Six
SUNDAY MORNING
Captain Thierry Pigalle stares down at the couple who are slumped on the steps outside his police station. He is not even meant to be working today, and was looking forward to a long, leisurely lunch with his wife – who queued for thirty minutes yesterday afternoon in order to pick up the best cut of beef from the extremely busy boucherie in Aigle. He contributed to the planned meal by selecting one of the best reds from their cellar – a vintage Chateau Tour Massac Margaux chosen from the vineyard on their summer holiday in 2012.
He stares at the couple – the woman with her tangled hair and dirty face, the man with wounds that are hopefully not as bad as they look, because they look bad. Very bad. He stares at them, and he blows out a long, slow puff of air through his nostrils – and he knows that he will not be getting away from here at 12.30 for his lunch, and likely he will be here right through the usual closure period, and will remain here past the usual end-of-business time of 4.30 p.m.
Merde!
Shit indeed. These damn tourists who refuse to stay on the marked paths and think they know how to navigate these mountains. His lieutenant was supposed to be here today, covering the usual mind-numbingly boring Sunday shift, where usually not one person crosses the threshold – unless they’ve accidentally turned right instead of left into the shop next door that shares their main entrance. There are not supposed to be two injured, disorientated tourists making the entrance to his workplace look untidy.
‘Bonjour,’ he says. Then, tentatively, ‘？a va?’
They are clearly not fine, but he’s at a loss for words.
The woman speaks. ‘We . . . we got lost on the mountain. The . . . Argentine? Our friends . . .’ She pauses and turns to her male companion, who is staring back at Thierry with glassy-eyed confusion, then looks away.
Thierry feels a prickle of unease. This is going to be considerably worse than he first thought – and his first thought was bad enough. He glances around, expecting to see another couple slumped elsewhere, but there is no one. ‘Where are your friends, madame?’
She starts to cry, her face falling to her chest as huge, wracking sobs cause her shoulders to shake. The man tries to put an arm around her, but she flinches and his arm falls back down by his side. He groans. Broken ribs, perhaps. At best, Thierry thinks.
Thierry’s knees crack like starting pistols as he crouches down to hold himself at eye level. ‘Madame?’ Sympathetic now. Thoughts of his leisurely day long gone. ‘Where are your friends?’
She shakes her head. Rubs a hand across her face, tears smearing with snot and dirt. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. Stares back at him, finally meets his eye. ‘I don’t know.’
Seven
SATURDAY, EARLY AFTERNOON
Cat realised she needed to dial it back a bit. She’d been doing well, not letting Ginny’s foibles get to her, but she was getting fed up with her sister’s pathetic teenager act. Paul had been quiet since they’d stopped to take photos of the cows, his enthusiasm for the day out clearly waning, and they’d barely even started. Cat had to keep reminding herself that this was meant to be a fun weekend, not a slog. They were meant to be enjoying themselves. There would be plenty of time for misery later on, if all went to plan.
She picked up her pace and caught up with Tristan, who’d been marching ahead but had recently slowed. They’d been on a seemingly endless path for a while now, and although the views of the mountains in the distance were nice to look at, Cat had expected them to have reached the other side of this meadow, heading towards the gentle descent into the valley for lunch. This was how Tristan had explained it all at breakfast, but it was taking longer than she’d expected.
‘Hey,’ she said, putting a hand on Tristan’s arm. ‘Are we close to the restaurant yet? Only, I’m starting to get hungry, and it doesn’t seem to be anywhere in sight . . .’
Tristan huffed and pulled away, making a sudden change of direction. ‘Guys, I think this way will be quicker. If we can get over that crest over there, we’ll make it over and down into the valley in half the time.’ He left the path and started walking across the grass. There was a plain, then a dip where Cat could just make out what looked like a small lake, then a steep rise on the other side. Cat wasn’t sure that this was the right way, but she trusted that Tristan knew what he was doing.
Paul caught up. ‘Are you sure about this, T? Those hikers told us not to veer off the path.’
Tristan stopped and turned. His face was slightly pink from exertion and the harsh, beating sun. ‘They were overreacting. It’s fine. Come on.’ He started walking again. ‘I’m hungry too. And I’d kill for an ice-cold pint. Come on.’