“And this accident, what do you know about it?”
“Nothing. He never seemed to want to talk about it. Richard and I get along well, but we’ve never had the kind of friendship where you share secrets.”
Cally knew what he meant.
They sat in silence for a while, then took the climbing skins off their skis and closed up their rucksacks. Cally was careful to leave the top section of hers open. She looked at the sky - it was clearing a little - and checked her watch. “We should go,” she said. “It’s been almost half an hour. Are you okay to start?”
He nodded. “I just need to tighten these boots. They’re a bit soft.”
While he was sorting his boots, Cally walked a few paces up the slope to check that the hillside was clear. The visibility had improved, and below her she could make out the false track that she and Richard had made, going over a rounded ridge. Now that she was higher than the ridge she could see into the valley beyond it.
Low down in that valley there was a skier – coming her way. Skiing hard.
She thought the skier was wearing a yellow jacket, but at that distance she couldn’t be sure. She rushed back to the boulders. “Neep! Someone’s coming. I think it’s Richard. Where did you put the binoculars? ”
“In the top pocket of my rucksack.”
He was still fiddling with his boots so she grabbed his pack.
With the binoculars she could see it was definitely Richard, really powering along. There was no sign of anyone following him. But why was he coming back?
She called to Neep, “Quick! We should go down to meet him. Bring my rucksack.”
She shouldered Neep’s pack, clipped in to her skis and slid out from behind the boulders. She stopped when she reached a patch of softer snow, which groaned under her skis, reminding her of the avalanche risk. After backing carefully on to the firmer surface, she turned to see if Neep was ready.
There was a movement, further down the slope. A lone skier, dressed in green. Holding a rifle.
Watching her.
In a kind of slow-motion trance she watched the man raise his weapon. Then the instinct to flee kicked in. She had little chance of saving herself. But maybe she could save Neep, draw the gunman away from him.
Pushing hard on her poles she skied away from the boulders, gliding quickly down over unstable snow that sank alarmingly under her, all too aware that she was heading toward the rocks below the gully, where the ground was dangerously steep.
With each second, each gasped breath, she expected to hear the shot. But no shot came.
As she reached the end of her traverse and began to climb a ramp of creaking snow, she risked a glance down the slope.
The man had lowered his rifle.
But why not shoot her, when she was such an easy target?
Then, when the snow boomed again beneath her skis, she thought she knew why. He would be afraid that in these conditions his shot would dislodge the entire snowpack, and he would be right in its path.
She saw him sling the rifle over his shoulder and start toward her. She guessed there would be no shot until he was above her, until he got himself off the unstable slope and on to the rocks. Then he would have the advantage. And then the shot would come. She had no doubt about that.
But now she felt she had a chance, even if it was a slim chance. She couldn’t out-run him. He was too strong for that. But if the murderous bastard wanted to get up to higher ground, she would take him there. He was the better skier. But she reckoned that if she could lead them both on to bad snow, she could deal with it just as well as he could. Maybe even better.
She just had to make him follow her into a dangerous place, the more dangerous the better.
When she reached the slope that led up to the gully, she was out of breath, and sweating from her covering of jackets and from the weight of Neep’s pack. But she forced herself upward. Now she welcomed the booming of the snow, the way it shifted and sank under her skis, the way that sections of slab broke away and slid down the steepening hillside. She hoped her pursuer’s greater weight would trigger the avalanche that would take him down. She didn’t give a damn that it would take her down, too.
But when the gunman started up the slope, she could see he was climbing it easily, that there was no avalanche. And that he was still gaining on her. By the time she got to the gully she could hear the sound of his breathing – deep and steady, not gasping like her own.
Now she had no choice. She had to go straight up the gully, even though it was horribly steep. Maybe she would be able to get out through the top. Maybe he would fall before he caught her.
She started up, stepping sideways, first over soft snow and then up an icy section where she needed to concentrate, where it was vital to keep her skis horizontal, her knees angled into the hill, her edges engaged, her poles planted firmly. She was going as fast as she could, but even on the steep ground he was faster. She could now make out the metal buttons on his green jacket, the leather strap on the rifle slung over his shoulder, the determined look in his eyes. She had no doubt he would catch her before she reached the top.
Unless she caught him first.
She made the decision. Climbed just a little higher. Waited until he was on the icy section directly below her. Then she took her hands out of her straps and held the poles together across her chest, one hand above the baskets, the other hand half-way along the shafts. She knew exactly what to do, in theory, but she’d never had to do it before.
She took a last look, summoned her hatred of all the men who had ever harmed her and focussed it on this monster below her.
Then she released her ski edges and plummeted down.
The impact took the gunman completely by surprise - Cally had made sure of that - and he fell headlong down the gully. She heard his cries grow louder and then fade, and she hoped he’d gone over the cliff, but she couldn’t see what was happening. She was face down in the snow, struggling to force her pole tips into the icy surface and to get her bodyweight over them, trying to arrest the slide that was taking her toward the cliff.
The slope raced past her, banging her head, scraping her face. She pressed even harder on the poles, forcing their tips into the snow. The brake was having an effect; she was slowing. But not enough. She was still going toward the drop.
Using all her strength she made a final thrusting effort with the poles and at the same time dug her ski edges into the slope. She stopped abruptly. But then her skis caught against a rock and her momentum lifted her back on to them, so that she was now skiing out of the gully and heading down the steep slope on the other side of it. Going fast.
Her body was in an impossibly angled crouch, her weight unevenly balanced between her skis. She was almost certain she would fall, but still she fought to recover some control, hoping at least to fall on a less dangerous part of the slope. The cloud had descended again and in the flat light it was hard to read the snow, to anticipate the change from ice to slab and back to ice, and hard to steer between the rocks. But gradually she managed to get her weight on to the lower ski, and forced herself to turn a little into the hill, into a long traverse that was mercifully more manageable. She was still holding the poles across her chest, like a stave, and now she dropped into a crouch and tried to use them as a brake, dragging the tips through the snow. It seemed to be working. But then she hit another patch of slab, buried the edge of one ski and was launched through the air.
As she cartwheeled painfully down the slope she was aware that she was heading for a large boulder.
She hoped she would miss it. But she knew she would not.
PART THREE
Chapter 20
Police Inspector Arnt Dahle believed that a woman’s place was in the home. It wasn’t a belief that dominated his life. It wasn’t even something that he considered very often. It was just one of those background habits of mind that, when added together, made up his personality.
But it was very much in the foreground of his mind
now, as he waited in Vinstra town’s little police station for his meeting with the police chief and the councillor to get under way. On her own the chief wasn’t too bad, all things considered. She generally kept out of the way, rarely venturing outside police HQ in Lillehammer, and she generally let her staff get on with the job. But this politician, Kari Gaustad, was a meddler. And a careerist. Even worse, she was one of those especially dangerous women who use their physical attractiveness as a weapon, who cross and uncross their legs in meetings, who unbutton their blouses to make sure you’re getting a distracting eyeful of cleavage, and then glare at you when they catch you taking a look.
The meeting had been in the diary for weeks. The chief had even time-tabled her monthly safari to The-Hinterland-That-Is-Vinstra to tie in with it. It was the last chance to review security before the foreign kids and their carers arrived at Vesterheim hotel for the weekend. And it was Dahle’s last chance to get the event treated seriously, before some real mischief took place. If it had been up to him the whole affair would have been cancelled by now.
When Kari Gaustad arrived, Inspector Dahle was surprised to see that she had dressed conservatively in a dark trouser-suit and turtle-neck sweater. He wondered what she was up to.
The chief began the meeting by asking Dahle to update them on security developments.
The Inspector didn’t really need his notebook, but he made a play of checking it. He said, “In the last forty-eight hours our uniformed officers have been investigating two acts of racially-inspired vandalism in and around Espedalen. The first took place at Vesterheim Mountain Hotel. The second was at a disused hostel at Slangenseter, whose owner had made it known that he wanted to convert it to a centre for asylum seekers.”
He looked across to Kari Gaustad. “I believe you are aware of the details?”
“Yes, I am,” she said. Her eyes seemed sad, almost pitying.
What the hell was she up to?
Trying to put the woman out of his mind, Dahle continued, “This morning we discovered a third incident, this time in Espedalen church. The number 77 had been written on a board on which psalm numbers are displayed during services, and in every copy of the psalm-book a sheet had been inserted at psalm number 77. A photograph of Anders Breivik appeared on the sheets, together with the words No Asylum Seekers Here.”
He turned the page in his notebook. “In addition to investigating those incidents we are trying to question a Scotsman who is skiing in the Espedalen area and who has visited all three sites. Our computer system flagged him up as having a previous conviction for murder, and we are expecting further details on that.”
He paused and looked at the chief.
She shook her head. “We’re waiting for a reply from International Liaison in Oslo. I’m doing what I can to push it, but I’m afraid I am not expecting a swift result.”
Dahle hid his impatience. “The Scotsman expressed an interest in immigration policy when he visited the church and met with the pastor. And we know that he stayed in Vesterheim hotel on the night of the vandalism there. So we’d like to speak to him, and his companions. They started on a ski-tour yesterday, leaving Vesterheim in the morning. Yesterday afternoon we sent an officer along their intended route on a snow-mobile. The officer established that they did go at least as far as Slangenseter. They were seen there by a resident who was clearing the road. This sighting was close to the hostel site where the Slangenseter vandalism took place.”
Dahle paused, making his implication perfectly clear.
Then he continued, “The Scots had stated that their route would take them to a DNT cabin called . . .” Now he genuinely did need to check his notes “ . . . Storhøliseter. But there was no sign of them having been there.”
Until now Kari Gaustad had scribbled occasionally on a sheet of paper, but at this point she put down her pen and clasped her hands. She still wore the pitying look. She said nothing, but now her implication was perfectly clear. None of this was worth writing down.
Determined not to let himself be distracted by the woman’s games, Dahle pressed on. “Our officer drove south for a few more kilometres. Because of the bad weather he had to keep to the lower ground, but he encountered a party of Dutch skiers who had come from the next cabin on the standard tour itinerary.” Again he checked his notes. “- A cabin called Storkvelvbu. The Dutch had made a lunch stop at Storkvelvbu, but they had seen no sign of the Scots at the cabin or on the ski routes.”
After Dahle finished, the chief spoke. “Inspector Dahle, I can see that you have concerns about the sports weekend. But it doesn’t seem to me that we have any firm reason to expect disruption.”
“I agree that the evidence is thin,” Dahle said. “All we have are three incidents of vandalism. But I’m anxious because all three seem to be motivated by racial factors, and because all three may be linked to a missing Scotsman who is a convicted murderer. What really scares me though, is that all the incidents have made reference to Anders Breivik. So I’m worried that if the sports weekend goes ahead we could have blood on our hands. I think that at the very least we should deploy a visible presence of uniformed officers at Vesterheim throughout the weekend – unless the councillor would prefer to cancel the event altogether.”
The chief turned to the councillor. “Miss Gaustad?”
Kari Gaustad spoke quietly. “There is no question of us cancelling it. A lot of people have worked hard to organise the sports weekend and a lot of children are looking forward to taking part in it. If there were an obvious threat then I would be the first to say, let’s act on it. However, what we have here are three unacceptable but relatively minor incidents of vandalism – and two of them relate to buildings that have nothing to do with the sports weekend.”
She turned to Dahle. “I am not a police officer and it is not appropriate for me to comment on your day-to-day investigations, or on the case of this Scottish man. But I am a skier and I have toured a lot in the hills around Espedalen. And I can’t recall a single tour on which I actually did the exact route that I set out to do. The plan was always flexible, and the route always depended on weather and snow conditions.”
Dahle could see what she was doing: exploiting the fact that he didn’t ski. It was a low blow, but he kept his temper. “As I said, our officer not only went to the first cabin but also spoke to people who had been at the second cabin, the one called -”
“- The one called Storkvelvbu,” Gaustad cut in, before Dahle could consult his notes. “And, yes, Storkvelbu is a good place to aim for after Storhølister. But so too is Skirurusten. And Bergbu. And so too are the cabins to the west, on the way to Jotunheimen. And I expect your officer did not have time to check all those possibilities.”
No, nor did he check the convent of the sisters of mercy or do a sweep-search of the fucking Canary Islands, Dahle wanted to say. But he made do with, “The weather deteriorated and the officer had to come down from the mountains. And we focussed on the more obvious routes because we thought it prudent, in a time of budgetary constraints, to concentrate resources where they would have most value.”
The last bit was a mistake – the exchanged glance between Gaustad and the chief confirmed it. But Dahle felt glad that he’d said it, nonetheless.
However, Kari Gaustad quickly accepted the gift he had carelessly proffered. “If the police want to deploy staff in reassurance patrols in and around Vesterheim, then of course we will cooperate fully. But I think I can speak on behalf of the sports weekend’s organising committee when I say we would not wish to further complicate your budgetary issues.”
She directed her next words at the chief, and carefully avoided looking at Dahle. “And, speaking for myself, I would say that I do wish we would all try to move on from the Breivik atrocity. Anders Breivik killed a lot of people and the memory of that will never fade. But he was an isolated madman, working on his own. If we cancel the sports weekend now, then what will we cancel next week – a football match because there might be crowd violence?
A wedding party because the guests might get drunk and start fighting?”
Dahle remained silent. He knew the game was up. Nothing at all would have been achieved, except disciplinary action, if he said what was on his mind. Yes, and if we cancel the sports weekend you will lose a gold-plated opportunity for self-promotion.
It had been no contest, he told himself after the meeting had finished. He should have known better than to tangle with such a smooth operator. But it rankled with him that so many Norwegians still clung to the cosy belief - even after Breivik - that bad things could only happen in other countries.
He was in the little room that served as the police station’s kitchen and coffee-lounge, licking his wounds, when his phone rang.
It was Frederik Voldbakken, the pastor from Espedalen.
“I’m sorry to bother you but I’ve just been talking to our sexton, and it seems we have had another stranger visiting the church recently. It was yesterday afternoon. The sexton had been arranging the seats for choir practice and afterwards he went to a friend’s house for coffee. Unfortunately he failed to lock the church while he was away. When he came back, he saw a man leaving the building. The man seemed anxious not to be recognised – he had a scarf around his face, though admittedly it was a stormy afternoon. He drove off in a BMW.”
Dahle said, “If you give me the sexton’s address I’ll go and see him now.”
After he ended the call Dahle put on his jacket. He knew that interviewing the sexton would probably be a pointless exercise. But it gave him a reason to get out of the building.
He was opening his car door when he heard footsteps behind him. It was Kari Gaustad.
She said, “I just want to say that I’m sorry if I offended you in the meeting, when I was talking about moving on after the Breivik massacre. I am very much aware that your own family was affected – that your sister’s daughter was one of the children who died on Utøya.”
The Red Mitten Page 13