Lock and key

Two hundred yards below the summit of the mountain, a group of men labor awkwardly against the elements. A bitter south-easterly wind whips clouds of biting white powder that hamper their every movement. As they go about their task, for each one, every footstep feels like a mile and every intake of breath is a thunderous gasp. They know each other well and work as a team; vocal communication is impossible, well practiced hand movements and sweeping arm gestures informs the others. They know how this operation will end, and hate every minute spent in its undertaking. Whilst equipment is desperately set up, the lone female in the pack tries to take in the scene with her video camera. The group accepts the importance of her role; back at the base she is not an outsider however it is important she remains detached from the main working party..

Standing well apart from the team is a stranger who finds it hard to come to terms with the absurd pantomime being performed around him. The man struggles to walk the few extra yards it takes to reach the two concrete-like bodies lying in the snow. His name is Donald Muller, and he feels drained of life. It takes an effort to fold his legs and kneel in front of the larger mass; his lifelong and closest friend, Rory. Donald turns around slowly to study the smaller frame of the other body. The boy, Ryan Stones, is wrapped in a foetal position; looking strangely confused and uncertain in death, much as he did in life.

Donald concludes that the two men probably died within minutes of each other, only a few feet apart, and yet it seems strange in their everyday life they were not even friends; up until a week ago they had barely known each other. Donald was the only common denominator in their lives and he now found himself kneeling between their two bodies.

Regardless of the warnings given by the police officer in charge not to disturb the crime scene, Donald takes advantage of the poor visibility and pulls Rory’s jacket apart at the neck, tearing frosted goggles away from the corpse’s eyes. Cement-white skin is crisscrossed with spindly shards of ice. The eyes are wide open, bottle green, and a thousand miles deep. The eyes scream at him. Why did you do it? Why?

A bitter tang of vomit rises to Donald’s throat, and the swirling wind carries away his words, making them meaningless. “Sorry, old man, but all’s fair in love and war.” He takes a knife from his pocket and cuts through the lanyard’s rope, quickly pocketing two objects.

From the edge of his vision he can make out the outline of a man struggling to reach the scene; a helicopter has just landed so this was possibly the police officer in charge of the investigation? The man stumbles through the foggy, chilling mist; doubtless this is not how he would want to be spending his day.

In fact the officer has had better days, and curses his luck; only two years to retirement and today he really feels his age. With great effort he forces his body to lumber towards Donald, kneels down and leans in closely to the other man. In this way he can make himself heard above the gusting wind by screaming directly into Donald’s ear, and yet the words he utters are still barely audible to the other man. The tone and his feelings of frustration, however, are unmistakable.

“It makes no sense. Why would they come up here without the right keys? They must have known they would need shelter from the incoming storm. It’s the worst weather on this mountain for years. And yet, it appears the chalet was unlocked all the time. Maybe it’s the cold – maybe I’m missing something obvious – because just at this moment, it makes no sense, no sense at all. Can you follow me back down to the chalet, sir?”

Back inside the chalet someone has lit the oil stove and the warmth of the building contrasts as a chilling reminder of the scene outside, less than a hundred yards distance. The policeman beckons for Donald to take a seat opposite him.

“So, I’ll do the formal introductions; my name is Detective Inspector Joshua Buchanan,” when Donald did not respond the policeman continued, “normally this would not require police attendance at my level but concerns have been raised about the untimely deaths of the gentlemen.”

“Yes, it is awful; they were very good personal friends.”

“Were they? I never knew that.” Yeah of course you didn’t!

“Anyway – the chalet. What is your role in the maintenance of the building?”

“I’m a volunteer.” Donald was brusque.

“And?”

For the first time that day Donald started to feel nervous and struggled to find the right words. “I help organise the facility so that is readily available to people that use this part of the mountain.”

“And from my understanding, as a facility, this building is not available to all and sundry.” As he posed the question Buchanan produced a notebook from his jacket pocket.

“Of course not,” Donald bristled, “you need to be an experienced mountaineer to tackle this particular beast.”

“So at the base station you only hand out keys to people you know or can prove their ability to tackle this climb.”

“Yes.” The policeman changed tack:

“The locks on the building are particularly robust, which seems rather strange.”

Donald shrugged his shoulders. “It would do this time of year, but at the height of summer we used to get all sorts who found it easy to break in and...Well, trash the place.” The policeman stood up, walked to the front door, opened it wide and spent a while gazing out across the valley, before resuming.

“This place is literally a godsend in weather like yesterday – a real port in the storm.” Donald was not sure if he was expected to respond so did no more than nod his head. “So,” Buchanan continued,”I gather there are no more than six keys available at any one time.”

“Sets of keys,” Donald corrected him,” it needs both keys to open and shut the chalet.” The policeman scribbled something in his notepad.

“So looking at the log at the base station Mr. McKay and Mr. Ryan signed for one set of keys...with you...the day before last; even though there were serious warnings of awful incoming weather.” Donald shrugged his shoulders:

“It’s not for me to dictate how people spend their time, and the chalet is a safe refuge.”

“Of course it is, if they have the right keys to enter the building. Are you sure they had the right keys with them Mr. Muller?”

“Of course they did, we don’t keep any other keys.”

“But what if you did Mr. Muller? The men would have been in serious trouble with the wrong keys wouldn’t they?” Donald jumped to his feet.

“I don’t like the way your questioning is being angled. I’m going back down the mountain; you can interview me at base station if you feel so inclined.” With that Donald bustled out of the chalet and was soon making his way down the mountain. After a hundred yards he stopped and looked all around him, moved a few paces off of the main path and threw something silver-looking high into the air and down into a deep gully.

At the same time Buchanan picked up a walkie-talkie and contacted the base station. “Can you put my sergeant on please? Hi Alex can you get people to look straightaway into that rumour about Muller’s wife, and when Muller gets back read him his rights, arrest him and do a thorough body search. There’s more to this than meets the eye.”