Casanova by Mark Arundel Page A

colourful skiwear. Some of them walked with that unmistakable gait caused by the rigidity of their ski boots, some carried boards and walked easier because their boots were soft, some balanced their skis on their shoulder and almost everyone wore a hat of one type or another.
    The gauge inside my warm car showed the outside air temperature was minus five degrees Celsius. That was cold enough, even at this level, to need a hat. Higher up the mountain on the ski slopes where there would be a wind chill factor, not wearing a hat was not an option, not if you liked your ears and wanted to keep them.
    The main road was long and narrow, lined on both sides with iced snow; it ran across the mountain through the village and rose gradually all the way. The sat nav was indicating my arrival. I was almost at the farthest end of the road before I saw the hotel sign. I slowed and looked. There was parking down the side and to the rear. I continued on, deciding to drive to the end and come back. I wanted to see the rest of the village to get my bearings and to look at the chalets beyond the main lift. The road swung in a u-turn, which the surveyor had designed for the buses to make an easy return. Beyond the bus stop and the lift was a track that turned beside apartment blocks and then continued beyond. I drove on towards the dense area of fir trees and a dozen or so large ski chalets built into the steep slope. I stopped the car and reversed into an access track between the trees. It was much quieter at this end of the village away from the shops and the restaurants. I realised people only came this far, beyond the lift and apartments, if they were staying in or working at one of the chalets.
    My phone rang. It was young Miss Marple.
    ‘Have you got any news?’
    ‘No, not yet, but Lyon have begun the database search.’
    ‘I should learn to be more patient,’ she said.
    ‘I’ll call you as soon as there’s any news.’
    ‘Yes, of course, thanks. Where are you?’
    I didn’t know what kind of telephone system she had so I answered truthfully. ‘I’m in Switzerland, working on a case.’
    ‘Nice—the glamour of Interpol,’ she said.
    ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Maybe you should consider applying.’
    She gave a huffy laugh.
    ‘Yeah, maybe,’ she said. ‘Okay, I’ll wait to hear from you.’
    We ended the call. She obviously didn’t have anything new her end so I hadn’t needed to ask the question.
    I drove back to the hotel and parked at the rear. Inside, I checked-in and went to my room. The hotel was small and friendly; top quality with an expensive Gallic feel. The staff spoke French, which was the language in that part of Switzerland, near to the border with France.
    The bed in my room was big and comfortable. I sat on the edge and then let myself fall backwards. I closed my eyes and thought about Charlotte. I opened my eyes and decided to call her. I used my pay as you go phone.
    ‘We’ve just arrived,’ she said.
    ‘When can I see you?’
    ‘Later; I’m getting a ride to the ski shop to collect the equipment, and I’ll ask the driving service to return it to the chalet. I’ll call in on you at your hotel. I want to see your bed.’
    ‘It’s big and comfortable,’ I said.
    ‘Good,’ she replied. We ended the call.
    I opened my bags but I didn’t bother to unpack. Back in reception, the girl behind the counter gave me my ski pass. It was like a credit card with a registered chip. She explained to me in French how it worked. All I had to do was keep it in my jacket pocket to get automatic wireless access to the lifts.
    Outside, the high street was busy. I felt the raw coldness of the thin air and zipped my new fleece higher. It was part of my new ski wardrobe from the bag Bazzer and Hoagy had supplied.
    After a short walk along the high street, I found the ski shop. At street level, it was just a clothes shop. I went in and saw there were two floors. They kept the skis below, down a wooden staircase.
    An