The Red Mitten

by Stuart Montgomery

  She made a final check that the bungee cord was firmly attached to the inside of the garage doors, one end round the door handle, the other end tied to a rack that held a big shovel, probably used for clearing snow. She grabbed the bottom of her ski pole and pulled back on it, until the bungee cord that passed through the pole strap was as taught as she could make it. She released the tension in the cord, then banged the doors together, hard. She did it again, louder. Then she waited.

  A few moments passed before she knew the ruse was working. The cabin door opened and a big man came out. As he came closer Cally saw that his face looked bad, as if he had been in an accident.

  If things went to plan, it would soon look even worse.

  She kicked the door softly to make it move. To make the man think the bang had been caused by the wind. To make him come over to her. Then she pulled back on the ski pole, tightening the elastic cord.

  She held her breath, watched him walk toward the door, the snow crunching loudly under his boots. But then he raised a hand, and looked as if he was simply going to pull the door shut.

  Come in, Cally pleaded silently. Come in!

  As if in response, the man stopped and listened. He had heard the radio.

  He stepped forward, into the space between the doors.

  The end of the ski pole hit him hard in the face, taking him completely by surprise.

  And then Cally was on him, surprising herself by the viciousness of her attack, swinging the sock containing the heavy little batteries, aiming for the man’s head and often hitting target, but not caring when she struck his arms or chest or legs. She hit him again and again, and stopped only when she was certain he was unconscious.

  Or maybe he was dead. She wasn’t sure and she didn’t give a damn, as long as he didn’t move again.

  Taking no chances, she quickly unfastened the bungee cord and used it to tie his hands and feet.

  She searched his pockets. There was a hand gun. She put it in her own pocket, beside the clasp knife.

  So far, so good.

  But it had taken far too long. The other man would surely be growing suspicious.

  Grabbing her rucksack, Cally ran to the end wall of the cabin and climbed the ladder. At the top she was surprised by how hot the smoke was as it came out of the chimney. She hadn’t expected that, and now she hoped the heat wouldn’t make things happen too quickly. Keeping her hands back from the chimney opening, she carefully lowered the two containers of petrol, the smaller one on a longer cord than the bigger one, and tied the ends of the cords to the chimney’s metal cowling.

  Now she would really have to move fast!

  Back at the garage she emptied the jerry can over the log pile and flicked her cigarette lighter. It took a few seconds for the petrol to ignite but then it burst into bright flames.

  Then it was time to plant the scarecrow – to thrust her skis into the snow and drape Richard’s jacket over them.

  She picked up the axe. Soon there would be a bang - and the other man would come out.

  But then she felt the weight of the gun in her pocket and changed her mind. She took it out and held it ready.

  Then she saw the door opening. There was a man. A weird white face. A rifle.

  The man’s attention was caught by the burning woodpile, but then he saw the scarecrow, was fooled by it, and fired his rifle, sending a bullet through the jacket. Cally pointed her gun and pressed the trigger. But it wouldn’t fire. The trigger seemed to be in two parts and when she tried to squeeze it, nothing happened. It wouldn’t move. She had only a second to learn how to deal with that, for the man was turning his rifle toward her. She changed her grip on the trigger and tried again, but it was still no good.

  She threw herself to the ground.

  And then the explosions inside the cabin finally started, a big heavy bang followed by a series of sharper cracks.

  It was all much louder than Cally had expected.

  White-face turned as if to go inside, but stopped when a bullet hit the wall beside him.

  Cally had finally managed to release the safety-mechanism on her pistol. Though she had no real hope of hitting the man, she knew the noise would add to the mayhem. She aimed a shot at the garage window, to make him think he was being attacked from all sides.

  And it was working. White-face was moving away from the cabin, firing his rifle but unable to take proper aim because Cally was now getting better with the gun. She had always thought that hand-guns held only six bullets, but this one just kept firing. One of her shots, she was sure, hit the man in the leg.

  When the flames from the woodpile surged even higher, White-face seemed to sense defeat. He ran off along the road, limping.

  Now, at last, Cally could go in for Neep. She hurried into the half-wrecked cabin, saw her friend lying on the floor and bent to cut him free from the chair, sawing at the cords with her clasp-knife.

  She tried not to show her horror at the sight of his battered face. The bastards had almost killed him.

  Neep looked up vacantly and said in a slow, drunken voice, “Hello, Cally. Sounds like war has broken out.”

  “That’s what it’s meant to sound like. And we need to get out of here, for it’s going to sound even worse very soon.”

  As she man-handled Neep out on to the snow Cally was aware of the red car speeding away. But she could do nothing about it. She had left the gun in the cabin, and the urgent priority was to get away from the building. The garage was now in flames so her only option was to push Neep into the soft snow and throw herself over him.

  He groaned and tried to say something, but Cally didn’t hear what it was.

  For at that moment her second petrol bomb exploded.

  PART FIVE

  Chapter 33

  When Gunnar Hoveng came into the downstairs dining room at Tronablikk hotel it was not yet six o’clock and he was at least an hour too early for breakfast. But Hansie Botha, the Chief Executive Officer of Lamechson Plc, had arranged a get-together for six-fifteen, and Gunnar wanted a super-strong jolt of caffeine before even attempting to cope with that.

  Botha had insisted on describing the get-together as an “early-bird pre-meeting”. It was one of several he would have, each with different staff members and associates, before the teach-in for the investment analysts got under way at nine o’clock. Gunnar would attend one of the later sessions, too, to give an update on progress in the police search for the missing hunter, the recent employee whose light-fingeredness had smelled so badly of industrial espionage that the teach-in had been brought forward by several weeks.

  Gunnar tried not to show his disappointment when he saw that Morten Espelund had beaten him to the coffee machine. The old man must have made a very early start; his farmhouse was a good twenty minutes’ drive away. Morten had every right to be there – he had been called to the same meeting – but Gunnar could have done without his sarcasm this morning.

  “Good morning, Gunnar!” Morten said brightly. “You look like you’ve been in the wars.”

  “Do you mean this?” Gunnar said, indicating the bruise on his forehead.

  “Yes, that. And the bandage on your hand.”

  Gunnar helped himself to a coffee. He said, “I slipped on ice in the hotel car park.”

  “That’s what city living does for you - ruins your ability to cope with the outdoors.”

  Gunnar gave him a watery smile. The old buzzard enjoyed winding him up.

  Gunnar wondered if it was the expression of some kind of guilt complex. Morten had owned Vesterheim hotel for decades, but had then shamefully abandoned it, sold it to people who turned out to be scoundrels. To make matters worse - if Gunnar’s information was correct - the old man had invested half the proceeds of the sale in the scoundrels’ project to redevelop the hotel. And had lost heavily when that preposterous bubble finally burst.

  After the debacle, Morten’s once-proud hotel had lain empty for months, until it seemed inevitable that the site would be re-zoned
, demoted to what the local authority called general industrial use – which would have meant forestry.

  But then, at the darkest hour, along had come Elin and Gunnar with their naïve but noble intention to restore Vesterheim to its rightful state. Morten had welcomed them like a liberating army. The good old days were back.

  But then Gunnar had spoiled it all again, by getting too chummy with a Polish waitress.

  Now, to cap it all, Morten and Gunnar were skulking together in this other hotel - Tronablikk - Vesterheim’s competitor. And they were cosying up to people that Morten clearly regarded as just one more set of scoundrels - even if his squeamishness didn’t stop him taking their money.

  Turning away from the old man, Gunnar said, “I’m going to get some sugar.” Maybe by the time he got back, Morten would have found something pleasant to talk about. Stranger things had happened.

  Gunnar brought a few cubes of sugar from one of the more distant tables and put them on his saucer. They remained there while he drank his coffee.

  Morten said, “Before the CEO comes in I should tell you that your ex-wife has been asking a lot of questions. A little bird told me.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “It seems she saw us yesterday morning, shortly before she discovered the new racist nonsense, the dummies hanging from the flag poles at Vesterheim. It was just after you and I had been looking at my new boundary. She was in her boyfriend’s helicopter and it flew over us. I didn’t see it.”

  “I did,” Gunnar said. He took a mouthful of coffee and savoured it, hoping he was creating a long enough pause. Finally he asked, “What’s this about a boyfriend?”

  “A good-looking young man. Very well-off. The relationship seems quite serious, though personally I didn’t think it would last.” Morten picked up his cup, studied the contents and then took a sip. “He’s Asian.”

  “Lovely.”

  “I thought you would have known. You’re supposed to know everything about the area.”

  “I know who lives where, and what they own and how much they’re worth. Who they are shagging isn’t my business.”

  “Steady on! I didn’t realise you still felt something for her.”

  Gunnar’s reply would have been a damaging one, but luckily the CEO came into the room before he could deliver it.

  In spite of the ungodly hour, Hansie Botha, the boss of Lamechson Plc, was clearly in a buoyant frame of mind. He crossed the room in a few large strides and said, “Thanks for making the effort, guys. We’ve got a big day ahead and it’s good to have an early start.”

  He helped himself to a coffee. “Are you okay, Gunnar, after your slip yesterday?”

  “I’m fine. After a while I felt able to drive, so I went to see what I could find out about the fire down at the lake.”

  “And?”

  “Well, the police haven’t said anything to change their initial story – the fire may have been caused when a gas canister accidentally exploded. So the official version is still the same as it was.”

  “And the unofficial version?”

  “I’m not sure. I tried to get down to the cabin to take a look, but a policeman stopped me leaving the main road. He wouldn’t tell me anything. But by then it was dark, and I could see torches moving in the trees. It looked like the police were making a search. That didn’t seem to fit in with the accident story, so I drove along to the filling station near Slangenseter - which has always been a good place to catch up on gossip. The attendant told me that the people who were first at the scene said there were two big explosions and a lot of smaller ones. They thought it was an illicit alcohol factory blowing up.”

  Morten chipped in. “That’s the version I heard – and it could be true. In winter some people put heaters beside the distilling equipment, to keep the process running.”

  Gunnar nodded. “Morten is probably right. But already there are more lurid theories going round. Somebody told the filling-station attendant that they’d heard a biker gang was involved, that there had been gunshots as well as explosions, and that the whole thing was linked to the anti-immigrant vandalism that Morten was telling us about yesterday.” He gave a shrug. “The rumour mill in this valley works very hard, and by this time tomorrow the Taliban will have been implicated – or the CIA.”

  Botha smiled at the early-morning humour. “Let’s hope it soon calms down”, he said. “But please keep your eye on it, Gunnar. Bad publicity is the last thing we need right now. The whole point of today’s teach-in is to make the analysts feel good about what Lamechson is doing here in Espedalen, so that they’ll encourage people to invest in the company. Anything that sends out a negative message could really set us back.”

  Botha glanced at his watch. “Anyway, let’s get on to the arrangements for this afternoon. First, I want to confirm that everything is in place for the social programme, the tour to Helvete canyon. We should have finished the presentations by about noon, and then we’ll have a short lunch break. So, Morten, I’ll need you to start between one and one-thirty.”

  “It’s all set up,” Morten said. “The snowshoes are already here, in the ski-room. The analysts will use them on the walk to Helvete. I’ve got two men from the local activity company helping me. They’ll guide the snowshoe walk and then lead a short tour along the canyon. Yesterday they put up a sign in English saying that Helvete means Hell, and they’ll make sure the English-speaking analysts have plenty of time to take photos of it as they are going in. After the tour, everyone can have a short sleigh-ride. Yesterday I brought two of my tame reindeer along in the horsebox.”

  “You’re sure there will be enough space for all the analysts to move around in the canyon?” the CEO asked. “No health and safety issues?”

  “It will be okay. The tour guides will be with the analysts all the time. And I’ll be at the entrance so that I can control everyone as they are going in. I’ll make sure they don’t bunch together.”

  “You mean you’re not going into the canyon with them?”

  “No, it’s better for me to stay close to the reindeer -”

  Morten was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stair. A uniformed policeman came into the room. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But we want everyone out of the building – immediately – until it has been thoroughly searched. There’s been a bomb threat to a hotel nearby and we need to make sure this place is safe.”

  Gunnar stepped forward, intensely aware of how embarrassing this would be for the company. But before he could speak the policeman said, “Our minibuses are outside right now. They’ll take you a short way along the road where you can wait inside them until the search is over. With luck we should be finished in an hour.” He added, “We also want to talk to the owner of the big BMW in the car park.”

  Gunnar said, “What’s the problem?

  “A car like it was seen at Espedalen church on Wednesday. We want to ask the driver about something that happened there. It might be related to the bomb threat.”

  Gunnar was deflated. He said, “It’s my car. I was at the church on Wednesday.”

  “Would you like to tell me what you were doing?”

  As he gave his answer, Gunnar was careful not to make eye contact with Morten Espelund. “It was the anniversary of my wedding. The marriage service had taken place in that church, and I wanted to go back . . .” His voice tailed off.

  “Can your wife confirm that you were there at that time?”

  “No,” Gunnar said. “I’m afraid she can’t.”

  As the policeman ushered the three men up the stairway, Gunnar fought to shake off the weariness that had been afflicting him since yesterday’s fall on the ice. It really had shaken him up.

  In spite of his mixed feelings for Morten Espelund, it gave him no comfort to see that the old man’s arthritis was obviously hurting him this morning. Espelund was limping so badly he could hardly get up the stairs.

  Chapter 34

  As soon as she crossed the threshold o
f her brother’s house, Martha Skaugen felt sure that Håkon had been back. The remnant of snow that her torch picked up on the floor of the unheated vestibule was the first sign. Someone had stamped it off their boots. It could not have been Martha herself, for any snow from her last visit would have been long gone by now. That visit had been on Tuesday, and it was now Friday.

  And there were other signs, like the curled-over carpet edge in the living room and the pulled back curtain that she was sure she had left closed.

  The bed showed no sign of having been slept in, but in the living room some furniture had been moved. The sideboard was sitting just a little way out of the circles that its feet had compressed into the carpet. Martha was certain it had been moved since her last visit. She had sat in the room for over an hour then, while the police searched the place. She’d had plenty of time to get used to the way things looked.

  On Tuesday the police had phoned to tell her they had a search warrant. They had officers guarding the house, they said, and if she did not drive there right away, bringing her key, they would break down the door. So she had dropped everything and had made the journey from her home in Ringebu in under an hour. The police had been tight-lipped; all they would say was that some property had gone missing from a company Håkon had been working for.

  So Martha had sat in her brother’s bulky old armchair, under the glassy stare of a stuffed elk head that was fixed to the wall, while the police opened drawers and cupboards - and found nothing. When they left, she had sat for a while, tearful and numb, and had then phoned the man she still considered to be her pastor, even though it was now ten years since she had moved out of his parish. Frederik Voldbakken had been kind enough to come over right away, and had stayed with her for the rest of the evening, not saying very much, just letting her talk.

  And between then and now - she was sure - someone else had been in the house. From the look of the snow in the vestibule, Martha judged they had been there as recently as yesterday. As there was no sign of a break-in, it could only have been Håkon.