‘What do you collect …’ he went quiet for a moment ‘… Dad?’

‘Militaria.’

‘Soldier stuff?’

‘Soldier stuff. Medals, helmets, swords, that sort of thing.’

‘And guns?’

‘Only old ones. With the firing pins removed.’

‘Like the one you had in the chalet?’

I didn’t answer, but my expression obviously gave me away.

‘You were away for a very long time tonight, Nick—’

‘You were away for a very long time tonight, Dad.’

‘Whatever. I had time to think …’

I let the silence stretch between us as I focused on the road ahead.

‘I thought about what you did with the weapon. At the desk.’

I frowned.

‘I watched you take it apart.’

‘You don’t miss much, do you?’

‘I miss my dad …’

‘Of course you do.’ That hadn’t been what I meant, but it reminded me that he was still seven, not forty-seven.

‘The signs keep saying Geneva. Is that where we’re going?’

‘We’re taking a holiday together, Steve. It’s not a business trip. We’re not … collecting.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Why Switzerland?’

‘It’s a lovely place. Mountains. Flowers. Fresh air. All good.’

I steered him back to the cover story. I told him we’d lived in Moscow for the last few years, which was true, and would be going back to England in a couple of weeks, which wasn’t.

‘Where in England?’

‘Have you ever been there?’

‘No.’

‘Then if anyone asks let’s just say London.’

He gave this some thought. ‘The Houses of Parliament?’

‘Not exactly. I’m more at home on the other side of the river.’

‘The Arsenal?’

‘Close. They started south, but went north.’

‘Highbury. Emirates Stadium.’

‘That’s the place.’

‘Yes!’ He pumped his fist. ‘Olivier Giroud!’

It was only a thin cover story. Our relationship wouldn’t stand up to any real scrutiny, but we had a connection, and it would help us look and act the part. And as we approached Border Control I’d tell him to close his eyes and pretend to stay asleep for as long as he was allowed to.

I switched on the radio when we’d run out of football waffle – which was pretty soon because I knew fuck-all about it. I surfed the airwaves for a moment before hitting a rap channel.

The drumbeat seemed to match our mood. ‘This is not a drill …’

‘Yes!’ Stefan pumped his fist again. ‘Pitbull is the man! This shit is for real!’

I felt myself starting to grin like an idiot. Despite Frank’s best efforts to school the heir to his business empire in mathematics, new technology and classic literature, I was starting to get a handle on where the kid’s heart really lay.

The sun was well and truly up by the time we approached St Julien. This was the location of the crossing closest to Geneva airport, so the volume of traffic was normally heavy enough to ensure that anyone with an up-to-date vignette would be waved through without any hassle.

Except today.

The way ahead was blocked solid a good few Ks from the frontier post. As far as I was concerned, that could mean only one thing. And even if I was wrong, it wasn’t worth putting it to the test. I didn’t want to leave it too late and be the only driver to reverse the fuck out of there, so I joined the queue of vehicles bailing out at the next slip-road and aimed the Polo in the opposite direction.

I told Stefan to climb on to the back seat and get his head down before pulling in at the nearest service station. Every man and his dog around here now thought a boy had been stolen. The law would be taking a close look at all the local CCTV footage they could lay their hands on, and linking Stefan, the Polo and me on film was something I wanted to avoid.

I filled the tank, dug the Sphinx out from under the spare tyre and consulted the map. The Morzine area looked like my best bet. About an hour twenty away, and within easy reach of Avoriaz. I knew you could ski backwards and forwards between France and Switzerland around there all winter without having to get out your passport, so I figured it wouldn’t be that different now the snow had retreated and the Alpine flowers had taken over.

PART TWO

1

I picked up a lift map and a timetable at the Morzine station.

The most direct route to Switzerland from there was up the Vallée de la Manche and over the Col de Cou, but the whole area was hatched with hiking and biking trails. There was no way every one of them could be patrolled by border guards.

I asked the woman behind the counter if she could give me some advice. Stefan managed to conjure up one of his smiles for her, and suddenly nothing was too much trouble. I swivelled the map in her direction, pointed to the Col, and asked how long it would take to get there on foot.

She said that we could drive up to the Mines d’Or, park by the lake and walk from there. ‘Ninety minutes to the top, maybe less, for you.’ Then she glanced down at Stefan and pursed her lips. ‘But not so good for your son, I think. Six hundred metres up.’ She pointed a finger at the ceiling. ‘And steep.’

I’d already come to the same conclusion. There was no lift, and no way was I going to cycle up and down that ridge with Stefan on my handlebars.

The key chairs had opened elsewhere for the summer walking season, and I’d already IDed the ones I needed two valleys further west. But I let her come up with a whole raft of other suggestions, and nodded at every one.

‘So, you must have this.’ She handed me a leaflet with a livid green stripe and pictures of Dad, Mum and the kids climbing rocks, riding around on mountain bikes and having a great time at the pool. ‘The Portes du Soleil multi-pass.’

It gave us access to all the fun on both sides of the border, and the transport we needed to get there. It also provided the perfect place for me to hide the kid in plain sight while I came back to fetch the wagon.

‘Family?’

‘Sorry?’

She beamed and gestured at Stefan. ‘Would you like a family pass?’

Good thinking.

I turned to him. ‘Great idea, eh? Your little sister loves a swim, doesn’t she?’

He didn’t even blink. ‘I love to swim too.’

I took the six-day option for myself, my wife and two children. It didn’t cost a fortune and sent a nice cuddly message: the four of us were planning a whole lot of adventures over the course of our holiday. It wasn’t just the two of us here to cross the border without being traced.

I bought some extra-strength ibuprofen and a can of anaesthetic spray for the boy at a pharmacy across the street and hoped his ankle would hold out. If it didn’t, I’d have to carry him. Fuck it, I’d humped a Bergen three times his weight across the Black Mountains in sub-zero temperatures with an RSM yelling insults at me every step of the way. And the rest. This was going to be a walk in the park.

Next stop was a ski-hire shop that also flogged hiking kit when the snow had melted. I treated Stefan to some boots. They didn’t have crocodiles on them, but they would give him a bit more support than his trainers. I selected a pair of anti-shock poles to help with his balance and momentum. I got a pair for myself as well. They’d help me look the part.

A pack of energy bars and a couple of water bottles from a nearby Casino went into the day sack, and after getting some painkillers down the boy’s neck and giving his foot a spray we were good to go.

I drove up to Les Lindarets and found a parking space almost immediately beside a restaurant with big green parasols that backed on to the hill. The goats in the street seemed to outnumber the people and there wasn’t a traffic warden in sight. This was my kind of place.