Mountain Ghost: A Polar Task Force Thriller, Book #2 (PolarPol)

by Christoffer Petersen

  A tall woman with long, wiry brown hair hugged Gina as they met halfway between the car and the house. Gina introduced her as Rika Stendahl.

  “Finest musher west of Kiruna,” Gina said, laughing as Rika pretended to be insulted. She recovered, then pulled back the long sleeve of her thick wool sweater and shook the Polarpol officers’ hands.

  “Gina said you were coming. I have coffee ready. We can chat inside before we go.”

  “Go where?” Etienne asked.

  “Oh, along the trail, about seven kilometres. The road is blocked. It will be faster if we take the dogs.”

  Evelyn clapped her hands, batting the thick mittens together, before reigning in her enthusiasm as she caught a glimpse of Etienne’s face.

  “What?” she said. “You don’t like dogs?”

  Etienne raised his hands in apology. “It’s not that I don’t like dogs. I’m just not very good with them.”

  “But…” Gina glanced at Evelyn.

  “Yep,” she said. “He’s a Mountie.”

  “Based in Québec. We’re a progressive police force, you know. Helicopters? SUVs?”

  “But you have sled dogs?” Rika’s breath misted in front of her face as she spoke.

  “Yes, and horses, although – prepare yourselves – I don’t ride.”

  “I don’t know, boss,” Evelyn said. “I think I suddenly lost all respect for you.”

  “Well,” Rika said. “Let’s get him inside, anyway. Poor thing looks cold.”

  Etienne shook his head as the three women laughed. “I am never going to live this down,” he said, following their tracks in the snow as they walked back to the house.

  The rich scent of coffee, together with the heat inside Rika’s house, helped Etienne adjust to the idea of sledding into the mountains. He removed his boots and jacket and slid along the bench at the kitchen table beside Evelyn.

  “You’re enjoying this, Trooper, aren’t you?”

  “Just a little,” she said. “Indulge me.”

  Etienne snorted softly, and said, “You’re indulged.”

  Rika’s coffee was as strong as the aroma suggested. She served cold cinnamon rolls from a tin, apologising that they weren’t warm, but she had run out of flour.

  “I thought about going to the store last night, after Gina called,” she said, sitting down in the chair beside Gina. “But I took a run with the dogs instead, just to make sure the pickup was still there. No sense you coming up if it was gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “We’ve had a fair bit of snow. I wanted to be sure I could find it.”

  “In the dark?”

  Rika shrugged, as if there was little difference between night and day in the north. “There was a good moon last night. Very bright.”

  “And the pickup?” Gina asked.

  “Still there. I dug a small trench along one side – driver’s side. The dogs know the way. We’ll find it.”

  “Can’t wait,” Evelyn said.

  Evelyn rode in Rika’s sled, fidgeting in the basket as if she was struggling with the role of passenger, and would rather be standing on the runners at the back driving her own team through the snow. Etienne was content to be passive, worming his hands deeper into the gauntlets Rika had given him, along with the combination parka-smock that all but drowned him in fibre pile fleece and a windproof exterior. Gina, driving the sled, leaned over the curved handlebar, tapping Etienne on the shoulder and pointing out things of interest. Compared to the sightseeing tour she had given in Gällivare, Etienne found her enthusiasm infectious, and he turned with each tap on the shoulder, seeing far more than he might have if he had just hunkered down. By the time they reached the pickup, he felt confident he had seen more wildlife and wildlife tracks than he had in a single winter in Québec. But tracks, he remembered, were Evelyn’s area of expertise.

  Gina slowed her team behind Rika’s sled, and, once the dogs were secured, she left them with Rika, leading the way to the pickup. Evelyn came last, scanning the snow-clad lake and both sides of the road before joining Etienne and Gina at the pickup.

  “This is exactly where he left it in November,” Gina said.

  “The twenty-second?” Etienne said.

  “That’s right. There was little snow then – not so thick. He would have no trouble coming this far. The question is, why didn’t he go further?”

  “Are there any cabins?” Evelyn asked.

  “Plenty,” Rika said, as she reached the pickup. “On both sides of the lake.”

  “And you checked them?”

  Rika nodded at Gina who sighed before answering.

  “We checked some. Maybe four. Three of them on this side of the lake. One on the other. We had a boat, but the ice was too thick to get further up the lake. Besides, the theory was he had committed suicide.” Gina pointed at the rear of the pickup, where a pipe was just visible.

  “But no body?” Etienne said.

  “That’s another theory.” Gina pointed at the mountains. “There are brown bears in Sweden, though not so many around here. But the theory is that if Mats killed himself in the pickup, then a bear could have pulled out the body and carried it off.”

  “But you found no tracks?”

  Gina shook her head. “By the time someone called it in, there had been two lots of snow. Whatever tracks were here…”

  “But no scratches on the doors?” Evelyn said, cutting her off.

  “None.”

  “And the windows?”

  “Intact.”

  “So,” Etienne said. “Unless Mats got second thoughts and rolled out of the pickup, closing the door behind him...”

  “It could have been a person – helping him out of the pickup,” Gina said. “But we would expect them to have called for help. No,” she said. “The best bet is that Mats drove up here, rigged the pickup to look like he had committed suicide, then left the pickup – for whatever reason, and walked off. Maybe he drowned or got lost in the mountains, but he was never seen again.”

  “Until he turned up on social media,” Etienne said.

  “Manipulated,” Gina said. “Never mind what the bank statements say. Someone else is using the card. Márjá wasn’t in a good way when Mats disappeared. She never cancelled Mats’ credit cards. And with no proof of death…”

  “Neither did the bank.” Etienne took a step away from the pickup, then another, further along the road. “Evelyn,” he said, waving her over. “What do you think?”

  “He didn’t die in the pickup,” she said. “I mean, we’d need to dig it out to have a good look inside. But they never found the body. The pipe from the exhaust into the cab is just for show.”

  “You can’t track in this. Can you?”

  “It’s difficult. There’s not much vegetation. Plus, he’d have to crash through it, and there’s moose and bear that could leave similar signs. My best bet?”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Evelyn pointed at the mountain range. “He’s got a favourite cabin somewhere. This isn’t tourist season – too dark. And the weather is too changeable for hikers, not cold enough for ice climbers. They’d want more daylight hours too. Snowmobilers and dog sledders – mostly dogs if they’re crossing the lake. That’s the kind of traffic, at a guess. Rika will be able to tell us.” Evelyn let out a long breath.

  “But?”

  “More of a maybe, in that I’m thinking that maybe he’s in one of those cabins, knowing that there’s not many people about at the moment, that he can lie low for a while. Maybe he hikes into town every few days to get a wireless signal, just so he can check on the wife and kid.”

  “You think he goes into a café?” Etienne shook his head. “He’s not going to do that.”

  “No, he’ll be outside, in the shadows, tapping into an open connection.”

  “He can’t do it from the cabin?”

  “I don’t think so.” Evelyn turned, calling to Rika. “Just how many cabins are out here?”

  Rika shrugged.
“Maybe twenty, twenty-three at a guess. That I know of.”

  “Okay.” Evelyn nodded. “And how many of them are difficult to get to – in winter?”

  “Two.”

  “And the hardest one to reach?”

  “On foot? In the snow?”

  “Mats is pretty good on skis,” Gina said. “Márjá said they were missing. We found none in the pickup.”

  “Then I’d say Södra Sidan – Southside Cabin ” Rika said. “It’s more of a hunter’s hut than a cabin. More primitive.”

  “And could you ski into Kiruna and back from there?” Etienne asked.

  “Sure.”

  “In and back in a day?”

  “Weather depending? Within twenty-four hours?” Rika nodded. “Sure.”

  Etienne took a breath and then said, “I can’t believe I’m asking this, and I don’t need any Mountie jokes, but out of curiosity, how long by dogsled?” Etienne held up his hand as Evelyn started to speak. “Control yourself, Trooper.” He turned to Rika. “How long?”

  “You can sled to within a couple of kilometres of the cabin. You’d have to walk the rest.” She looked at Gina. “What do you think? Four hours?”

  “To the trail?” Gina nodded. “Five hours max.”

  “Okay,” Etienne said. “Now, before Trooper Odell gets too excited, let me get a few things straight. First, Gina, tell me again why you haven’t checked all the cabins and huts in the area?”

  “One word,” she said. “Resources. Maybe it was a question of priorities too. The social media activity didn’t help.”

  “All right, let’s leave it at that, for now. Rika,” he said. “Can we hire you and your dogs?”

  “My dogs, yes, if Gina is with you. And I’m guessing Evelyn can run dogs.”

  “I can.”

  “But,” Rika said. “I have to go south to pick up my kids. They’ve been staying with their dad in Malmö. It’s practically the other end of the country. I leave tomorrow. Gina was going to look after my dogs anyway.”

  “I can come early to help,” Gina said.

  “Okay then,” Etienne said. “We need to get organised. Let’s head back. I still want to meet with Ivarsson back in Gällivare. Then we come back here tomorrow morning and sled in to the cabin.” Etienne turned to look at the peaks of Kebnekaise as the women headed back to the dogs. He caught a glimpse of spindrift smoking off the sides of the mountain, curious that the wind had yet to reach them, and suddenly concerned that it might cause problems the following day. But, regardless of the wind, the snow, and the dogs, Etienne couldn’t resist the thought that they were close, and that Polarpol might just get its very first win.

  And we need it, he thought, as he turned and headed back to the sled.

  Chapter 16

  OUTSIDE LONDON, ENGLAND

  Ansel rapped his knuckles on the window, nodding for Hákon to open the car door. He reached in with a cardboard tray with two coffees, waited for Hákon to take it, and then slid into the driver’s seat. Ansel opened a paper bag and fished out breakfast, lining the muffins up on the dashboard, licking the egg that escaped from the grease-proof wrappers from his fingers.

  “Breakfast is served,” he said, plucking the lid from one of the coffees. “The lads drove past a McDonald’s on the way.”

  Hákon reached for the closest muffin, peering into the dawn light, curious about where Ansel had positioned the men he knew were lying in wait, hidden somewhere on the grounds of the Teal estate. The old farmhouse reminded Hákon of English country houses he had seen in paintings, often with grouse, deer, and foxes in the foreground. There was old money in the Teal estate, and, regardless of its modest size, the location and the visible signs of its upkeep revealed a pride and love in the old house that extended to the outbuildings and the grounds.

  “You’re impressed,” Ansel said. “I can see that.”

  “We don’t have houses or estates like this in Iceland. Everything is a little more…”

  “Bleak?” Ansel reached for a muffin. “I’ve seen pictures.”

  “But you’ve never been?”

  “No, thank God.” Ansel removed the wrapping from the muffin like he was peeling an orange. “No offence, but I just don’t function well in the cold.”

  “It’s cold here. Colder because it’s so damp.”

  “Right, but we rarely dip below freezing. Okay, that’s not right. We rarely dip very far below freezing.” Ansel bit into his breakfast, talking around the egg and bacon. “A good frost is fine. But blizzards and ice? No thanks. I’ve been fortunate, my assignments have either been south of the border – the Scottish border – or in the south. This,” he said, with a nod to the gates of the Teal estate, “is one of the colder ops I’ve been involved in. Probably suits you though, eh?”

  Hákon went over what he knew of the plan, thinking that there was little about it that suited him. The very idea of breaking into someone’s home to force Cantrell out of hiding bothered him. Not the outcome. Hákon needed Cantrell to show himself. He struggled to imagine how he could protect his family if he didn’t. But still, there was something underhand and distasteful about the whole operation. So, no, it didn’t suit him, but neither could he spend the rest of his sick leave following Cantrell around the country, always in his shadow, visiting one location after another, long after he had moved on.

  No, he thought. This is the only way.

  Ansel reached for his second muffin, glancing at Hákon as he unwrapped it. “Let’s go through this one more time,” he said. “The lads are in position.”

  “Where?”

  “Two around the back, in the old stables. They’ve got eyes on the field to the rear, and the back of the house. Then, one more just inside the gate. He’s probably the most exposed, but Mickey on the roof has him covered. Then there’s you and me inside.”

  “The alarm?”

  “Is a silent alarm. I’ve already cleared it with the security firm. They know not to react. Of course, the Teals will get a text that the alarm has gone off, but they’re in Spain. They will check in with the security company who’ll tell them it’s a false alarm, but that they’ll check it out.”

  “And Cantrell.”

  “Yeah.” Ansel grinned. “This is the bit I like. If he’s worth his salt, he’s cloned the Teals’ phone. It’s the nature of the business. If he didn’t do it, then Edie would have done it.” Ansel paused. “Shame really. She was quite the character. Gorgeous too.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Only in passing – as in ships passing in the night. We’ve pulled a few ops together, but I was usually one of the poor buggers waiting in the bushes as backup. She and Cantrell got to have all the fun.” Ansel shrugged. “Funny how things have changed.”

  Hákon thought back to the moment when Edith Teal fell from the roof of the Glacier Hotel in Reykjavík, propelled by his and Vitaly’s bullets. His nose twitched at the hint of cordite, as if his MP5 was still smoking. He rubbed his nose, forced himself to take a bite of the muffin.

  “You’re all right with this, Constable?”

  “We go in. We wait.” Hákon nodded, forcing a bland expression onto his face to disguise his conviction that Ansel was a part of the Spurring Group. “I’m all right.”

  “And when it gets interesting, you keep your head down. I don’t fancy having to explain one dead Icelander in the after action report. Let the lads do the heavy lifting. We’ll just take it easy inside. No need to rough up the house. We trip the alarm. Cantrell comes to investigate. The lads take him out. Easy.

  It sounded easy, but from what he knew of Cantrell, and with the recent images of the lockup still fresh in his mind, Hákon wondered at what point they would be forced to improvise. He reached for his coffee, weighing Etienne’s instructions in his mind, mentally wincing at the reprimand he had received, the implied abuse of trust, and the potential for catastrophic failure.

  “You’re way out of your jurisdiction,” Etienne had said. “And what do you rea
lly know about Ansel? Who is he? What are his motives? Be sure about that and be prepared to walk away.”

  The curious thing was that Etienne had told Hákon to be prepared to walk away, not to stop, not to get on the next flight to Iceland, but to be alert. It occurred to Hákon that Etienne was just as keen to stop Cantrell, but perhaps for different reasons. From what he knew of the Mountie, Hákon didn’t doubt that Etienne was concerned about Hákon’s family, but Polarpol’s commanding officer was also driven by a sense of professional pride, and the need to finish what they had started. A shoot-out on an English country estate might not have been what Etienne envisaged, but catching Cantrell was definitely of interest – a win for Polarpol.

  “We need him alive, Hákon.”

  Etienne’s last words.

  Perhaps one of his more challenging orders.

  The grey clouds of dawn dissolved into a pale blue sky, growing stronger by the hour. Hákon stood by the Teals’ kitchen window, his hand gripping the knot of wood at the top of his walking stick. Ansel boiled the kettle for tea – his third, stifling a yawn as he reached for the sugar.

  “You may as well sit,” he said. “Cantrell will come, but we’ve no idea where he’s coming from.”

  “You said you had contact with someone,” Hákon said, his attention fixed on the grounds in front of the house. He could see the gate and had an idea of where the first of Ansel’s men was hidden, but everything was quiet. The late morning sun warmed the grass, melting the frozen dew.

  “His secretary.” Ansel joined Hákon at the window, pressing a mug of sweet tea into the Icelander’s hand. “She kept an open line of communication with the Spurring Group. A mobile. But she’s been sneaky. Only turning it on every now and again. Always in a new location.” He laughed. “She had us running around in the beginning, stopping HGVs and grilling the drivers until we found her other phones taped behind the wheel arches. She’s a slippery one. I’m pretty sure we can’t rely on her.”