Becwethan (The Leopold Dix Thrillers Book 1) Read online

  Ten minutes into the journey and Rufus’s breathing changed to a deep rhythmic pattern. The man who could sleep anywhere and in any circumstance was at it again. Mind you I’ve always thought that, if you can sleep in a hammock, suspended off a sheer rock face, then most other, if not all other settings are going to be conducive to sleep.

  I began to think that perhaps I should have warned them that I was coming. I didn’t even know who ‘them’ were. I was turning up, out of the blue; I knew my mother had two brothers, so that meant uncles, almost certainly cousins. I had rationalised that the best course of action was, with the moral support of Rufus, to just appear. Find out where the chalet was. Set up camp and then see who came knocking on the door. “Yes, I think it’s for the best” I whispered to myself.

  “You’re too young to start mumbling to yourself dad, are we still in London?”

  “Yes, 5 minutes from the M20” I said.

  “Music?” Rufus enquired. As he opened the box between the front seats and started to root around.

  We were lucky that we both liked the same music. There were a few 80’s tracks that Rufus couldn’t quite get his head around, but on the whole he was a fan of most of it. My collection in the car consisted of a number of compilation discs and the best of Blancmange, Depeche, China Crisis, The Whispers, and Kool and the Gang. Hardly erudite, but anything with a good beat was fine by me.

  Rufus slipped the disc into the machine and the car was filled with the reassuring sound of Jimmy the Hoover and ‘tantalise’. As we moved down the slip road and on to the M20 Rufus, without having to think, eased the volume up because at 70MPH you know you’re in an agricultural vehicle. We were aiming for a 7.00am train to take us through the tunnel. Then accounting for the hour forward, by my estimation we’d be arriving in Grimentz by 5.00 or 6.00pm; the perfect time to check into our hotel for the first night, the originally named ‘Alpina’.

  The number plate recognition system impressed us both, and the machine offered us the next shuttle. We moved seamlessly through the terminal, directed this way and that. High vehicle meant we were sectioned off with the vans and cars with roof boxes. Finally we parked and awaited the loading procedure. The porta-cabin café alongside was doing a brisk trade.

  “I’m starving; shall I get us a bacon sandwich?” Rufus put his hand out for the cash.

  “I’ll have a tea as well” I said passing him a 20.

  The car sank as Rufus climbed back up into the passenger seat armed with two bacon sandwiches each, he’d read my mind.

  “I guess I’ll be taking the shift from Reims to Besancon?” Rufus said through a mouthful of bacon and ketchup.

  “That’s right” there’s that good service station just after Dijon and before Besancon; I thought we could change again there”. We’d driven to the Alps on numerous occasions and knew the main arteries well; but had never had the opportunity or inclination to visit the Val d’Anniviers.

  It can be depressing in a Defender when after 2 hours of driving on seemingly empty motorways you’ve only done 100 miles. The secret is, don’t look at the distance you’ve travelled, and don’t keep converting kilometres to miles every time a distance to the next major town appears; just look into the distance and drive.

  “Well we’ve gone through the 200 miles mark, and only a shocking 310 km to Dijon, that’s just over 180 miles, my turn at the wheel” said Rufus breaking all the golden rules.

  As we settled into the second shift, after a fuel and food break I sat back and let my mind wander. I was in no hurry to get anywhere in reality. The adventure had proved to be a godsend. I could bum about for three months with my great companion and son, and for once had enough money to do it in some style. My mother had had savings and I was confident that this money would allow me to purchase the materials, planning consents, or whatever I needed to return chalet Rothorn to its former glory.

  I owed my mother a great deal, although she would never see it that way. She worked so hard and with such intelligence to give us everything we needed, and a whole load of stuff we didn’t. A tri-lingual secretary, genuinely fluent in English, German and French; she had worked for Davy Corporation; a huge multinational engineering company based out of London; its head office opposite the BBC. They built methane plants, iron and steel works, oil rigs; operated in all corners of the globe and as the PA to the Chief Executive had travelled an enormous amount. Her languages had come from her Swiss roots where she was taught in French and German, the English followed later, out of necessity. It meant that she had been particularly keen for me to learn French and some German. She was paid well and, with all the travelling requirements had opted to send me to a small catholic boarding school in the midlands, I was eleven.......

  “You drifting off there dad” Rufus shouted over the engine noise.

  “She runs better at about 80mph” I said, you need to step on the gas a touch.

  “No worries”.

  I searched the road for any landmarks, or signs, “where are we then?”

  “About 20 clicks and you’re taking us home” Rufus said with a smile.

  I shuffled my numb bum into a new position, opened the window a touch for a quick blast of cold air and stretched my neck from side to side.

  “How did your mother take it really?” I said.

  “Like a dream, she couldn’t be happier for us.” We both started to laugh out loud. We must have laughed all the way to the next service station.

  “I think I’ve ruptured something in my chest” I said as we pulled in.

  “That’s right, she said she’d rupture something in your chest.” He was a funny lad.

  The road from Besancon to Lausanne is more interesting. The road climbs to about 1100m and falls, sometimes dual carriageway sometimes single. The engine was no longer revving at maximum, the music had become audible, and ‘Colonel Abrams’ was still ‘trapped’.

  We arrived at customs only to be waved straight through.

  “Not been stopped by anyone. The only question we’ve had to answer was the one that machine asked at the tunnel, what was that? ‘Do you want to go on the next available shuttle?’ Or something” Rufus said. “That’s easy travel man”.

  We skirted Lausanne, and into the Rhone valley, turning East towards Simplon. Our trips to Chamonix and Zermatt had brought us this way often, so I was confident that barring a mishap we should arrive in Grimentz as planned.

  As we drove past Sion two magnificent castles set high above the city were illuminated in the darkening March skies.

  “Looks like snow” I said.

  Line after line of vines were just visible marching up the south facing side of the Rhone valley, virtually all the way up to the fashionable resort of Crans Montana.

  “Looks like we won’t be short of a glass or two of local wine then” I said, “they make an excellent red, but I’m not so sure about their whites.”

  “I’m getting thirsty now dad, and more to the point I’m starving” Rufus replied.

  “I’m reckoning on about forty minutes and we’ll be there, forty five minutes and you’ll have a beer in front of you.”

  We took the first sign to Val d’Anniviers and started to ascend. Snaking up the side of the mountain, hairpin after hairpin we climbed.

  “We’ve only been in the valley ten minutes, and we must have climbed 3000ft” Rufus said staring out of the side window at the flickering lights of Sierre so far below.

  Rufus and I operate in mixed currencies, Feet or Metres, Pounds or Kilos, or any combination; ‘I need a couple more inches of rope, or it must be 40 metres to the campsite.’ We were bilingual when it came to the currency of measurement.

  The road levelled out as we passed through a small village and headed towards the hub of the valley, Vissoie. Here the routes from all the small high level villages converged.

  “It’s just as I thought Rufus, this must be the admin centre of the valley, police, school, post office, and bank.”

  We turned
right and followed the sign to Grimentz. I could feel the butterflies in my empty stomach. They shouldn’t have been there, but I couldn’t stop them. We passed through the villages of Mayoux and St Jean.

  “There’s floodlit ice climbing in Mayoux and Zinal” I said.

  “Think it’s probably finished now dad, they had a mild spell at the back end of February, but we can check with the locals. We’re in ski territory now” Rufus exclaimed, as we spotted a group of four young lads waiting for a bus with skis and poles. “I was checking out the tourist office web site and they’ve got 50 km of pistes and loads of off piste skiing. Hunger forgotten, I could hear the excitement in Rufus’s voice. Our skis poked out from beneath the cargo netting, not built for speed, but for back country travel. We would need to rent some if we fancied a blast on the piste.

  As we approached our destination the snow depth built. There must have been at least half a metre of snow on the chalet roofs. A couple of very old derelict chalets, built to house livestock and grain, stood a little too close to the winding road.

  “Hey, one of those could have been ours dad.”

  “Yes, but the pictures didn’t show a road going virtually through the chalet. Anyway I’m hoping it’s a little bigger than those grain stores.”

  The road continued to climb, two, three, four hairpins, the poor turning circle on the Defender forcing me to use both side of the road.

  “We’re staying at the Alpina, so keep your eyes peeled” I said.

  “Grimentz looks great dad, Hotel Becs de Bosson, Le Meleze, turn right here, yes up there on the right, the Alpina.”

  We pulled past the bottom of the ski station, “looks like the lift system starts here.” I said, “I guess this place will be full of skiers then!”

  We checked in, and went straight to the bar. The first beer went down a little too easily, so we ordered a second, chose a bottle of local pinot noir, and settled down at our table.

  The hotel seemed full, the restaurant certainly was. Judging by the red faces and goggle marks the last few days had been sunny, a mixed bag of nationalities, Germans behind and a Dutch couple opposite.

  The second beer had gone and the food was ordered, Rufus poured the wine. “Here take another look at the map dad”. Rufus passed me the map of Grimentz and the surrounding area. “So it looks like we carry straight on past the hotel, take route de Roua. We’ll have to park here, and then go on foot. This will be closed to vehicles until the snow melts; map’s showing it as a cross country skiing route for the winter season. “Three kilometres or so and we can link on to this footpath and climb the rest of the way. The footpath is at 1620m, the chalet 1930m; we’ll definitely need the snow shoes.”

  All the nervous anticipation had gone, it’s a wonder what two beers and half a bottle of wine can do, and been replaced with a confident excitement. “You know Rufus, you don’t get many opportunities like this in life, it feels like we’re searching for buried treasure.”

  The waiter stood for rather too long; staring at our open map, his eyes flicked back and forwards; getting their bearings. A flash of recognition came across his dark eyes.

  “Would you like anything else?” He enquired.

  “No we’re just fine thank you” I replied.

  “I think we’ve just been clocked” Rufus said.

  “Do you think he’s off to reception to see who we are? I’d say that by tomorrow night the jungle drums will have woken the family up, and then we’ll see what they do.”

  “Should we just wait it out and let them make the first move? Rufus asked.

  “I think it’ll take us a couple of days to get sorted, and then we’ll go in search of the relatives, if they haven’t already found us.”

  SIX

  We were the first into breakfast. “I’d eat as much as you can, I’ve a feeling we’re going to need it”, I said. I’m not sure why I bothered to say it because Rufus always ate as much as he could. Even the waitress, who was used to the German appetite, looked a little surprised.

  We checked out and picked up our food supplies from the village shop. At last we were off to see what remained of the chalet.

  “We’re going to have to make a number of trips” I said parking the car where the road finished and the snow covered path began. “The way I figure it, we take the food and camping gear on the first run, set up and come back for a second pick up this afternoon. We can always pop to the shop and pick up anything we’re missing. They stay open until 7.00pm.”

  “No worries.”

  After approximately 1 Km Rufus stopped, removed his pack, and started to put on his snow shoes. I did the same. A slug of water later and we were moving smoothly up the path.

  There had been a light dusting of fresh snow overnight and the footsteps of the early walkers, one with a dog, could be seen on the path ahead.

  “We should be coming to the division about now” I said, referring casually to the map. “Trouble is the snow’s probably covering the marker; it’s 100 yards past this stream.” We were looking for the path to take us up the last 1000ft of altitude, to put us in the vicinity of Chalet Rothorn and as it turned out the path was quite easy to find; principally because someone else had used it that morning. You could see from the disturbance in the fresh snow that someone had put snow shoes on just as they joined the path.

  “Do you think there’s a reception party for us?” Rufus joked.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing to do with us, just someone following the path.” But it was definitely odd. It wasn’t a designated winter walking trail, the map showed that, and therefore unlikely to be anyone other than a local.

  The progress was slow, the snow was soft and deep, and with full loads on our backs we were never going to set any records. The physical exertion was immensely satisfying and after forty minutes the path crossed another and we lost the tracks of the other walker.

  We pressed on through the forest without a break. The route was largely north facing so remained seven or eight degrees below freezing, our bodies steaming, our fingers cold.

  It was about midday when we finally found the clearing. About 400yards ahead of us, and backing up to the forest was a chalet.

  “Honey I’m home” Rufus piped up.

  “I think you might be right. It looks in great nick. Let’s get a little closer, after all a lot of chalets look the same.”

  We doubled our pace.

  “Dad stop.”

  “What?”

  “Smoke.”

  Towards the back of the chalet was a small chimney, the smoke was curling down out of the chimney and passing into the forest behind. We slowly circled the chalet looking for the name. Sure enough it was there ‘Chalet Rothorn’. The woodpiles were unmoved, the carvings on the staircase the same as in the photographs.

  There had been movement outside, the tracks indicated that wood had been collected, several trips, someone had arrived, and possibly departed from around the back of the chalet.

  “Well we’re certainly not alone, let’s see who’s here. The jungle drums were more efficient than we thought” Rufus said.

  “The other explanation is that someone is actually living here, my god I’ve got squatters.” I smiled nervously. “I’ll shout out first, I don’t want anyone opening fire. Hello, hello is there anybody there?”

  Our calls met with silence, so we approached the chalet and knocked on the door. There was still no answer, we looked at one another, so I gently pulled the door open and looked inside.

  Chocolate box is how I would describe the outside of the chalet, quaint and traditional. The inside was a different matter. The original, probably 1950’s, faded gingham curtains hung on wires over the tiny windows, a stove sat in one corner of the single downstairs room; three chairs and a table, a collection of oil lamps, and an open staircase to another floor. The room was warm, the stove acting as both central heating and cooker. No running water whatsoever, and obviously no power; almost half a century of dust and muck.


  “Hello” I called again, but I was almost certain that no one was here. Rufus was hot on my heels.

  “This is so much better than I could have imagined. We’ve got a stove, heating and probably a few pet marmots. Let’s check up stairs” he said.

  The second floor was solid enough, another couple of microscopic windows, one broken but there was no draft as the wooden shutter was closed. With the heat rising from the stove it would make a very comfortable place to sleep.

  It was time to eat, and with the tea brewing we sat down to draw up our plans for the rest of the afternoon.

  “It was unexpected but very welcoming, the smoke was a bit spooky though” I said.

  “I’ll go for a second load dad, you could start to get sorted, and then if someone turns up you’re here to meet them. Sound like a plan?”

  “Don’t forget the beers.”

  Rufus headed back to the car, nearly forgetting the keys, and I started the rudimentary cleaning process, and supper.

  I brought in two dozen logs to warm by the stove and scraped up the obvious dirt with an old shovel I’d found under the chalet. I went in search of water. The trough to the side of the chalet, which almost certainly ran all summer, was frozen. With all these years of neglect the pipe could easily have been broken. That would be our first repair, as soon as the ground had softened. The stream was close enough and full of energy. I scooped out a pot of water. This was going to take all day. I pulled out my mobile and texted Rufus. ‘Bring the bucket,’ and pressed send. Almost immediately the phone buzzed and told me there was no signal. Sure enough the signal strength bars had disappeared. The pot would have to do for now.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a movement on the chalet balcony. ‘Unlikely to be Rufus’ I thought. Moving slowly I retraced my steps to the front door. The snow could offer little information in the immediate vicinity of the chalet. It had been trampled too much. There was no one inside; I called out a couple of times but no one showed. Perhaps it had been a chamois.