A Slippery Slope: George Waterstone Investigations, #3

By Gordon Wallace

Title:  A Slippery Slope

 

Author:  Gordon Wallace

 

A chance encounter on the mountain - a chase across France.

 

Annabel Chester is desperate to escape from her abusive relationship.

 

George Waterstone is holidaying in the French Alps with his friend, Ellie Carter, when he is wiped out by a snowboarder. This triggers a sequence of unexpected events. This is a story of flight, obsession, and possibly just deserts set in the snow and ice of the Alpine winter and the spring of the Languedoc and Cornwall.

 

This is Gordon Wallace's third novel in the George Waterstone Series, following on from 'La Maison du Maître' and 'A Scent of Suspicion', inspired by time spent travelling through France and exploring its wonderful landscape and chequered history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gordon Wallace
• Release date: Jun 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393649465

Gordon Wallace

This is the debut novel of Gordon Wallace who has always wanted to write but never had the time to do it. Becoming disabled at the age of sixty eight has given him that time, an unexpected bonus at a difficult period in his life. For many years he has had a love of France, its geography, history, food, drink and culture which, hopefully, readers will also enjoy through the pages of his George Waterstone series.

Book preview

Chapter One

Annabel

The shattered remains of the coffee cup were scattered in shards across the kitchen floor of their small top floor flat. Dregs were spreading across the table like a mini tsunami, only hampered by the disarray of plates, toast crumbs and coasters. They dripped onto Annabel's smart work shoes which she had only purchased a week ago after a long search for the right ones, heels but comfortable, splashing her legs and staining the clean tights she had put on just half an hour before. Annabel sat resting her elbows on the kitchen table, pressing the heels of her hands deeply into her eye sockets in an unsuccessful attempt to stem the inevitable flow of tears. Recently Paul’s angry responses had been getting stronger and more violent.

He was pacing round and round the table like a caged tiger, his face red with anger and his hair ruffled and disheveled. His tie had somehow achieved an abnormal angle at ninety degrees to his chin.

‘Look what you've made me do!’ he shouted, simultaneously stamping his foot and waving his arms in the air. ‘I think you do it on purpose! Why do you always pick the right time and and the right  words to wind me up?’

‘It’s not my fault. You knocked the cup over. I only said that I’d be home from work a little bit later tonight because I’m meeting Nicole for a drink,’ choked Annabel, desperately trying to stifle her sobs.

‘But you knew that tonight I'm bringing Jack and Robert back here for our game of poker and I needed you to make some sandwiches to keep us going through the evening. You know how hungry we all get when we’re playing and if we break off from the game we lose concentration and then I’ll lose money.’

‘I didn't know they were coming. You never told me. You never tell me anything. You don’t talk to me these days except to complain or shout. You expect me to read your mind. Anyway, can't you make your own sand.....’ Annabel paused, thinking, ‘bloody sandwiches or even fucking sandwiches!’ but realised that swearing would make Paul even angrier.

Paul kicked the largest piece of the coffee cup sending it flying towards the kitchen door and ricocheting back towards him. He kicked it again, venting his anger. He raised his hands to his head grabbing handfuls of hair in desperation.

‘Your place, in the evenings, is to be here with me, not gadding out with so-called friends. Who is this Nicole, anyway?’

‘She’s an old school friend. I told you about her. I had lost contact with her and bumped into her last year in the supermarket. After school we had a couple of snowboarding holidays together but we went our separate ways when we went to university. Why is it a problem? Most of my time time outside of work is spent here looking after you."

"That’s as it should be.’

Annabel muttered something under her breath about antiquated expectations, roles and Paul’s mother which she dared not speak out loud.

Paul continued pacing around the kitchen, bits of coffee cup grinding under his shoes and digging into the vinyl flooring.

‘OK, just to keep you happy,’ Annabel sobbed, ‘I'll text Nicole and tell her that I can't meet her, but I don't know why you get so cross when I want to see my friends when you're meeting up with yours all the time like tonight to play poker, or Saturday to go to the football and what about your regular Sunday night at the pub?’

Paul leant against the kitchen work surface stuffing his hands deep into his trouser pockets, shaking his head as though in disbelief. How could Annabel question him like this? His mum had always done what his dad had said or wanted and they had no trouble. He’d never heard them argue even. They had been married for thirty five years and still seemed happy together. Why wasn’t it working for him and Annabel? Why couldn’t she be like his mum? He then walked slowly and deliberately over to Annabel, taking his hands out of his pockets as he went and started to give her a shoulder massage.

Oh. Perhaps he’s calming down, thought Annabel, hopefully, and maybe he’ll even apologise, but I wish he would just go so that I can get ready for work.

The massaging gradually became deeper and harder until he was digging his thumbs cruelly into the depressions above her collarbone. It was so hard she was afraid his nails might draw blood. There would certainly be bruises if not worse. He wasn't calming down. In fact, it seemed as if his anger was increasing and through his hands she could feel his body shaking with rage. As his thumbs dug harder the pain increased and it was all that Annabel could do to prevent herself from screaming. She mustn't scream. The last thing she wanted was for the nosy neighbours from the flat below to come knocking on the door and prying into their affairs.

Tears were now rolling profusely down her cheeks, forming black rivers, ruining her recently applied mascara. She could suppress neither them, nor her response any longer. With a huge effort of will and strength she managed to swivel round in her chair and in a single violent movement slapped Paul ferociously across the face. It was as though all her pent up emotions, which had lain dormant for weeks, had been expressed in that single action. He stepped back, stunned, not with pain exactly, but with surprise that Annabel had had the temerity to fight back. He put a hand to his cheek, aware of the stinging sensation which lingered there, almost relishing it. He looked back at her with a look of anger combined with disdain.

‘You will regret that,’ he threatened through gritted teeth.

With that he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, straightened his tie, snatched his car keys off the kitchen work surface and stormed out of the door slamming it behind him so hard that it seemed as if the whole house shook.

Annabel slumped back down in her chair. How did I ever get into this? she asked herself. He seemed so caring and gentle to begin with, even my mum liked him.

She slowly stood up and walked over to the kitchen sink and from underneath took out a dustpan and brush to start clearing up the remains of the coffee cup. She threw them into the bin and retrieved a cloth from the sink to mop up the dregs off the table and floor.

She headed to the bathroom to change her tights, wash her face and re-apply her make up. While she was there she thought, this is awful but, thank God, it's not for long. Having washed the black rivers from her cheeks she sat on the closed toilet seat and started to text Nicole.

Sorry can't make tonight. The bastard’s been at me again. No real       damage this time. But no change to our other plans. x

Having sent it she deleted it, as she did with all her texts to Nicole, in case Paul should see them. She put her phone way, re-applied her make up and rushed downstairs, panicking that she would miss her bus and be late for work. That would never do. Whatever happens, she must display an air of normality. No one at work must know what's happening in her private life. Elaine and Nicole, of course, had a slight inkling, but......Paul, nor anyone else for that matter, must ever know what's happening at work.

Chapter Two

Two weeks later - George

At times like this I thought I couldn't be closer to heaven. The air was sparkling with the minutest of jewels as the morning sunlight hit the tiny ice crystals in the air. The cold nipped my cheeks bracingly, like tiny pin pricks as the chairlift took us ever higher up the mountain. The fresh snow on the slopes would have put to shame even the finest Christmas cake. The mountain huts wore thick white mantles as they nestled into their hollows.  An eagle circled above us on the lookout for any small creature that might have succumbed to the harsh overnight frost. I looked across at Ellie who was snuggled into the corner of the chair and was greeted by my own reflection in her ski goggles. Ellie reached out and took my hand, being careful not to drop her ski poles in the process. She gave it a squeeze and I knew that beneath her goggles, scarf and hat she had that cheeky grin which I had grown to love so much.

This was our first proper holiday with no work or investigation expectations since we met a few years back when I was then trying to sort out the complexities of a will in which she was a beneficiary. I had been widowed a few years before that and despite our age difference of eighteen years a spark had ignited and our relationship developed. I think it blossomed because she now lived in the South of France near the Pyrenees and I lived near Nottingham, rather than despite this. In the years since she moved there her translation business had prospered significantly and now, aided by her Polish accomplice, Roksana, she was living, as she said, her dream with my occasional participation in it.

I am George Waterstone, retired early and filling my time with as many exciting things as possible, Ellie Carter being one of them. I had driven down from Nottingham, keen to give my new Range Rover Discovery a few winter challenges. Ellie had taken a flight from Toulouse to Geneva where I had picked her up. We had booked a small chalet close to the lake in the little village of Montrionde near Morzine in the Haute Savoie and the chairlift from Les Linderets was taking us up for our third day of skiing when we hoped to ski over the border into Switzerland.

On the first day of our holiday, unfortunately the weather was not good for skiing. Low cloud had come down over the mountains and that, combined with heavy snow showers, made visibility very challenging. That did not make skiing impossible, particularly as I knew the runs in that part of the Portes de Soleil quite well from numerous visits in the past, but it did not make it particularly enjoyable. So we spent the first day walking around the silver birch fringed lake and, stupidly at my age, making snow angels in the drifts beside the track. I guess there is a child deep inside all of us somewhere. Mine seems to be trying to escape all of the time. Ellie, ever since I had known her, had an infectious and very cheeky giggle which erupted into raucous laughter when she threw herself on top of me in a snow drift, almost burying me completely. Struggling up and dusting myself down I quickly made a snowball which I threw catching her squarely on the shoulder. As I was about to throw a second she raised her hands in a gesture of surrender and rushed over to me, giving me a cold, wet but very loving, kiss. I suggested that at the end of the walk we should drop into the little cafe beside the lake for a vin chaud or two.

Over the drinks we reminisced about our first meeting when the will was read, about the house in Puivert which she had inherited and where she now lived and worked, about our searches in Provence for a missing student. We talked about Harry, Ellie's body building sports coach cousin, who had caused her so much trouble over the will that he ended up in prison but now they were the best of friends. It confirmed my view that people can change if they really want to. We had adjourned back to the chalet in mid afternoon, lit a substantial log fire and used the rest of our first day to re-visit, revise and rekindle our physical relationship. Life couldn’t be better, I thought to myself as the logs crackled in the hearth.

We glided off the chairlift, for a series of runs and lifts that would take us to the Swiss border through the purpose built resort of Avoriaz. The skiing was wonderful. Fresh snow, temperature of minus ten and glorious sunshine. Ellie was executing perfect turns with a balanced rhythm and elegant style whilst I followed behind equally quickly but without her level of panache or finesse. We arrived at the café at the top of the slope which led into Switzerland, the multicoloured bunting around the decking fluttering lazily in the high altitude breeze. At that time in the morning it was a hot chocolate, not a vin chaud which would energise us, or rather Ellie, to tackle the steep black run down, commonly known as The Wall. The piste was almost vertical and the moguls appeared to be horizontal. I had looked over the precipice at this run on many occasions and, like today, could not summon up the courage to attempt it myself. However, Ellie was all for it. Fortunately for me, the lift system over the wall was designed, for the faint-hearted like me, to take skiers down as well as up. That would be my option.

We finished our chocolates. I headed for the lift and Ellie for the precipice. She appeared fearless as she dropped over the edge. I watched from the chairlift as she  gained speed and deftly attacked each mogul, building up a rhythm which made her legs and knees whip up and down like pistons and throwing up arcs of powder in her wake. Eventually she hit the flat part of the piste and raced down to meet me at Les Crosets. I slid off the lift and skied down to meet her. She had raised her goggles and pulled her scarf down. She was panting hard and her face was almost too small for the water melon smile which it held. Her whole body exuded exhilaration. She gave me a big hug, almost making me topple over as I attempted to prevent our skis from becoming entangled.

‘You seem to have enjoyed that,’ I said, stating the obvious.

‘It... wow! It was amazing! I’ve skied some scary slopes before but that was the best. I think it's not only because it’s so steep but also because it’s so, so long. My legs were going to jelly by the end. You may have to carry me to get me back to our chalet tonight.’

‘If your legs were going to jelly, it's a clear sign you need to get some carbs inside you. How about lunch up by the Snowpark?’

‘Brilliant idea. Let’s go.’ And with that she raced off to the next lift which would take us to lunch, her ‘jelly legs’ having achieved a miraculous recovery.

Chapter Three

We spent the afternoon cruising the wide open slopes of Les Crosets. The sun was shining across the snow which glistened and sparkled and formed shadows from the tracks made by other skiers. This made the skiing easy and effortless, some of the best conditions I had ever experienced. Again, because Ellie had such a smooth style I tried to follow closely in her tracks in a vain attempt to improve my own skills. The phrase, old dogs and new tricks, kept coming to mind!

By mid-afternoon we started to make our way back from Switzerland across the border into France again covering some of my favourite pistes. We skied down the red run to Les Linderets, that lovely village where in the summer goats roam freely through the streets and tourists buy food from the farmers to feed them. It always appeared to me that the farmers had a good deal going there! Leaving the village, I was ahead of Ellie and on the steep slope leading out I was suddenly aware of a blur in my peripheral vision and a loud whooshing sound before I found myself being knocked violently down the slope in a tangle of skis, poles and bodies. The breath was knocked out of me as I slid and rolled for twenty metres or so before coming to an abrupt halt in a snowdrift beneath a large rock. I was joined by another person I had  never seen before. I struggled in the deep snow to pull and push myself upright and to check my body for any injuries. The other person lying in the snow next to me was a young woman on a snowboard. She was almost buried in the drift so I took her hand and was able to pull her up into a sitting position. As Ellie cruised gracefully to a stop beside me the young woman looked up at me, with tears streaming down her face.

‘I'm so sorry,’ she managed to gasp. ‘I wasn't really concentrating on what I was doing. Are you alright?’

‘I'm fine,’ I replied. ‘Shaken, not stirred,’ trying to make light of what could have been a serious accident. ‘But what about you? You don't look too good.’

‘I'm okay, I think,’ she said, patting her legs and arms with her mittened hands. ‘At least no bones broken.’

‘It's not a good idea to come careering down a slope like this when you're not concentrating or in control,’ Ellie interjected somewhat sternly. ‘What were you thinking about?’

‘I've got a bit of a problem,’ the young woman responded. ‘I was boarding with my friend Annabel. One minute she was with me the next she was gone and I don't know where she went. To make matters worse she had the piste map so I don't really know where I am. All I know is that if I keep going down I will eventually get to a village or lift station where I can pick up another map. Then I can sort myself out and work out how to get back to our apartment.’

‘Anyway, I’m Ellie and this is George,’ Ellie said. ‘We’ve got a map and George here knows these mountains pretty well. Where do you need to get to?’

‘Well, I’m Nicole. My friend Annabel and I have a room above a shop on the main street in Morzine. That's where I need to get to.’

‘Good to meet you, Nicole. Let's hope our next encounter will be not be quite as violent.’ I said, trying, not very successfully to raise a smile.

‘We can help you out,’ Ellie said, ‘but why do you think your friend left you like that?’

‘I don't know. It's not like her at all. I thought she really wanted to be with me this holiday because of all her trouble at home.’

‘We don’t want to pry into your friend’s problems, but if you come with us down to the car park at Ardent,’ I suggested, ‘we can give you a lift back into Morzine. We can easily get your board on the roof rack with our skis.’

‘That would be amazing. Thank you so much,’ Nicole responded. ‘I guess otherwise I would have to go down to the bottom now and get a bus back and goodness knows how long that would take.’

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let's get going, it'll be dark soon.’

The run down to the car was incident free and we soon had our skis in the roof box and Nicole’s board secured on the roof rack. The drive to the centre of Morzine took us less than twenty minutes and we were fortunate to find a parking slot directly outside Nicole's apartment.

‘Do you want us to come up with you?’ I asked, thinking that if her friend Annabel had had an accident she might need a lift to the medical centre or hospital.

‘That would be really kind,’ she responded and we stepped over the mounds of dirty frozen snow on the kerb and made our way up the stairs to her tiny apartment. Nicole opened the door and then stood, almost transfixed, in the entrance to the room gazing around her with a baffled expression on her face.

‘I don't understand,’ she said with a tremble in her voice. ‘All of Annabel's stuff has gone! Her case, her clothes, everything!’

We both walked into the room, Nicole still standing just inside as if in shock.  Ellie started opening drawers, the wardrobe doors and looking in the small bathroom. There was no sign that Annabel had even been there in the first place.

Nicole sat on the bed and it was clear that she was close to tears. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her ski mitten. Ellie went and sat beside her, placing a comforting hand on her knee. ‘Tell us about Annabel,’ she said. ‘There must be some reason that she's gone.’

Chapter Four

Four months earlier - Annabel

Annabel stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She was naked. She looked at herself, turning around two or three times. She didn't like looking at herself. She didn't like looking at her body. She didn't like her body. That’s why looking at herself like this was such a rare occasion. What upset her more than anything were the bruise marks. When one would fade another one or more would take its place. These were signposts to her deteriorating relationship with Paul.

How had she, an intelligent, independent young woman, ended up in this situation? She had asked herself this question so many times, over and over, but had no answer. She knew she wasn't alone in this. She knew there were many other women, thousands like her who were trapped, helpless. She had read about it in so many magazines, watched TV documentaries and dramas about it, but none of them helped. Even when she read the articles she sometimes doubted her own interpretation of them. She had met Paul a couple of years