Becwethan (The Leopold Dix Thrillers Book 1) Read online

  “I’m an investigator from Sion. Anything involving bodies is referred to us. This is Jurgen, he’s the pathologist assigned”.

  Jurgen’s handshake was what you’d expect from a pathologist, strong. All the opening of chest cavities certainly strengthens the hands.

  A police helicopter could be seen overhead, a crate suspended below it on a steel rope. It homed in and placed the crate alongside the chalet. Jurgen was over in a flash releasing the cable, he waved a signal and the helicopter withdrew, leaving silence.

  Two more police officers, in overalls, arrived. They opened the crate and took out a collection of shovels, lights, and batteries.

  “Could you show us to the body, Mr Dix?” Pascal asked.

  “Follow me” I said “Rufus, come over with the tea” I shouted.

  “I take it that’s your son Mr Dix?” Pascal enquired.

  “Yes, Rufus, I’ll introduce him when he comes over, and please call me Leo”.

  I led the team to the body. At least this was being taken seriously, and with a team from outside. That was very encouraging.

  The tarpaulin was covering the area, just as we’d left it the night before.

  “We’ll take it from here Mr Dix, Leo.” Pascal said.

  I withdrew to the Chalet. They were going to be some considerable time and I know what a pain it can be having people around you. You want everyone out of your hair until you’re ready to start asking some questions.

  Gustav came over, “how are you both bearing up?”

  “We’re just fine; Rufus is fartlek training in the shit hole in preparation for the climb.” We fell about laughing.

  “Thanks for bringing them up.”

  “Seriously, not a problem; but I’ve got to show willing on the wedding preparation front, so I’m off to Sion this afternoon with Dom.” He chuckled “suddenly fartlek training in the shitter sounds appealing”.

  Gustav headed off, promising to return the following weekend for a practice climb.

  “Leo” Pascal shouted; waving his arm for me to come over. “Nice bloke Rufus and he makes a great tea.” He intercepted me maybe 100 yards from the body. “Just to let you know” he said, out of earshot, “Jack rang me last night, and asked me to get involved.”

  I was surprised, “thank you” I said.

  “Come over, I’ve got a couple of questions”, he gestured for me to lead.

  As we arrived at the exhumation Pascal said, “Francois, we’ll take it from here, you can head back. I’ll call if I need anything else. Oh, and if you could email me everything you’ve got on the attack of Mr Dix.” Francois was dismissed; he didn’t look pleased, but left.

  The team had worked speedily; no doubt hoping to make it a single day excursion. The skeleton was fully exposed, a video was running and a still camera sat on a tripod. The area was well lit with the battery powered lights.

  “I understand you were able to ID the body from dental records Leo” Pascal began. “The problem I have here is there are no teeth, no head.”

  I exhaled noisily, “I think you can guess what I’m going to tell you Pascal. It was there last night.” I said shaking my head in disbelief. “I mean do they really think they can cover this up by stealing the head?”

  I felt I could trust Pascal, but needed verbal confirmation from Jack. So whilst the police work continued, I took the phone and headed up to call him.

  “Jack, I’m with Pascal Vianni.”

  “Hey, give him my best. I thought you’d call this morning, we’ve had a couple of breaks on your case load, you’ll be delighted.”

  I interrupted him, “how well do you know him Jack?”

  “He was on a 6 month secondment with me, probably 10 years back. You know, international cooperation and all that crap. He’s as straight as they come. I trust him completely.” Jack added, “I’ve got forensics looking at those pictures, unofficially, they promised to have something back by the end of the week.”

  “Thanks I’ll call in a couple of days, ciao” I hung up.

  I returned to the chalet; the case at hand and fired up my computer. “Pascal, I’ve got something you’ll need to see.”

  I showed him and Jurgen the photographs I’d taken the previous evening.

  “I’ll put them on this flash drive for you”.

  The police team had finished the fieldwork by mid afternoon. Everything was packed into the crate and airlifted back to base; only Pascal stayed.

  It was 5.30pm and Pascal sipped at a glass of local Pinot.

  “They can’t have known that you’d photographed the head. Stealing it! It just draws more attention to the case.” He paused, not for dramatic effect, but of course that was the effect, “common sense says it must be murder.”

  Rufus listened with great interest, occasionally piping up with an observation of his own, whilst Pascal and I finished the bottle of wine and came to our conclusions.

  A man killed 47 years ago; unusual damage to eye sockets and jaw. Both hands were missing, the rest of the skeleton intact. We needed to see if forensics could come up with anything. If he’d been murdered the murderer could easily be alive, probably 65 to 90 years old.

  NINE

  We occupied ourselves with the construction project. The finishing touches could be added later, but we still needed to install the bathroom. The stove had been moved into the Kitchen and replaced with a log burner to warm the living area and bedrooms above.

  Rufus had nearly finished digging out the cesspit which would last us a lifetime, about 200 yards from the chalet, downhill and down wind, just in case we’d got the design wrong. Technically it wasn’t a cesspit; it was just a large deep hole in the ground. We now only needed to build a shelter and the loo would be finished.

  “I’ll just go up and see if Jack’s emailed me.” I didn’t need to say about what.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Rufus replied, “we really ought to get a two way radio, after what’s been going on it could be a life saver”.

  “We’ll get one this weekend” I’d lost track of the day, was it Thursday or Friday.

  “I’ll finish off the pit, probably only another 2 hours of digging left”, Rufus beamed.

  I left him to his pit and moved swiftly up the path, now worn by our frequent visits, to the ‘reception zone’. It was there. I opened the file and read the mail.

  Leo

  Can’t be sure without the skeleton, but strong indication that: 1. Hands removed with saw. 2. Jaw forced open and broken. 3. Eye sockets show marking consistent with eyes being removed with sharp object, probably knife.

  Each one could have taken place before during or after death.

  Full report attached, with annotated photographs.

  I recommend you share this with Pascal.

  Jack

  It was getting worse, the body had been butchered. I could only hope after death. I wondered what my mother had known.

  I took out Pascal’s card, typed in his address, and sent him a copy of the email.

  I was haunted by images of my father suffering as I returned to the chalet; jaw ripped open, hands sawn off as he lapsed in and out of consciousness; finally the blacking in the eyes, the pain, the extinguishing of sight. ‘Senses’ I thought, ‘was someone removing his senses? I wonder if the skeleton shows any signs of the ears being messed with’. Perhaps I was on to something.

  The warm soft light shone through the tiny windows. The solar panels were a godsend and provided more than enough electricity to illuminate the chalet. The smell was good too.

  “Thought I’d finish the cess tomorrow, I think we both need a bloody good stew.” Rufus said as I opened the door.

  “Bloody brainwave” I said. “Email came, and you’re not going to like it”. I gave Rufus the drift.

  “I’ll pop down to ‘Do Sport’ tomorrow, they’ve got some short wave radios, and I think we need them….To think that they were just outside last night, touching distance.”

  With the door closed
, the stew cooking and a log burning we were in our own little heaven; removed from the butchery of the forest, the hostilities, and the grudges of the past.

  Rufus went early to replenish supplies and purchase the radios. The frustrations and tensions of the previous few days meant that I needed to do something physical. So I set to work on the pit. ‘See if I can finish this off’. The ground was certainly harder here. At this altitude it probably remained frozen for eight or nine months of the year. Progress was slow. I raised the pick axe and took aim behind a troublesome looking stone, ‘if I could just lever that one out it would create an even bottom to the pit’. To my surprise the axe pierced the stone, ‘must be a tuberous root of some sort’. I bent down into the pit; both hands firmly placed on the pick axe head, trying to ease it out from the sticky root. I pulled upwards, driving my thighs into the bottom of the hole to maximise leverage, a slow sucking noise accompanied the slight movement of the root as air was drawn through the wet earth and underneath. It was the kind of noise that precedes a sudden release so I braced myself. The tuberous root released fast but was held in the bottom of the pit by a further root. I jerked the pick up, one, two, three times before it finally broke free.

  The bulbous root emerged from the shadows embedded on the pick’s head, “what the fuck’s that?” I turned the axe slowly in my hands “Christ it’s fucking human”. I put the axe down carefully and retreated a few steps, pulled out my mobile, “no fucking signal, but there never fucking is” I bleated out.

  I approached, heart racing, and gently turned the pick over again so I could see the head a little better. The axe had pierced the seeping putrid skull through the eye socket. I could taste the decomposition; the head caked in mud but skull visible in places; peeling flesh having taken on an almost translucent jelly quality; matted hair, black. It struck me then that something else was wrong. ‘The ears...... The ears wouldn’t have decomposed before the flesh had gone........... Jesus, they’ve been taken… Senses; it’s that fucking senses thing again’.

  This time the police set up camp. They stayed for five days. Police dogs, infrared, they scanned the whole area for a radius of five hundred metres. Nothing else was found. The new body was a relatively fresh kill, perhaps 2 to 3 years, the labs would do their stuff, and we’d get a better idea in a week or so.

  Pascal had opened two murder enquiries in as many weeks and the local Valaisian press were taking an active interest. Headlines like “The Butcher of Grimentz” were only serving to silence the local community when Pascal and I needed them to open up.

  Pascal had promised me a copy of the autopsies by Tuesday, and with the bulk of the work completed on the chalet we all agreed that some R & R was just what we needed. We scheduled the first practice climb for Saturday 2nd July.

  We met at 4.00am Saturday morning, parking at the side of a dirt track next to the river, La Navisence, about a kilometre through the village of Zinal. As the crow flies we were probably only 15 Km from home. Our plan was to trek to the base of Besso. This would take us from the cars at about 1900m to the base at 2700m, then onwards and upwards to the peak at 3667m. The final 1000m would be a mixture of scrambling on loose rocks and climbing.

  Besso is a distinctive mountain. Two peaks sit side by side with less than 10 metres of height separating them. Since our arrival in early March the whole mountain had remained black, even after the heavy snowfall, an indication that the visible faces were steep.

  We met Gustav there as he had to come around the other side of the Valley from Pinsec.

  “I feel the buzz”, Rufus said, spreading the map on the bonnet of the car. “Gather round and I’ll brief you on the day’s events............Background history first, I know you like this part dad” he said mockingly.“First climbed 1862 by Epinay and Vianin, we’ve got a few of those in Grimentz” he added. “Besso means twins in a local dialect, obviously referring to the peaks. It’s a no ‘red tape’ route, so anyone could be up there. There is a large amount of loose rock on the lower slopes and in the approach couloirs, so let’s be careful out there.”

  The last few words were strictly for my benefit; one of the catch phrases from ‘The Hill Street Blues’. Actually the only police series I could ever really watch; that and ‘The Sweeney’.

  “We’re taking ‘the classic route’, South West ridge classification PD+” Rufus was in his element. Gustav didn’t need to know any of this, he’d climbed it in training numerous times, but you could see the joy in Rufus’s face as he delivered this practiced speech.

  “Bravo” Gustav chirped in, “Quick someone give him a medal”.

  “Or a chest to pin it on” we all finished the old one together.

  “Gustav, I thought you’d like to meet us on the summit,” Rufus retorted, “your route is via the cab du Mountet, then up the ridge from the south. Otherwise known as the ‘Ladies Route’.”

  Spirits were high, the jokes were flying, and we set off; focused on the task in hand.

  PD+, summed it up well, Peu difficile, and a bit more. We free climbed the gully and onto the ridge proper, the rock was good. We climbed the rest of the route using a running belay. Up to the ‘Gendarme’ and finally found some tricky, exposed climbing on the chimney. After 3 and a half hours we made the summit.

  I knew we’d all be ravenous so I broke out the tuna sandwiches I’d made at 3.00 that morning.

  The views were, as always, spectacular. The verdant Val d’Anniviers travelling to the North offered a stark contrast to the immediacy, the proximity of Zinal Rothorn and its “Arret Blanc”. Dent Blanche, a huge slab of rock and snow rose up behind us. The Valleys either side of us submerged by glaciers. White in winter, but now dirty with rock fall and melt water; Glacier de Zinal to the west, Moming to the East.

  The 12031 ft of altitude thinned the air, and my mind grasped at distant thoughts ‘I wonder if my father sat just here. I bet he did, and it would have looked just the same. Maybe the glaciers were bigger, but everything else, just the same’.

  “Dad, thought you’d like to take us down” Rufus said.

  “I’d love to”. There was some down climbing, and some opportunities for abseils. We’d been lucky to have the mountain to ourselves; the weather near perfect. “It would have been a traffic jam up there in Chamonix” I volunteered.

  “That’s the beauty of this valley, it’s about as busy as it was 50 years ago” Gustav confirmed.

  As we reached the bottom of the approach couloirs a significant rock fall was triggered.

  “Over here” I shouted as we scrambled on the loose rock, our feet slipping on the scree.

  “Fuck” Gustav shouted, as a rock crashed against his Petzl helmet.

  We tucked ourselves behind a large rock and waited for the slide to subside. I checked Gustav for concussion.

  “Stop asking me those fucking stupid questions Leo” he replied.

  “Good job it was a small one, perhaps it’ll knock some sense into you; you’ll be fine” I said.

  “I think there’s someone up there.” Rufus pointed, “just on the lip of the couloir”.

  I pulled my field glasses out of the back pack.

  “Jesus Christ Leo, you didn’t lug those all the way up?” Gustav sat looking at me in amazement.

  “I Just thought they might come in handy”. I scanned the couloirs.

  Sure enough there were two men. One had a pair of binoculars and was looking straight at me.

  “Give him the all clear Rufus”. I said. Rufus stood facing them; he raised his arms to form a diagonal line across his body. The man waved an acknowledgement and moved off.

  “They're on their way up” I said.

  “Either that or they’re trying to look like they’re on their way up” Gustav replied.

  “There are lots of ways to get there, it could be perfectly innocent” Rufus joined in.

  We were back at the car eleven and a half hours after leaving, it wasn’t even four o’clock.

  “Now that’s w
hat I call an action packed Saturday, and thanks for all the preparation work Rufus.” His preparation had as always been immaculate. Gustav had a slight headache and decided to go straight home.

  We deserved a good meal; so stopped at one of the busy hotels for a rosti and fried eggs, rounded off with an apple strudel.

  We returned home, Rufus finished the last of the wood treatment work, and by Sunday night I’d completed the bathroom.

  “I can certainly feel the climb” I said stretching my arms, especially here, in the pecs. I pushed both my thumbs into the muscles, my face deliberately pained for Rufus’s benefit.

  “You’re not putting in enough training. Now that the place is largely finished, I’ll put you on a new exercise regime.” He was serious.

  Pascal Vianni called first thing on Monday and as luck would have it I was in a good reception area, half a kilometre or so above the chalet, running. Rufus had been true to his word.

  “I’ve got all the reports from the pathologist and the old files from your father’s disappearance. I’d appreciate it if you’d look them over with me.”

  Pascal had decided to share everything with me; I was delighted. “As soon as you like Pascal, I’m just here.”

  We settled on a Tuesday meeting 10.00am, at the main police office in Sion; ‘no conversations overheard’ he’d said.

  The main valley road was closed on Tuesday morning between Vissoie and Fang. The temporary sign said ‘emergency repairs, diversion via Vercorin’. This was a new route for me, but I’d left so early that I knew I’d have time to kill. I crossed back over the river and up through Pinsec, a beautiful village; no modern structures to offend. The small old chalets, lined up, almost on top of one another, seemingly ready to throw themselves off the escarpment they had clung to for centuries. The single track road wound through the village, old wooden structures overhanging the road; strategically placed mirrors allowing you to see around each corner, warning you of approaching vehicles. ‘Good job Fran’s not driving, she’d be having a panic attack’ I thought. I’d made Rufus promise not to tell his mother about the bodies. ‘Just tell Fran about the positives.’ I’d said, ‘Otherwise she’ll put immense pressure on you to clear out’. The music distorted out of the Defender’s speakers, they’d never liked ‘The Brothers Johnson’. It was something about the baseline of ‘Stomp’ that sent the speakers into a delayed reverberation. I eased the volume down. I guess in a way I still loved Fran. She’d moved on long ago, remarried, and started another family. I could see that I hadn’t been the best of husbands, but I could only see that now; too much policing, too much climbing. A distance was created that our relationship just could not bridge. I shook my head, I rarely dwelt on my past, but today was going to be different, I was finally going to meet my father, impressions of him at least.