One
“I thought you’d left.”
The offices of the newly formed violent crimes division of the sûreté were unusually quiet for late afternoon and the voice startled Agnes Lüthi. She looked at the perfectly coiffed redhead in front of her desk and shut her drawer like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Involuntarily both women glanced over the desk and shelves. The brushed aluminum and white surfaces gleamed. Not a photograph remained of the dozen that the staff had so carefully placed after moving Agnes’s belongings from her old office at financial crimes, and what had been a tribute to a loving family was now a sterile workspace. Files, reference books, and procedure manuals were all in place, but no trace of her husband or her three sons remained.
Agnes met the other woman’s gaze and said nothing. She saw a flicker of uncertainty followed by sadness as her colleague’s eyes skimmed her disheveled hair and tweed suit.
“Monsieur Carnet was sorry to lose you, but change is good.” The redhead paused. “If you need anything, let me know.”
“Thank you,” Agnes mumbled, startled by the mention of Robert Carnet. The invitation to transfer from his division into violent crimes couldn’t have come at a better time. She tugged the hem of her jacket self-consciously, no longer optimistic about losing the ten pounds that seemed to come with her brand of grief.
“We’re happy to have you with us,” the other woman said. “Chief Bardy should have been here today to get you sorted out. It’s all new, this group he has in mind. Even the offices are new.” She shrugged slightly and leaned forward. “He’s a bit distant and if you need … well, if you need more time off just let me know and I’ll handle him. We’ve talked about it”—she glanced around—“and we can cover for you. Anytime. Monsieur Carnet said you might need … he said your boys might need you.”
Anger flashed through Agnes and it was difficult to speak. Pity and concern were bitter medicine; she wanted anonymity. “Carnet has no idea what my boys need. None whatsoever.” She ran a hand through her short hair, instantly regretting it. Wondering if she looked like a porcupine had landed on her head.
“I really came to say welcome and to let you know they’re sending everyone home. All nonessentials.” The woman rolled her eyes with a smile. “Be thankful you’re still nonessential. A bit early in my view, but the news on Espace 2 has announced that this will be the storm of the century. The rain is turning to ice, and if you don’t leave now you may be stuck for the weekend.”
She gave a cheery wave and turned, but not before Agnes saw the uncertainty on her face. No one knew how to treat her, what to do with her. She was certain there was an abundance of euphemisms for her situation. She had heard the whispered exchanges. “Grieving.” “Still in shock.” Each in some way an accurate expression. It was the other unsaid thoughts that angered her, although it was to be expected. Even her place in Bardy’s group was undefined. The invitation to join violent crimes as part of a special team he was assembling held promise. Unfortunately, she had been so desperate for change she hadn’t listened to the details. Different work, new colleagues, new environment, that’s all that had mattered. Now she considered her options. Iced-in all weekend away from home. A welcome reprieve.
She opened the desk drawer again and looked at her husband’s smiling face. The photograph was only six months old. It was taken the day she won a first at the shooting match in Bienne. He had looked so happy. Not just his usual geniality but genuinely happy. Exuberant.
She slammed the drawer. Nonessential. That’s what she was.
She was reaching for her coat when the phone on her desk rang. The voice over the receiver was crisp. “Inspector Lüthi, the gendarmerie at Ville-sur-Lac telephoned the chief. A woman has died. He’s on his way and wants you to join him there.” The voice added other essential details then paused and continued in a different tone: a human element inserted into police business. “Of course, if you don’t want to … I mean, with the weather I could explain—”
Agnes interrupted. “No, I’ll go. I’m leaving now.” Although the child of American parents, she’d lived in Switzerland her entire life and wasn’t going to let a winter storm stop her. Everything she had wanted, and now it was happening. She slipped her arms into her coat, relief flooding her. It wasn’t yet time to go home.
Ten minutes later she had second thoughts about her decision. Her Citroën C1 handled well, but tonight it felt like a flimsy cocoon of heat as she moved through the storm. She turned on the radio and fiddled with the dial until she found Espace 2. It only took a few minutes to comprehend that she should have paid attention to the earlier warnings. The announcer’s voice intoned disaster: roads closing, accidents on the highway, and the promise of more to come as the storm gained power with every minute. Farther west, in Geneva, Cointrin was closed and all flights were grounded. The temperature was dropping and the wind accelerating. A dangerous mix.
Agnes switched the radio off, eliminating the distraction. She wished Bardy had chosen to locate their new offices in the city center and not on the outskirts. Nervous, she gripped the steering wheel firmly and concentrated. The Citroën’s headlights cut across the wind, barely illuminating a few meters of roadway, and she constructed the view from memory: the long gentle slope separating the highway from the lake, the famous view of Lac Léman and in the distance the French Alps. Normally, train tracks were visible between the road and the lake, however, tonight all she could see were a thousand shards of white falling from the sky.
Slowly, she looped through central Lausanne, the city a glow of lights. It was Wednesday and passing Place St. François she could practically taste the roasted chestnuts and mulled wine of the city market, a favorite childhood memory, a ritual unchanged in her nearly forty years. She turned the car onto the Avenue du Théâtre, then angled right to descend the Avenue Villamont to the Avenue de la Gare, before turning left onto the Avenue d’Ouchy. The road was steep and slick and she slowed her pace and leaned forward, white-knuckled. Reaching level ground at Ouchy, she skirted the luxurious Beau-Rivage Palace hotel on the left, the yellow awnings quickly fading from sight. Here, near the lake, the full force of the storm was in evidence. A clear line of white marked the advancing edge of ice where the wind blew moisture off the lake’s surface, adding to what was descending from the clouds and freezing instantly. Immediately, she knew that she was in a race to reach the château before the road was impassable.
Her hand strayed to her mobile phone. It was still possible to call the station and say she couldn’t make it, but the thought of going home prevented her. That, and a need to prove herself to Bardy. If he sidelined her, she would lose the cornerstone of her sanity. Her sons might need her, but she needed this.
The road veered inland at the Tour Haldimand and slipped behind lakeside homes. Here there was less ice and she hoped the road would provide more traction. Minutes passed in silent terror of losing control of the car. Near the village of Cully the storm allowed only a few glimpses of the vine-covered hills and terraced walls. Where the road aimed for the lake before turning to follow the curve of the shore, she strained to see her destination. Château Vallotton was across the water off the point. Tonight it wasn’t visible. Or perhaps it was—that slightly brighter glow of lights through the whiteout. It was impossible to tell.
After passing a small port filled with ice-coated sailing yachts, worry turned to near panic. The few other cars were stopped at awkward angles and she didn’t have any illusions that her own driving skills were superior. There were no more towns on the lake road until Ville-sur-Lac and road crews would not have gone beyond this point. She shifted into a lower gear. She touched the brake, then the gas pedal, undecided about continuing. This stretch of road was isolated. She turned on the radio again and frowned at the news. The storm’s impact was unprecedented: a state of emergency across three cantons.
Ahead, the road narrowed. On each side were high stone walls and she knew she should not have started this trip. There was no way to turn back now, no place to stop. She owed her boys safety and security. If she died they would be orphans.
Twenty minutes later, the lane crested on the cliff and the wall on the lakeside fell away. Wind struck the car and it slid sideways, pushed inland. At that moment, just when she thought she wouldn’t make it, the car slipped into the shelter of the village.
Agnes relaxed and took a deep breath, blinking moisture from her eyes. She unclenched her hands from the steering wheel, feeling her stress dissipate. She remembered passing through Ville-sur-Lac years before. The buildings of the tiny village were ancient stone and they shouldered together against the road, leaving only a narrow strip of pavement for cars to maneuver. Tonight, hers was the only vehicle battling the elements and she kept to the center of the street. The green pharmacy sign flashed through the white blur and she could imagine each business as clearly as if it was broad daylight: butcher, confiserie, hotel. Somewhere was the gendarmerie where the small local police force was likely worried about storm damage. She glided to an uneasy stop where the lane to the château sloped down precipitously. Farther up the main street she could make out the rear of a large tourist bus. Shadowy forms filed off and scurried into a building. The village hotel, she presumed, absently thinking it unlikely they had enough rooms to accommodate an unexpected busload of guests. At that moment her mobile phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and remembered why she was anxious to take this assignment.
A few minutes later she interrupted. “It’s an honor, working with Étienne Bardy.” She’d said these same words to her mother-in-law a hundred times since she had decided to return to work. “This may be an important case.” The white lie slipped out easily.
Through the darkness she could make out the roofline of the château on the shallow peninsula below the cliff and, to give her mother-in-law time to complain, she plucked facts about the historic property from memory. Every schoolchild knew the basics: the oldest part was a hulking round tower nearly a thousand years old. Perched on the edge of the lake, it was a well-known icon gracing generations of artists’ sketches and postcards.
“More important than your sons?” Sybille’s voice cut through her reverie. “Working when a mother should be home. I know your parents had different customs—”
It was an old refrain, one Agnes had long ago decided to ignore. In Sybille’s mind American and uncultured interloper were equivalent terms. Knowing a response wasn’t required, Agnes focused on the château and probed her memory. In addition to the original tower, there were three others, all joined by long arms to create the final square fortress. She peered out the side window of her car, squinting into the white blur of the night. Years ago she had read about the smaller towers and a wall along the top of the cliff where the village now stood. The whole arrangement was unusual: the family constructing a fortress to control lake trade and then adding protection high above. Why not build on the cliff in the first place? The wall remnants were long destroyed or incorporated into the village; Agnes couldn’t make out a trace of them.
“I’m at Château Vallotton,” she blurted out, mentally excusing herself for the slight exaggeration. The silence over the phone spoke volumes. She added a few details about the reason she was away from her family on a stormy night and in the pause could sense Sybille’s mental tug-of-war. No one they knew had ever been invited to the château. And, although not a social call, it would be the nearest any of Sybille’s friends came to visiting the property. Agnes knew that she was tempted to be curious.
While her mother-in-law chewed on this dilemma, Agnes made out a few lights glimmering through windows high in the nearest tower. She was familiar with the château from trips on Lac Léman and tried to reconcile what was in her mind with the narrow illuminated slits in front of her.
“If the dead woman is outside then you’re unlikely to go in,” Sybille finally said, cruelty winning out over curiosity. “They’ll keep you standing in the freezing rain and send you home to do your reports.”
Agnes didn’t argue.
Sybille’s voice was raised. “None of my friends have daughters who work at night in a storm. The worst storm of my lifetime. Who knows what is going to happen, and you’re thinking of yourself and not of your family—”
The line went dead. Startled, Agnes tapped the mobile phone screen. Call failed. At least she hadn’t hung up accidentally. She tried to connect a few times before slipping the useless device into her handbag. Just then, the blurred glow of the village went black. With the light went any sign of the buildings and all that was left was a white haze fading into darkness. If power was out because of the storm, tonight’s job just got harder, and would take longer. She lowered her forehead to the steering wheel in dismay. After a moment she smiled in satisfaction. She knew why the château was dramatically altered from this angle: the more familiar lakeside façades had newer, larger windows cut into them. She dredged up another morsel from her tiny store of knowledge about architecture: the windows facing the lake were in the Renaissance style, larger than the earlier narrow defensive arrow slits. She laughed under her breath. It made sense. Of course the Vallotton family had renovated over the centuries. Larger windows once they didn’t need a fortified residence, and, likely, modern plumbing and electricity.
She pulled herself nearer the windshield and peered down the hill through the eerie white night, the nearer trees glistening in her headlights. What kind of people lived in a place like this? Her curiosity was aroused by Sybille’s reaction more than she would admit. The phone call reminded her of the first time she met George’s parents. They were intimidating with their politeness, their hesitant questions drawing attention to her own upbringing and reminding her how her parents had worn a veneer of Swiss-ness in public, while keeping to their own customs at home. George’s parents’ house had been her dream: the perfect wooden chalet with balconies running on the upper floors and flowers cut into the old-fashioned wood shutters. She frowned. If George’s family home was at one end of Swiss domestic perfection then Château Vallotton was at the other, and she hoped she would have a chance to go inside. That would be something to tell her boys. Given the family’s prominence, it was no wonder Bardy had been called.
Bardy. His name was like a dose of cold water. The drive from Lausanne had already taken too long and now she had delayed unnecessarily. She nosed her car closer to the edge of the lane. It was impossible to see the pavement that cut down the steep hill. She glanced around one last time as if Bardy might be parked nearby, perhaps ready to suggest they manage the situation from the comfort of the gendarmerie. But the street was empty and she was expected below.
Gripping the wheel, she touched the gas. Instantly she knew it was a mistake.
Two
The Citroën struck something, rolled a bit farther, then shuddered to a stop. “Inspector Lüthi, indeed,” Agnes said, appalled by her own poor judgment. She loosened her hands from the steering wheel and rested her forehead on the cold plastic, shaking with relief. Glancing up at the looming wall of the château, she turned off the car’s headlights, noting one had shattered on impact, and hoped no one had witnessed her calamitous descent. She decided not to dwell on the damage done to the driver’s-side door by the branches she’d careened into, or the dent in the hood created by whatever hard object she’d struck at the base of the hill. At least it had stopped her sliding into the château itself.
Shaking off the shock of the crash, she stepped out of the car. Immediately she regretted her thin pantyhose and sensible pumps, wishing she had worn sturdy boots and heavy stockings. She had on her winter coat, but the severity of the storm was unexpected and she had left in a hurry that morning without scarf, hat, or gloves. To compensate, she fished a thin plastic rain cap from under the seat of her car. Ridiculous but necessary as the sleet fell in sharp streams.
A flash of light erupted to her left and she knew that was where the others were gathered. She acclimated to the cold and got her bearings: château in front of her blocking wind off the lake, cliff and village to the rear, with the long, flat peninsula on either side. Wander too far in three directions and the lake was waiting, a treacherous death trap.
Walking as quickly as she dared on the ice, she kept close to the outer wall of the château, hand clasped around the flashlight she kept in the car for emergencies.
Reaching the far side of the east tower she felt the punch of the storm full-on. She gasped and braced herself. In the distance, a beam of light filtered through the branches of a small stand of trees. She ran her own flashlight beam across the frozen lawn, sliding forward carefully to avoid falling, leaning to counter the wind. Overhead, milky ice, thicker than a finger, encapsulated every tree limb. Her plastic rain hat whipped off and disappeared and she wanted to turn back, her earlier enthusiasm for the job no match for these conditions. The temperature was bitter and her fingers, ears, and nose hurt.
She reached her destination and a man wearing a bright blue police coat with reflective striping stood in the glow from the electric lantern by his feet. He secured a second flashlight under his arm. It darted across Agnes’s face, startling her.
“We’re all probably gonna die out here,” the policeman shouted over the wind. He pulled a long section of canvas taut and struck a hard blow on a metal stake. “Wanted to safeguard the area and the wind shifted.”
The line tightened and the fabric pulled up and into position, creating a semi-protected corner; instinctively Agnes stepped near. They huddled together, shielded from the sleet.
The officer introduced himself as from the gendarmerie at the top of the hill. André Petit, he said. Agnes angled her head up to look at him, thinking of course that was his name. He was at least a foot taller than her five feet four inches. Beneath his cap his eyes bulged out of their sockets, giving him a startled look. He edged closer to her, uncomfortably close.
“I’ve never been this cold or seen so much ice,” he said. “What are we supposed to call it? Global warming? More like a new ice age. Looks like pictures of Siberia.”
Petit stomped his feet to warm them and Agnes eyed his heavy boots. He was dressed for the cold and yet was clearly uncomfortable. She doubted she would last fifteen minutes before being frostbitten.
“We called your Chef de Brigade Bardy,” he said. “Standard instructions for anything at the château. Call Monsieur Bardy no matter what the trouble.” Petit gestured to the square of canvas covering a mound that reached to their knees. “Monsieur Vallotton found her out here. Thinks she fell and hit her head. She’s frozen to the ground. I sent him inside and covered her as best I could.” He stomped again. “You took your time getting here.”
“Bardy will be here soon,” Agnes said.
“They need me in the village. It’s going to be a long night getting everybody off the roads and indoors. I suspect power’s out up and down the lake and the cold will set in. Don’t know what will be worse, the old people living in the hills or the rich along the water. My boss is usually solid as a rock, but this is going to be bad and he’s set to retire next week. Scared of a last-minute blemish on his record. Figures more people may die. He’s counting on me.”
Agnes doubted Petit could make it up the hill but she didn’t waste her breath speaking. She moved her hands over her ears, then her nose, then back under her armpits to restore feeling in her fingertips. It wasn’t enough. She tried to remember the first signs of frostbite, certain she was well on her way.
Petit leaned near, favoring a leg. “What’s it like working for him? Monsieur Bardy? I’ve heard the rumors. He’s brilliant but he is a little crazy, isn’t he? I’m planning to apply for the cantonal police.” He spoke directly into her ear and Agnes wanted to swat him away like a flea. She couldn’t feel her legs anymore and her shoulders were shaking. She covered her ears with her hands, causing Petit to shift and look into her face, as if she could lip-read.
“How’d you get in with them? With Bardy.”
“Mathematics.” Her teeth started to chatter. “I was in financial crimes. I’m good with numbers.” Where was her boss? Realizing that any movement was better than freezing to death in place, she knelt. The ice burned her knees and she rocked onto her heels before pulling back the canvas. Cracking the thin layer of ice that had formed on it she hoped she looked experienced. One glance was enough to tell her that death didn’t need to be bloody to make the heart race.
The woman lay prone in front of a stone bench. The sleet had left its mark, coating her torso so that it blended with the surrounding ground, making the details hard to see. Her face was pressed against the earth and only half of her features were visible. Snow and ice had blown up against her, sealing both her flesh and her opened eye. Startled, Agnes dropped the canvas back in place knowing it would refreeze to the ground in a matter of seconds. She tried to make out the château in the distance, but there were no visible lights and suddenly she felt very alone and inexperienced.
She stood, knowing that they had to go inside, but before she could make a suggestion there was a shout from the darkness. Bobbing lights cut through the storm and the outlines of three men came into view. She didn’t recognize the first two, however, through the icy haze the third looked familiar despite being encased in a heavy snow jacket. She frowned. “Not Robert, today anyone but Robert Carnet,” she murmured through chapped lips. It had never occurred to her that he would be here. Why would financial crimes send someone? Like a child she turned away as if refusing to look at her former boss, not seeing him, would make him go away; the man whom she most associated with those horrible minutes after her husband died.
When the men reached the protective wedge of canvas she forced herself to look. Definitely Carnet, his irregular chiseled features at odds with the ridiculous puff of an old-fashioned down coat. A cold pit formed in her stomach. Maybe her parents were right: she should quit, leave Switzerland, and move to Florida. She could hear her mother: “Come live with us, it’s warm! It’s friendly! We’ll take care of the boys!” Her mother always speaking in declarative sentences with no thought of the implications.
Her parents had given up everything to move to Switzerland as a young couple, leaving their families and friends to create a new life among strangers, eventually building up a business and prospering. All for the children! Yet the moment the children were grown the parents had returned to America.
Cold and miserable, Agnes knew that if her mother called at this moment—this exact moment—she would leave. All the hard work of getting a place on the police force, of establishing herself, of thinking maybe, just maybe, she had a role and that her thoughts added value; today, in this miserable weather, having to face this man’s pity, she would toss it all in a second.
A blast of wind swept off the lake and she struggled to keep her footing. Ice cracked and shattered in the unsettling darkness and a long dagger landed on the ground nearby.
The larger of the two men accompanying Carnet dropped to his knees and pulled the canvas away from the dead woman. It was absurd that they were out here, any of them. Despite living in Switzerland her entire life Agnes hadn’t been inside any of the grand estates that dotted the shore from Vevey down to Geneva, but she knew they were filled with diplomats, industrialists, movie stars, and rock icons. If a society woman had wandered out in the storm and keeled over they should have called an ambulance and removed her to the morgue. Probably too much to drink, or drugs. Tumbled and fell, hit her head, and died in the cold. Agnes slapped her hands together to warm them, and wished that she hadn’t left her fur hat at home. Then she wished she was at home with the hat. Thinking about her boys and what fun they must be having, knowing tomorrow there would be an unexpected school holiday. She was thankful she had spoken with Sybille. At least the boys knew she was safe and not trapped on the highway somewhere.
Carnet put his head close to Petit’s and spoke briefly before moving to stand next to Agnes. Squinting into the wind she watched Petit thump his waist then turn around with his eyes on the ground, like a dog circling to find a place to bed down.
“Came from the local gendarmerie.” Carnet’s voice was deep and cut through the wind. “They’ve been trying to raise Petit on his radio. Looks like he lost it somewhere.” Petit wandered into the darkness, his flashlight beam sweeping back and forth, illuminating shards of ice. Carnet shrugged and blew into his cupped gloves, reflecting heat back onto his face. He shifted slightly to block the wind from striking Agnes full-on and she was grateful. Her teeth were no longer chattering, although that was possibly because she was too numb to feel the cold anymore.
“Bardy called me when he realized he couldn’t make it—he knows I drive this way to go home—but I ran my car into a ditch a kilometer above the village. Had to walk the rest of the way or I would have been here sooner.” He tugged at his sleeve. “Good thing this old coat was in the trunk or I would have frozen.”
Despite the circumstances Agnes stifled a smile. Carnet had always been particular about his clothing and she imagined he had spent a long second weighing usefulness versus appearance. Shielded by his bulk she felt some feeling return to her face. Her skin stung.
“I went for a hot drink before coming down,” Carnet continued, “and found Doctor Blanchard in the hotel bar. Thought you would need a medical man unless the coroner already made it. Didn’t quite know what to expect here. ‘Body outside’ was all Bardy told me before the phones failed. They didn’t know more at the gendarmerie. Well, they did tell me that Petit was all they could spare and that they didn’t know how I’d make it down without breaking a leg. I’m surprised Doctor Blanchard was willing to try.”
Agnes glanced at the man kneeling by the corpse. He wore oiled coveralls partially covered by a heavy Loden coat. With his wind-burned ruddy complexion he looked more like a farmer than her idea of a doctor. He was kneeling on a fur pelt.
“Blanchard raises rabbits,” said Carnet, “and was at the butcher when the storm hit. The roads are closed and he was planning to stay the night. The other man is Estanguet. Frédéric Estanguet.” Estanguet hung back from their circle, and Agnes gave him a nod, setting his age at sixty-five or so. She noted that the men were all dressed warmly and had the sense not to drive down from the village. Wind burned her legs and she wondered why she hadn’t dressed warmly like any sensible Swiss person. Perhaps her mother-in-law was right. Maybe she didn’t belong here. She quickly blew on her fingers then shoved them back under her armpits.
“Estanguet was having un verre at the bar,” Carnet continued, “and overheard us wondering how to get down the hill. He knows the place. He found crampons and hooked us up to a rope. Still hard going, but at least we didn’t hit a tree.” Agnes grimaced and Carnet smiled at her. “Now, I suppose I can say I’ve been mountaineering.”
He continued talking and she focused on his every word and expression, wishing she could read his mind. He had agreed willingly, eagerly even, when she requested a transfer from financial crimes. Now she wasn’t sure: maybe he hadn’t agreed out of kindness or relief. What if she was a failure in her new job, would Bardy insist she return to her old one? She had done good work for Carnet and maybe this was his way of maneuvering her return. Three months ago she would have laughed at the idea, but after her husband’s death nothing seemed certain. How could she trust her instincts about others when she was so wrong about the man closest to her?
She turned her attention back to the men. The doctor had removed several items from the heavy bag Estanguet carried, including a spare pair of work gloves, which he handed to her. They were fur-lined and she felt the relief immediately. She pressed the soft leather against her face, blocking the wind.
“She’s not really frozen, the body I mean,” Blanchard shouted to them. “It’s the ice around her. The wind was strong here, hundred kilometers an hour they said on the radio, and that froze her clothes despite her body heat. I’d say she’s been out here at least three hours, more likely five or six and probably no more than eight, although it’s hard to say right now. Body temperature’s unreliable because of the wind and cold. Both are unstable.”
Estanguet edged closer. “This is a woman? How could this be a woman?”
Agnes glanced at the mound of ice, biting her tongue. It was unwise to share her opinion that it was probably a doped-up society girl. “Definitely a woman. I saw her face.”
Blanchard used a small tool, first measuring the thickness of the ice, then cracking the hood back from the woman’s head. Ice scattered in the wind. He ran his hand across her skull and neck.
Estanguet looked so ill he distracted Agnes from her preoccupation with Carnet and the cold. They should have taken the doctor’s bag from the man and sent him indoors to get warm. He didn’t need to see this. She took his elbow and pressed her flashlight into his hand, indicating the direction of the château. He shook his head, seemingly unwilling to leave until there were answers, and she sympathized. For a novice there was something both horrible and fascinating in the scene: the dead body both an object and a human. Very different from her years with financial crimes.
Petit emerged from the whiteout and Agnes noticed that he was still absently patting at his coat and waist. That boded ill for the missing radio, and with the phones dead any communication with the outside world. She glanced around. They were isolated on this node of land below the cliff. She should have opted to go home when she had the chance. The weather put even Sybille’s company in a pleasant light.
Blanchard spoke over his shoulder, squinting into the wind. “No evidence of a head injury. You can see how she fell away from the bench, not against it.” He brushed falling sleet from the body. “Face forward. Damage to her cheekbone probably from the fall and not before, broken bone but no bruising. The blood wasn’t flowing anymore. Maybe she had a seizure or some other medical condition? I can’t see anything else until we get more of this ice off her.” He rubbed his hands together and put his gloves back on. “Merde, it’s cold out here. Too early to tell if she died of natural causes. Who did you say found her? She’s not familiar to me. Does anyone know her?”
Petit spoke up. “Julien Vallotton stumbled on her and called us. He gave us her name, she’s not local.”
“No matter. How do you want to handle it?”
They all turned to her and Agnes wanted a cigarette more than she wanted to breathe: wishing Carnet wasn’t here, and furious that the road to the village was impassable, although if she made it to the top of the cliff the highways would be closed by now. No phone, no way out, and no way to consult with Bardy. She didn’t need this on her first day on his team. Why hadn’t he made it here? She moved nearer the protection of the canvas walls, willing herself to focus, remembering a snowstorm early in her marriage. The joy of two days trapped at home together with George. Happier days that should have lasted forever.
“Completely frozen to the ground,” Blanchard called over his shoulder. “That’s one way to establish time of death. Take a few of this,” he motioned to Carnet, who was using his camera phone to document the scene.
Agnes turned to Petit and gestured to Estanguet. “Take him inside.” For a moment she was tempted to use the excuse of impending frostbite to join them and leave Carnet in charge. Only the memory of George stopped her. He’d been her biggest supporter from the day she applied to the police force, insisting she had good instincts and they’d be lucky to have her. She wouldn’t let him down, even now.
“I’ll look at the storm pattern,” Blanchard said. “We’ll do better to get her up and out of here quickly. Sad to think she might have taken a tumble and died, although probably not the only one tonight.”
He chipped away at the ice, uncovering first the dead woman’s face, then her coat-clad torso. When he reached the legs, Agnes shivered again. The long thin skirt had fallen to the side and the woman’s bare legs, incongruous with the boots, looked cold. She wished they would hurry and cover the body again, but she didn’t say anything, knowing that the woman was beyond feeling just as her husband had been.
It had been cool that day, a cloudy gray day typical of Lausanne in autumn. The ambulance driver had covered George before she could look, angering her and later making her grateful. There had been so many people around, watching and judging. Later she understood the sand on the road was there to absorb blood. That day she had seen only the outline of her husband’s covered form, the flash of emergency lights, and the chatter of horrified pedestrians. It had started to drizzle and Carnet was there, encouraging her to leave. Other officers pulled her toward a waiting car, asking if her children were with her; could they call someone to come for her; was her purse still in the café? They had talked and talked, to her and over her head, and all she wanted was to see George for herself, to remember every detail. She remembered tiny things like the rip down the sleeve of his jacket where his arm wasn’t quite covered by the sheet. A shame, for he loved that coat. It was the same today. The body was clad in a beautiful dress irreparably damaged by the ice, the coat torn. She looked up.
“Her coat wouldn’t have torn like that when she fell.” She stooped near the doctor and Carnet joined her. Together they shielded the body. The wind had shifted again and ice seemed to arrive from all sides.
“You’ve got good eyes,” Carnet said. “The slit looks new, made by something sharp, a knife maybe, doesn’t look like a snag on a nail. Could have been cut before she put it on.”
“The fabric’s not frayed.” Agnes held the flashlight, curiosity making her forget the cold. She gestured for Carnet to sweep the remnants of ice away from the area.
“If you want to see underneath you’d better cut it away,” Blanchard said. “The whole bit’s frozen solid, moisture in and on the fabric, and you won’t get it off her any other way. I’m going to keep her cold until we can get her somewhere to do a proper autopsy. I don’t have many medical tools with me, mostly my … farm tools.”
Carnet cut a large piece of the dead woman’s jacket away, careful to keep his blade far from the incision they were studying. Agnes focused her attention. She wasn’t thinking clearly. She had allowed the place and the weather to numb her to the possibility that this was a crime. When Carnet tried to lift the material it wouldn’t move. Carefully he touched one edge of the fabric with his knife, lifting it slightly. It pulled away and they crouched nearer, trying to protect the area from the storm. Blanchard pulled the bottom of the fabric away, shining his light on it. There was a dark frozen mass concealed between the body and jacket.
“Not natural causes, I suspect,” he muttered, running his hand under the fabric and separating it from the frozen blood. When the material of the jacket lifted away, Blanchard removed the layer of red ice and slipped it into a plastic container taken from his satchel. Beneath lay white flesh marked by the slit of a blade.
Agnes knew before Blanchard spoke that this was the reason they were here. This woman had been stabbed. She felt a thrill. This was violent crimes.
Copyright © 2017 by Tracee de Hahn
