Becwethan (The Leopold Dix Thrillers Book 1) Page 9

  “Let’s go over to the Moiry” Rufus said.

  It was only 10.30; we hadn’t eaten, so we ordered up three rostii with ham and eggs, and tucked into a few pints of Cardinal. About half way through the second pint we all started to relax.

  “Dom and I were a bit confused” Gustav began, “Simone turned up for the service.”

  “Yes” I said as casually as I could.

  “Come on man, spill the beans” Rufus chuckled.

  “No beans to spill. I nearly killed her, knocked her off her bike by accident.”

  “Great chat up line” Gustav joked. “She’s seriously fit,” he raised his eyebrows.

  “I think you should introduce her to me” Rufus said; and so it went on until it was time to stagger back to the chalet.

  Pascal’s investigation was making little or no progress, he had interviewed all the immediate family, the obvious protagonists, and they had been unable to add to their original statements. As Pascal had said to me ‘it’s a bit tricky, asking people to remember things that happened 47 years ago, they just keep saying I can’t remember and what did I say in my statement?’ The second body had not been identified, and I couldn’t find anyone who had a photograph of Klaus. I’d pushed Gustav; “everyone says Klaus was a climber, yet you never met the man, that’s surely impossible?”

  “He lived in Ayer, then Zinal, it’s the other side of the valley. You know what that’s like, it’s another world. I heard about some of his climbs and variations on routes, but never from the horse’s mouth.” Gustav searched through his diary and came up with some names and old phone numbers of the climbers that were kicking around a couple of years ago. I duly passed their details on to Pascal to see if he could locate a photograph of the mysterious Klaus. It seemed that we were no further forward than when Rufus and I had discovered the bodies.

  It was more luck than judgement; Rufus took the car off to Chamonix for a couple of days to tie up with some visiting mates, and Simone came for lunch.

  We met just outside the village.

  “If you knock me down this time, I’ll squash the cake” she teased, giving me the traditional three kisses, cheek to cheek.

  “It’s probably best that you go first, I can’t fall uphill” I said. She squinted her eyes at me accusingly, I’d been rumbled.

  “No, I’ll follow you up”.

  I led the way, the path now well worn from the frequent trips. We turned and came out of the forest and into the clearing; the chalet bathed in warm August sunshine.

  “Leo, it’s beautiful.”

  “I’ll give you the full tour in a bit.”

  We sat outside and enjoyed a cup of tea.

  “You didn’t give me the chance to thank you for coming to the funeral” I said. “It meant a lot.”

  “I thought you’d be a little short on numbers.”

  We chatted about the village, the people, her family, and The Grand Raid.

  “I’ve competed in the last four” she said. “Last year I came 10th in the women’s; I’m a lot stronger this year, I’d like a podium.”

  “How far is it?”

  “Stop me if I’m boring you” she said, but I knew I was about to get the full works. “Last year it was 121 Km, it’s Verbier to Grimentz, but this year they’ve played around with the route a bit and added an extra 27 Km.”

  “Jesus, 148 Km over the mountains” I said. “That’s not a bike race, it’s torture”.

  “There are 3 shorter courses, 100Km, 75Km and 45Km, but that’s for a different competitor.”

  “Ok” I said slowly and deliberately, as the enormity of her task dawned on me. “How long will that take you?”

  “Last year I completed the 121 Km race in 7hrs 46 mins, first place was 22 minutes quicker.”

  “And It’s in a couple of days?”

  “Yes, you’ve seen the preparations at the end of the village, marquees etc, I’m off to Verbier tomorrow. I’ll stay the one night, then the race.”

  “Nervous?”

  “When I sit and think about it, like now, I get butterflies, but I guess that’s normal.”

  She changed the subject; “do you get butterflies when you climb?”

  “A few days ahead of a difficult climb, I’m tense, but on the day itself not normally. There are moments of complete fear, but I try to keep those to the minimum” I smiled. “Did you deduce that I climbed from all the gear, or have you been chatting to someone?”

  “Dominique cornered me a couple of days ago. She said you’re climbing the Weisshorn in a week or so, with Gustav, Pascoe, and your son.”

  “That’s right, the long range forecast is good, so god willing we’ll be on the summit on the 29th.”

  Lunch was simple, a steak and rostii with tomatoes, cucumber and pickled onions. Not everyone’s taste but Simone ate it all. Her fruit cake slipped down a treat with another cup of tea.

  The afternoon had been great and we promised to do it again, perhaps supper, after the Grand Raid and climb. I walked Simone down to the village wishing that the day would last a little longer.

  I trained hard whilst Rufus was away; I just didn’t want to be the weak link. Gustav and Pascoe were in constant training, mountain guiding and climbing was their job. Rufus had a passion that even I couldn’t remember having. But, all things being equal, my weight and condition were good and I felt positive about the contribution I could make.

  The morning of the 21st arrived and I left early to hike up to a good viewing spot. ‘Just on the brow of a hill’ I thought, that way she’ll actually see me there. I didn’t want her glancing across at 40mph on a downhill stretch; ‘that’s not support’ I thought. The men had been coming through for forty minutes; there was still no sign of the women’s race leader. The easy way to spot them was to follow the off road motorbikes with a cameraman strapped on the back. A helicopter flew overhead, the lead cyclists being tracked across the inhospitable terrain. I could see a motorbike at the bottom of the climb, tracking a group of cyclist. ‘Come on’ I thought. The pack approached, there was one woman flanked by two men, ‘the race leader’ I could see two further bikes about 100m behind, the bike on the left could have been Simone. Sure enough it was her, face red, chest heaving, knees and elbows bleeding.

  “Come on Simone” I shouted. She glanced up grimacing, and straining; up and over the hill. She was where she wanted to be, fighting for second place and close enough to the lead for anything to happen. I stood for a few minutes to see how far behind the next few women cyclists were. She had enough of a margin to secure a podium finish providing she didn’t have a crash; but judging by the blood and guts, crashes were the norm in this race. I walked alongside the course and down into Grimentz. The ambulance was busy; I saw at least half a dozen arms in slings and three neck braces. The finished competitors wheeling their bikes, caked in mud, physically spent, yet euphoric.

  “I’m definitely competing next year” Rufus popped up beside me.

  “You better start training now” I said, “this is one bastard of a race”. I put my arm around him. “How was Chamonix?”

  “Wicked” he said. He didn’t need to say anything else, that described it perfectly, wicked.

  We grabbed a hot dog in the marquee and I tried to find the results, but to no avail.

  “They’ll be online tonight dad, are you checking how Simone did?”

  “I might be.”

  We helped a couple of cyclist push their bikes up to our end of the village as they nursed their wounds and massaged the cramp out of their muscles.

  “It feels more like home to me than anywhere else I’ve ever lived” Rufus said, as we arrived at Rothorn. “Chamonix is great, but there’s no peace, no soul to the place.” He looked up at the majestic, white, Imperial Crown, “I’m gonna make sure that I climb everyone of those 4000m peaks”.

  “You’ll always love the mountains” I said.

  I’d missed Rufus’s stew and company. We spent the night running through his ascent p
lan.

  “I’ve got a couple of new tricks, here and here” he said, pointing to the map. “I think Gustav and Pascoe are going to enjoy this.” We went to bed late, the cards were addictive, and we could always sleep late.

  TWELVE

  We woke at around 5.00am, having agreed to leave at 6.00. Rufus made the final adjustments to his pack and the tea was brewing. I looked out of the window; “looks like the forecasters have got it about right then”. Rufus nodded his agreement whilst stuffing down a bowl of muesli.

  “Yes, may be a light precipitation tonight otherwise it should be clear for the next few days; I’ll make a final check when we get to Tracuit.”

  We drank the restorative, and finally set off. Gustav and Pascoe were meeting us at the Cabane de Tracuit, a four hour walk above Zinal. We’d stay the night and tackle the Weisshorn the following day; first we had to get there; and true to form I’d insisted that we walk from our chalet; a trek of some eight or nine hours.

  “It’ll mean a great deal more to us” I’d said to Rufus. “You’ll be able to sit on these steps and know that you’ve climbed the mountain from here. Not driven to Zinal and then climbed the mountain.” It hadn’t taken much persuasion; he enjoyed the extra physical load.

  We stood together and looked across the valley at the beast. It rose above the surrounding peaks a massive three ridged pyramid.

  “Let’s go get it” Rufus said, folding his map and leading the way. The rucksacks were full, crampons, and ice axes suspended on the outside of each pack, ropes coiled.

  We descended into Grimentz, making a short cut through the old town, joining the footpath to Zinal and Mottec. It was 6.30, the village was deserted.

  The path narrowed as we set off through the Forest de Morasses, climbing steadily. The villages may have been asleep, but the world around us was alive; we saw it all, deer, chamois, even a few marmots scuttled about. The forest broke occasionally and to our left, the North, you could see up the Val d’Anniviers, to the Rhone, and beyond to the Sierre mountains. We pushed on at a steady pace to Mottec, a small village dwarfed by a reservoir and hydro electric power station. The turquoise reservoir looked inviting, but I suspected that the glacial water was probably only a few degrees above freezing; then taking to the road for the last stretch to Zinal.

  “I like Zinal” I said, “it’s always 5 degrees colder.”

  “Yes, I was talking to Pascoe about it, he said they can’t expand the footprint of the village, rocks would just fall on the new developments, it’s so tucked away, mountains and glaciers looming up all around it.” Rufus replied.

  Zinal was used to seeing climbers wandering around, so we drew no particular attention, but some encouragement; a few nods and a thumbs up.

  “It’s what” I said looking at my watch “only 10.00, I think we should take the packs off for an hour and have something to eat”. Rufus mimicked the old boy who’d given us a thumbs up. We found a small café and persuaded them to cook us scrambled eggs on toast.

  “Did you see the look the waitress gave me, when I asked for milk in the tea?” Rufus said.

  “Don’t ask me for advice. When it comes to waitresses I’m their mortal enemy” I replied. We sat outside; the day had warmed, even in Zinal, and finished our apple strudel and ice cream.

  “Good climbing food” I said.

  By 11.15 we had left the village at 1650m, and started the climb. The yellow walker’s sign read; ‘Roc de la Vache 3 hours, Cabane de Tracuit 5 hours 30’.

  “ I reckon they must estimated the times based on a sixty five year old man of moderate fitness” Rufus said, “That should mean four, four and a quarter for us”.

  The journey over from Grimentz had been like a morning stroll, the afternoon was going to be quite different. The path wound straight up the mountain. Alongside, the Torrent du Barme lived up to its name.

  “Put it on the list for next January, ice climbing this waterfall looks worth it” Rufus said.

  After 2000ft of vertical ascent on the winding path it levelled out and we followed the contour of the mountain for 15 minutes.

  “Do you know why it’s called Roc de la Vache?” I asked. If anyone was going to know it would be Rufus.

  “I asked Pascoe, there seem to be a host of different stories, most of which end up with a lightning strike and a herd of cattle falling off it; and believe me you wouldn’t want a cow through your roof from 2000ft”.

  We forked left towards Tracuit, leaving the bovine massacre from the heavens behind.

  The path became less distinct and the ascent more gentle. Cattle still grazed at this altitude. Simone had told me that the high altitude grasses were the most nutritious, the milk was especially good for cheese. I still didn’t know if she’d been joking when she said; ‘I can tell you the altitude that the cattle have been grazing based on the flavour, texture, and consistency of the cheese’. I’d laughed, but she couldn’t see the funny side of it. ‘I’ll set up a blindfold test when we get back’ I thought.

  The grass thinned and petered out altogether; the cattle now below. Our path had become a field of boulders, a dash of yellow paint here and there to indicate we were on course. We scrambled up the rocks, the cabane now visible high above. The Tete de Milan directly in front of us it’s eastern ridge separating the massive Turtmann and Weisshorn glaciers. A few alpine flowers, delicate purple petals, dared to challenge the hostility. The last few hundred metres had fixed ropes in place to ease the passage to the cabane, after all they didn’t want to lose any potential lunch customers.

  The view from the cabane was spectacular. The Turtmann glacier looked imposing, threatening. The Weisshorn....... probably the most beautiful of peaks in the Pennine Alps; perfect mountain shape, symmetrical, and dominant; Schalihorn, Moming, Zinal Rothorn, Ober Gabelhorn, I rattled them off in my head.

  “Look how twisted Zinal Rothorn looks from here” I said. I turned but Rufus was already 100 yards away standing on the glacier and inhaling deeply.

  It had taken four hours and five minutes from Zinal, and we had arrived in plenty of time. I wasn’t expecting Gustav and Pascoe until supper; that was served at 6.00pm.

  Rufus trotted back, “do you fancy an hour on the glacier?”

  “Yeh...good one, I’m saving myself for tomorrow” I replied. I turned my attention to the cabane. I’d seen a lot worse. The building was typical; built on the edge of a precipice, grey stone with a metal corrugated roof. The window panes and shutters had been painted carmine red, a touch that lifted the cabane, almost made it pretty. The loos were separate and desperate, you wouldn’t want to find yourself in need at night and in a blizzard; they were just far enough away to get lost.

  I opened the cabane door. There was a sign with a boot crossed out, and an ice axe crossed out. It didn’t matter what language you spoke, the message was clear. I sat on a bench and unlaced my boots. Cubicles were provided for your boots and crampons; a rack for the axes and batons; a wooden box full of slippers provided the footwear. I went through the inner door, tables and benches lined the walls, the guidebook had said it slept 35. At the end of the room a counter, perhaps 6ft across separate us from the kitchen; on which the usual array of chocolate bars were displayed.

  “Hello”, I raised my hand and received a welcoming smile from the woman behind the counter.

  I wandered over; a group of German walkers were just finishing their hot drinks. The stout fellow on the end of the table turned as I passed.

  “Are you here to climb the Weisshorn? Chantal said there’s a climb tomorrow.”

  I glanced at the woman, ‘Chantal’ I thought, and nodded, turned to the group and said “yes, and looking forward to it”.

  “Good luck,” they were a jolly bunch and delighted when I informed them that the party leader was outside, and would love to take them through the proposed route.

  “Chantal, Leo Dix”, I shook her hand. The kitchen was full of steam and a man in the corner was chopping vegetables frenetically.<
br />
  “Welcome, this is my husband, Robert,” he glanced and smiled.

  “Supper at 6.00” she said.

  There was a shelf that ran around the room, full of empty boxes. I took one down and pulled out the things from my pack that I wouldn’t need for the climb; stashed them in the box, ‘keep it light’ I thought. I carried out my final kit check; adjusted the harness and organised my layers of clothes for the morning; we’d be leaving at 2.30am.

  The walls were covered with notice boards, the smiling faces and multicoloured helmets caught my eye. Chantal brought over a greenish herbal tea, sweet and hot.

  “It’s one of the great pleasures of working here” she said, she’d been watching me as I looked at the notice boards. “Everyone who’s here wants to have a good time.”

  I saw a picture of Pascoe, clasping another man’s hand in a euphoric moment of success. “Pascoe looks happy.” I smiled.

  “I’m sure that was the first time he’d climbed The Weisshorn. He and Klaus were uncontrollable when they got back.”

  I fought to conceal my interest. “How long ago was this Chantal?” I kept my voice flat; a little disinterested.

  “Phew, it’s got to be 3 years. Robert.....ROBERT.” She called for her husband.

  “It doesn’t matter” I said quickly, “do you do any climbing?” I tried to change the subject.

  “ROBERT..... Where is the man?..... ROBERT” his face appeared over the counter. “When did Pascoe climb the Weisshorn with Klaus?”

  It was out; I couldn’t stop it; and she was loud.

  “Three years last July” he said slowly, thinking.

  “I Knew he’d know, he’s Pascoe’s godfather you see.” Chantal had as good as shot me.

  I waited until she was occupied and took the photograph. I made a best effort at spreading the others out, but it still looked like one was missing to me. I put the photo in my pocket and went out to find Rufus, through the decompression chamber and out into the open. Rufus had been right, the weather was closing in a little, a light drizzle, some snowflakes.

  “I’ve found a picture of Klaus, on the wall, in there. I’ve pocketed it; timescales tally, I’m pretty sure it’s THE Klaus; he’s with Pascoe.” I paused, “I thought Pascoe said he didn’t know him; this worries me Rufus.”