The Sanatorium: Reese's Book Club (A Novel) (Detective Elin Warner Series)

1

January 2020

Day One

The funicular from the valley town of Sierre to Crans-Montana scores a near-perfect vertical line up the mountainside.

Slicing through snow-covered vineyards and the small towns of Venthone, Chermignon, Mollens, Randogne, and Bluche, the route, almost three miles long, takes passengers up the mountain in just twelve minutes.

In off-peak season, the funicular is usually half empty. Most people drive up the mountain or take the bus. But today, with the roads almost stationary thanks to heavy traffic, it’s full.

Elin Warner stands on the left in the packed carriage, absorbing it all: the fat flakes of snow collecting on the windows, the slush-covered floor piled high with bags, the lanky teenagers shoving through the doors.

Her shoulders tense. She’s forgotten how kids that age can be: selfish, unaware of anyone but themselves.

A sodden sleeve brushes her cheek. She smells damp, cigarettes, fried food, the musky-citrus tang of cheap aftershave. Then comes a throaty cough. Laughter.

A group of men are jostling through the doorway, talking loudly, bulging North Face sports bags on their backs. They are squeezing the family next to her farther into the carriage. Into her. An arm rubs hers, beer breath hot against her neck.

Panic pushes through her. Her heart is racing.

Will it ever stop?

It’s been a year since the Hayler case and she’s still thinking about it, dreaming about it. Waking up in the night, sheets damp with sweat, the dream vivid in her head: the hand around her throat, damp walls contracting, closing in on her.

Then salt water; frothing, sloshing over her mouth, her nose . . .

Control it, she tells herself, forcing herself to read the graffiti on the wall of the funicular.

Don’t let it control you.

Her eyes dance over the scrawled letters weaving up the metal:

Michel 2010

BISOUS XXX

Ines & RIC 2016

Following the words up to the window, she startles. Her reflection . . . it pains her to look at it. She’s thin. Too thin.

It’s as if someone’s hollowed her out, carved the very core of her away. Her cheekbones are knife sharp, her slanted blue-gray eyes wider, more pronounced. Even the choppy mess of pale blond hair, the blur of the scar on her upper lip, doesn’t soften her appearance.

She’s been training nonstop since her mother’s death. Ten-K runs. Pilates. Weights. Cycling on the coast road between Torquay and Exeter in the blistering wind and rain.

It’s too much, but she doesn’t know how to stop, even if she should. It’s all she’s got; the only tactic to chase away what’s inside her head.

Elin turns away. Sweat pricks the back of her neck. Looking at Will, she tries to concentrate on his face, the familiar shadow of stubble grazing his chin, the untamable dark blond tufts of his hair. “Will, I’m burning up.”

His features contract. She can see the blueprint of future wrinkles in his anxious face; a starburst of lines around his eyes, light creases running across his forehead.

“You okay?”

Elin shakes her head, tears stinging her eyes. “I don’t feel right.”

Will lowers his voice. “About this, or . . .”

She knows what he’s trying to say: Isaac. It’s both; him, the panic, they’re intertwined, connected.

“I don’t know.” Her throat feels tight. “I keep going over it, you know, the invitation, out of the blue. Maybe coming was the wrong decision. I should have thought about it more, or at least spoken to him properly before we let him book.”

“It’s not too late. We can always go back. Say I had problems with work.” Smiling, Will nudges his glasses up his nose with his forefinger. “This might count as the shortest-ever holiday on record, but who cares.”

Elin forces herself to return his smile, a quiet sting of devastation at the contrast between then and now. How easily he’s accepted this: the new normal.

It’s the opposite of when they’d first met. Back then, she was peaking; that’s how she thinks of it now. At the pinnacle of her twentysomething life.

She’d just bought her first apartment near the beach, the top floor of an old Victorian villa. Bijou, but high ceilings, views of a tiny square of sea.

Work was going well—she’d been promoted to detective sergeant, landed a big case, an important one, her mother was responding well to the first round of chemo. She thought she was on top of her grief for Sam, dealing with it, but now . . .

Her life has contracted. Closed down to become something that would have been unrecognizable to her a few years ago.

The doors are closing now, thick glass panels sliding together.

With a jolt, the funicular lurches upward, away from the station, accelerating.

Elin closes her eyes, but that only makes it worse. Every sound, every judder, is magnified behind her eyelids.

She opens her eyes to see the landscape flashing by: blurry streaks of snow-covered vineyards, chalets, shops.

Her head swims. “I want to get out.”

“What?” Will turns. He tries to mask it, but she can hear the frustration in his voice.

“I need to get out.”

The funicular pulls into a tunnel. They plunge into darkness, and a woman whoops.

Elin breathes in, slowly, carefully, but she can feel it coming—that sense of impending doom. All at once, her blood feels sticky moving through her, yet also like it’s rushing everywhere at once.

More breaths. Slower, as she’d taught herself. In for four, hold, then out for seven.

It’s not enough. Her throat contracts. Her breath is coming shallow now, fast. Her lungs are fighting, desperately trying to drag in oxygen.

“Your inhaler,” Will urges. “Where is it?”

Scrabbling in her pocket, she pulls it out, pushes down: good. She presses again, feels the rush of gas hit the back of her throat, reach her windpipe.

Within minutes, her breathing regulates.

But when her head clears, they’re there, in her mind’s eye.

Her brothers. Isaac. Sam.

Images, on loop.

She sees soft child faces, cheeks smattered with freckles. The same wide-set blue eyes, but while Isaac’s are cold, unnerving in their intensity, Sam’s fizz with energy, a spark that draws people in.

Elin blinks, unable to stop herself thinking about the last time she saw those eyes—vacant, lifeless, that spark . . . snuffed out.

She turns to the window, but can’t unsee the images from her past: Isaac, smiling at her; that familiar smirk. He holds up his hands, but the five splayed fingers are covered in blood.

Elin extends her hand, but she can’t reach him. She never can.

2

The hotel minibus is waiting in the small car park at the top of the funicular. It’s a sleek dark gray, the smoky tint of its windows smeared with snow.

Discreet silver lettering is etched on the bottom left of the door: le sommet. The letters are lowercase, understated, a fine, blocky font.

Elin allows herself to feel the first twinge of excitement. Up until this point, she’s been carelessly dismissive of the hotel in conversations with friends:

Pretentious.

Style over substance.

In truth, she’d carefully peeled off Isaac’s Post-it, taking pleasure in the pristine brochure beneath, running her fingers over the thick matte cardboard of the cover, savoring the novelty of each minimalist, photographed page.

She’d felt something strange, an unfamiliar mix of excitement and envy, a sense of having missed out on something indefinable, something she wasn’t even aware that she wanted.

In contrast, Will had been openly effusive, raving about the architecture, the design. He’d scoured the pages, then gone straight online to read more.

Over lamb Madras that night, he’d quoted details at her about the interior design: Influenced by Joseph Dirand . . . A new kind of minimalism, echoing the building’s history . . . Creating a narrative.

She’s always been amazed by Will’s capacity for absorbing this kind of intricate detail and fact. It makes her feel safe, somehow, secure that he has all the answers.

“Miss Warner? Mr. Riley?”

Elin turns. A tall, wiry man is striding toward them. He’s wearing a gray fleece embossed with the same silver lettering.

Le Sommet.

“That’s us.” Will smiles. There’s an awkward fumble as the man reaches for Elin’s suitcase at the same time as Will, before Will extracts himself.

“Trip okay?” the driver asks. “Where have you come from?” Scooping up the cases, the man hoists them into the back of the minibus.

Elin looks to Will to fill the gaps. She finds small talk like this an effort.

“South Devon. Flight was on time . . . never happens. I said to Elin that it’s Swiss timekeeping keeping EasyJet on point.” Will smiles—dark eyes rueful, eyebrows raised. “Shit, that sounded clichéd, right?”

The man laughs. This is Will’s modus operandi with strangers—neutralize them with a mix of sheer enthusiasm and self-deprecation. People are invariably disarmed, then charmed. Will makes moments like this easy. But then, she thinks, hovering behind him, that’s what first attracted her to him—it’s his thing, isn’t it?

Effortless.

To him, nothing’s insurmountable. There’s no bravado in it, it’s just how his mind works—rapidly breaking an issue down into logical, manageable chunks. A list, some research, a phone call or two—answers found, problem solved. For her, even easy, everyday things became something to be agonized over until they swelled out of all proportion.

Take this trip: she’d stressed over the flight—the close proximity to other people at the airport and on the plane, the possible turbulence, delays.

Even the packing bothered her. It wasn’t just the fact that she’d needed to buy new stuff, but the questions over what she should buy—what weather eventualities should be covered, the most suitable brands.

As a result, everything of hers is brand-new, and feels like it. Pushing her finger down her trousers, she tucks in the itchy label she meant to lop off at home.

Will had simply thrown things in his bag. It had taken less than fifteen minutes, but he still somehow manages to look the part: battered hiking boots, black Patagonia puffer jacket, North Face trousers just the right side of worn-in.

Somehow, though, their differences complement each other. Will accepts her and her foibles, and Elin is acutely aware that not everyone would. She’s grateful.

With an expansive, easy gesture, the driver slides open the door. Elin clambers inside, casting a sidelong glance at the back.

One of the families from the funicular is already there: a pair of glossy-haired teenage girls, heads down, watching a tablet. The mother is holding a magazine. The father, thumb to screen, is scrolling through his phone.

Elin and Will settle into the middle two seats. “Better?” Will says softly.

She nods. It is: clean leather seats; no loud, abrupt voices. And best of all, a marked absence of damp bodies packed tight against hers.

The bus crawls forward. Turning right, it bumps over the uneven ground and out of the car park.

When they reach the end of the road, they come to a fork. The driver takes the right turn, windscreen wipers moving rapidly to dislodge the falling snow.

All’s fine until they meet the first bend. With one quick movement, the bus swings around to face the opposite direction.

As the bus straightens with a jerk, Elin stiffens.

The road is no longer flanked with snow or trees, not even a strip of grassy verge. Instead, it’s clinging to the very edge of the mountain, with only a thin metal barrier between her and the vertiginous drop to the valley floor below.

Beside her, she feels Will tense, knowing what he’ll do next: he tries to cloak his unease with laughter, a low whistle between his teeth. “Bloody hell, wouldn’t fancy my chances driving this at night.”

The driver shakes his head. “No choice. It’s the only way to get to the hotel.” He glances at them in the rearview mirror. “It puts some people off from coming.”

“Really?” Will puts a hand on her knee, presses too hard, and gives another forced laugh.

The driver nods. “There are forums about it online. Kids have put videos up on YouTube, filmed themselves going around the bends, screaming. The camera angles make it look worse than it is. They stick their phone out of the window, point it over the edge, down the drop . . .” His words fall away as he looks intently at the road ahead. “This is the worst part. Once we’re through this . . .”

Looking up, Elin’s stomach plummets. The road has narrowed further, barely wide enough to take the minibus. The tarmac is a murky white-gray, shiny with ice in places. She forces herself to look toward the ragged horizon of snowcapped peaks ahead.

It’s over in a matter of minutes. As the road opens, Will’s grip on her leg eases. Fiddling with his phone, he starts taking photographs through the window, forehead creased in concentration.

Elin smiles, touched by the care he’s taking. He’s been waiting for this moment—the views of the landscape, the first glimpse of the hotel. She knows these images will be toyed with on his laptop later. Critiqued. Tweaked some more. Shared with his arty friends.

“How long have you been working for the hotel?” Will says, turning back.

“Just over a year.”

“You like it?”

The driver nods. “There’s something about the building, the history, it gets inside your head.”

“I looked it up online,” Elin murmurs. “I couldn’t believe how many patients actually—”

“I wouldn’t think too much about that.” The driver cuts her off. “Digging up the past, especially with this place, you’ll send yourself mad. If you go into the details about what went on . . .” He shrugs, trailing off.

Elin picks up her water bottle. His words echo in her mind: It gets inside your head.

It already has, she thinks, picturing the brochure, the photographs online.

Le Sommet.

They’re only a few miles away.