“Theft,” said Peel.
“She’s self-taught, I believe.”
“A professional, is she?”
“It’s more of a hobby.”
“Now I know how she got the money to buy that villa on Mykonos.”
“Trust me, Detective Inspector, you don’t know the half of it.”
Peter Hoffmann received his first phone call of the day as they were approaching the border between Canton Zurich and Canton Zug. The man at the other end of the connection was a wealthy Lebanese businessman who had entrusted Hoffmann with several hundred million dollars and was unhappy with the performance of his investments. By the time the conversation ended the banker was approaching the eminently climbable mountain inhabited, according to ancient Christian legend, by the deathless soul of Pontius Pilate. He sped past the peak and continued to the picturesque resort town of Interlaken. A few kilometers to the south were some of the highest mountains in the Bernese Alps. After making a brief stop for coffee, Peter Hoffmann headed straight for them.
“Something tells me we’re getting warmer,” said Gabriel.
“Or colder,” said Peel, his eyes on the snowcapped peaks.
“It’s summer, Timothy.”
“Not up there, it isn’t.”
They were approaching the turnoff for Grindelwald. A climber’s paradise, the town was surrounded by three of the most famous mountains in the Bernese Oberland: the Mönch, the Jungfrau, and the Eiger. Of the three, the Mönch was the most accessible, the Eigerthe most treacherous. None were of interest to Peter Hoffmann, it seemed, for he sped past the turnoff without slowing.
“He must be going to Lauterbrunnen,” said Gabriel.
“Lederhosen?” asked Ingrid playfully.
“You’ve never been?”
“To Lauterbrunnen? It’s not really my style.”
Gabriel interpreted the remark for Peel. “Your friend Ingrid prefers places like Zermatt and Gstaad.”
“And St. Moritz,” she added. “I positively adore the Badrutt’s Palace Hotel.”
“And why is that?” asked Peel.
“Use your imagination,” answered Gabriel.
Lauterbrunnen, widely regarded as Switzerland’s most beautiful village, lay at the bottom of a U-shaped glacial valley with thousand-meter walls, over which spilled numerous waterfalls. The most famous, the Staubbach Falls, was on the western side of the valley. Beyond it stretched the village high street, at the end of which stood a small rail station. On the opposite side of the valley, perched on a sloping green meadow, was a colony of handsome timbered chalets.
One of the chalets, the grandest of the lot, stood slightly apart from the others. It was the one where Peter Hoffmann, two hours and fifteen minutes after leaving his home, finally stopped. He parked the Audi next to a BMW X5. Then, after fetching a nylon duffel from the boot, he unlocked the front door of the chalet and disappeared inside. He left his phone on the car’s center console, its camera staring into space, its microphone listening to a deep and abiding silence.
It was not the sort of place where three strangers sitting in a parked SUV would go unnoticed for long, so they retreated to the villagehigh street and had breakfast at the Hotel Oberland. Gabriel brought along his laptop so he could monitor the feed from Peter Hoffmann’s phone. Its position hadn’t changed by the time the waitress cleared their plates.
“Something tells me Peter isn’t going climbing today,” said Peel.
“You think?” replied Ingrid archly.
Peel looked at Gabriel. “Is she always like this?”
“Don’t take it personally, Timothy. She just has issues.”
“Besides kleptomania?”
“She prefers the term impulse control.”
“A rose by any other name,” said Peel.
