She was reaching for her coat when the phone on her desk rang. The voice over the receiver was crisp. “Inspector Lüthi, the gendarmerie at Ville-sur-Lac telephoned the chief. A woman has died. He’s on his way and wants you to join him there.” The voice added other essential details then paused and continued in a different tone: a human element inserted into police business. “Of course, if you don’t want to … I mean, with the weather I could explain—”
Agnes interrupted. “No, I’ll go. I’m leaving now.” Although the child of American parents, she’d lived in Switzerland her entire life and wasn’t going to let a winter storm stop her. Everything she had wanted, and now it was happening. She slipped her arms into her coat, relief flooding her. It wasn’t yet time to go home.
Ten minutes later she had second thoughts about her decision. Her Citro?n C1 handled well, but tonight it felt like a flimsy cocoon of heat as she moved through the storm. She turned on the radio and fiddled with the dial until she found Espace 2. It only took a few minutes to comprehend that she should have paid attention to the earlier warnings. The announcer’s voice intoned disaster: roads closing, accidents on the highway, and the promise of more to come as the storm gained power with every minute. Farther west, in Geneva, Cointrin was closed and all flights were grounded. The temperature was dropping and the wind accelerating. A dangerous mix.
Agnes switched the radio off, eliminating the distraction. She wished Bardy had chosen to locate their new offices in the city center and not on the outskirts. Nervous, she gripped the steering wheel firmly and concentrated. The Citro?n’s headlights cut across the wind, barely illuminating a few meters of roadway, and she constructed the view from memory: the long gentle slope separating the highway from the lake, the famous view of Lac Léman and in the distance the French Alps. Normally, train tracks were visible between the road and the lake, however, tonight all she could see were a thousand shards of white falling from the sky.
Slowly, she looped through central Lausanne, the city a glow of lights. It was Wednesday and passing Place St. Fran?ois she could practically taste the roasted chestnuts and mulled wine of the city market, a favorite childhood memory, a ritual unchanged in her nearly forty years. She turned the car onto the Avenue du Théatre, then angled right to descend the Avenue Villamont to the Avenue de la Gare, before turning left onto the Avenue d’Ouchy. The road was steep and slick and she slowed her pace and leaned forward, white-knuckled. Reaching level ground at Ouchy, she skirted the luxurious Beau-Rivage Palace hotel on the left, the yellow awnings quickly fading from sight. Here, near the lake, the full force of the storm was in evidence. A clear line of white marked the advancing edge of ice where the wind blew moisture off the lake’s surface, adding to what was descending from the clouds and freezing instantly. Immediately, she knew that she was in a race to reach the chateau before the road was impassable.
Her hand strayed to her mobile phone. It was still possible to call the station and say she couldn’t make it, but the thought of going home prevented her. That, and a need to prove herself to Bardy. If he sidelined her, she would lose the cornerstone of her sanity. Her sons might need her, but she needed this.
The road veered inland at the Tour Haldimand and slipped behind lakeside homes. Here there was less ice and she hoped the road would provide more traction. Minutes passed in silent terror of losing control of the car. Near the village of Cully the storm allowed only a few glimpses of the vine-covered hills and terraced walls. Where the road aimed for the lake before turning to follow the curve of the shore, she strained to see her destination. Chateau Vallotton was across the water off the point. Tonight it wasn’t visible. Or perhaps it was—that slightly brighter glow of lights through the whiteout. It was impossible to tell.
After passing a small port filled with ice-coated sailing yachts, worry turned to near panic. The few other cars were stopped at awkward angles and she didn’t have any illusions that her own driving skills were superior. There were no more towns on the lake road until Ville-sur-Lac and road crews would not have gone beyond this point. She shifted into a lower gear. She touched the brake, then the gas pedal, undecided about continuing. This stretch of road was isolated. She turned on the radio again and frowned at the news. The storm’s impact was unprecedented: a state of emergency across three cantons.
Ahead, the road narrowed. On each side were high stone walls and she knew she should not have started this trip. There was no way to turn back now, no place to stop. She owed her boys safety and security. If she died they would be orphans.