Sabina's Photograph

By Andrew Masters

A long time resident of an Alpine village is killed by a drunk driver. What seems to be a routine case turns into a mystery that reaches back to the time of the Berlin Wall, uncovering blackmail, murder and revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Masters
• Release date: Oct 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781527251519

Book preview

About the Author

Andrew was born in 1961, growing up in Bristol in the UK. He was educated at the Downs Prep School, Wraxall then Clifton College, Bristol. He also studied German at the Universities of Reading and Konstanz.

He has worked all of his life in the travel industry as a travel guide, including several years in the 1980’s behind the then ‘Iron Curtain’.

For nearly 30 years he has called the mountains of Haute Savoie in France his home.

Andrew has 2 sons, James and George to whom this book is dedicated.

PROLOGUE

1963

His mother and father had been wrenched out of his life when he was a small child. He could only remember a man and a woman coming to his school to take him away in a car. He had been crying, sobbing, screaming for his parents. Something had happened to them. He had cried until he was told to shut up which he did out of fear. The man in particular terrified him.

Several years later when they thought he was old enough to understand, he was told that his parents had been killed in an accident.

The matter was never spoken of again.

He grew up in a state-run orphanage. It had been a physical and emotionally loveless existence. He accepted from his teachers that he was fortunate to be growing up in a country where children like him were looked after by the state and not left to die in the gutters.

As he approached the end of his school education, he had been summoned one bleak January morning to the Principal’s office. He had been afraid. The Principal had reassured him. He was to be given the chance to repay the generosity shown to him earlier than expected. A very important government official wished to speak to him. The Principal had especially recommended him to this official. If he knew what was good for him, he was not to let him down. The principal finished, saying that by the end of the week, he would be leaving; a new life would be starting.

He had stood at attention in the Principal’s office as he was physically examined by the official. His skin crawled as he was asked to turn around to be examined from all sides.

‘Look me in the eye,’ he was ordered. He had tried with all his courage to hold the official’s gaze. But he couldn’t. He shivered when the man came over to put his arm around his shoulders.

‘Come now young man, please do not worry. Let me introduce myself. My name is Piechmann, Doktor Claus Piechmann. I will be taking care of you from now on. Trust me, your future is quite safe in my hands.’

1977

It was a damp, miserable night in late October; the streets were deserted. He sat next to Piechmann, both drawing deeply on their cigarettes. The smell of tobacco smoke gave him comfort. The windows of their car were shut, the engine still running. Earlier a local police patrol car had pulled up alongside them demanding their papers. His superior had produced an identity card that had frightened the life out of the two officers. Even in the dark, he had seen their faces pale.

‘Please excuse us for disturbing you Herr Doktor Piechmann,’ both had stammered before saluting then driving off at speed.

He and Piechmann turned their eyes back to the large building opposite.

‘Remember to do exactly what I told you. Do not fail me tonight.’

In the passenger seat he felt sick with nerves and disgust.

Within minutes there was a sign of movement as four figures carrying small cases left the building by a side entrance. They climbed into a car then disappeared into the night.

‘Just remember what you owe me,’ said Piechmann as they drove off slowly, following the other car to the rendezvous. It was a bombed out old warehouse by the river. There was no one around for several kilometers. They pulled up next to the car. Piechmann wound down his window, gesturing to the other driver to do the same.

‘Get out and bring the cases,’ he ordered.

The men inside obeyed.

‘Put them down here,’ Piechmann pointed to the ground in front of him.

‘Open them.’ Each man opened a case then stood back.

Piechmann carefully examined the contents. When satisfied, he closed each one.

‘Put them in back,’ he ordered pointing at his own car.

He then looked at his own passenger

‘Go and help them.’

Trying to control of his nerves he got out of the front of the car and opened the back door. He watched as the cases were loaded on to the rear seat.

When everything was inside, Piechmann spoke.

‘It is as arranged. Here is your payment.’

From the boot of his car he took a soft sided bag, throwing it on the floor in front of the four men. They knelt down to open it, starting to count the rolls of banknotes inside.

He saw Piechmann look at him, tilting his head towards the opened boot of the car. This was the moment Piechmann had planned for him, the moment he was dreading. He moved silently around to rear of the car. There was the gun in the boot. He wanted to run but he couldn’t. He had to do this.

It was only the sound of the mechanism being cocked that alerted the four men to their fate. When they looked up they found themselves staring at the silenced muzzle of a machine pistol. Four short bursts were enough.

They all died instantly.

He stood there frozen, looking at the blood and the bodies, the gun still in his hand, as Piechmann relieved the corpses of the money.

‘Put the gun down,’ he ordered quietly, ‘then come and help me.’

They dragged the bodies over to the car the four men had arrived in before pouring a large can of petrol over both them and the inside of the car.

The last thing Piechmann did in the warehouse was set a small incendiary fuse for five minutes. For his own amusement he stuck it into the mouth of one of the corpses.

They drove a safe distance away to wait. When the fire started it lit up the night sky, followed by the sound of the car’s petrol tank exploding. The old and rotting timbers of the warehouse quickly added to the blaze.

Piechmann turned to him as the full realisation of what they had just done was sinking in.

‘There will be nothing left of the men to identify them. Even if there was, there is nothing to link us with the tonight’s events. There is no one who would even dare try.’

He had lit another cigarette for both of them, then offered a small bottle of schnapps.

‘Drink this, it will clam your nerves.’

The alcohol made him choke.

Dispassionately Piechmann continued.

‘The only thing you need remember about tonight is that it never happened. You must forget it. Had you failed me just now, your body would be burning with the others.

I have kept you alive tonight, if you fail me in the future, I will kill you. You will never betray me. This is our secret. Do you understand me?’

He remembered taking another swig from the schnapps bottle, before pushing his way out through the car door then being violently sick outside.

HAUTE SAVOIE, FRENCH ALPS 2011

She was running, she would always be running, smiling. Then she fell, before he registered the shot, at first not understanding why her body crumpled. She crawled forward, desperately trying to reach him. From behind her a man with a pistol casually walked up, then fired two more shots into her head.

He could not sleep.

He lay there with tears in his eyes. He knew that he had done as much to cause her death as the man with the pistol. His nightmare was still as vivid as the moment the shots had rung out.

He went downstairs.

He switched on the lights to be confronted with the mess left on the dining table - empty wine bottles, glasses, plates, coffee cups and two empty bottles of ‘eau de vie’ that had been provided by the neighbours, his recently departed dinner guests. Unusually, their alcohol had been more welcome than their conversation.

He found a small amount of the local firewater in a shot glass and downed it. He picked up a cigarette packet. It was empty. The Café National would be closing in twenty minutes. It was only a ten minute walk away.

He would go. Maybe the combination of some fresh air, nicotine and another quick drink might help him sleep when he returned.

He dressed quickly, crossing over to the cloakroom to put on his jacket, gloves and hat. It was mid-January and the nighttime temperature was as usual well below freezing. The local weather report forecasted more overnight snow. Opening the front door he saw that the snow was already falling, a strong wind blowing the flakes sideways.

Pulling his ski hat all the way down over his ears, he started to walk towards the steep right-handed bend that led down to the lights of the Café National.

The snow plough had been through once, the pushed aside snow making it difficult to walk along the road’s edge. He bowed his head to avoid the oncoming snowflakes going into his eyes then moved out into the middle of the road.

One

Jean-Pierre Gaston Tavernier was drunk. He had spent most of his adult years on or over the limit. He had been at the bar of the Café National all evening and had now lost count of how much cheap red wine he had swallowed. Still, he thought, there was room for one more. He would have another. He shouted at the English barmaid to fill his glass.

He downed it in one long swallow then stumbled towards the door. Outside, only just staying upright, he weaved his way towards his dilapidated Citroen van. Getting the door open, he climbed inside. With the exaggerated movements of the truly drunk he inserted the keys into the ignition. The old, uncared-for engine spluttered and coughed its way into life, encouraged by frantic pumping of the accelerator. The windscreen wipers gave up half way across the windscreen, stopped by the weight of the snow. With a crashing of gears, the Citroen leapt forward, performed an uncontrolled U-turn in the middle of the car park before, lightless, disappearing up the road.

It only took Jean-Pierre Gaston Tavernier a few seconds to realise that he couldn’t see out of the windscreen. With half an eye on the road he tried to get the demister to work. Through a small hole in the snow, he could just make out the big left-hand turn approaching. He was not expecting to see a man walking in the middle of the road and had no time react. The windscreen came in with a huge crash. The van veered straight off the side of the road and ploughed into the trunk of a large pine tree.

It decelerated from 50km/h to zero in a second, but Jean-Pierre Gaston Tavernier, not wearing a seatbelt, kept going. He was ejected straight through the hole where the windscreen had been, coming to a stop when he hit the trunk of the tree.

Unluckily for him, he was not made of the flexible metal and plastic composites of the van. The moment of impact killed him.

Clothilde Tavernier woke up at 2.45 am to find herself alone in bed. This was most unusual. Her husband had always managed to get home whatever the state he was in. Only Clothilde’s sense of duty for the twenty five years she had put up with the man, made her try to find out if anything had happened to him. She decided to call the local gendarmerie.

Eric Leblanc, the village’s senior Gendarme, was asleep in his chair with his feet up on the desk. The ringing jolted him awake; it took him a few seconds to realise where he was before he picked up the phone.

When he found out who was on the other end then remembering the several run-ins he had had with Gaston Tavernier in the past, he could not have cared less that he was missing.

Out of respect for Clothilde he assured her that he would tell her as soon as he had any news, getting her off the line as soon as he could. He had hardly put his feet back on the desk when the phone rang again.

‘Gendarmerie, Leblanc speaking,’ he barked only to be immediately interrupted by the person on the other end. It was Henri Baling who held the concession to clear the local roads of snow. He had found the van. He had also found the body of the late and now stiffening Jean-Pierre Gaston Tavernier.

‘Eric, it’s me Henri…Shit, I’ve found Jean-Pierre,’ he was shouting so loud that Leblanc held the phone away from his ear. He could not get a word in before the caller continued.

‘He’s dead, written himself and his car off near the Englishman’s place on the Chemin du Plateau.

Christ it’s a mess up here. I’ve blocked the road off with the snow plough, think you’d better call out the troops.’

‘Dead?’ asked Leblanc not wishing to believe his ears.

‘Stone, not a hope, came out through the windscreen. What shall we do?’

There was an official way of dealing with these matters which Leblanc knew he must follow.

‘OK, Henri, please stay up there, I’ll be with you in a few minutes. I’ll get the fire brigade out of bed from St Jean and call up a blood wagon from Thonon.’

He replaced the phone putting his head in his hands.

‘Stupid bastard. Why on my watch?’

It was now up to someone to inform Clothilde Tavernier that her husband was dead. There was never a good time so he decided he must first see the scene of the accident.

He got up from his desk and headed out into the foyer.

‘Levalois?’ he shouted in the general direction of the reception desk. There was no reply. Leblanc got out of his chair and went into the reception area, there was nobody. He immediately got annoyed, muttering under his breath what he would do if he found his junior officer outside smoking when he needed him. However his junior officer, Christian Levalois, was already at the wheel of the police van with engine running, the heater turned up to full blast.

Leblanc got in beside him.

‘Where to, Boss?’ the young policeman asked.

‘Chemin du Plateau. You’ve heard, haven’t you? Tavernier’s gone and killed himself.’

‘Yeh, I could hear the phone through the door. That’s why I got the van started. Has he topped himself?’

‘No, he’s driven his wreck of a car into a tree. Come on, let’s get up there, Henri the Snow Plough’s waiting for us.’

He picked up the police radio and called to the next town, St Jean, for the Fire Brigade, and the main hospital in Thonon for an ambulance to collect the body.

It took less than five minutes to reach the site of the accident. As he turned up the steep left-hand curve he could see the snow plough’s orange flashing lights. Henri met him, new snow covering the shoulders of his jacket. They went over to the wreck of the Citroen.

‘Where is he?’ asked Leblanc. From the rear you could only see the back of the van, obviously compacted into the tree.

‘Came out through the windscreen, not a pretty sight,’ said Henri.

Taking his torch from the van, Leblanc steeled himself. He went around to the front of the vehicle to find the remains. The body was in a position that only sudden violent death can achieve. The head was bent back underneath the chin. The angle of the hips and legs suggested that his spine had been broken. He shone the torch down onto Tavernier’s face, the eyes were wide open. Incongruously his tongue was sticking out from between his lips with both sets of teeth firmly imbedded into it. A stalactite of now frozen blood and spittle hung off its tip. With the help of the light he could also see that there were fragments of glass from the windscreen in his hair and face.

His thoughts were interrupted by his radio. The fire brigade informed him that they would be on the site in twenty minutes. Someone should get the camera out to record the scene before they arrived.

Someone still had to inform Clothilde Tavernier. He would photograph, Levalois would get the short straw.

Levalois paled when told of his latest duty. It was his first time informing a next of kin. The dead man being a member of the local community made it quite an undertaking.

Leblanc wanted Levalois out of the way so he could work by himself. He thought it better if a blanket were over the body before Clothilde arrived.

The blanket and camera he had in the van. He collected both.

He took photographs from as many angles as the tree and the van permitted. He wondered what had happened for Tavernier to have so fatally lost control of the vehicle.

He put his hand down onto the bonnet of the van to feel if there was any warmth coming from the engine. There was none but the light of the torch showed something on his hand. It looked like blood. He swung the torch back onto the body of Tavernier; it had bled very little. The blood must have come from another source. Maybe the van had hit an animal.

He heard the engine of the Gendarmerie van approaching; he presumed that his deputy was returning with Clothilde Tavernier. Ideally he would have liked to have had more time to look around the scene but that would have to wait. With a sweep of the torch, he directed the beam along the snow, away from the van.

It caught something interesting. His first impression was that something had tried to drag itself away from or near the van.

He shone the torch back up towards the road seeing that the trail had started from the direction where the van had left the road. He shone the torch back down to the ground. He followed the trail into the wood.

He did not have to go far. The torch beam picked out a huddled shape lying near the bottom of a tree ten meters ahead. He gagged involuntarily.

It could not be an animal, the shape was fully dressed. Judging by its size it was the body of a man. He ran towards the tree. Dropping to his knees, he pulled the jacket collar away from the man’s neck to feel for a pulse. There was none.

The torch lit up the man’s face. He now knew who it was. It was the Englishman from up the road. He lowered his head to the man’s body to see if there was any sign of life. He tried again to detect a pulse in the carotid artery.

As he did so the man’s face turned slightly. It was covered in blood. Leblanc managed to swallow the bile that shot up from his stomach. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The faintest sound of breath escaped from between the lips of the man on the ground. He was just alive.

‘Come on my friend,’ Leblanc said gently, ‘stay alive, we’re here, we’ve got you.’ At the same time he looked back up to the road.

The van had just pulled up. From a distance he could hear Levalois and Henri beginning to comfort the bereaved Clothilde.

He waved the torch frantically to get their attention. ‘Levalois, Henri help, help get over here now. Christ Almighty, there’s someone else here, Jean-Pierre must have hit him, it’s the English guy from up the road. I think he’s still alive. Christ where are the fucking paramedics?’

He ripped off his jacket, draping it over the man on the ground.

‘Bring the emergency box!’

He could hear Henri on the radio calling the Fire Brigade, asking where the hell they were. Clothilde was sobbing in the background. Deserted by the other two, she was staring at her dead husband.

Leblanc was still attempting to communicate with the Englishman. He motioned to Levalois and Henri to keep quiet. ‘He’s trying to speak.’

There was a slight movement of the man’s mouth but no sound. The mouth moved again, a rasping noise came from the throat but it was unintelligible. A trickle of blood came out from between his lips, his chest convulsed feebly. As if summoning the last of his reserves the man on the ground raised his head. A tortured hissing came from between his lips as he tried to speak. Leblanc did not understand it.

‘What did he say?’ asked Henri.

‘Don’t know, but it wasn’t French. It didn’t even sound English. Might have been a name or something,’ he looked up at the road. ‘Now where’s that fucking ambulance or we’ll lose him.’

Christian Levalois, whose school English was slightly better than his superior’s put his head down to be near the mouth of injured man.

‘Mister,’ he said ‘speak me, no worry ambulance coming, we are ‘ere, we ‘elp, stay cool mon ami.’

The lips moved again so they all moved even closer to hear what he was saying. It was not much, barely distinguishable.

‘Sabina…..Sabina, vergebe mich, vergebe mich, Ich konnte nichts dafuer....’ He went silent. The head turned back.

‘Is he dead?’ asked Henri.

Leblanc tried to find a pulse again. ‘Not sure.’ He put his ear down to the man’s mouth. ‘Can’t feel anything.’

‘Do you want me to try CPR?’ It was Levalois this time.

Leblanc remembered the blood coming through the lips.

‘No, I think he might have a serious chest