‘Oh, God, I felt sorry for that poor bugger.’ Crofts switched the kettle on and sat down again. ‘He was set to go to Europe the following week. He got there, just. He didn’t perform as well as expected, but he blitzed ’em in the downhill the following year.’
‘So, you don’t remember anyone acting strangely that day?’
‘Strange, as in like they’d just murdered someone?’
‘Strange in any way.’ Sometimes it was the little things that led to a breakthrough.
‘Well, the only thing I thought was unusual that day was Bruno telling me that the ski patroller told him to shut down the lift at four-thirty.’ The man took a deep breath, his massive chest rising and falling. ‘It was probably nothing, but he told me a couple of times, made a point of it, like he wanted me to remember it.’
‘Who was the ski patroller?’
‘God, mate, I don’t know. Someone should remember who was working there that season.’
‘We’re asking around, but the man’s a ghost.’ Ryder took a card from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table to the lift mechanic. ‘Give me a call if you remember.’
He stood and reached for his jacket, watching as Crofts read the print on the card. On the way out, Ryder asked how the repair to the Hair Raiser was going.
‘It’s finished. That’s why I was having a swim. I’m waiting for the engineer to come and do a final check in an hour. I don’t want to leave without making sure everything’s okay. Not when people’s lives are at risk.’
The bloke sounded genuine, but Ryder had met people who’d said all the right things and had then gone and massacred their family. ‘Are you heading back to Charlotte Pass when you’re done here?’
‘Sure am,’ said Crofts, following him to the door.
‘Tell me something. Do you live in Long Bay, like Lombardi?’
And Vanessa. A sense of unease settled over Ryder as he imagined Vanessa living in close quarters with the groomer.
‘Yep. Most of the time we’re both there, unless Bruno’s in Cooma.’
‘What’s in Cooma?’
‘He inherited his mother’s house when she died a few years ago.’
Ryder frowned. ‘Is he there much?’
Crofts shook his head. ‘Only between seasons, and the odd holiday maybe.’
Ryder opened the door and braced himself as a blast of cold, damp air rushed into the ticket office. ‘Thanks, Mr Crofts. Let me know when you get back to Charlotte’s.’ He opened his umbrella and retraced his steps towards the giant clown face.
Ryder was halfway back to Queanbeyan when his phone rang.
‘I was thinking about things after you left.’ Crofts’ voice boomed over the speaker. ‘I don’t know why it didn’t cross my mind at the time.’
‘Hang on a minute.’ Ryder turned on his flashing lights, transforming the unmarked car into an instantly recognisable police vehicle. As he pulled onto the shoulder the cars around him slowed.
‘In the old days, I was like the unofficial photographer. Small electronics were a natural progression from mechanics at that stage. But now it’s all digital, I don’t have the skills to keep up. Charlotte’s have had a professional photographer for years now.’
‘Sure,’ said Ryder, wondering what the mechanic was getting at.
‘I’ve got a storage shed in Jindabyne. There are dozens of boxes there with thirty-five–millimetre plastic slides inside. I used to take photos of the staff every year, and the visitors. I can go through them if you like, see if I can find the bloke you’re looking for. Not sure if that would be helpful?’
‘That would be extremely helpful. How long before you can get them?’
‘I’ll stop in Jindabyne on my way through. The projector’s already in my room at Long Bay. I’ve been doing some work on it.’ A couple of seconds of silence followed, and then the lift mechanic spoke again. ‘Looking at the time, I’m not sure I’ll make the last oversnow tonight. More likely I’ll be on the first one leaving Perisher in the morning.’
‘Okay, check in with me when you get back to the village.’ Ryder said before killing the call. It was a long shot, but it was something. The patroller could have died already, or he could have moved to another country years ago, or even changed his name. Or, as Ryder had pointed out to Flowers and Lewicki, the patroller might only have existed in Lombardi’s imagination, as a fabrication to cover up his own actions.
Ryder checked his watch then pulled onto the highway. Crofts wouldn’t make the last oversnow tonight, but Ryder would if he made decent time.
Determined not to get stuck and have to spend a useless night in Perisher, he kept his police lights on, and took the Monaro Highway towards the mountains.
Eighteen
Vanessa raised the safety bar and wriggled onto the edge of the seat, ready to unload as the chair approached top station. Sam was on duty again. He was standing on the platform gazing out at Mount Stillwell, his back to the unloading passengers.
Determined to have a word to him about his inattentiveness, Vanessa stood up on her skis and glided to the edge of the platform as the chair swung around the bull wheel. The passengers’ safety should be Sam’s first priority—accidents could happen so easily, especially during a busy time, like now, when everyone had come out again after lunch.
Vanessa swerved to avoid a group of people spreadeagled at the bottom of the ramp like a pile-up on the expressway. ‘Sam!’ she yelled. ‘Hit the switch.’
Seconds later, the chairlift ground to a halt.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, squatting beside a woman who was lying in a tangle of skis and poles trying to pull her two boys out of the way before others crashed into them.
‘The people in front got their skis tangled. They fell over and we had nowhere to go. Why didn’t he stop the lift?’
‘I don’t know. He should have.’
The people who’d caused the fall were nowhere to be seen, which didn’t improve Vanessa’s temper. She helped the woman and boys to their feet then moved the family safely away from the platform.
Vanessa glared at Sam, who was watching from the spot where only the other day he’d handed her the drill. ‘You can hit the start switch now,’ she snapped, not bothering to hide her anger.
With a chastened nod he disappeared inside the hut. Seconds later, the chairlift cranked up again.
‘He should be watching all the time,’ the woman said when Vanessa apologised again, ‘especially on this chairlift where the platform is steep.’
‘It’s unlike him. But leave it with me—I’ll have a word with him.’ She looked down at the two young boys who were so alike they had to be twins. ‘All good?’
They nodded, and she watched them ski off down the back track with their mother bringing up the rear. They were confident skiers, and wouldn’t have run into difficulties except for the unnecessary pile-up at the bottom of the ramp.
She swung around. ‘Sam!’
‘I’m here,’ he called from outside the hut, his eyes riveted on the unloading passengers.
‘You can’t take your eyes—’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I got distracted. Someone ducked under the rope you put across the trail. They’ve gone into the out-of-bounds area.’
‘What!’
‘I yelled at them, but they didn’t stop.’
Vanessa snatched up her poles from where she’d stuck them in the snow. ‘They’ve just lost their lift pass. What colour ski jacket?’
‘Rental gear.’
‘Bugger.’ Vanessa pushed off and left top station behind. With wide, angry strides she skated uphill to the CLOSED sign, then slowed so she could duck under the rope. Normally, following tracks across the mountain would have been impossible, but the light snowfall they’d received overnight had covered previous skiers’ tracks from days before. Thanks to Mount Stillwell now being closed, the lone skier’s tracks were clearly visible in the virgin snow.
It was quieter in the trees, the cano
py of snow gums muting the metallic clink of the lifts and the sound of laughter drifting across the hill. Bending her knees, her poles tucked beneath her arms, Vanessa raced along in the tracks of the skier ahead of her.
She rounded a bend, came across a fallen branch and lifted up one ski to avoid it. Hoping the branch might have slowed the other person down, she pulled her body into a tight tuck readying herself for the section ahead where the slope fell away sharply. She picked up speed, launching momentarily into the air off a mound of accumulated snow before landing safely. A flash from below where the trail turned back on itself snagged her attention. Through the trees she glimpsed the skier.
‘Hey!’ she shouted. ‘The trail’s closed.’
The skier looked around, slowed for a beat to do so, but didn’t stop.
Gritting her teeth, eyes watering behind her goggles, Vanessa set herself up for the hairpin bend ahead. The tight turn was almost 360 degrees and would bring her onto the same stretch of trail as the skier she was chasing. With her weight on her downhill ski, she leaned into the turn, edges scraping across a patch of ice obscured by the shadows.
‘Stop! Ski patrol!’ she shouted, narrowing the gap between them. Sam had been right. Like fifty percent of guests, the skier was wearing the standard bottle-green pants and parka hired from the rental shop.
The skier rounded a bend and disappeared. Vanessa took the edge off her speed. It wouldn’t be wise to pursue them in case they had a fall; better to memorise their build and technique so she could recognise them out on the hill. The resort was small—she was sure to cross paths with them at some point.
Mindful that she was nearing the snow fences, she took the next bend carefully and emerged from the trees where the area opened up. The grooming machine was parked close to the fences. Bruno looked up from where he’d been harvesting the snow. He said nothing, just pointed after the skier, a bemused expression on his face.
Hopeful she still had a chance to confiscate the skier’s pass and lay down the law about disobeying signage, Vanessa headed towards the tube run. She’d have something to say about them skiing alone out here, too. With no mobile reception, and no ski buddy to help if they got into trouble, they could lose their life out here.
Like Celia Delaney.
She spotted the skier ahead, nearing the trees at the edge of the tube run. To her right was the cordoned-off area, and she couldn’t help but glance at the deepening tree well with a shiver.
The skier jerked to the left, thrown off balance as their right ski tip snagged something on the ground. Losing rhythm for a few vital seconds, they regained their balance by leaning slightly into the hill, putting more weight than advisable on their uphill ski. It was usually a sign of an impending crash in amateur skiers, but the skier in front righted themselves unexpectedly, and continued skiing at top speed across the hill.
Vanessa narrowed the gap to fifteen metres. At this close range there was no doubt the skier was a man, even from the back. ‘Hey!’ she shouted again, right on his tail as he entered the wooded area. Breathing hard, she bent low and carved through the trees, a low-lying branch crashing against her helmet.
The skier didn’t stop, flying out of the trees at the top of the rope tow and cutting across the tube run.
Vanessa stood on her edges and came to a hockey stop in a shower of snow. ‘Idiot!’ she hissed, watching him weave between the tubes sliding down the hill. This guy was a menace, and should be banned from skiing at the resort.
At the bottom of the hill, the skier came to a stop and stood looking back at her.
Seething, Vanessa threw her pole on the ground and pointed, hoping he’d understand her ‘Stay right there, I’m coming for you’ body language. She eyeballed him, trying to make out his facial features, but at a distance it was near impossible to see past his helmet and goggles.
Taking her eyes off the skier for a few seconds, she leaned over to retrieve her pole. When she straightened, he was already lost in the swarm of people milling in the heart of the village. Swearing in frustration, Vanessa had the radio halfway to her mouth before realising that putting out a call based on the man’s description was pointless. He was a man in rental gear with a slight tendency to lean on his uphill ski when he got out of balance. There could be a hundred people in the village that matched that description. She wasn’t even sure of his height.
‘Help me!’
Vanessa swung around at the cry. A young mother with a child in her lap was waving frantically from higher up the hill. She’d let go of the rope tow handle, and the tube was beginning to slide backwards.
Vanessa clicked out of her skis and went to help.
Nineteen
Ryder found Flowers and Lewicki in the inn’s Blue Lake Restaurant. The maître d’ had been reserving the same table for them every night. It was through an archway in the rear wall that led to a narrow, enclosed annex. Separated from the main restaurant, the annex was a quiet space with a maximum of six small tables. Flowers and Lewicki were at the far end surrounded by walls on three sides.
Lewicki looked up and saw him first. ‘Here he is.’
Flowers glanced over his shoulder and laid down his cutlery. ‘Evening, Sarge.’
‘Daisy, Lew,’ Ryder said with a subtle nod, pleased at how these two were getting along. He dragged out a chair. ‘Carry on with your dinner, I ordered something on my way in.’
As a waitress filled his water glass, Ryder stretched out the kinks in his neck and relayed his conversation with Burt Crofts.
‘Makes sense Bruno’s mum left him the house in Cooma,’ said Lewicki, mopping up his sauce with a piece of damper. ‘He probably kept up the mortgage payments after his father died.’
‘What interests me most is that Lombardi made a point of telling him twice about the ski patroller ordering him to shut down the lift at four-thirty. Like he wanted Crofts to remember it.’
Flowers raised an eyebrow. ‘Constructing an alibi for himself?’
Ryder nodded. ‘I think so. Crofts should be back here tomorrow. It’ll be interesting to see if he turns up with anything from that storage unit in Jindabyne.’
Flowers pulled a small notepad from his pocket and relayed what he’d learned that day talking to Nigel Miller’s bandmates.
‘Jimmy (Jimbo) Reynolds. He’s the drummer holding up his sticks in that photograph,’ Flowers began. ‘He admitted he was not too fond of Celia because he thought she held the band back. In his opinion she was risk averse. She wouldn’t let Nigel extend their mortgage on a one-bedroom unit they owned in Kings Cross. The band were trying to raise funds to cut an LP at the time. Jimbo said, looking back now, she was only a kid, but they did have more success after she died.’
‘What about the others?’ asked Ryder, leaning back as the waitress put his marinara in front of him.
‘Brandon Wilson (Willo). He’s the bass guitarist. Back then he was a concreter. He hated his job. He admitted to being ambitious to earn a living from the band. He said he was always careful to stay on Celia’s good side, because he didn’t want her breaking them up.’
Flowers flipped over a page in his notebook. ‘Gary (Gazza) Bennett. The guitarist.’ Flowers shook his head and exchanged glances with Lewicki. ‘This guy. He admitted to sleeping with Celia a couple of times.’
‘Jesus.’ Ryder lowered his fork onto his plate. ‘Who in this joint wasn’t sleeping around back then?’
‘According to Gaz, Nigel was a womaniser who couldn’t resist the groupies. Gaz felt sorry for Celia, so he gave her a bit of attention. But … he ended the affair because ultimately the band was more important. He’s always been terrified that Nigel would find out and kick him out of the band.’
‘How did Celia take Gazza’s decision to end it?’
‘He said she was okay about it and told him that their secret would be safe with her.’
Ryder looked from Flowers to Lewicki and back again. ‘Give me your gut feelings on this.’
Flowers leaned back
in his chair and stretched out his shoulders. ‘I think she was this band’s Yoko Ono.’
Lewicki laughed, the first real laugh Ryder had heard from him since all this had begun.
Flowers’ eyes widened. ‘Seriously, that’s what I think. They knew this band had a shot at the big time. I don’t think any of them would have actually harmed Celia Delaney, though. Nigel was the John Lennon of this band, and they were desperate to stay on his good side.’
‘What about you, Lew?’ Ryder asked.
‘I agree with Daisy. And they were playing their set around the time she was thought to have disappeared.’
‘So, you still suspect Miller?’
Lew gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘I’m in two minds. Bruno’s a worry.’
Ryder sighed and pushed his plate away. He was done for the day. ‘How about a beer downstairs before we hit the hay?’
Flowers shook his head. ‘I’ve already had one, so I’ll leave you to it. I want to get these reports typed up.’
‘I’ll be in that,’ said Lewicki, getting to his feet. ‘I get a kick out of spoiling people’s evenings.’
‘I like the young bloke,’ Lewicki said as they sipped their beer. ‘He’s smart.’
Ryder nodded. ‘I had my reservations, but he’s shown good instincts. He’s ambitious. Loves being on the big cases like this one, and Hutton. Don’t tell him I said this, but he’s got the makings of a decent police prosecutor. He’s a pain if he’s bored, though. Need to keep him busy.’
‘He makes you feel old. That’s the reason you don’t like him.’
‘He’s growing on me,’ Ryder said with chuckle. ‘The piccolo lattes give me the shits. Makes me miss Macca’s rotating diet of fish and chips and steak sandwiches.’
‘What happened to Macca?’
‘He’s back in uniform. Wants to become detective sergeant.’
‘Huh. Good on him.’
For a while, they sipped their drinks and, to his surprise, Ryder found himself enjoying the music. The place was hopping, the band breaking into a version of Val Halen’s ‘Jump’ that had both guests and staff hitting the dance floor. Aidan Smythe moved from group to group, chatting to the guests. Henry and Di Gordon were sitting at their usual table with Smythe’s wife, Carmel, a slim, well-groomed woman who looked to be in her early seventies.
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