“He proved himself, no matter the outcome. And now he’s on leave to nurse that foot of his. I think he’ll limp for the rest of his life, but he should be back on duty soon.”
“And then he’ll go after Cantrell.”
“Can’t,” Etienne said. “It’s beyond our remit. We’re not Interpol. We don’t track criminals below the Circle, and not far into the subarctic either. We’ll liaise, of course, but Cantrell would have to come back north.”
“And then he’s fair game?”
Etienne stopped in the street, turning his head to look at Kaitlin, a curious frown creasing his forehead. “Are you chasing a story, Kat?”
“I’m interested, that’s all.” Kaitlin reached up and brushed a clump of snow from Etienne’s fringe as it settled on his hair. “I spend my life reporting on politics. I understand Washington, but I suppose I’m getting tired of all the petty politicking that goes on – behind the scenes and in front of the cameras. The one positive thing Aaron Barnes did was give me something new to look at. Something different.”
“The one thing?” Etienne took Kaitlin’s hand and pulled her a tiny step closer. “Perhaps there were other things that he did, that weren’t so bad.”
“Such as,” Kaitlin said, her voice tailing off as she swallowed.
“I was thinking,” Etienne said. “I’d like to kiss you, and I wondered…”
“Yes,” Kaitlin breathed, then swallowed, prising a dry tongue from the roof of her mouth. She lifted her chin as she stepped closer, pressing her body against Etienne’s.
The snow fell, and the crowds spilling out of the market parted around Kaitlin and Etienne, locked as they were in a winter embrace, snow dusting Etienne’s hair, catching in the weave of Kaitlin’s wool hat.
It was Mariève who disturbed them, clearing her throat as she stopped beside them.
“Papa sent me,” she said, catching Kaitlin’s eye as she pulled away from Etienne. “Your phone’s dead.”
“I left it…”
“Charging at home,” Mariève said. “I know. It’s still dead. So Papa sent me to find you. You’ve had a call.”
“On my dead phone.”
“Etienne,” Mariève said, with a sigh. “Let’s not play games. They called the house. Some guy from the Swedish security services – SÄPO, I think they’re called. Anyway, he wants you to call.”
“Did he say what about?”
“He’s with the security services, Etienne. He barely said his name.” Mariève checked her smartphone, scrolling through to her notes before turning the screen towards her brother. “Jöns Berglund. I had him spell it. He said you should call as soon as you can.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Etienne turned to Kaitlin. “Sorry, I guess we have to go back now.”
“No,” Mariève said. “I don’t think so.” She brushed Etienne to one side and took Kaitlin’s arm. “My big brother brings a girl home, having never said a word about her.” She pressed her phone into Etienne’s hand. “Call your Swede. I’m taking Kaitlin to a café. We’ll see you back at the house.”
“Which café?” Etienne said, with a glance at Kaitlin.
“A warm one,” Mariève said. “You’ve been dragging Kat around the market for a couple of hours now. She needs warming up.” Mariève nodded at her phone in Etienne’s hand. “Make your call.”
Etienne watched his sister steer Kaitlin back through the crowds, caught the first cackles of shared laughter that he assumed had something to do with him, then called the number Mariève had added to her contacts.
“This is Inspector Gagnon,” he said, as Jöns Berglund answered the call.
“Commander of Polarpol?”
“Acting Commander,” Etienne said, as he walked along the street, back towards his father’s house. “How can I help you?”
“I understand you are interested in Mats Lindström. Is that correct?”
“That’s right. His name was put forward as the Swedish candidate for Polarpol. We were on our way to Sweden but got called back for the holidays. I believe he went missing.”
“Yes, late November.”
“We wanted to help find him,” Etienne said. “We were in the area.”
“And now? Do you still want to find him?”
“My team is currently split up, but I’m available. I could scrounge one more, but I’m not sure about our ship. The Coast Guard is pretty strict about schedules.” Etienne turned to look down the street, hoping for a last glimpse of Kaitlin Garry.
“You don’t need a ship, Inspector,” Jöns said. “We were just about to declare him dead.”
“He’s dead?”
“We thought so. He left a letter. He told his wife he was going into the mountains, that he wasn’t coming back.”
“Suicide?”
“Maybe. There’s more to this case, Inspector. More than I wish to discuss over the phone. But recently, Mats Lindström returned on social media, like a ghost.”
“You want me to come to Sweden to help you find a ghost?”
“As you say, he is the Swedish candidate for Polarpol. So, yes, I’m asking for your help.”
Etienne took a last look down the street, then nodded. “You’ve got it,” he said.
Chapter 2
LONDON, ENGLAND
Late December rain ran through Icelandic Police Constable Hákon Sigurðsson’s beard, as he stood to one side of the mourners burying Captain Clayton Smith, Royal Marines, in a dark corner of a dreary London cemetery. Hákon drew more than a passing glance from the funeral goers. The looks he received from the military men ranged in intensity from professional curiosity to blatant animosity. Hákon guessed that the rumour mill inside the British military was in full swing, and that it didn’t take a genius to link Hákon’s height, beard and pale Viking skin with the country in which Clay died: Iceland. The women accompanying the men cast gentler looks, more or less furtive depending upon the degree of their grief. The large turnout – at least two hundred, by Hákon’s count – confirmed what he knew to be true, that Clay’s popularity transcended rank and station, that he was a good man, an even better marine, and a loyal friend. To those that knew him, Hákon thought, as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
Hákon bit his lip at another bolt of pain in his right foot. The doctors had said it would take time to heal, and that he shouldn’t push too hard. He was supposed to take it easy, keep it elevated, and use a crutch, not a cane. Hákon tightened his grip on the knot of wood at the top of his walking stick, smiling at the idea that anyone might call it a cane, and almost laughing at the comparison his sister Jenný had made with the staff Odin carried in his guise as a wanderer.
“Just don’t lose an eye,” she had said, on the night of his departure.
“It’s a funeral, Jenný.”
Commissioner Jenný Sigurðsdóttir had lowered her voice before replying, waiting until Íris, Hákon’s daughter was out of earshot. “A funeral full of his friends, Hákon. They’ll think you killed him.”
“I didn’t.”
“It doesn’t matter. They’ll think you did.”
Hákon had kissed his sister then collected Íris in his arms as she burst into the hall. She liked to curl her chubby fingers into his beard, and he could still feel them, tugging and pulling, distracting him from the London rain, the December dark, and the hole in the ground into which they lowered a good man.
“His family will never get over it,” said a man to Hákon’s left. Hákon turned, cursing himself at being so easily approached. “Owen Ansel,” the man said, extending his hand.
“Hákon…”
“Sigurðsson? Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“You were in Iceland. I mean, you’re Icelandic.”
“I am.”
“And that’s where you met Clay?”
“No,” Hákon said. “We met in Norway.”
“Right,” Ansel said, nodding as he let go of Hákon’s hand. “Before Iceland.”
Hákon s
tared as Ansel lit a cigarette, curious as to just how detailed the rumours were. “You said they’ll never get over it.”
“The family?” Ansel puffed a cloud of smoke over his head. “Never. Something like this tends to stick. He’s lucky he never had kids. If they ever wanted to join the service, they’d have to work double as hard to prove themselves.” Ansel pointed with his cigarette. “Half the men here have come out of loyalty to Clay – pre-Iceland. They’re paying their respects, but they won’t come to the wake. They need to distance themselves now. The higher ranking officers you see are retired. You won’t find any serving officers above Captain here.”
“He was a good man,” Hákon said.
“You don’t have to tell me, mate.”
Hákon took another look at Ansel, noted the muscular build, similar to the majority of the men standing around the grave. The similarities stopped at his physique. Ansel’s black hair was thicker and more unruly than Hákon imagined the military would allow. His lack of uniform, and the smart city shoes also set him apart, as did the white scar cutting through the stubble on his chin. Hákon guessed they were of a similar age – early thirties – but Ansel’s grey eyes suggested he was older, or that he had seen more than one would expect of a man of his age.
“Can I buy you a drink, Constable?” Ansel said, with a nod to the mourners dispersing around the grave.
Hákon took a moment to watch Clay’s family and friends as they passed, noting the stern looks – more now that the funeral was over, as if the shackles of restraint were slipping. He had promised Jenný to be cautious and remembered saying something similar to Etienne, about staying out of trouble but nothing about attending Clay’s funeral. The offer of a quiet drink, not at the wake, seemed to be the safest bet. Hákon nodded and gestured for Ansel to lead the way.
“I have to confess,” Ansel said, as they walked through the graveyard to the street. “I do know a bit more about you.”
“Such as?”
“You’re currently on sick leave.” Ansel paused to nod at Hákon’s leg. “Obviously. That you were shot by an Englishman. A man called Byrne Cantrell.”
“I was,” Hákon said, suddenly aware that a quiet drink might be more dangerous than he had first thought. “What about him?”
“We’ll get to that,” Ansel said. He tapped Hákon’s arm and pointed at a pub across the road. “The Sheep Dip is quiet at this time of the day, even over Christmas. Let’s find a table and I’ll give you the pitch.”
“The pitch?”
“Yeah, this isn’t a social call, Constable. Like I said, I know who you are.”
They crossed at the pedestrian crossing. The thick base of Hákon’s stick thumped on the tarmac as he strode across the road. The Icelander’s long stride compensated for his limp, drawing a smile from Ansel as they stopped at the pub entrance.
“There’s usually a good table in the window,” he said, pointing at the misted bay window to the left of the door. “If you grab that, I’ll get the drinks in. Anything in particular?”
“Something dark,” Hákon said. “Plenty of malt.”
“I’ll see what they’ve got.”
Ansel held the door for Hákon, then left him to find the table. Hákon leaned his stick against the glass in the window then took his seat. The chair creaked as he settled into it. Hákon rested his arms on the dark surface of the table, feeling the familiar greasy varnish and sticky beer beneath his fingers. He glanced around the other tables, noted the faces of the patrons, recognising none from the funeral. Hákon relaxed, removed his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair as Ansel returned with two pints and four packets of crisps.
“I don’t know what you prefer,” he said, dropping the crisp packets onto the table, “but you can’t go wrong with cheese and onion. Besides, it’s all they had left.”
Hákon took his pint from Ansel’s hand, waited for him to sit down, and then said, “Cheers,” before taking a sip.
“You’re welcome. And welcome to England.” Ansel took a sip of beer, set his glass down and started opening the crisps. “First time?”
“I’ve been here before. A while ago.”
“But not often?”
“No.”
“So you’re not familiar with London?”
“I’m not.”
Hákon waited for Ansel to say more, filling the gap in conversation with mouthfuls of crisps, conscious that he didn’t want to volunteer any more information until Ansel explained who he was and what he wanted.
“I’ll get to it then,” Ansel said. He drank half his beer, then shifted in his seat, as if he were getting ready to tell a story. Hákon finished one bag of crisps and started on the other as Ansel started to speak. “I used to be in the service – army, not marines – but Clay and I met on a few occasions, on foreign ops. I now work for MI5…”
“Military intelligence?”
“Security Service, but yeah, military intelligence. That probably explains how I know about you.”
“What do you know about me?”
Ansel grinned and took another slug of beer. “I know you’re second in command of Polarpol, after Inspector Gagnon. I know that you didn’t shoot Clayton Smith, but that you chased his men, including that big bugger Bati Koroi into the interior. I mean, you’ve got balls, mate, going toe to toe with the Special Boat Service. That’s above and beyond the call of duty for an Icelandic cop, even with a history of insubordination.” Ansel held up his hand as Hákon stared at him. “I’m not judging, I’m just telling you what I know. We all right?”
“Keep going,” Hákon said.
“Well, then there’s Íris, your daughter. She…”
“Has Down’s syndrome.”
“I was going to say that she lives with your sister, but yes, I know about the Down’s.”
“But why do you mention her?”
Ansel glanced at Hákon’s tight grip around his pint glass – the glass shrank in the Icelander’s hand. He nodded slowly before continuing. “It’s just background, but I mention Íris as she brings me back to Cantrell.” Ansel paused for another slug of beer. “Do you know the name Edith Teal?”
Hákon nodded. “Cantrell’s wife.”
“Right.”
“She fell off the roof.”
“Taking a few bullets with her – yours and a larger calibre bullet, the kind you find in a Russian sniper rifle.”
Hákon forced himself to take a sip of beer, wondering just how much Ansel knew, and how he knew it.
“I have good sources,” Ansel said, as Hákon set his glass down. “I know that your Russian – Vitaly Kuznetsov – has been recalled to Mother Russia. I’m not worried about him, although, you must know, if Cantrell ever found out it was his bullet that killed Edie Teal…”
“He won’t.”
“No?”
“It doesn’t matter. Cantrell is dead.”
Ansel laughed. “You really believe that? After what you know of him, and the fact that we’re sitting here talking about him, you really think he’s dead?”
Hákon shrugged. “It’s the official line. And…”
“You can’t chase him south of the Circle, eh? And yet, Constable,” Ansel said, reaching for his glass. “Here you are, in London, just a few weeks after meeting Cantrell for the first time…”
“I came to pay my respects.”
“To Clay?” Ansel nodded. “Admirable. Shows compassion. I’m sure his family appreciate the gesture – if you even talked to them. But how about this? What if I said you were here to look for Cantrell before his trail went cold?”
“His trail is already cold. The minute he slipped into the water…”
“Never to be seen again. And yet…” Ansel drained his beer, and then reached into his jacket, pulling a slim envelope from his pocket and sliding it over the table to Hákon. “Ferne Butcher,” he said, as Hákon opened the envelope and removed two photos. “Butchered by Cantrell, a couple of days ago. You’ll notice the wounds.�
�� Ansel pointed at the folds of skin pared from Butcher’s chest. “Anyone else in our field, seeing this, would say Cantrell was sending a message. But if you’ve spent time looking into this man, you’ll know this isn’t a message, it’s revenge, pure and simple. But if you want to read anything into it, I’m sure you’ll realise…”
“He’s thorough,” Hákon said, his tongue suddenly thick and dry as he flicked between the photographs.
“Determined. Driven.” Ansel nodded. “Relentless. He won’t stop, Hákon. I can promise you that.”
Hákon slid the photos back into the envelope. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to give you an opportunity, to finish this before it gets out of hand.” Ansel gestured at the envelope.
“To stop Cantrell?”
“Yes.”
Hákon tapped the envelope, then slid it back across the table. “You asked me if I knew London. I don’t. I came here for the funeral. I’m on sick leave, as you pointed out.”
“Sick leave.” Ansel paused to catch Hákon’s eye. “Anyone else – and it’s just a guess – but anyone else would have spent that sick leave at home. But not you.” Ansel pointed at Hákon’s stick. “That’s neither a cane, nor a crutch, Constable. Where I come from, that’s a weapon, the only one you can get through customs.”
“I carried it in my luggage.”
“Of course you did. And now you’re carrying it on the street. You think Cantrell is going to come at you with a stick?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you think he’ll come at you. Which is why you’re here, looking for him, rather than waiting at home on the off chance that he turns up. But you can’t wait. You need this to be over, and soon. And that, Constable, is where I come in.”
“You know where Cantrell is?”
“No, but now you’re here, I have a pretty good idea of where he’ll be, just as soon as he finds out you’re in London.”
“You’re going to use me as bait.”
“Yep. For as long as you’ll let me.”
Hákon leaned back in his seat and stretched his right leg. “Cantrell put two bullets through my foot,” he said. “It takes twice as long to heal.”
Mountain Ghost: A Polar Task Force Thriller, Book #2 (PolarPol) Page 2