Becwethan (The Leopold Dix Thrillers Book 1) Read online

  “What are you two whispering about?” Simmy’s fresh face poked out from the front door.

  “You’re about to be ‘outed’ as a fraud,” Rufus pointed his finger close to her face as he passed to retrieve another beer.

  “What’s this Leo?” Her face quizzical.

  “It’s not a secret, but I’ve secured the cheeses for the ‘cheese test’.”

  “Ahh, pressure on” she rubbed her hands in anticipation; “before or after the steaks?”

  “They’re ready; it’ll have to be after.”

  “Trying to dull my taste buds are we?” She looked accusingly.

  “I’ll allow you time to recover them, hurry up, I’m serving.” She disappeared and scuttled up the stairs to get ready.

  The meal dispensed with; the formalities of the test began. “I’m running a tight ship here, no peaking.” I covered both of their eyes with a strip of fabric and tied it on tight.

  “Jesus, are you trying to blind me?” Rufus jerked back.

  “Come on you old woman, I know your game, looking for a peep hole.” I faked a punched to his head to make sure he couldn’t see me.

  “I hope you’re not going to do that to me,” Simmy blew me a kiss.

  “Come on you two, no time for that” Rufus wittered.

  I tied on Simmy’s blindfold and explained the rules.

  “Jesus, it’s not mastermind dad, can’t you just let us taste all four and we’ll tell you the order and altitude of each.”

  “That’s just what I said.”

  “Twice round the block” Rufus was enjoying his criticisms too much.

  “Just let him get on with it Rufus” Simmy said, “otherwise his next punch might be for real.”

  “Good point,” Rufus sat up to attention.

  Cheese one, I cut two slivers and put one into Rufus’s hand and one into Simmy’s mouth. I let them ruminate and then ruminate. Eventually I offered the final cheese.

  “The order’s easy” Simmy said as the full flavour of the last cheese filled her mouth. “The actual altitudes are the tricky ones, what you reckon Rufus, can you taste the difference?”

  “I can taste a difference but I’m not sure what those differences mean” he said.

  “Are you ready Leo?” Simmy began.

  “The floor’s yours” I said.

  “The last cheese was the lowest, ignore the texture Rufus, and concentrate on the flavour” she said. “The rule of thumb is; the stronger the flavour and the richer the cheese the higher the altitude. So, cheese four lowest, cheese three highest, two, second highest, the first one the second lowest. So in order of ascendancy I’d say four, one, two, three;” she paused for conformation, still blindfolded.

  “Go on, good start, now the altitudes.” I was impressed, not a foot wrong up to this point.

  “Cheese four is Alain Vaud 1520m, Grimentz; cheese one Thierry Rard, nasty man, 1750m, Ayer; cheese two 2100m Celine Bonvin, Zinal; cheese three, the piece de resistance, Michelle Bersier, rock de la vache, 2500m and above.”

  We all went silent; Rufus was the first to start chuckling, “I hope you had a good bet riding on that” he said as he pulled the blindfold off. “Is she right, or is she right?” he asked.

  “Unbloodybelievable, how did you do that? I was impressed when you got the order right, now I’m starting to think you’re a bit of a cheese nerd.”

  Simmy pulled the blindfold off, looking for someone to punch. “I told you it was dangerous to mess with us Swiss girls, we know our cheeses.”

  “I’m wondering if there’s something in this for the best man’s speech” I said.

  “Don’t you dare, it’s bad enough having the whole village thinking I’m a bike nut without giving them more ‘obsessive behaviour’ ammunition.”

  I left Simmy and Rufus playing cards and headed high with the laptop to send Pascal my last report. Mike had sent me a load more stuff on the Masserelli case and Gustav had emailed me a list of family that ‘I might like to mention’ in the speech. I sent him a quick reply; ‘bugger off, I’m writing the speech, and you’re gonna suffer……’. I was pleased with my handiwork.

  The phone rang; “Leo, amazing stuff, I’ve just scanned through it.”

  “I knew it would help; he wanted to get it off his chest, and I was the next best thing to a Swiss police man.”

  “You don’t think…. I mean....”

  “No” I interrupted his awkward moment, “he’s not my father, just thinks he is; any tracks?”

  “One encouraging lead, I’ve got a team working it with the Italians.”

  “Good.”

  “I take it you’ll be going to Gustav and Dominique’s wedding” he said.

  “I’ve inherited the best man duties.”

  “They’ve invited me, I’ll see you there, ciao” he hung up.

  The dark forest was quiet and still, the season had changed, not long now and the short autumn would be plunged into winter.

  TWENTY FOUR

  A good best man’s speech is difficult to write; particularly if you’re trying to achieve a sort of diffident delivery. You want people on your side; so I’ve always tried to start a little timid; grow in confidence; deliver a few of the oldest jokes you can find and keep it clean, the old folks always hate any serious expletives. Oh, and keep it short. I remember going to a wedding in Barnes, perhaps ten years ago. It was a packed marquee, summer’s day, inadequate air circulation. The best man told a joke, the punch line was ‘you fucking bitch you’ve ruined my life’. One old dear fell straight to the ground, a combination of shock and heat. The best man was the only doctor present, he leapt off the platform he was delivering the speech from, to administer some help. For some reason an old chap thought he was trying to attack her, he gave him a black eye with his video camera. The best part was the camera was still on and recorded the whole thing.

  ‘Ah, what to write……?’ I sat outside Rothorn, two days to go, with a number of very blank sheets of paper. I sat back, thinking and waiting for Rufus to arrive with my package.

  “Jesus, I can’t wait for this leg to be right” he shouted up the track. Thirty seconds later a still hobbling Rufus surfaced from the undergrowth. He slipped his rucksack off one shoulder as he approached unclipped the top and produced the package, shaking it in his hand. “Everything you need to have them howling in the aisles”. He slapped it on the table with a loud thump. “There’s got to be at least 1500 pages in that. They’re going to be laughing all the way home, crying tears of uncontrollable mirth for weeks, hooting and whinnying.”

  “Try all you like to up the pressure, but I’m supremely relaxed about this. It’s just a wedding speech.” I thought I sounded pretty convincing.

  “There are four hundred people expecting something special” Rufus smiled. “Oh and I was just telling the man in the post office, you know the bald one who chats to everyone, that your speech making is legendary.” Rufus chose to rub his hands together at this point, a sure sign that he felt he’d just taken the first set.

  I unwrapped the package, tapped the writing paper on its end, making sure each sheet was directly over the one beneath and laid my aluminium Parker on the top. The book cover was a mottled burgundy colour, an excellent disguise for the food that would inevitable get splattered on it. Gold lettering spelt out the title ‘Mrs Beaton’s book of cookery and household management.’ I had one in Wimbledon, and now thanks to Amazon I had two copies of this particular version of the bible. 1401 pages of common sense.

  The book constantly sprang shut as I search the index for the appropriate references. ‘Brutal treatment required’ I thought, as I forced the spine open until I heard a dull crack. I’d never delivered the Mrs Beaton’s best man speech before, but I had been at a wedding in Somerset, perhaps 15 years before where the best man had them howling with it, and I was confident that occupants of a small Swiss village had never heard of Mrs Beaton. Careful translation was going to be needed, and not being a slave to the text,
to make sure the joke wasn’t lost.

  I continued to search the index, unsure whether it would be in the cookery index or general index. I could hear Rufus sipping a tea behind me. He was a dog with a bone, and just wouldn’t leave my discomfort alone.

  “I’ve been telling everyone in the village that they’ll spend the whole night tittering and chuckling even sniggering in their sleep.”

  “They won’t be disappointed then.” I continued to look for the appropriate passages as a large mug of tea descended in front of me.

  “Good brain food; are you going to rehearse it on me first?”

  “At this rate I’ll have nothing to say, you need to give me a couple of hours to get the bones of it.”

  “Good one dad, bones of it, coming from the man who discovered the ‘graveyard of Grimentz’.”

  I shut the world off and concentrated on the book. Scanning the index I came to Poultry, ‘preparation pages 254-7, that must be it’ I thought; ‘perhaps poultry general 252-3, or carving 258 will give me some other stuff’. The book kept trying to close, the number of pages and strength of the spine forcing it shut. I stood and pushed my full body weight into the open spine; it stayed open. I started to read ‘poultry is ideal for all occasions, for light everyday dishes or celebration meals; from popular chicken and festive turkey to the traditional Christmas goose, duck and guinea fowl.’

  I was trying to find the various sections where Mrs Beaton explains how you should choose your ‘bird’ and how you should prepare your ‘bird’. The obvious link would be that Gustav had referred to Mrs Beaton for help in finding his ‘bird’ or wife; I pressed on, pen in hand, ready to underline any likely statements. I scanned the poultry section and underlined a couple of sections. The ‘Game Birds’ section was even more forthcoming; I started to chuckle.

  “Come on then, share it with me.” Rufus popped his head out of the door.

  “I like these: when selecting birds, look for pliable, yellow-brown feet as they turn grey when the bird is older.” Rufus began to laugh out loud; he always was a good audience.

  “You’ve just got to use that one, ha” he continued.

  “There’s loads more: when looking for a bird, notice the feet which should be fairly smooth on a young bird. They tend to become scaly in appearance as the bird ages.” I’d lost Rufus off the deep end now, he howled his appreciation. “I hope the reception’s full of people like you.” I said.

  “Quality, pure quality, more, please more.” He waited whilst I referred to the bible and continued;

  “Two rapid fire ones for you here; ‘look for birds with pink legs as they tend to be younger’ and ‘put the bird on its back and hold the legs together forming a ‘v’ shape.’ I think you need to follow that one up with something out of the poultry section” I scanned back. “Yes, here it is ‘spread out the bird. It is now ready for stuffing’.” We fell about laughing. “There’s a whole load of stuff in here, I’m only scratching the surface.” Mrs Beaton had been worth the investment and I spent the next hour writing out my favourite statements, hoping that a Swiss audience would appreciate the double entendre.

  “If you’re worried dad try it out on Simmy, see what she makes of it. Last time I looked she had yellow-brown feet, it’s scary it’s so close to the truth.”

  “It’ll work, especially if you and Gustav start hooting.” I returned to the task in hand and by early evening had come up with a first version of the speech.

  “Fourteen minutes, the perfect length” I said climbing the steps to the chalet. Rufus was frying something up in the pan.

  “Last night’s leftovers, fourteen minutes, is that long enough?”

  “After all the other speeches people will be praying I’m on my feet for five. It’s perhaps a little long but there are some areas I can still trim.”

  I felt finally able to relax, the speech was written and I had a couple of days to get it perfect.

  “Your choice tonight; chess or cards?” I said.

  “Beer and chess” Rufus replied, “it’s time for me to wreak my revenge”.

  Rufus was one move ahead of me all night. I had rationalised that I was supposed to be relaxed, but my racing mind was refusing to let me.

  “Mate” Rufus moved the inevitable piece, the game had finished 10 moves ago, but we liked to see it through. “You’re not all here tonight” Rufus said setting the pieces. “Is the speech getting to you?”

  “Na, I’m as relaxed about that as I can be, I was just thinking… Back to London, where am I with Simmy? And that murdering bastard Marc keeps popping into my head. Let’s have another game.”

  Rufus moved the first piece, “where do you think he’s gone?”

  “South America, South East Asia,” I flicked my open palms upwards in a gesture of defeat. “But when I get home I’m going to circulate his details to every far corner of the world, and I’ll keep doing it until I think he’s dead.” Rufus seemed satisfied with that answer.

  “And Simmy, what happens there?” he made another move.

  “Not sure that either of us knows. She’s got desk work with the ski school for the next 5 months, then…… We’ve just not worked anything out yet. I can’t quite believe the sabbatical is nearly over, three weeks and I’ll be in London.” A silence followed, pieces moved and beer was sipped.

  “And you? …. Check” I said.

  “I’ve got a couple of plans coming together, I need a few more days, then I’ll spill the beans.” Rufus gave me a broad grin and rubbed his chin, a gesture of deep thought and consideration.

  I didn’t push, I’d leave that to his mother, he was clearly fired up about something and I was sure it involved staying in Grimentz and living at Chalet Rothorn. “In your own time my boy.”

  TWENTY FIVE

  The wedding day had come and the weather didn’t disappoint. Sheets of rain lashed the mountains and a rumble of thunder echoed up the valley from Zinal.

  The kettle whistled and Rufus moved smoothly down the stairs, his tendons recovered to the casual observer.

  I pushed half a dozen sausages into the frying pan, bacon and eggs in the other pan.

  ‘Confidence taken in by a suntan and a grin’ the prophetic words of Depeche Mode hung in air and tripped off my tongue as I eased the eggs off the bottom of the pan with a fish slice.

  “There’s some rostii left over from last night, could be worth a refry” Rufus said; always looking to maximise the quantities.

  “Don’t forget me” Simmy said descending the stairs. “I’ll have some rostii with mine”.

  We sat in the comfort of the wooden walls and smoking range stoking up for the day ahead.

  “We’d better make an earlier start” I said looking at the ever darkening sky.

  “And snow’s forecast at 2000m and above” Simmy chipped in cheerfully.

  We packed our clothes into a rucksack, pulled up the waterproof covers and set off in full waterproofs to Simmy’s apartment to get ready.

  The walk down was saturating; raindrops as hard as pebbles striking our heads and shoulders, breaking, forming rivulets, looking for a way in. A steaming Rufus led the way, followed by Simmy; sure footed and athletic.

  Simmy lived in the old town a stone’s throw from the church; a top floor apartment of a four story chalet, very old and black. We wound our way up the staircase, packs off, removing our wets and stepped inside.

  Rufus’s frame filled the corridor; he ducked into the living room and true to form knocked a picture off the wall.

  “Sorry, didn’t see it…Phew it’s still in one piece”. Simmy took it and carefully placed it behind the sofa.

  “It’s fine” she said, you’re in here, the bathroom’s first on the right” she gestured with her finger.

  “Try and stay in the middle of the room, less likely to break things.” I wagged my finger and left him to change.

  Simmy was already in her underwear when I entered her bedroom. She turned, unselfconscious, which one do you p
refer, she held up two dresses.

  “The one in the middle” I stepped forward and wrapped her in my arms. She immediately started to cry.

  “I never cry” she said, “I’m sorry…I, well I don’t know what it is, it’s probably the emotion of a wedding day or something.” The tears slowly rolled down her smooth brown cheeks.

  “We’re good Simmy; I don’t have any answers yet, but…….” Now it was my turn to talk gibberish. “Well, I’m coming back at Christmas for a few days, and hopefully you’ll come out and stay with me.” She sat upright on the bed and brushed the last remaining tears away.

  “It’s just three weeks Leo, I hate the thought that you’ll be in London in three weeks.” She huffed and sniffled and squeezed my hand very tightly. “But” she announced in a fortified voice “today is about Gustav and Dom, and their best man needs all the support he can get, so which dress then?” She said, slipping between the sheets.

  The TV was on loud; Rufus had found the on button, but not the remote controls. He looked for a few seconds then settled back to watch the loud news.

  “Do you think they can hear that on the ground floor?” I turned and smiled.

  “Noise pollution’s what they call it” Simmy replied.

  The church bells began to ring, “I’m meeting Gustav at the Moiry for a fortifying drink, I’d better skedaddle”.

  “Good luck, see you in there and don’t forget the rings”.

  I shot out of the apartment dragging Rufus with me; “said I’d meet him at 11.00, we’re ten minutes late”.

  Gustav was sitting at an old pine table; already supported by a team of ten drinking companions. “Jesus, if they all get a round in we’ll be mullered”.

  “Looks like they’re still on their first” Rufus chipped in.

  We joined the party, Gustav sat at the head of the table, his wheelchair wouldn’t let him go anywhere else.

  “A couple more and I’ll be ready to walk down the aisle” he brandished his crutches. “I’m nearly there now Leo.” He punched me on the shoulder.

  His progress had been good, but severe hypothermia had nearly killed him, the full recovery, if it came, was likely to take a good deal longer.