Fear Of Broken Glass: The Elements: Prologue

by Mark, David

  CRACK. The sound of the shot sounded high above the moan of wind. Ash fought to accept what his eyes were telling him, but his consciousness was still in denial, refusing to accept that he had just watched Justin shot through the head, no more than two meters away from him. That he had watched it happen with such appalling clarity, someone he had shared a recent part of his life with, gone, no more. And all of it happened in as much time as it took for him to shout out a worthless warning, looking down into Justin’s open still eyes, his body as still as the rocks hemming them in. He looked down at his hand rising, shaking uncontrollably to touch the bloody right side of his face, down to his jacket and denims peppered in small bloody flecks and matter that had just been a part of Justin’s head. Only then did he notice Chivers who had seemed to disappear, his face frozen in such shock he had yet to move, his mouth hanging slightly open, trembling as he worked his way through to saying something, his head focused on the sprawled figure of Justin’s body laid out in the road. He turned his head, ever so slowly, to look at Ash.

  Time caught up.

  ‘OUT!’ Ash screamed at the top of his lungs. His hand shot to the right, to the door handle, pulling, pushing it open. Then he was throwing himself out into the rain and dirt, oblivious to danger as he landed roughly in the wet gravel embankment at the side of the road.

  Then Chivers came alive, scrambling, keeping his head low as he fought to move the driver’s seat, hand fumbling for the release mechanism. He found it and pushed it forwards, then crawled out of the car, pulling himself out, leaning over the muddy ground, fingers clawing, struggling to extricate himself, desperately trying to pull himself out towards Ash and the ground of the embankment outside.

  CRACK. Another shot. A different sound. Another direction, above to their right. Chivers fell heavily on Ash’s butt, his face landing in the mud.

  CRACK. Another shot.

  There was nowhere to run to.

  ‘The painting!’ Chivers had a wild, disturbed look in his eyes.

  Ash felt the first wave of nausea pulling at his stomach. ‘Fuck the painting...’ He looked up the embankment next to the car, noticing the forbidding face of rock. If they made a run for it, they could scramble into the trees.

  That meant exposing themselves.

  The rock nearest to them jutted out sharply into the road, creating a near-vertical edge. He looked around for any other possible exit. A crack in the rock, barely big enough for a man to get through offered a means to climb the first steep slope, rising to the safety of the undulating rock-face above.

  They didn’t have a choice.

  ‘Stay here.’ Ash got up on one knee, and then he was moving. He scrambled up the incline and reached the rock, aware he was exposed to anyone who had their sights on him.

  He had seconds to get through.

  If he could get through.

  Chapter 16

  FAILURE

  Happy the man who has while he lives

  Wisdom and praise as well,

  For evil counsel a man full oft

  Has from another's heart.

  Stanza 9, Hávamál

  Fabian registered the movement below her to the right. She saw the muzzle flash before hearing the sound. A sniper crawled backwards, the movement providing her with a target. She swung Ingwe to the right, finger moving to the trigger, taking up the pressure as she locked into target looking through the scope. She waited for a gust of wind to die down as the target pulled back behind an outcrop of rock, squeezing the trigger as she expelled the air from her lungs. She saw the spray of blood confirm a hit.

  One down.

  Lying flat on her stomach, Fabian crawled lizard-style forwards across the wet rock, reaching a point where she could see without being seen. She looked down below and almost choked in frustration.

  Dead.

  One of the passengers was lying sprawled on the ground near to the open rear door of the faded yellow car. His head displaying clear signs of an exit wound, a puddle swirling red in the mud.

  She had placed herself within twenty meters, had read the wind and terrain faultlessly. But she had lost the advantage. She looked back to her hit but the man had gone.

  Alive.

  She saw then the red pickup and the two other gunmen moving into motion below, seeing how she was compromised and vulnerable, unable to verify where the remaining passengers were or what they were doing. If she concentrated on their struggle, she’d lose the game.

  She had to take out as many of the attackers as she could.

  Seeing she couldn’t cover the all the ground, she took a firm hold around the barrel of her rifle and moved. She pushed herself up and ran, ducking down as low as possible, jumping over rocky obstacles, to the place where her first kill had disappeared into the undergrowth.

  Almquist saw the land was cruel, dark and barren. He leaned back to rest his head and closed his eyes, thinking of the accident, of Stefan. Was that why he had been so desperate to please? He thought of his first case; the second draugr investigation; Gustav Kron.

  Denisen didn’t fit the pattern...

  He looked to his left, down at his left arm that had stiffened like a rod of iron. The impact had caused him an injury, one he was only now aware of. He tried moving it and winced at the pain. Broken. He turned to his right and using his right hand turned towards the glove box and reached out. The cover fell forwards, bouncing until it was still. He pushed the video camera to the side, finding what he was looking for, fingers closing around a well-worn cassette with a yellow edge beneath the plastic, removing it. The seventh, 1976. The Wiener Philharmoniker with Kleiber at the helm; the best recording ever made.

  He opened the case, fingers of one hand closing around the thin ridge of black contoured plastic and inserted it into the tape slot. The mechanism accepted the tape with an engaging whine, wheels turning. He raised his good hand, kneading his brow between his fingers, then moving them higher. He felt it, his wound, exploring, hair matted and coagulating. There was no pain. He looked down at his fingers. He could look at it: the stickiness. He could deal with it. He felt no fear, no repulsion. Just the sound of Beethoven.

  He had to piece it together.

  So who had shot him driving to Gotfridsgaarden?

  He had most of the pieces; he just needed the fit and thought of the two scenarios he had outlined with Elin. He saw two possibilities, the one more disturbing than the other. In the first, he had been discarded as easily as a fly on a wall, of use no more. In the other, he had just been in the way in a rolling tide of events he was no part of. The second was easier to live with, just another person to sweep aside.

  He smiled at the opening waves of violins, it soothed him as his mind worked his cases. He had interviewed Chivers. Christ almighty, was it really only yesterday? Chivers... was that why? Because of something Chivers had known? They could have followed him to work in the morning, followed him to Tived, to here? Almquist snorted then looked around as if expecting someone to appear.

  There was a third possibility.

  He felt a chill and shuddered. The realization was offset by the opening of the first movement, moving the fingers of his right hand back and forth. Timing... it was impossible. He had contacted the Copenhagen Police before any of this happened. He reached out again to his glove compartment, straining to close his fingers around his personal organiser. He pulled it towards him and opened it, turning the page with two photographs. Karl Oskar Eklund the archaeologist and Bo Johanesson, the reporter. He started with Johanesson.

  What had he discovered?

  He reached a trembling hand out into the rain and looked outside. He watched the raindrops caress his fingertips, turning them pink as he moved them again back and forth in time to the first melody. Beethoven never revealed his melody at the opening, he teased his way into it, letting the listened discover it. He turned his hand over and washed the palm of his hand, from pinkness to cleanliness, keeping it there, washing it all away as if it had all been jus
t a bad dream.

  Old police reports had provided the link to the disappearance of the Stockholm-based reporter. In 1982. Johanesson had visited the area. That much he knew from his own private investigation. That the reporter had disappeared was enough to make him the centre of his own private investigation. He felt his heart quicken. This was the only other possible murder committed other than the draugr killings. It had been a valid lead... Sweden was generally a peaceful country.

  The reporter had a lead concerning a visitor from Copenhagen, five years ago... it was impossible.

  Baron wasn’t here for the painting. Anna. But Anna was dead. He had the pieces, he just couldn’t see the picture. The pieces moved apart, rearranging. Interlocking.

  Ash threw himself into the gap in the cliff face, scrambling desperately to get out of sight. He placed a hand against the side of the wet rock to pull himself up, his hand slipping. He fell to the ground. Looking down, he saw a foothold. He used it to launch himself a second time, landing in a confined space barely big enough for a person to stand in. With a sinking feeling he saw how confined it was, how steep the angle of the cliff face, rivulets of water gouging scars in the ground, making it almost impossible to climb up into the cover of trees without being exposed. Ash turned to Chivers cowering behind the car, searching frantically, finally emerging holding the blanket containing the Hangman. He pulled it protectively towards him before collapsing, rolling down into the ditch.

  Another crack cleaved the air, the sound of impact coming from the dirt to his left.

  ‘Get a fucking move on!’

  Chivers didn’t seem to hear, crawling, kneeling.

  ‘Come on!’ Ash screamed.

  Chivers threw himself clumsily across the gap between the car and the rock. He slipped, he fell, then stumbling, rose again, hampered by the painting in the blanket under his arm. Desperate to get up the incline, he stepped on the side of a stone, falling to the ground a second time. Another bullet ricocheting off the surface of the rock. Rising, he ran the last couple of meters, throwing himself down, pushing himself into the opening. Ash took hold of his wrists, heaving with all the strength and weight he could muster, feet slipping.

  ‘I have to get away. I have to... I’m stuck!’

  ‘Dig your feet in! Push...’ Ash pulled as Chivers complied, forcing himself through the narrow opening, until he fell forwards, almost crushing Ash as he fell on top of him.

  That was when Ash remembered he had forgotten the axe.

  She found him lying on his back, still breathing, face contorted in shock, struggling for breath.

  ‘How many are you?’ Fabian stopped, looking around as she kept her rifle leveled at him. He shook his head.

  She waved the gun in front of him. ‘You lie, you die. Last chance mister. How many?’

  He stared at her.

  She moved her rifle downward, pointing at his knee.

  ‘How many?’

  He moved slightly to one side, she moved with him, poised like a gazelle ready to spring. He started to get up, his face contorted, suddenly more alive than he had seemed a moment ago, eyes flashing hatred.

  The gun fired a second time. The smell of blue gun smoke, blood splattered on the rock behind him. Screaming, the man dropped back to the ground, his hand clutching at the place where his kneecap used to be, hands covered in blood, face covered in a mixture of surprise, agony and rage. He looked up towards the gun leveled again at his chest.

  ‘How many!’

  ‘Two!’ He spat in pain.

  ‘Wrong answer.’ She took the shot.

  The man’s face contorted, a scream escaping clenched teeth, rain dripping off contorted lips. Fabian fired again, his dead head falling to one side, eyes staring.

  She looked at him without pity or emption. To Fabian, this wasn’t a life; he’d been worthless. She turned away and moved forwards to the edge of the slope and kneeled, then crawled forwards to the edge of the rock. Her eyes pierced the rain to focus on a figure running down the road, handgun in hand. He’d come from the pickup blocking the road, heading towards two desperate figures, two men sheltering behind their car: It was leaning over the side of the road, penned in, boulder to the front, the pickup behind them blocking their retreat. The running man looked behind, to where two more men with handguns were aiming, then firing at them from behind the bonnet as the first man ran to the far side of the road where he could gain a better line of sight.

  Three armed men and two defenseless, waiting to die.

  If she failed to act they were going to go the same way as their friend. Finding a place that offered her cover, Fabian concentrated on her job, the one she was trained for. She kneeled, raising her rifle, sighted through the rain-studded scope and fired.

  She missed.

  The man with the gun looked up, in her direction. Confusion. He retreated, turned and ran back to the cover of his truck.

  Air rising, a wave on an ocean; a thousand pieces of glass clinging, hanging, suspended before him within the wonder of Beethoven. SÄPO had known something was going to happen...

  Here, a broken man in a broken body, Hasse Almquist felt curiously happy and hoped Ulrika would survive. He thought of the dates; of the date of the murder of Eklund, of the disappearance of the reporter. Gustav Kron had been part of it. Anna Kron had been part of it. Oskar was part of it. And Baron, he was part of it. Denisen was part of it, though not of his own accord, nor Ash for that matter. And Justin. He was the first new victim in a long trail of victims that went all the way back to... the news that Ash had worked the site at the noble estate of Lethragard had been disturbing.

  He’d made inquiries, establishing a connection between the reporter and the death of Eklund in 1982. And the retired investigating officer in 1986. SÄPO knew something was going down. There had only been hours between the time of Chivers’ arrival in Stockholm and the probable time of Denisen’s death. If Chivers was telling the truth... then who? He looked at the hole in the windscreen. They knew about Chivers. A puppet master, Elin had said. She was right... Eklund had been part of it all, even back in 1982.

  The melody raced along and his thoughts with it, heart beating faster and faster. The puppet master was someone he’d probably never come across. The painting, the reporter... his inquiries, he’d found out, two dead, no, Eklund was dead, but the reporter had seen him. The reporter was dead. Chivers followed the painting... the painting contained something, something that belonged to a dead man who wasn’t dead.

  The painting was not a deception. He had to be British, or someone connected with British intelligence interests. What did it hide?

  He cursed. He’d never waited for the X-rays. Puppet master, there was always a puppet master, Elin was right. The puppet master needed the painting removed from circulation because their operation had all gone wrong. It involved in whatever it was Ash had been involved in.

  He looked down at the picture of Karl Oskar Eklund, the Nazi-sympathiser from the war who had been ostracized by his country... he should have spent more time looking into that. What possible connection could there be between Ash, the British Secret Intelligence Service and an old Swedish archaeologist?

  Ulrika was a reporter.

  The blindness lifted, the next realization coming to him like the storm of he symphony, rising in crescendo. Almquist remembered when he’d made contact with the Danish police – on the third of April this year. The neighbor, the fall, Justin, Conrad Baron’s involvement, everything happened after he’d made contact to the Danish police regarding Eklund. He’d been detained for a murder case for the only conceivable reason there was – to just keep him here, until he could be removed as well.

  Eklund had been discovered.

  He looked at the photograph of the reporter. He’d been the reason Ulrika was investigating, investigating another reporters disappearance. Eklund was part of the invisible greater game; the need to cover up, remove people from the field of play. He couldn’t be allowed to live, not in anyon
e’s mind. So Denisen had died for his own sake, because they needed a reason to assign him the case. Perhaps they would have killed Ulrika as well? So they could place him right here, right now, in his car with a hole in his head. All because of a man he had never met who was never supposed to be alive.

  He was responsible for Denisen’s death.

  He felt tired, but his mind knew no rest. So many people in motion because of Eklund? Eklund had been discovered by the reporter in ’82... after he was supposed to be dead. He hadn’t been the only police officer to be murdered. Munk... the Danish retired detective.

  Chivers had been staying at the hotel before Denisen had been killed. Denisen had a forgery made, made a meeting in the park.

  Hit one: Thomas Denisen. Hit team two: the house stakeout. And today, here; him. Now. That was three. He had counted to three... hit one and the team stake-out could be the same... so two, at least. Two teams.

  How much had SÄPO known?

  Nothing. They knew less than they wanted.

  That was it... his whole operation had been a Security Police stakeout. He was the loose end who had sent it all into motion. Whoever had taken out the Danish detective, had also taken out Denisen. They had been following Chivers to see who he had arranged to meet... because Chivers knew about the painting and the painting... the painting belonged to Eklund.

  If it wasn’t for me making that call to Copenhagen, none of them would be here at all.

  The Hangman had been Eklund’s painting. The painting had been placed, or stolen, in someone else’s care. Justin’s neighbor. The neighbor had died! Something had been left unresolved, requiring Eklund’s painting to be taken, here.

  His fingers moved, his thoughts ran.