Christmas in the Snow (26 page)

Isobel’s eyes flicked up to her.

‘If you agree, of course.’

‘Yeah, right. Like I could ever win an argument against you,’ Isobel sighed.

‘We need to be united on this, Iz. Mum would want us to do what was best. She’ll never know her own mother now, and she may never even know of her, but don’t you think that
after all these years of being lost on the mountain, Mum would want her to be put to rest in the only place she ever called home?’

‘I guess so.’

They were both quiet for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts as the cafe hummed with excitable conversations.

‘Come on, if we go to the police station now, we can get it over and done with. Then we can go back to the apartment and flop,’ Allegra said, trying to muster the energy in herself
as much as in her sister.

They scraped back their chairs and shrugged on their jackets.

‘What do you fancy for dinner tonight?’ Isobel asked, heaving the box into her arms, unaware she looked like Poirot with her chocolate moustache.

‘You tell me. I’m happy to cook,’ Allegra said, holding open the door for Isobel to step through.

‘You, cook? Aren’t you the same person who, when I wanted toast at your place once, rang San Lorenzo and got them to deliver it?’

Allegra looked sheepish. Once, she’d done that. Once. And only because she didn’t have any bread. Or a toaster.

‘Let’s just go out. I’d feel a lot safer.’

Allegra frowned as she glimpsed the tail end of a smile on her sister’s face. ‘Hey!’

His voice didn’t fit his face. On the phone, Sergeant Annen had sounded twenty stone and like he feasted on buffalo for breakfast, so it was something of a surprise for
Allegra to be led to an office where a man who looked like he hadn’t started shaving yet was waiting for her and her sister. He had very round eyes that bulged slightly – overactive
thyroid perhaps? – and fine, straight hair that immediately fell back over his forehead every time he pushed it away, and a certain springy energy to his movements.

‘Miss Fisher?’ he said, coming round from his desk but not sure which of them to shake by the hand.

‘Sergeant Annen,’ Allegra said in reply, shaking his hand. ‘This is my sister, Isobel Watson.’

‘Mrs Watson,’ Annen said, shaking Isobel’s hand too. ‘Thank you for making the trip. Please, take a seat.’

‘Thank you.’

Allegra looked slowly around the office. A few posters – no-smoking, drugs campaigns – were Blu-tacked to the walls, a few framed photographs of police officers standing in line like
in a school photograph, gently fading from years of sitting in a sunny spot.

‘I hope you don’t mind that I asked for you to be shown in here. I wanted to thank you personally for your cooperation. We treat every unexplained death with the same respect and
diligence, regardless of whether the deceased has been dead a day or . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, over sixty years.’

‘That’s reassuring to hear,’ Allegra said, crossing her legs, her back straight and her hands laced loosely in her lap. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Isobel follow
suit. ‘And has our grandmother’s death now been explained?’

Annen hesitated. ‘Not entirely.’

Allegra frowned.

‘While the deceased’s identity has now been confirmed, thanks to your help, there are still some questions we don’t have answers to.’

‘Such as why she went up to the hut during the storms, you mean?’

He nodded. ‘Exactly. I’m afraid we have yet to discount the possibility of foul play.’

Isobel whipped round to look at Allegra, but Allegra forced herself to stay still.

‘You don’t believe her husband’s account of events?’

‘Well, we haven’t been able to
disprove
his account of what happened that night, but there’s never been anything to suggest he’s telling us anything other than
the truth.’

‘So then who do you suspect?’

Annen blinked at her. ‘One line of our enquiry is looking into the motives and actions of the victim’s sister.’

‘
Granny?
’ Isobel burst out. ‘But you can’t be serious. She was . . . She was totally the kindest, gentlest, most loving woman ever. There’s no way she . .
. There’s just no way she would have hurt her own sister.’

Annen’s eyes slid between the two sisters sitting before him.

‘But I understand she never mentioned having a sister to you or your mother?’

Allegra shook her head, determined to stay calm, even though anxiety was beginning to make her feel lightheaded. ‘No.’

‘And did she ever mention her husband?’

‘He died of tuberculosis when Mummy was three,’ Isobel said firmly.

‘Anya’s husband?’ Annen clarified, looking more grave.

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to say that was a lie. Her husband, Lars Fischer, is still living in this town. He was even the mayor for a few years.’

‘Sorry, wait—’ Allegra said, leaning forward. ‘There’s a mistake. Lars Fischer was Valentina’s husband, not Granny’s. Anya’s, I mean.’

Annen hesitated. ‘According to town records, he was married to them both, Miss Fisher.’

Time halted its path. ‘What?’

Annen picked up a pen and began absently twiddling it in his fingers. ‘Valentina died in January 1951. Lars, her widower, married Anya Engelberg in March 1952.’

‘But . . .’ No words would come; thoughts couldn’t form. Granny had married her own sister’s husband?

She turned slowly to look at Isobel, who was herself ashen, her mouth agape.

‘In addition,’ Annen continued, with a note of apology in his voice, ‘Anya left her husband in 1953. She disappeared, taking her niece and stepdaughter – your mother
– with her. No one in the town ever knew where she went.’

Allegra turned away, wanting to cover her ears with her hands, to get up out of this chair and leave this room and forget every single last detail of this conversation. Denial. Denial.

‘You’re trying to tell us Granny stole our mother and took her away from her only true parent and left the country with her?’ Isobel asked, trying to inject a laugh into the
comment, to make it sound ridiculous, unbelievable, but her voice was tremulous and rising.

Annen looked across at her with regret and nodded. ‘Lars Fischer was never able to trace her.’

Because she had left the country.

The room fell silent as the sergeant allowed them to process the revelation.

‘Does anyone know why she left her husband?’ Allegra asked after a while, rallying. ‘Was he . . . I don’t know, was he a drinker, a gambler, a womanizer? Did he use his
fists? Because Granny wasn’t . . . As my sister said, she was a kind and gentle woman, devoted to our mother. What you’re telling us doesn’t tally with the woman we
knew.’

‘I’m sure it doesn’t. But with respect, you only ever knew her as children – and after she had got away with it.’ He coughed lightly. ‘And the gossip in the
town at the time Valentina disappeared alleged that Anya had been secretly in love with her brother-in-law for years.’

‘Gossip? Is that what she’s to be judged on?’ Allegra asked stiffly.

‘It isn’t fact, I know, but as you might imagine, there’s precious little paperwork to go on, and it helps us build up a picture of motive. With two of the three players
involved now dead, it is even more difficult to get to the truth, but none of us can dispute the simple fact that she lied to you all.’

Allegra looked away, sickened by what she was hearing. She didn’t know what to believe, who to trust. Her grandmother had been her rock, the only person who had held
her
together
when she’d been everyone’s else glue after their lives had been so spectacularly blown apart eighteen years earlier.

She looked back at him with renewed focus, her brain quick to spot a contradiction. ‘Well, why would she have left him if she’d been secretly in love with him for years? She’d
married him for heaven’s sake. She got him.’

‘Jealousy can be hard to live with, Miss Fisher. And Valentina made for a beautiful ghost.’

Allegra glanced across at Isobel – her head was resting in the cradle of her hand, her complexion waxy – and wished she’d come here alone. She should never have involved her in
this. Isobel wasn’t renowned for handling shocks like this well.

‘Is there anything else we need to discuss, or can we go?’ Allegra asked, grabbing her sister’s hand and squeezing it hard.

Annen looked surprised by her sudden change in tone. ‘No. I just wanted to appraise you of the ongoing investigation.’ He rose from his chair. ‘Are you staying in Zermatt
long?’

‘A few more days,’ Allegra said, rising too. Isobel followed after like a child. ‘We’re arranging a private memorial service for Valentina later this week, so . .
.’

Annen nodded. ‘Has the transfer for custody of the remains been completed?’

Allegra blanched at the terminology. ‘Yes. That’s why we came. We signed the paperwork just now.’

‘Good.’

‘Where do we collect the possessions that were found with her?’ Allegra asked, holding Isobel lightly by the elbow as she came to stand by her. Her sister looked like she was going
to keel over. ‘The policeman at the desk said they’re not stored here.’

‘That’s right. They’re with the SLF,’ Annen said, hurriedly scribbling a name and address on a piece of paper. ‘I shall tell Connor to expect you.’

‘What’s the SLF?’ Allegra asked, merely glancing at it before zipping it safely in her pocket.

‘The Swiss Federal Institute for Snow and Avalanche Research. Better known as the Swiss Anti Avalanche Agency.’

‘Oh.’

Annen held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news. I know this information must be very difficult to accept.’

He didn’t know the half of it. He couldn’t possibly understand that his revelations hadn’t gained them a grandmother; he’d lost them one.

Allegra shrugged, shaking his hand with extra firmness. ‘Nothing surprises me, Sergeant,’ she said briskly. ‘My sister and I know better than to have any faith in anyone but
each other.’

And linking Isobel’s arm through hers, she led her sister through the police station and away from the sergeant, who stared after them with pity growing in his eyes.

‘I like the Angel Gabriel best. Check him out – he’s got cheeks like Barry.’ Isobel held up the wooden angel with a tipsy giggle. ‘Angel
Barry.’

Allegra took it, chuckling lightly. The nativity scene Isobel had all but snatched from the gift shop’s window was now recreated on the coffee table before them. A large stable had been
detailed with traditional Swiss motifs in the woodwork, and the nativity figures were all crafted from wood, but the baby Jesus lay in a manger with a real straw base and soft leather whip-stitched
blanket, the kings were robed in beautiful velvet cloaks, the sheep had genuine fleeces . . . The quality and craftsmanship were undeniable. She studied the angel more closely, sure she’d
seen it before.

‘I agree you were right to get this. It’s beautiful. Something he’ll have forever.’

‘Yeah,’ Isobel beamed, falling back to her prostrate position on the sofa again. ‘Just so long as we don’t eat till March and I hide the Visa statement from Lloyd,
it’ll be fine.’

Allegra looked up. ‘Listen, why don’t I give this to Ferds for his Christmas present?’

‘Uh-uh. No.’ Isobel shook her head firmly.

‘Why not? I haven’t got him anything yet and it would do me a massive favour not to have to worry about it.’

‘Legs,’ Isobel said sternly, ‘I know exactly what you’re doing.’

‘What am I doing? I need to get Ferds a present and you’ve just bought a present. Just let me give him that and you can get him something else.’

The two sisters blinked at each other before Isobel scrambled off the sofa and threw her arms around Allegra’s neck. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ she
mumbled into her hair. ‘You’re the best.’

‘No, I’m just living in terror of you,’ Allegra replied. ‘I’ll never forget your face when I gave him that Steiff bear. Even now, there are still times I wake up in
the night in a cold sweat.’

Isobel shot her an earnest look. ‘Legs, those tag thingies in the ear are such a choking hazard.’

‘Iz, those bears are highly collectable, and Steiff have been making them for over a hundred years. I think they know what they’re doing.’

Isobel went back to the sofa with a laugh. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t take chances where my little man’s concerned,’ she said, falling back on the sofa once more and stretching
out languidly, her hand finding the glass of Bordeaux safely stashed next to the sofa.

They lapsed into quiet again, only an incomprehensible soap on TV providing any soundtrack to the little apartment. Isobel began flicking through the channels as Allegra settled into reading the
papers.

‘You know, I just don’t believe a word of it,’ Isobel mumbled five minutes later, draining the glass.

‘Of course not,’ Allegra said, resting her iPad on her bent knees and looking over at her sister as she opened a second bottle. ‘There’s no way Granny would have done any
of what he said. It’s all going to turn out to be just a tragic accident.’

‘Yeah,’ Isobel agreed, but Allegra knew she’d be back on it again in a few minutes. They had been stuck on the same loop ever since leaving the police station, Isobel refuting
the allegations against their grandmother, then finishing a glass of wine; refuting the allegations . . .

Isobel stuck out her arm, frantically waving the remote around as she tried to change channels. ‘God, there must be something in English,’ she muttered, briefly stopping on some
prank home-videos show. ‘I swear I saw that on
You’ve Been Framed
.’

Allegra’s eyes flicked back up, just in time to see a man in trunks dive-bombing onto a frozen-solid pool. ‘They just syndicate the material internationally, I expect. Cheap
programme-making.’

She went back to her iPad as Isobel flicked through another few channels, before her arm dropped suddenly and she twisted back on the sofa to look at Allegra again. ‘I mean, the whole
bloody notion of it is completely preposterous! What they’re saying Granny did, that’s like
me
dying,
you
hooking up with Lloyd afterwards and then doing a runner to
America
a year later and bringing up
Ferds
to think
you
were his mum!’