into shape and see if you can’t find out a little more about the ‘raking up of the past’, what do you think?”

  Normally my answer would have been a resounding no, but I found myself saying yes in a roundabout way “It is a once in a life time opportunity...... I guess I ought to see what paperwork needs sorting in Switzerland........Not so sure about a sabbatical, but I could probably engineer a couple of months off.” Maybe it was the wine talking, the cherished company of my son, or perhaps I was just ready for a complete and utter change. I’d see how I felt in the morning, no final decisions tonight.

  Sleep was restless, dreams short and abrupt. A flash flood of images flickering, derelict chalets, rock falls, cries for help. I woke with a start, fists clenched, jaw aching, and raised heart rate. I pulled on my underwear and went downstairs for a glass of water and one more look at those maps.

  FOUR

  It was early Saturday morning and a low grey stratum of cloud hung over London. It was the kind of day served up throughout the winter. Not much light, a dampness that found its way through your clothes and right into your bones and joints. Greyness everywhere, in the buildings, the trees, people, even the noise of London was grey. But I just couldn’t see it that morning, the morning of 8th December, everything looked brighter to me.

  It was still only 7.00am and Rufus was likely to be in bed for the next two or three hours so I reached for the mobile and called.

  “Jack, It’s Leo, what time are you getting to work? That’s great I’m on my way now, should be there 8.00ish, ciao”. Jack was my boss, friend and a bit of a mentor to me. At 57 he had nearly10 years on me, and was lining up to retire at 60; a wise council, and perfect foil.

  I dressed quickly and being 7.15 on a Saturday morning took the obvious choice of transport, my car. The tube was unquestionably quicker during the week, but all you could say about it was that it got you from A to B; a less pleasant means of transport would be difficult to find in London. Perhaps an unlicensed minicab with vomit in the foot well was one rung lower.

  I grabbed my keys and laptop, patted the outside of my jeans to confirm that wallet and phone were there, and slipped out of the door in search of the car. There she was standing a foot taller than all the other cars and only partially unsighted by the ubiquitous white Transit. Royal blue, with a white roof, almost military in appearance, ‘Wolf’ was her adopted name, only because the registration number began with WF. A Defender 90, five years old and not the most sensible vehicle to be driving in London. But, in my defence, I needed a vehicle that could take me to the less accessible parts of the UK, loaded with climbing gear. I hitched myself up, place the laptop on the front seat, and fired her up. Never one to disappoint, and despite a two week layoff, the engine caught immediately and a puff of diesel drifted across the road; into my neighbour’s window. “Now that’s the smell of the countryside” I muttered.

  I opened the central glove box rooted around and grabbed the first disc I came to. I pulled out onto the Durnsford Road with Kate and Jeremiah giving me ‘John Wayne is big leggie’, now that’s what I call music..............“He's as big as a ranch...............Take me away.........He's as tough as they come. J-J-J-J-J-John Wayne.........Take me away............He's so long.........Take me away ........You know he's never wrong.”

  The song was good, but I remember being captivated by the video, a sort of pole dancing without the pole.

  I cleared my head of the gyrating body and started to think of the best way of approaching Jack. “Sod it” I said as I moved smoothly through the Wandsworth one way system, ‘You’re just better off telling him straight,
he’ll probably think it’s a good idea. It wasn’t that long ago he was pushing you to take some time off’. I stayed on the south side of the river, and then headed over Albert Bridge; down the embankment through Victoria and I was pulling into New Scotland Yard. That gave me 15 minutes to get sorted before Jack.

  It’s always a source of great interest to non police when you say you work at Scotland Yard. I find it’s usually best to change the subject, let people get to know you first. I now had an unbroken service record of 27 years; joining after school and two years of climbing, at the age of 20. At that stage I had no real desire to police but had been attracted to the role of physical trainer, based out of Hendon. I was well equipped for the role. It was my perfect job, dream job even; devising new exercise regimes, knocking new recruits into shape..... It was outdoors, physical and aggressive, ‘nail on the head’ my mother had said. It took seven years to knock the edges off me. I’d grown up and wanted a career in the police, the real police. It meant taking a backward step or two but it had all been worth the wait. There followed years of training, exams and assessments, numerous departments, divisions and secondments before I found myself as a lead investigator, ‘special investigations’. There were four other lead investigators so it wasn’t as grand as it sounded. The work was fascinating but paperwork fastidious and cumbersome. Jack Johnson decided who got which case usually based on their skills and workload, but it was well known that he favoured a few, and I had had more than my fair share of the cream.

  “Jack, thanks for seeing me; anything interesting in this morning?”

  Jack looked up from his swollen desk, “yes, a couple of things have been passed to us overnight that I need to put you guys on straight away....... You look pleased with yourself, let’s get a coffee, and have a chat.”

  We wandered out to the coffee machine.

  “I won’t beat about the bush and I know you like it straight Jack so this is how it goes.” I briefly explained what had happened at the reading of the will and the discovery that I now had a derelict chalet in Switzerland.

  “You lucky sod, I wish my folks’d drop dead and leave me something. You know Leo I saw my mother last weekend, she’s eighty seven now, been telling me she’s about to die for the last fifteen years. She asked me if I’d look after that shit awful dog of hers when she died; a fucking chalet, in fucking Switzerland you lucky fucker.”

  “It’s not only derelict Jack, it might be just a pile of wood lying on the ground by now, no one’s been living in it since 1971.”

  “So, coming back to the issue at hand” said Jack, “what are you proposing to do about it?”

  “I can have all my cases ready to hand over during February, and I propose taking that short sabbatical you’ve been promising me from the beginning of March. I thought three months would be perfect, back on the job from 1st June.”

  “You’ll need to put it in writing, and request 12 months, that way I’ll be able to swing some extra resources and when you’re back, who knows, we might be able to keep them.” Jack winked, we both knew that extra resources were impossible to get, but it was worth a try.

  “I’ll get the request in today and I’ll see you Monday Jack”.

  “Cheers Leo”, I left him with his head bent double over that ballooning desk. He’d have to start reallocating the cases. I didn’t envy him, but he loved the work.

  I drove back home to break the great news to Rufus. The Saturday morning shoppers were on their pilgrimage to the King’s Road, Sloane Square, and Knightsbridge, so I got over the river as quickly as I could and shot along the Embankment. I was back, opening the front door, within thirty minutes. It wasn’t even ten o’clock.

  “Rufus, you up?” I shouted up the stairs.

  “In here dad, doing a little research.” The maps were still spread across the table, with a scribble of paper next to a Union Jack mug with no handle.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve fished that out of the bin.” I exclaimed.

  “More hole than sole dad, it’s perfectly functional, and I think I rather like it”.

  I fixed myself a tea whilst Rufus started to explain the various routes for an ascent of the Weisshorn, referring occasionally to his notes.

  “I know you prefer to use no transport where possible dad! So assuming we walk from the chalet, which I guess is in the vicinity of Grimentz, then we can make just one overnight stay at the Cabane Tracuit, over the Bishorn and… ”

  “I can’t believe you’re planning, actually I can, but it’s a bit early. Look I know you’re excited but, well, let’s just get there first.”

  “You’re definitely coming then?” Rufus enquired.

  “Yes” I said.

  “Wicked, man.”

  “I’ve made the arrangements with Jack this morning, no turning back now”.

  Rufus sprang up from the chair and gave me a bear hug. “We’re going to have such a cracking time, I can’t wait to tell mum.” I was sure that the moment he did tell her she’d be on the phone, telling me what a bad idea it was, and how it was time for our son to get a job, not clear off to Switzerland, following his dangerous hobby. But as far as I was concerned he was an adult now, he could make up his own mind, and if I was in his position I’d want to do exactly the same thing.

  FIVE

  Christmas came and went in a flash and suddenly I had only two months to hand over my case load. I had to push all thoughts of Switzerland clean out of my mind; single minded focus required. All ideas and hunches needed to be put down in writing, with each ongoing investigation presented to Jack and the newly assigned investigator. He was fastidious, ‘and that’s what catches the bastards out’ he’d say.

  Finally the end of February arrived, and as I walked out of the building, to catch the tube for one final time, I could feel my spirits lift, take off and just keep rising. I’d kept my work phone; just in case Jack need to check up on something and my laptop which was loaded with all sorts of software and firewalls allowing me access to the main system. Jack’s parting words being ‘Leo, you’d better keep the computer, it’d be a help to me if you looked in on your cases every couple of weeks, the others don’t need to know, but you could email me your thoughts.”

  “Not a problem and I’ll let you know how the construction project goes!” It was typical of Jack he thought he was doing me a favour letting me work whilst on sabbatical. I’d do him the courtesy of reading the first batch of reports and telling him that it looked like everything was under control.

  The particular convenience of the tube was that I didn’t need to change. St James’ Park Tube station was a two minute walk; I would stay on the District and Circle line for 12 stops and get out at Wimbledon Park. A five minute walk and I’d be turning the key in my front door. My fellow passengers were no different today from any other day, well dressed types hopping on and off at Sloane Square and South Kensington. The Kiwis, Australians and drunken tramps getting on at Earls Court, not entirely sure which way they were going. The last really expensive suits departed at Parsons Green, with the more suburban types seeing out the last few stops. I was different though, nodding at a few people who caught my eye, standing back and letting the others rush around me, I could sense a relief, a calming after the administrative mayhem of February.

  I could barely get through the front door. There was a tsunami of belongings on the pointing of smashing through the walls and drowning my neighbours in a tangle of ropes, crampons, canvass bags, and rucksacks. I could see them now fighting to get their heads above the tents, burners and cargo netting.

  “Where did you put the single blue tent dad?” Rufus’s strangled voice could be heard from the under stairs cupboard.

  “It’s not in there, and watch your head. It’s knackered so I’ve shoved it in the shed.”

  “More hole than sole, man” this time we said it together and I chuckled.

  “Shed key’s in the top draw and there should be a couple of rolls of duck tape in there. You’ll need it if
you’re planning on using it”.

  Rufus headed out into the garden to retrieve his tent. I could just picture him by the campfire, drinking tea out of the mug with no handled, behind him a tent constructed of tape and canvass, holes in his socks, a tear in his jacket, giving me advice about how to look after myself.

  Ten minutes later he returned with an arm full of old stuff, and promptly turned around to retrieve more. “Not too much crap, please” I hollered. Thirty seconds and he was back with his second load.

  “There’s some seriously good gear here dad, it might need a bit of fixing, but we could be half way up a mountain with not much to entertain us in the evenings.”

  He was a true climber, and would spend hours fixing and checking equipment. Pulling things apart to painstakingly put them together, better and invariably stronger. His attention to detail, whilst not evident in his appearance, was legendary amongst his climbing friends.

  We spent the rest of the evening getting ready for our early start.

  “We’ll put it all in the car first thing” I said. “Someone will only break the window otherwise, to see if there’s anything worth nicking”.

  The mobile started to buzz at 3.00am and by 5.00am we were loaded and in the car. Wolf sat a touch lower on her suspension, a cargo net thrown over the top of the gear and secured. One last glance at the house, a flick of the wrist and the engine turned over. I’d managed to redirect the mail, and my cleaner had promised to check on the property every two weeks. I was a little more anxious about that as I hadn’t known her that long. I could just imagine a family of 10 Poles moving in. I made a mental note to ask Jack if he’d have it checked once in a while.