by Peter James
She logged off, closed the lid and sat still for some minutes, gathering her thoughts, getting her story together. Slipping out of the dressing gown she’d worn back from the spa, she pulled on a sweater and jeans and tied back her hair. She decided against putting on make-up, wanting to look pale and distressed.
She took the lift down three floors and walked towards the reception desk. As she approached, she saw a young, fair-haired man standing by it, dressed in a blue fleece jacket with the word Gendarmerie in white across the back of it.
The receptionist, to whom she had spoken several times during their short stay, was holding a phone in her hand, and replaced it as she saw Jodie.
‘Ah, Mademoiselle Bentley,’ she said, looking uneasy. ‘I was just calling your room.’ She pointed to the police officer. ‘This is Christophe Chmiel from the Courchevel Gendarmerie – he wishes to have a word with you.’
‘What – what about?’ She turned to the policeman, feeling a genuine prickle of anxiety.
He gave her a concerned smile and spoke in good English. ‘Mademoiselle Bentley, is it possible please I have a private word with you?’
‘Yes – yes, of course. Is this about my fiancé, Walt? I’m really worried about him – we got separated skiing this morning, up at the top in the white-out – and I’ve not seen him all day. Please tell me nothing’s happened to him? I’ve been waiting all afternoon for some news, I’m at my wits’ end.’
The receptionist spoke to the officer in French. ‘Voulez-vous utiliser notre bureau?’
‘Oui, bien, merci,’ he replied.
The receptionist led them behind the counter into a small office with two computer screens, several filing cabinets and two swivel chairs. Then she closed the door behind them.
The police officer gestured to one of the chairs and, looking as weak and anxious as she could, Jodie sat down. ‘Please tell me Walt’s safe, isn’t he?’ she asked.
He pulled out a small notepad and looked at it, briefly. ‘Mademoiselle Bentley, is your fiancé’s name Walt Klein?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And you last saw him at what time today?’
She shrugged. ‘About ten o’clock this morning. We took the cable car up to the top of the Saulire. The visibility was terrible but he was keen for us to be up early to get the fresh powder before it was skied out.’
He gave her a dubious look. ‘You are both good skiers?’
‘Yes – he’s better than I am – he’s an expert – I’m a bit nervous because I don’t know this resort very well yet. But we were told the weather was improving. We couldn’t see a damned thing at the top, but there were some other skiers who were in the cable car with us. I saw them ski off and thought the best thing would be to follow them. Walt told me to go first, in case I fell and he could help me. So I set off, trying to keep up with the others, but they shot off ahead of me, going too quickly. I stopped and waited for Walt but he never appeared. Do you know where he is? I’ve been terrified he’s had an accident. Please tell me he’s all right.’ She began crying.
Chmiel waited for her to compose herself. ‘We are just trying to establish exactly what has happened,’ he said, then asked, ‘What did you do when your fiancé did not appear?’
‘We’d agreed to phone each other and, if we couldn’t get through, we’d head down to the Croisette and wait for each other there, and in a worst case, we’d come back to the hotel and meet here. Then I realized that, stupidly, I’d not brought my phone, so I skied on down to the Croisette.’ She sniffed and dabbed her eyes.
‘And you waited for him?’
‘I waited an hour.’
‘And you weren’t concerned?’
‘Not at that point, no. It’s pretty easy to lose someone in a white-out, and he and I come from rather different skiing cultures.’
‘Cultures?’
She took some moments to compose herself. ‘I’m so worried about him. He’s always skied in places like Park City and Aspen – American resorts where they have powder all the time. I don’t like skiing in zero visibility but it didn’t bother him, so long as there was fresh powder. He knew I hadn’t been that keen to go out today, so I figured he’d found himself some great virgin snow, and reckoned I’d be just as happy to come back here and enjoy the pool and have a massage.’
The officer nodded. ‘Mademoiselle Bentley, I am very afraid to tell you, but this afternoon a body was found at the bottom of the sheer side of the Saulire—’
‘Oh God, no!’ she cried out. ‘No, please no, please no! No, no, tell me it’s not Walt. Please tell me!’
‘This face – this is not possible to ski – not even for off-piste experts – it is only used by the paragliders. The identification we have is two credit cards and the gentleman’s ski-lift pass. It is looking to us as if he must have perhaps mistaken the tracks. The name on the credit cards is Walter Klein. The ski-lift pass was issued by this hotel.’
‘Can you describe him?’ she asked, tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘I have not myself seen him yet. I am told he is a gentleman perhaps in his seventies, with white hair, quite tall and a little heavy build.’ He looked at her quizzically.
She began sobbing. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God, no.’
‘I’m sorry to ask you this, but would you come with me to Moûtiers to identify the body?’
She crumpled, burying her face in her arms. After some moments she fell silent, wary of overdoing it.
5
Tuesday 10 February
Roy Grace had been hoping to get home early, in time to help Cleo bath Noah and put him to bed with his favourite picture-book story. Instead he had been chained to his desk all day, with Glenn Branson, exchanging phone calls and emails with an English-speaking police officer, Bernard Viguet, in the Lyon, France, office of Interpol.
On his desk in front of him lay the email Glenn had brought in earlier, that had come from an officer in the Lyon Gendarmerie addressed to the Senior Investigating Officer of Operation Haywain, the continuing enquiry into the missing suspected serial killer, Dr Edward Crisp.
It stated that a sex worker in the city had gone missing two days ago, after being seen getting into a car late at night in the red-light district. A fellow prostitute, who had been shy to come forward at first, had raised the alarm. She had caught a glimpse of the man in the car, and he resembled the image of Crisp that Grace had circulated through Interpol. The colleague had given a description of the car, and the part of its registration plate that she could recall. It matched a rental car that had been hired from Hertz, and subsequently returned, by an Englishman called Tony Suter.
Something that had piqued Grace’s interest was that Tony Suter was one of the numerous aliases that Crisp had used in past years. Of course, it could have been coincidence. What could also have been coincidence was the appearance of the sex worker. She was in her early twenties, with long brown hair.
The exact profile of every single one of Crisp’s known female victims to date.
The car had been valeted and already gone out with another customer. The French police were now urgently looking for it. In response to Roy Grace’s confirmation that this could indeed be his suspect, they were currently in the process of obtaining the CCTV footage from the rental company’s premises, and a manhunt was under way for the young woman.
‘A big place, Lyon.’
‘I’ve been there.’
‘One of the largest metropolitan areas in France,’ Branson said, helpfully.
‘Thanks for the geography lesson.’
‘You’re welcome. Here’s one for you – The French Connection, with Gene Hackman, remember that?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘That was partly set in Marseilles. The second largest city.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Nothing. Just trying to use any opportunity to educate you. And it had a great ending.’
‘You trying to tell me something?’
Branson was hesitant suddenly. ‘Oh, yeah, right,’ he said. ‘I forgot. Maybe not so tactful.’
‘You could say that,’ Grace said. ‘Unless you’re trying to give me some kind of message?’
Branson grinned, then raised his hands submissively. ‘No message.’
‘I’m glad about that, because the bad guy got away.’
6
Tuesday 17 February
After a week of hanging around, dealing with French officialdom, before Walt Klein’s body was finally released after the post-mortem, Jodie accompanied her fiancé back to New York. She travelled up at the pointed end, sipping vintage bubbly in First Class, appearing to the cabin crew every inch a grieving lover consoling herself with alcohol. Walt travelled in less style, in the rear cargo hold of the plane. Although to be fair, she reasoned at one point, drifting off into a pleasant doze, he had more legroom in his coffin than those poor bastards back in economy.
And also, to be fair, she had not scrimped on the coffin. It was a top-of-the-range hand-carved rosewood affair, with a satin taffeta border and genuine brass handles. There was no finer coffin to be had anywhere in the Alps, the undertaker in Moûtiers had assured her. And certainly, when she saw the price, none that could possibly have been more expensive.
That would have been fine by her late fiancé, had he been in a position to help with the decision. Walt was dismissive of bargains. ‘You buy cheap, you buy twice,’ he had told her on more than one occasion. He’d have been proud of just how expensive this beauty had been, she thought. His final little treat to himself! She would present the bill to his lawyer, who would reimburse her.
The champagne she had been quaffing throughout the journey, from her constantly topped-up glass, was still in her system, maintaining her pleasantly woozy haze through the lengthy immigration queue. Although she hoped she did not reek too much of alcohol when, questioned by the immigration officer at passport control as to the reason for her visit, she had replied, trying to look and sound suitably grief-stricken, ‘To bury my fiancé.’
She collected her bags and entered the arrivals hall, then instantly felt in need of another top-up of alcohol when she saw the frosty faces of Walt’s two children – Don, his tall, serious, forty-year-old son, and Carla, his softer, warmer, thirty-five-year-old daughter, who had come to the airport more out of respect for their deceased father than any love for their gold-digger of a potential stepmother.
‘Carla,’ Jodie said, throwing her arms round her. ‘Oh my God, this is so terrible. So terrible.’ She burst into tears.
‘Dad was an expert skier,’ Don said, drily. ‘He’s skied off-piste for years. He wouldn’t make a mistake.’
‘It was a white-out, in a blizzard,’ Jodie sobbed. ‘We couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces.’
‘Dad wouldn’t have made a mistake,’ he repeated.
‘We’re staying at Dad’s apartment until the funeral,’ Carla said. ‘Hope that’s OK with you?’
‘But as we figured you might want to be alone, to grieve for our father, and avoid all the hassle from the press, we took the precaution of booking you into a hotel,’ Don said. ‘Your choice.’
Suddenly she heard a male voice call out, ‘Jodie!’
She turned, saw the strobe of a flashgun and heard the whirr of a camera motor. Another voice called her name and, as she glanced to the right, another flashgun went. Then another.
There were a dozen paparazzi lined up, all now shouting her name.
‘Jodie, did you know about Walt?’
‘How much did you know about Walt’s finances?’
Jodie had met Walt in Las Vegas just over six months earlier. He’d been sitting at a table on his own, in a smoking bar at the Bellagio, drinking a Martini and lighting a cigar. She’d sat a few tables away, smoking a cigarette and drinking a margarita, eyeing potentials. This was one of the city’s most expensive hotels; people who stayed here or even just came in for a drink were likely to be reasonably well off at worst, seriously loaded at best.
She’d travelled from Brighton, arriving the day before, to have a break, play some blackjack at the high-stakes tables, and try to find a new man. Her kind of man. A nice, lonely, elderly man. Someone who would be grateful for her attentions. But, most importantly of all, someone rich. Very rich.
This trip was an investment, just like her profiles on the high-end dating agencies were.
She chose blackjack because it was sociable, you got a chance to talk to your fellow gamblers and there was a steady turnover of players. She’d made a study of it, read books and knew all the tricks of the game. There was no strategy that could guarantee winning, but there was one that enabled her to stay at a high-rollers table for hours on end, losing very little money. A small cost for the opportunities it gave her to size up the men who perched beside her at the table.
And you could get married in this city, with no fuss at all, any time from 8 a.m. to midnight, on any day.
It looked like she was getting lucky sooner on this trip than she had expected. The jackpot on day one?
A little overweight and flabby, in his mid-seventies, she guessed, with a thick head of wavy silver hair. He was dressed in a yellow Gucci cardigan over a shirt with gold buttons, and blue suede Tod’s loafers.
He looked lonely.
And sad.
And had no wedding ring on his finger.
Hunched up over the table, he was peering at his phone, reading something. Wall Street prices? After a while he put it down, ate the olive from his Martini, then drained the drink and signalled to a waiter for another. Then he puffed on his cigar – a Cohiba, she could tell from the yellow and black band.
She stared at him, holding her cigarette between her fingers, the smoke rising. It took some moments before he finally looked up and caught her eye. She smiled. He gave her a brief, slightly embarrassed nod of acknowledgement, blinked his heavy-lidded eyes, then made a play of looking back down at his phone and tapping the keys, as if to show he wasn’t any kind of Billy-No-Mates, but a busy man.
Instantly she made her move, crushing out her cigarette, scooping up her glass and her bag. Then she strode across to his table, in her silky Ted Baker dress and red Jimmy Choos, and sat down opposite him. Putting on her poshest, cut-glass English accent, she said, ‘You look as lonely as I feel.’
‘That so?’
He lifted his eyes from his phone, and gave her a melancholic stare. She raised her glass. ‘Cheers!’
Obligingly, at that moment, the waiter produced a fresh Martini for him. He raised it and they clinked glasses. ‘Cheers,’ he said back to her, a little hesitant, as if unsure whether he’d just been hit on by a hooker.
‘Jodie Bentley,’ she said. ‘I’m from Brighton, England.’
‘Walt Klein.’ He set his glass down and folded his arms.
Mirroring him, deliberately, she set her glass down and folded her arms, too. ‘So what brings you to Vegas?’ she asked.
‘You want the trailer or the full three hours with intermission?’
She laughed. ‘I don’t have a train to catch. So as long as there’s ice cream, popcorn and alcohol involved, the intermission version is fine by me!’
He grinned. ‘Yeah, well, right, I’m here to try to forget for a while.’ He opened his arms and placed his hands either side of his thighs. Instantly, but subtly, she did the same.
‘Forget?’
‘I went through a pretty bad divorce. Married forty-four years.’ He shrugged and his heavy eyelids lowered, like theatre curtains, then raised again.
Once more she mirrored him. ‘Forty-four years – you don’t look old enough! Married in your teens, did you?’
‘Very flattering of you! I’m probably a bit older than you think. What do you reckon?’
‘Fifty-five?’
‘You’re being too kind. I like your accent. Love the British accent!’
‘Well, thenk yew,’ she said, exaggerating it even more. ‘OK, fifty-seven?’<
br />
‘Try seventy-seven.’
‘No way!’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You look twenty years younger! You must take good care of yourself.’
He held up the cigar then nodded at his Martini. ‘These things take good care of me. Only kidding! Yep, I work out daily. Play tennis regularly, and I like to ski in winter.’
‘I like to keep fit, too,’ she said. ‘I belong to a health club back home. And I ski whenever I can. Where do you like to go?’
‘Mostly Aspen, Jackson Hole, Wyoming and Park City in Utah.’
‘No kidding? Those are resorts I’ve always wanted to go to, particularly Aspen.’ She opened her handbag and pulled out her cigarettes, took one out and held it up, mirroring him again.
‘You know the place I’d really like to go is Courchevel in France!’
‘It’s the best skiing in the world,’ she said.
‘You know it, do you?’
‘Really well.’
‘So maybe I should take you there?’
‘Tonight?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘If you want.’ He looked at his watch. ‘OK, so it’s eight thirty. France is – if I’m working it out right – nine hours ahead of us, so five thirty in the morning. If I chartered a jet now we could be there in time for dinner tomorrow night.’
‘There’s just one problem,’ she said.
‘Which is?’
‘There’s no snow there right now. It’s August!’
‘Good point.’
‘How about a nice dinner here instead?’ she suggested.
‘That would mean cancelling my dinner plans,’ he said.
‘Which were?’
‘There was a famous gourmet in your country, back in the 1950s, way before you were born, a multi-millionaire Armenian called Nubar Gulbenkian. He once said, “The best number for dinner is two – myself and a good waiter.”’
