Christmas in the Snow

by Karen Swan

  ‘Pierre,’ she said in greeting, crossing the cherry-wood floor that was so highly polished she half wondered whether he used it to look up his PA’s skirt.

  ‘Allegra,’ Pierre continued, still writing. ‘A drink?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ She stood beside the chair on the opposite side of the desk to his, waiting to be told to sit, her eyes admiring the intensity on his face as he wrote.

  After another minute or so, he threw – actually threw – the pen across the desk in front of him and looked up. His smile was cold. Her heart flipped a beat.

  ‘I think we do need a drink,’ he said, getting up and pouring them each a brandy, even though it was only four in the afternoon. He handed one to her. ‘Take a seat.’

  She did as instructed, watching as he walked towards the long, tall windows that afforded commanding views over the Wharf and back towards London proper. His silhouette was as sharply cut as the London skyline. Like her, he was a triathlon freak, and his PB was only eighteen minutes faster than hers – they had even run together on several occasions – and they had spent many evenings alone in his office, the last ones to leave, discussing carbon-fibre bikes and skinsuits.

  But it wasn’t his fitness or success or drive that she respected most. It was his intellect – a cool, rational brain that she could predict and understand, and which silenced the braggadocio of the look-at-me traders. It had brought him a personal fortune of £7 billion, homes on almost every continent in the world (had he wanted a ski lodge in Antarctica, he could have had one there too), a model wife (third) and, better than any of that put together, a reputation as a City goliath that saw CEOs of FTSE 100s stand even when he entered a ballroom.

  Allegra watched in silence as he turned back to her, his eyes appraising her for a long moment before he wandered back to his desk. She tracked him like she was watching through the scope on a rifle, never blinking, not moving a muscle lest that be enough to lose him from view. She realized she was cold.

  She hadn’t seen him since she’d stormed out of the V&A, but Pierre wasn’t delicate about high tempers; in fact, he actively encouraged passions in his employees. But she’d promised to bag the Yong deal within the week and her follow-up calls to Yong’s office yesterday and today had been politely brushed off with the unsurprising news that Mr Yong was away travelling.

  She couldn’t ask Sam Kemp either, assuming that he’d tell her even if he knew. Not after the stunt she’d pulled . . . He had flown from Paris straight back to New York, apparently to wind up his affairs there and formally hand over to his successor, but Kirsty hadn’t been able to find out when he was due back and Allegra hadn’t pushed it for once – she didn’t want to rely on him in any way or for anything.

  There was a strong knock on the door and it opened.

  ‘Pierre.’

  Allegra felt her sinews tighten. Christ, talk of the devil.

  ‘Come in, Kemp. We’ve been waiting for you.’

  Allegra didn’t stir as she heard Sam’s tread over the floor, saw his frame fill her peripheral vision to the left: navy suit, navy tie, black shoes . . . She refused to imagine him sitting alone at the table in the Ritz. She refused to wonder how long he had waited before realizing she wasn’t going to arrive.

  Pierre poured him a drink and handed it over. ‘The two of you seem to be having trouble clinching the Yong deal.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that I was even allowed to clinch the deal,’ Allegra said quickly, determined to get in first. ‘Aren’t I supposed to be back office on this now?’

  ‘You didn’t sound very back office in Paris,’ Pierre replied with cold, knowing eyes.

  Allegra straightened her back. News of her ‘heist’ had got back to him, then.

  ‘Chinese etiquette dictated a return meeting and offering of gifts. By turning up unannounced, I was trying to obligate him into acting,’ she said simply.

  ‘Well, it didn’t work, did it?’ Pierre replied, unimpressed. ‘Far from it. In fact, it seems to me that you’ve pushed him into the arms of our competitors. Thanks to Kemp’s “in” with the son, we know that the Yongs had dinner with Peter Butler and his fucking cronies at Red Shore in Berlin last night.’

  ‘There’s no way they can compete with our strategy,’ Allegra said confidently, determined to sound unafraid. ‘It’s Teflon-plated.’

  ‘Really? Because not everybody is of the same opinion as you on China. Shares in Demontignac are up to ninety-one dollars. You just lost us forty-two million pounds by bottling last week.’

  Allegra thrust up her chin. ‘I didn’t bottle. They’re going to tank. Their business model isn’t—’

  ‘Stable? Thank you, I’ve read your report,’ Pierre said dismissively, looking across at Sam. ‘Did you agree with her decision?’

  ‘No. It was a unilateral decision by Fisher. The first I knew of it was when she hijacked the meeting in Paris.’ His voice was cold, unemotional, the brandy glass held languidly in one hand as he slouched to her military bearing. ‘I’m not convinced we’ll get anything like the same numbers going in at the low end of the market in the States, but there’s precious little we can do about it now. We can’t change our minds on it again. They’ll think we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing. If they bite, then we can change the investments further down the road. They won’t care so much about a U-turn when they see the P&Ls.’

  Allegra was finding it hard to hear him over the sound of her own blood rushing through her head. Panic was beginning to flood her thoughts.

  ‘What’s the son said to you?’

  ‘Zhou?’ Sam shrugged. ‘He’s trying to sway his father in our favour, but he says his father won’t make a decision until 18 December.’

  ‘What?’ Pierre thundered so loudly that Allegra almost shattered the glass in her hand. ‘But Besakovitch is out on the 19th. The 18th is too fucking tight.’

  ‘I know, but Yong’s been advised that’s the most auspicious date,’ Sam said calmly. ‘You know the Chinese.’

  ‘Fuck auspicious!’ Pierre shouted. ‘He’s got eight hundred and ninety million pounds that I want locked up.’

  ‘I know and I’m doing everything I can. I saw Zhou in New York yesterday. He’s on our side.’

  Allegra felt her muscles tense to learn of a meeting that had happened without her there, without even her knowledge. How many others had there been, Sam hooking up with his old room-mate, while she was stonewalled by his office?

  ‘On our side, or yanking our chain?’

  ‘We’ll get him, I promise.’

  ‘Promises mean fuck all. She made me a promise last week and here we are, no further on!’ Pierre drained the brandy, slamming the glass down on the desk. Allegra tried not to flinch, tried not to do anything that brought attention to the fact that she was a she and not – crucially – a he.

  It wasn’t the first time in her life that she’d failed on that score and the rush of anger helped her find her voice – strident and clear. ‘Pierre, I’m going to look at the proposal again. Maybe we are too biased to the long side. Maybe you’re right about China. I can take a fresh look. The markets are low volatility at the moment, trending upwards . . .’ She shrugged, not believing in the words she was saying, but willing to say anything to buy time. ‘Maybe I’ve been too market neutral. If Red Shore is coming in with something edgier, if Yong wants us to turn up the risk? We can do that. Just give me the word. I can go hardcore on this.’

  Sam flashed a look across at her and she saw from his expression that he, too, was thinking about his non-legit tip in Paris.

  Pierre stared coldly at her, then at Sam. ‘Well, one of you has to do something. Leverage contacts, Kemp? Grow a fucking pair, Fisher? Because if Yong signs with Red Shore just because . . .’ He groaned. ‘Christ, if he signs with them because red is considered lucky . . . !’ He was almost yelling.

  ‘That won’t happen, Pierre.’ Allegra’s voice was cool by comparison. She liked it when Pierre began throwing his toys out of th
e pram. It made her feel calmer and look more in control.

  ‘It had better not. The rewards are great – I’m telling you that now.’ His black eyes flicked between the pair of them. ‘Whichever one of you seals this deal, you’ll be in the office next door to here the following day. But if you don’t and Yong fucks us over’ – he sniffed – ‘I’m not carrying dead weight.’

  ‘Got it,’ Allegra said, standing up adroitly, placing the untouched brandy on the desk.

  Pierre stared at her. ‘Not thirsty, Fisher?’ he asked.

  Allegra blinked, before picking it up and downing the shot in one, ignoring the burn in her throat. Sam stood up, his glass already empty, and nodded stiffly at Pierre.

  The two of them marched towards the door and the safety of the outer sanctum.

  The door had no sooner closed than Sam whirled round and was in her face. ‘I gave up my career, my life, in New York, for this shit? Last week, Minotaur was offering me US CFO and here I am, two hours off the plane and already being threatened with the sack, because of you!’

  ‘Not because of me,’ Allegra hissed. ‘I didn’t ask you to come here. If you can’t close the deal, it’s nobody’s fault but yours. I mean, aren’t you supposed to have been the one to stop Besakovitch from pulling out in the first place? He was your client. What is it with you? You just can’t quite pull it off. You’ve got every advantage going – daddy’s boy in your pocket, friends with—’ She stopped speaking abruptly. The accusation couldn’t be said out loud.

  He snorted derisively. ‘I hope you’ve updated your LinkedIn page, Fisher. You’re going to need your contacts.’

  ‘You’re the one he told to leverage contacts,’ she snapped back. ‘It seems to be all you’re good for.’

  ‘Miss Fisher?’

  Allegra turned in surprise, unaware of anyone else around them, unaware that Kirsty had been standing anxiously beside her for several moments now. ‘I’m sorry, I have an urgent message for you.’

  Allegra paled. ‘Is it my mother?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?’ Allegra snapped.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s very important. A sergeant called from the Swiss Police.’ Kirsty’s eyes slid to Sam, who was listening to every word, his eyes still blazing, jaw twitching. ‘He says it’s a personal matter, Miss Fisher.’

  ‘I sincerely doubt that. There’s no reason whatsoever that they should be calling me – unless they’ve found the ski pole I lost in Verbier last year.’ She allowed herself a wry smile.

  Kirsty was unmoved. She was paid well to remain unmoved at all times. ‘He’s quite sure it’s you he needs to speak to. He confirmed your personal details with me. You have to contact him immediately.’

  ‘Did he say what it was about?’

  Kirsty looked awkward. ‘Identifying remains, Miss Fisher.’

  ‘Remains?’ Allegra frowned.

  ‘Of your grandmother. I’m afraid it was hard to hear: the connection was bad. He said something about a hut found in the snow and human remains?’

  ‘No. That doesn’t make sense.’ Allegra shook her head firmly. ‘My father’s mother is alive and well in Bristol, and my maternal grandmother died in 2001. Ring him back. Tell him there’s been a mistake.’

  ‘I can’t, Miss Fisher. Sergeant Annen says he will only talk to you because you’ve got power of attorney. I’ve left the number on your desk.’

  What? Allegra watched her go. The lasting power of attorney? So this was to do with her mother, then?

  ‘Well,’ Sam said, watching the confusion cloud her face and beginning to walk away. ‘It sounds like you’re going to be busy for a while.’

  She blinked, returning her attention to him, staring at his expensively tailored back. ‘It’s a misunderstanding, Kemp. This changes nothing.’

  ‘Yeah. Good luck with that,’ he muttered, out of sight, but never, it seemed, out of mind.

  ‘Sergeant Annen, please.’ Allegra rubbed her face in her hands, tipping her chair back as she turned to face London in its night guise. It had been a long day, scrutinizing screens and reports till the numbers had begun to swim before her eyes, and she’d completely forgotten about this inconvenience, hijacked by Bob and a meeting with the new chief exec at Burberry as she’d arrived back on her own floor.

  Kicking off her shoes, she put her feet up on the window-sill. Her hamstrings felt tight from too many hours sitting hunched and she felt an urge to get out of there and pound the streets. She loved running through London at night, moving sleekly from one pool of light to the next along the Embankment, her arms and legs moving rhythmically as her mind – for once – was unfettered and could drift on a meaningless stream of consciousness.

  She wanted to feel the cold shock of the bitter night air in her lungs, to push her body and not just her mind, but she couldn’t. She needed to redraft the numbers; tonight, no doubt, was going to be spent in the Four Seasons and she’d have to ask Kirsty to reschedule Thursday’s weekly report to the ex co for next Tuesday so she could get this new proposal done.

  The blue light was flashing on her phone – a signal she had a text – and she mindlessly picked it up, frowning to see she in fact had sixteen texts. All from Barry.

  ‘Annen speaking.’

  She sat up with a jolt as she remembered the other phone at her ear.

  ‘Oh, yes, uh . . . Sergeant Annen? This is Allegra Fisher calling from London. You called my office earlier today.’

  ‘Miss Fisher. Yes. I was expecting your call this afternoon.’ His accent was slight, the irritation in his voice carrying over fluently.

  ‘It’s been a busy day, Sergeant. How can I help you?’

  ‘We’ve been trying to contact your mother, Julia Fisher. I’ve been told you have power of attorney for her.’

  Her eyes fluttered down to her mobile screen and Barry’s numerous texts. Annen’s name appeared on them all. What was this about? ‘That’s correct. I have LPA for her business and legal affairs. My sister has LPA for her health and welfare. Is it me you need to speak to?’ She felt slightly ashamed for trying to pass the buck on to her sister, but what was the bet Isobel had had a dramatically less shitty day than her?

  ‘Then it is you I need to speak to.’

  She sighed. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I regret to inform you that we believe we have found the remains of your grandmother Valentina Fischer.’

  ‘OK, if I can just stop you there,’ she said briskly, pleased to get to the nub quickly. ‘There’s been a mistake. I’ve never heard of anyone called Valentina in our family. My paternal grandmother is still alive – her name is Patricia Johnson – and my maternal grandmother was called Anya.’

  There was a silence and she heard the sound of papers being shuffled in the background. ‘According to the birth reports, Anya was Valentina’s sister. Valentina Fisher, born September 1930. Sister to Anya Fisher, born 1934, deceased 2001. Next of kin Julia Fisher, date of birth 23 February 1948, currently residing Buttersmere, Hampshire, UK.’

  Allegra was silent. Her mother’s date of birth. Her grandmother’s name. ‘Well, as I said, my grandmother was Anya Fisher. I’ve never heard of a sister called Valentina.’

  ‘It is believed she died in an avalanche in January 1951.’

  ‘Well, my mother would have been not quite three then, so that explains why she knows nothing about her aunt dying in an avalanche in . . . Where did you say it happened again?’

  ‘I didn’t. It was in Zermatt.’

  ‘Well, I don’t understand what any of my family would even have been doing over there in the 1950s. This doesn’t make sense to me.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense to anyone right now, Miss Fisher. That’s why we need your mother to provide us with a DNA sample. Assuming that the records are correct, she is the closest living relative to Valentina Fisher.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. My mother isn’t well enough to help you with that. She’s very fragile. Alzheimer�
�s.’

  The word had a blunt force to it that she knew from experience stopped most conversations in their tracks. Sure enough, he paused. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But it’s a painless procedure – an oral swab, a couple of hairs and some nail clippings.’

  ‘Absolutely not. She wouldn’t understand what was happening. I’m sorry but my answer is no.’

  ‘Miss Fisher, please understand we cannot sign off on the case without it. It is a live police investigation, and until the remains are formally identified, there can be no burial. It will remain an open enquiry and all the paperwork tells us that this woman was your grandmother.’

  ‘And I’ve already told you, my grandmother was Anya Fisher. We buried her when I was eighteen.’

  ‘Then you’ll agree there’s a discrepancy here that doesn’t add up and we have even more questions to answer than we initially thought. If your mother isn’t well enough to help us, then we have to ask you, as her daughter and her LPA, to help us instead.’

  ‘You want me to supply a DNA sample?’

  ‘You are the next closest living relative. It is close enough.’

  Allegra sighed irritably. If it meant they’d leave her mother in peace . . . ‘What do I have to do?’ she asked with a truculent tone.

  ‘I can send over the necessary papers authorizing a DNA test to be done at your local police station tomorrow. It won’t take more than a few minutes.’

  Oh, this was just excellent. ‘Fine. Do you have my email?’

  ‘Yes, I liaised with your secretary earlier. I’ll send everything through within the hour.’

  They hung up briskly, Allegra staring unseeing at the back of her door, her emergency day-to-evening outfit already dry-cleaned and hanging in its usual place. Beneath her hands, papers and reports were growing cold. She needed to get back to work.

  Instead, she picked up the phone and dialled a number.

  ‘Hey, it’s me. You free to talk for a minute?’