Desmond Bagley - The Snow Tiger

Stenning nodded. ‘Your analysis of Ben’s attitude towards women has proved quite illuminating. I think you are quite right when you say that Ben didn’t mention Miss Peterson because he discounted her completely. This, therefore, has a strong bearing on how I intend to interpret his wishes. The conclusion I have come to is this: you may marry or you may not — you may even marry Miss Peterson or you may not. Whatever you do will have no bearing on my decision regarding your suitability as a trustee. If Ben discounted Miss Peterson, then so shall I.’

‘Thanks,’ said Ballard hollowly.

‘Of course, the problem still remains with the Peterson brothers.’

‘Thanks again,’ said Ballard. ‘For nothing. Do you really believe that if I walk over the Petersons, as you so delicately put it, I would stand a chance with Liz? God knows she doesn’t get on with her brothers, but she wouldn’t be the woman I think she is, the woman I want to marry, if she didn’t have some family loyalty.’

‘Yes, you would appear to have quite a problem.’

Ballard stood up. ‘Then to hell with you, Mr Stenning.’ He threw down his napkin. ‘And to hell with the Ballard Trust.’

Stenning watched him walk away, his face expressionless. He lifted the cup to his lips and found the coffee cold, so he called for another cup.

Witness after witness passed before Harrison and his assessors, their actions minutely scrutinized, their utterances tested; a long parade of townsfolk, policemen, mountain rangers, doctors, engineers, scientists, soldiers and civil defence workers. Dan Edwards, wearied in the Press gallery, said to Dalwood, ‘I think the old bastard is hoping for a new job when he dies — he’s understudying the Recording Angel.’

There was a movement in the valley. At first there was just a handful of rescuers but the number swelled hour by hour, brought in by helicopter and ski plane. The mountain rangers came from Mount Cook, from Coronet Peak, from Mount Egmont, from Tongariro — men knowledgeable and skilled in their trade of snow rescue. Doctors came in Air Force and US Navy helicopters, which took out the children and the badly injured.

The mass of snow which blocked the Gap was attacked fiercely. Steps were cut and guide ropes laid so that within hours it was possible for any moderately active person to enter or leave the valley. This was done by volunteers from the mountain clubs who had come in dozens at a time to the place of disaster, many of them flying from as far as North Island.

These men knew what to do and, once in the valley, they formed teams to probe the snow, at first working under the general direction of Jesse Rusch. They were aided by a force of police and an even larger detachment of troops. Even so, they were not too many; the area to be patiently probed, foot by foot, was over four hundred acres.

At first Ballard acted as co-ordinator, but he was glad to be relieved by a professional civil defence man flown in from Christchurch. He stayed on to help Arthur Pye. The identification of the survivors and the dead and the listing of those still missing was work in which local knowledge was vital. There was pain in his eyes as he saw the name of Stacey Cameron on the list of the dead.

He said, ‘Any news of Joe Cameron?’

Pye shook his head. ‘Not a sign of him. He must be buried out there somewhere. They’ve found Dobbs dead. Funny thing about that: the chap who dug him out said that Dobbs had cut his throat. The body was drained of blood.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘God, but I’m tired.’

‘Take a break, Arthur,’ said Ballard. ‘Get something to eat and have a nap. I can carry on.’

‘If I went to sleep now I feel as though I’d never wake up again.’ Pye rose from his chair and stretched. ‘I’ll take a walk outside. The fresh air might do me some good.’

Ballard checked to find if he was needed and then walked over to a pew where Liz Peterson was lying swathed in blankets. Her face was deathly pale and she still appeared to be dazed. He knelt beside her, and said, ‘How are you feeling, Liz?’

‘A bit better now.’

‘Have you had some soup?’

She nodded and moistened her lips. ‘Have you found Johnnie yet?’

He hesitated, wondering whether to tell her or not. She had to know sooner or later, so he said gently, ‘He’s dead, Liz.’ She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘He died well. Young Mary Rees says he was trying to get Mrs Scanlon out of the exchange when it happened.’

Liz opened her eyes. ‘And Stacey?’

Ballard shook his head.

‘But she was with me — she was standing right next to me. How can she be dead when I’m not?’

‘You were lucky. You were one of the first to be found. Stacey was only a few feet from you but nobody knew that. When there were enough men to make a proper search it was too late for Stacey. And Joe is still missing.’

‘Poor Stacey. She was on holiday, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘She thought a lot of you, Ian.’

‘Did she?’

‘More than you know.’ Liz leaned up on one elbow. ‘I’ve seen Eric, but where’s Charlie?’

‘He’s all right. Take it easy, Liz. He volunteered to go up the mountain with Mike. Mike is afraid there’ll be another fall so he’s gone to check.’

‘Oh my God!’ said Liz. ‘It would be terrible if it happened again.’ She began to shiver uncontrollably.

‘Don’t worry. Mike wouldn’t be on the mountain if he thought it was that dangerous. It’s just a normal precaution, that’s all.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her back, then tucked the blankets closer about her. ‘I think you’ll be going out on the next flight.’ He looked towards his work table. ‘I must leave now, but I’ll see you before you go.’

He went back to the table where Bill Quentin was standing. ‘I hope it’s good news, Bill.’

Quentin nodded. ‘Mrs Haslam — they’ve just got her out. She’s still alive but in pretty bad shape. The doctor said she’ll be all right, though.’

Ballard crossed her name off one list and added it to another. ‘Any news of her husband yet?’

‘Not a thing.’ Quentin hesitated. ‘I made a damn fool of myself before the avalanche, Mr Ballard. I’m sorry about that.’

Ballard looked up. ‘Not to worry, Bill. I’ve made some monumental bloody mistakes in my time, too. And while we’re about it, my name is Ian. Those who have gone through this lot together are entitled to be on first name terms.’

Quentin swallowed. ‘Thanks. I’ll be getting back.’

‘Bring good news.’

Miller wandered up. His face was pasty white and his eyes looked like two burnt holes in a blanket. ‘Any news of Ralph Newman yet?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Miller. Nothing yet.’

Miller moved away again, mumbling to himself as he went. He had been asking that same question at ten minute intervals.

Ballard looked down at his lists. The papers were dog-eared and the lists confused, with many scribbles and rough erasures. He took fresh paper and began to transcribe them anew in alphabetical order, a tedious and mundane but necessary task.

Brewer, Anderson, Jenkins, Newman, Castle, Fowler — and Haslam; seven men — one dead — locked in a cave by snow and ice. They had no key.

‘It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey,’ said Anderson.

Newman did not reply. It was the eighth time Anderson had uttered that conversational gem and it did not improve on rehearing. He pulled his anorak closer about his body and tried to control his fits of shivering.

‘How long has it been?’ asked Brewer.