Love You Dead (2 page)

He squirmed. ‘Jeez, you’re making me horny!’

‘You make me horny all the time.’

He grinned. Then he looked serious again, and a tad nervous. He peered through a window into the blizzard, and the car yawed in the wind, then swung, almost throwing him off balance. ‘You
have your cell with you, hon?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You know – just in case we lose each other in this white-out.’

‘We won’t,’ she said, confidently.

He patted his chest and frowned. Patted it again, then tugged open another zipper. ‘Jeez,’ he said, and began to pat all over the front of his stylish black Bogner ski jacket.
‘I can’t believe it, how stupid. I must have left mine back in the room.’

‘I’m sure I saw you put it in – your top right-hand pocket – before we left,’ she said.

He checked all over again, and his trouser pockets. ‘Goddammit, must have fallen out somewhere – maybe when we were putting our skis on.’

‘We’re going to stay close. Just in case we do get separated, then plan B is we both ski back down to the Croisette and meet there. Just follow the signs for Courchevel 1850 –
it’s well posted all the way.’

‘Maybe we should ski straight back down and go and check it’s not lying in the snow outside the hotel.’

‘Someone’ll find it if it is, darling. No one’s going to steal it, not at that lovely hotel.’

‘We’d better go back down, I need it. I have a couple of important calls to make this afternoon.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Sure, fine, we’ll ski fast!’

Five minutes later the cable car slowed right down, and a shadow loomed ahead. The car rocked from side to side, bumping against the buffered sides of the station, slowly sliding in, before
stopping. Then the doors opened and they stepped out in their heavy ski boots, onto the gridded metal walkway.

They shuffled along it, then carefully down the steps and out into the ferocious blizzard, their faces stinging from snow as hard as hailstones. They could barely see a few feet in front of
them, and the group ahead, ducking down and clipping into their boards, were little more than shadowy silhouettes.

As they stood beside a sign mostly obscured with snow, Walt laid their skis down on the ground, kicked the ice away from the bottom of his boots, tapping them with his ski poles to make extra
sure there were no lumps of snow stuck there, then stepped into his bindings and snapped them shut.

As the silhouettes began to move away, Jodie said, ‘Hang on a sec, darling, I need to clean my visor.’

Walt waited, turning his face away from the wind as best he could, while Jodie tugged down one of her zippers, produced a tissue and wiped the inside of her visor, then the outside.

‘This is horrible!’ He had to shout to make his voice heard.

‘We’re almost at the highest point in the whole resort,’ she said. ‘As soon as we get off this ridge we’ll be out of the wind!’

‘I hope you’re right! Maybe we should start with something easy – is there a blue run back down? I don’t fancy anything too challenging in this goddam
visibility!’

‘There is and it’s lovely. There’s one tiny steep bit to get into it, then it’ll be a glorious cruise. It’s my favourite run!’

He watched the last of the silhouettes disappearing as Jodie pulled her gloves back on, then stepped into her skis.

‘Ready?’ she asked.

‘Uh-huh.’

She pointed to the right. ‘We go down here.’

‘Are you sure? Everyone else has gone that way.’ He pointed in the direction that the others who had been in the cable car with them had taken.

‘You want the hardcore black run down or a gentle blue?’

‘Blue!’ he said emphatically.

‘That crazy lot have all taken the black.’ She glanced over her shoulder and could just make out the cable car leaving the station for its return journey. It would be around fifteen
minutes before the next load of skiers arrived. Right now, they were alone. ‘Blue?’ she said. ‘Are you sure? I’m sure you’d cope with the black.’

‘Not in this visibility.’

‘Then we go this way,’ she said.

‘I can’t see any sign pointing this way, hon. There must be a signpost up here, surely?’

With one ski pole, she began to brush away the fresh powder snow from the ground beside her. After a moment, tracks were revealed beneath it, frozen into the cruddy, icy surface beneath.
‘See?’ she said.

He peered at them. They led straight ahead for a couple of yards before disappearing into the swirling white blizzard. Looking relieved, he smiled. ‘Clever girl! I’ll follow
you.’

‘No, you go first in case you fall over – I can help you up. Just follow the tracks. Bend your knees and brace yourself because the first fifty yards or so are a bit steep, then it
levels out. Just let yourself go!’ She shot an anxious glance around her to make absolutely sure no one was watching.

‘OK!’ he said with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. ‘Here goes! Yeee-ha!’

He launched himself forward on his poles, like a racer out of the gate, and whooped again. ‘Yeee-ha!’

Then his voice turned into a terrible scream. Just for one fleeting second before it was swallowed by the wind.

Then silence.

Jodie turned round, then pushing with her poles, headed off in the direction all the other skiers had taken, oblivious to the wind and the stinging snow on her cheeks.

Jodie did what she and Walt had agreed if they lost each other, which was to ski down to the Croisette and wait in front of the entrance to the ski school.

It was much warmer down here than it had been up at the top of the Saulire, and just as the Englishman they’d met in the gondola had predicted, the weather was now improving. The falling
snow had turned to flecks of sleet, and the sun was trying to break through. And apart from that man, no one in either of the lifts in which they had travelled to the top had taken any notice of
them.

She removed her helmet so that, maybe later, someone would recognize her and be able to back up her story. That guy from Brighton might even prove useful. He’d be able to verify she and
Walt had both set off skiing together in the poor visibility. A shame she hadn’t asked him his name.

She glanced at her watch, wondering just how long would be considered a respectable waiting time. An hour, she decided. An hour would be a perfectly reasonable time before she headed into a bar
for a nice warm coffee and an Eau de Vie schnapps – maybe a double – to take the edge off her nerves. Somewhere to sit and plan her story carefully.

She pushed back her sleeve and glanced at her watch. 11.05 a.m. The day was still young, and more skiers were venturing out of their hotels and chalets now that the weather was clearing, and
heading into the lift stations around her. Suddenly an idiot on a snowboard ran over her skis and grabbed hold of her, trying to prevent them both falling over.

‘Awfully sorry! Pardonnay-moi!’ His apology was as clumsy as his actions.

‘Dickhead,’ she said, freeing herself from his clutches.

‘There’s no need to be rude.’

‘Oh, right, I’m just standing here minding my own business and you crash into me. What do you want me to do – dance?’

She stepped away from him, huffily, and resumed staring up at the slopes, clocking anyone in a black jacket and trousers who might, possibly, be her fiancé. Not that she was expecting to
see him. But she continued watching, her story prepared just in case – however unlikely it was – he appeared.

An hour and a half later Jodie stepped out of the bar, pulled on her fur-lined Cornelia James gloves, hoisted her skis onto her shoulder and trudged the short distance up the
steep incline towards the Chabichou Hotel. Above her she heard the
wokka
. . .
wokka
. . .
wokka
sound of a helicopter and looked up at it. Maybe it was taking a group
heli-skiing up to some off-piste powder. Or maybe it belonged to the local emergency services.

Had someone found his body already? A bit sooner than she had planned – damn the weather, she’d hoped for the white-out to last a bit longer. But no matter.

Popping a piece of mint chewing gum into her mouth to mask the smell of alcohol, she placed the skis and poles in the rack by the ski-room entrance and went inside and into the ski shop. There
were rows of new skis lining one wall, a rack of helmets on another and several mannequins clad in the latest in skiing chic dotted around.

The young, handsome Frenchman who was the ski-shop manager, and had kitted them out with their rental skis, greeted her with a smile. In a charming French accent Simon Place said,
‘You’re not skiing? We have the best conditions here in the mountains in weeks – beautiful powder – and I think this afternoon the weather will be sunshine!’

‘I’ve lost my fiancé – it was a white-out at the top when we went up. I don’t like skiing on my own. Stupidly left my phone in our room – I’m going to
call him to try to find him. That’s one problem with this resort, it’s so big.’

As he helped her off with her boots, he asked, ‘You liked the skis?’

‘Yes, they’re good.’

‘Stockli skis – they are – you know – the Rolls-Royce skis.’

‘Too bad they don’t come with a chauffeur,’ she said and walked out into the corridor, leaving him puzzling over the remark.

She picked her key up from the hotel’s reception desk, telling the receptionist she’d become separated from her fiancé out skiing, and was worried because she’d waited
for him at the bottom for an hour and he hadn’t turned up. She added that he was an experienced skier and she was sure he would be fine, and asked the receptionist, when Walt eventually
turned up, to tell him she’d be in the spa if she wasn’t in their room. Then she took the lift up to the third floor.

The room had already been cleaned; it looked neat and tidy, and there was a faint, pleasant smell of pine. She removed her phone from the back of the shelf where she had placed her underwear and
dialled Walt’s number, wanting to be sure that if the police were subsequently to check her phone, she had done what she had said.

She heard Walt’s phone buzz and then begin warbling as well. She ended the call, removed his phone from under the pile of his clothes in the drawer where she had hidden it, and placed it
on the desk beside his laptop. Then she peeled off her wet jacket, hung it over a radiator, dumped her gum into the waste bin and sat down on the freshly plumped duvet, thinking hard.

So far so good. She felt hungry. And the large schnapps had gone to her head a little. She had a witness that she’d travelled up to the top with her fiancé. She had another witness
in the ski shop that she had returned without him, having become separated in the white-out, and that she’d gone back to the hotel to get her phone.

And no witness to what had happened at the top of the Saulire.

When they had got engaged, Walt had told her that he had written her into his will. So sweet of him.

There was a nice spa downstairs, with a swimming pool. She’d check her emails, have some lunch in the restaurant and check with the receptionist again. Then, if no update, she’d have
a relaxing afternoon in the spa and perhaps get a massage. Around 5.30 p.m., a good hour after the lifts had closed, she’d go back to the reception desk and reiterate her concerns about her
fiancé not having returned – and ask if they could check with the police and clinics.

Just like any anxious loved one might do.

She was feeling pretty happy with herself.

Roy Grace was feeling pretty happy with himself, too, as he slid off the physiotherapist’s table in her small Brighton consulting room. And looking forward to Saturday,
Valentine’s Day. He’d booked a table at his and Cleo’s favourite Brighton restaurant, English’s, and he was already thinking, with anticipation, about what he was going to
have. Oysters Kilpatrick – grilled, with bacon – and then either lobster or a Dover sole – with mushy peas. A glass of champagne to start with and then a nice bottle of their
Pouilly-Fuissé white burgundy, his favourite wine, when he could afford it.

Buying their new house, a cottage in the country on the outskirts of Henfield, had stretched them both financially, but they’d still kept a small amount aside for spoiling each other on
special occasions, and this was one. They’d already had a great house-warming party with family and friends, and he was delighted that his sister was becoming close friends with Cleo’s
sister, Charlie. His first wife, Sandy, had had no siblings, and relations with her odd parents had always been strained, at best. So this was really nice to see.

‘That’s it!’ Anita Lane said. ‘We’re done! I don’t think I need to see you again, unless your leg starts giving you any grief, in which case call
me.’

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Brilliant!’

He’d been coming here twice a week since early January, after a surgeon at the Royal Sussex County Hospital had removed eleven shotgun pellets from his right leg just before Christmas. He
had been shot at close range by a suspected serial killer he’d been attempting to arrest in a bunker beneath a house in Hove. The surgeon had breezily told him he’d been very lucky not
to lose his leg.

To begin with, recovery had been agony, with several of the nerves damaged, and he’d woken many times during the nights that followed with the sensation that his leg was on fire. But
he’d stuck rigidly to the exercise programme the physio had given him, in between their sessions; finally the pain had eased and the mobility was returning.

‘Keep up the exercises for a few more weeks,’ she said.

‘How soon can I start running again, Anita?’

‘You can start now but build it up slowly. Don’t try and do a marathon, OK?’

‘I won’t!’

‘If you get pain, come straight back to see me. That’s an order!’

‘You’re quite the bully, aren’t you?’ He grinned.

‘It’s because I can see you’re chomping at the bit. You’ve had a massive trauma to that leg, and just because you’ve thrown your walking stick away and I’m
discharging you doesn’t mean you can start going mad.
Comprende?
’