Becwethan (The Leopold Dix Thrillers Book 1) Page 15

  “Good, they helped us find Pierre; they are more likely than anyone to find a hideaway; shit, I’d forgotten that.”

  “What?” Pascal looked intrigued.

  “The call that Pierre took, he said he’d be arriving around midday. That should help us narrow things down dramatically. The map, let me get the map.” I sprang up and headed into Rothorn.

  “How fast do you reckon that cart was going?” Pascal asked as I returned.

  “It was a sort of medium walking pace on the flat, a slow crawl on the steeper inclines.” I said.

  “In Kilometres per hour, what would you estimate?”

  “Now you’re asking” I thought aloud. “I’d say an average walking speed in these conditions would be three and a half to four kilometres per hour. Throw in a couple of steeper ascents it might drop to three. Sound about right?” I looked at Pascal.

  “Go on” he said.

  “Well he took the call at around 7.30, he still needed to load Gustav, say 8.00 at best, probably 8.30, nine, ten, eleven thirty” I counted the hours on my fingers; “three and a half hours;” I paused to check my calculations. “Three and a half hours at three to four kilometres per hour. Three threes are nine plus one and a half, ten and a half to”

  “Twelve” Pascal joined in the maths.

  “He had to descend Sasseneire the way he’d gone up. There was no route for a cart beyond the cave, so that narrows the search area further. I’d say they’re eight to ten kilometres from the bottom of the ridge.”

  “Where’s the fucking scale on this map?” Pascal was getting very interested.

  “It’s a 1:25000 scale” I said.

  “What the fuck does that mean? Just show me the possibilities Leo.” I ran back to Rothorn for a ruler.

  “Having fun?” Rufus asked, as I descended the stairs with a tape measure.

  “If you’ve got a minute we could use your help as well, think we’ve established the distance between Gustav’s cave and the second hideout”. I shot out of the door; Rufus followed gingerly.

  “1:25000 means 4cm equates to 1Km.” I started to trace out possible routes from the bottom of the ridge.

  “That’s the extent of the area, but you could easily argue that Pierre wouldn’t want to be late and it could have taken him much longer to load Gustav. I think you’re looking at this area.” Pascal was contemplating, Rufus watched.

  “You need to call Robert; ask him to narrow down his thoughts to this zone.” I said.

  The food arrived; Rufus and I marked the map and gave it to Pascal who barked a series of orders at the sweaty officer and sent him on his way.

  Lunch comprised of bread and butter, saucisson and a beer, Rufus and I ate hungrily whilst Pascal puffed on a cigarette and drank his beer.

  “I went through my mother’s statement. When she referred to Lona, ‘they’ve taken him to Lona’ or some such words, I guess she was referring to the Lona cave, not the cowsheds, but perhaps there’s an even more significant hiding place in the Lona area.” I hypothesized.

  “Possible” Pascal nodded his agreement.

  “Have you been able to track any mobile signals?” Rufus added helpfully.

  “Nothing doing there, but we’re trying”.

  We sipped at our beer and thought. “What was with the case of goblets, chalices?” I asked. “The one I picked up had an eye depicted on it. I’m hazarding a guess that the others covered hearing, smell, taste, and touch?”

  “Bang on” Pascal replied; “gruesome prospect”.

  “What; they weren’t going to put his eye in one, ear in another, tongue, nose, hand; Jesus Christ, what is wrong with these people?” Rufus sat there flabbergasted.

  “I would guess that’s exactly what they were planning to do” Pascal’s voice was flat. “At least we’re looking in the right place now; it’s just a matter of time.”

  “Assuming they’ve gone to ground” I added. “There’s still the chance that we spooked them and they’ve bolted.”

  Pascal stood up to leave; “again Leo, Rufus, you’ve been a great help, rest up and we’ll keep you posted.” He waddled off, his flat soled leather shoes offering little grip as he started his descent.

  “He’ll have an eventful time in those shoes” Rufus said and we chuckled at the misfortune that was soon to be his.

  NINETEEN

  The Alps could still amaze me. The day was light but the sun hadn’t made it over the mountains yet. The rays cut a straight line across the top of the valley illuminating the particles in the air, turning the crystal clear into a haze, the diffracting light bouncing about in confusion.

  I felt strong in body but my face was still a mess a painful black and yellow. I needed a mission so decided to get the car from Bendola. I’d trek up, get messages, check on Gustav’s progress, and drive back. I scribbled a message; ‘Rufus, gone to get car, don’t forget doctor’s coming at 11.00. I’ll be back around 2.00, you eat.’ I packed a light rucksack with the bare essentials and took off.

  The rest had rejuvenated me; I climbed the path; the bumps and bruises easing with every step. The sun was strong, the long grass starting to brown and the rivers less full. After forty minutes or so I perched on a large flat stone and took out my Sigg and phone. The Sigg went everywhere with me, a battered aluminium water bottle with screw top, hardy, light and practical, perfect design. The phone, on the other hand, the Nokia silver brick, as Rufus called it, had three months of life left in it at best; numbers worn, casing cracked, but it’s one redeeming feature was the battery life. I checked messages, Simone was coming over tonight, there was a sort of growl in her voice; either that or she was getting a sore throat.

  Dom confirmed that it was going to be a long process, Gustav hadn’t made any progress, but his body temperature was normalised and the doctors were painting the positive side of the coma. She’d call again and leave a message tonight. I composed a quick text to Fran and pressed send. ‘Rufus’s ankle improving, he’s hoping to call you tomorrow. Leo’. I munched through another row of Lindt, tucked the Sigg into the side pocket of the rucksack, and pressed on.

  Pascal now had all my maps of the Val d’Anniviers, not that I needed one for the hike to Bendola; I could have got there in my sleep. But I never liked leaving home without one; you never knew when your journey might lead you on a less well known path. The small forest path joined the access road to Bendola; I continued on, up the tarmac and gravel road alongside the Torrent du Marais. It was less of a torrent now, the snows had all melted, and it hadn’t rained much. The Torrent was rather relying on the water table to keep it in business. I walked past the bottom of a four man chairlift and towards the area which served as the nursery slopes in the winter season. A conveyor belt stood perhaps a metre above the ground, waiting for the snow to put it into context with its surroundings; another way of getting beginners up the slope.

  As I approached Bendola I realised I’d actually been enjoying the walk; the anxiety of Gustav’s predicament had gone. I’d found him and now it was in god’s hands to do the rest. Finding Marc, Mattieau and Raphy was not my problem, Pascal had to sort that, I’d have enough problems like that as soon as I returned to England. I felt the stress of the last few weeks diminishing, I was officially relaxed.

  Wolf was parked as I’d left her, tucked up against the walls of Bendola. ‘Funny, I thought I’d locked her.’ I chucked the rucksack in the back and climbed into the driver’s seat. The first thing that struck me as odd was the smell. It wasn’t a rotten food smell, a decomposing banana behind the front seat or a chunk of cheese that’s rolled out of the shopping. It was definitely body odour. Tension started to creep rapidly back into my body, ‘I was relaxed for all of five minutes there’ I thought. I scanned out of the windows, the walls of Bendola obscuring my view through two sides. “Must have seen me coming” I muttered. I opened the storage box between the two front seats; the torch and penknife were both gone, the selection of eighties CDs untouched. “Bugger”; I opened
the door, checked under the car. I leant back into the car and pulled up the bottom section of the front seat. Unless you own a defender or spent time in the army you wouldn’t know that there are two magnificent storage compartments under the front seats. It was still there; a white plastic bag and inside a hunting knife. The bag was essential; the hidden storage areas were great but regularly filled with water when driving in the wet. I unsheathed the blade a film of oil still evident. “Good, let’s hope I don’t need it.”

  The door on the passenger side had been tampered with; a screwdriver, or similar, pushed just below the lock, the lock broken and the door now unable to close. ‘I had locked her.’

  I flipped the bonnet and checked the engine, no incendiary devices, but everything else that could be tampered with had been; “the bastards”. My mind played with two possibilities, kids, probably drunk or high or both; or Pascal’s fugitives, taking everything they could use and butchering the car. Although why they would bother to damage the car was beyond me. I immediately discounted the first possibility. This wasn’t London, the children weren’t allowed to behave like that in a small Swiss village, and I’d seen no evidence of a juvenile drug or drink problem. So there was the distinct possibility that Marc, Mattieau or Raphy had been in my car in the last, say hour. ‘Marc would never let himself smell that bad’ I thought of his perfect hair and cashmere jackets.

  Slipping the hunting knife into my rucksack I withdrew the binoculars. I climbed up and onto the large flat roof of Bendola, carrying my sack with me. For ten minutes the binoculars were glued to my eyes as I scanned the most obvious areas of ascent. The occasional jet passed 20 to 30 000 ft overhead, spewing a white contrail of contrast.

  Nothing, then a noise, a dull crash from inside Bendola, permeated the two feet of concrete. I rang Pascal; the call went to voice mail. “Pascal, it’s Leo I’m collecting my car from Bendola. The car’s been sabotaged and someone’s inside the restaurant; get someone across.” I made sure the phone was on silent and slowly climbed down the outside of the building. I crept around the concrete monstrosity looking for the point of access. If it was Marc and his crew they would more than likely be armed and I didn’t want to be picked off at a distance. All the windows and door were secure on the ground floor level. However, there was a service entrance below, where the ground fell away fast from the front of the structure. This enabled access to the basement through a number of additional door and windows; I went to investigate.

  I stationed myself about 100 yards from the service entrance, the cover was good, but my low position didn’t afford the best of views. The first window seemed intact, I drew the binoculars across the bottom of the building, the door was open, only a couple of inches but definitely open. The binoculars filled with black, a bush nearby obstructing my view. I looked up just in time to see the boot as it crashed into my already swollen face. The explosion of pain was followed by three rapid gun shots. My rag like body tumbled down the steep escarpment, gathering speed and distance. The branches, the bushes, rocks and trees grabbing at my torn body; it just wouldn’t stop. When I did eventually stop it was my face that hurt the most; no bullets had made contact. I lay still, face up, looking up the mountain slope I’d fallen down. I could see a figure, and then it was gone. This time I’d been lucky. I stood up; my legs were fine, stretched my back, fine, arms, hands, fingers, fine. I pulled out the painkillers and took a double dose, ‘that’s for my face’ I thought. Anger can mask pain and I was apoplectic with rage. It made no sense to confront these people, but I couldn’t just let them walk out. I needed to track them, and then Pascal could shoot them for all I cared. I moved fast, I don’t think a fit Rufus would have been able to keep up with me. I circumnavigated to a position just below an escarpment, then scrambled up fast. The only real pain I could feel was the pulsing blood in my cheek bones; ‘don’t think the plastic surgeon will be too pleased with me’. I thought about Simone; distracting my mind from the task in hand. I arrived under the escarpment after ten minutes; 150 metres below Bendola. I breathed deeply and recovered fast whilst texting Pascal an update; ‘man armed and dangerous’. It wasn’t relevant that this had been the same man whose arm I’d smashed to pieces in my first few weeks, Pierre’s partner in crime.

  My new position was safe but gave me little visibility. I needed to move if I was to see where he was going. I crawled on my belly for a further 5 minutes into a better location. The binoculars were long gone; I was reliant on my naked eye.

  His direction was given away by the cows; a particularly large black cow had taken exception to being disturbed and only moved, making a terrible noise, after much encouragement. He was alone, jogging and walking straight up the same piste I’d used to find the Lona cave, the cave where I’d found Pierre.

  I had to stay put for a further 15 minutes, the land was too open, and I couldn’t risk exposure. I glanced up, still no choppers, ‘come on Pascal’. I ran the first 2 km straight up the piste and edged over the first blind summit. The land continued to rise rapidly, the next ridge perhaps a kilometre away. Once I was absolutely sure he hadn’t stopped I set off again at a running pace. It carried on like this until I reached the top of the ski resort; occasionally catching brief glimpses of him. Here I was again, Becs de Bosson, but instead of turning left and heading toward the Lona caves he continued up and over the Becs. I looked at the phone, the signal had died; I knew it was intermittent up here ‘it’ll be back I thought’.

  Behind me I could hear the rotor of a helicopter, ‘the cavalry are coming’...... Following at a safe distance, I checked my phone every couple of hundred metres. The choppers had spooked him; he glanced back nervously, following the contours of the land more precisely, to avoid detection. There were really only two routes from the top, either to follow the ridge towards Pointe de Lona or past the cabane towards Pointes de Tsavolire; he chose the second.

  I was back above 3000m and heading out of the search zone I’d designated for Pascal. There was a clear line of sight between the bec and Tsavolire so I was only able to follow after he had gained some considerable distance. The first few hundred metres were on a recognised walking trail then it was scrambling time again as I followed the ridge up. After an hour or so of careful tracking I found his destination; ‘where there are rivers there are caves’ I thought. Sure enough the ground had opened up into a small plain; a little lake had formed at one end, water running in from all sides.

  It really didn’t matter how often I checked my phone, there was still no signal, and the topography told me there never would be.

  ‘He can’t be alone, I’ll just see if I can get sight of the others’ I thought. I was sort of trying to fool myself; that I didn’t really care about their capture; that it was all Pascal’s problem. But the reality was I did care, and it was personal. Not only had they tried to maim me; kill me and Rufus, murder and torture my friend; they were inextricably linked to the murder of my father, and I wanted answers to that. ‘Don’t rake up the past’ my mother had written knowing full well that I would. I could feel the hairs standing up on the back of my neck.

  TWENTY

  I decided to dig in and wait; not risk exposure. Positioning myself about 150m from the entrance of the cave I ducked down and ate the remaining chocolate, ‘better in than out’ I thought. I could feel the sugar rush after about ten minutes. The sky was darkening, a mixture of nightfall, and the encroaching cumulus nimbus, and still I had only seen the one man.

  A flickering light was visible in the mouth of the cave, a fire had been lit; the smoke invisible in the dark skies. The last sight I’d had of a helicopter was probably an hour ago, cutting a broad arc over the area, turning not searching. I was definitely alone.

  The cover of night gave me the confidence to narrow the distance between us. At first I moved to within a hundred metres. I could hear voices, no words, strange sounds, and the cracking of burning logs on the fire. No one ventured out of the cave so I shortened the distance between us 75 met
res, 50 metres, 30 metres. I couldn’t go any closer without severely compromising my safety. I peered around the last rocky outcrop of cover. The fire cracked like a firecracker, ‘what are they burning?’ I thought. I could see ten metres into the mouth of the cave, the sight alarming. Four hooded, masked, figures kneeled on the ground. I could see the first two in their entirety, the third and forth kneeled further back in the cave. I could see the shoulders of the third, the hood when he dipped his head, and the chest down of the forth. Their backs were bare, bloodied. A fifth person walked behind them carrying a whip. He too was bare chested, his back bloody. .....The hoods, plain white, contrasting the mat of dark blood flowing down their backs. Crack. The whip made contact with the third man, his head dipped with the pain, the prayer chanted louder as an aftermath. The fire was silent, the cracking of the whip continuous, the chants strong and deep. I’d heard of flagellation; it was what monks did centuries ago, self flagellation, and hair shirts. Somehow the pain and suffering was supposed to bring you closer to god. There were all sorts of nasty devices designed to maximise your pain, chains that would bite into your thigh, mats of nails to kneel on, the list endless.

  The blood soaked into the white fabric tied around their waists like blotting paper and the ceremony continued unabated. After a further 20 minutes the chants became more frenzied, a whirling dervish of intensity. The cracking whip had stopped and the five hooded men gathered around an alter. I moved closer to the mouth of the cave, certain that no one else would be arriving late; the brightness inside the cave providing a blanket of safety for my voyeurism. On the makeshift altar I could see five cups; slowly and deliberately each member of this fascist, pseudo catholic, splinter group removed their headgear, pulling up their robes to cover their congealing backs. Raphy and Marc were present, the bloke whom I’d followed, and two complete strangers; there was no Mattieau. I suddenly felt exposed, that Mattieau could come from behind. I backed away confused. ‘Perhaps Catherine was right; that Mattieau didn’t have it in him.’ Once again I rationalised that no one else was coming and edged closer to the mouth. The chanting became frenzied, with each man striking the next violently on the top of his head with endorphin releasing clenched fists. Marc stood up and walked behind the first man, the chanting became a violent shout. With the skills of a butcher Marc slit his throat, a wave of blood spilling out with his final breath. He laid him back, kissed his lips and like a man struggling with an oyster cut his eye from the socket, placing it carefully in one of the cups. ‘Fuck, I’ve got to get out of here’....., I felt light headed, breathing became difficult, and my heart rate went stratospheric. The second and third men were dealt with in a similar fashion, the final increase in the intensity of the chant coming just before their throats were slit. With the second man Marc severed the ears, with the third his nose was removed, a difficult and physical procedure, the knife struggling to cut through the tissue. The cave was looking more abattoir than church and Marc more butcher than self appointed high priest. Marc’s son, Raphy, turned and faced him, chanting still violently, his eyes dead to his surroundings. Marc placed his hand on his shoulder and thrust the knife through his ribs and into his heart. He fell to the floor, blood on blood. Kneeling beside his son he forced open his clenched teeth and exposed his tongue, cutting it off with a sawing action, and placing it in a cup. The whole episode.... surreal; it was as if I was back in the Chelsea Arts Cinema on the Kings Road watching a horror classic; sitting in the dark watching the flickering screen... fantasy.