The Red Mitten

by Stuart Montgomery

  They went into the hotel, through the side door. Once they were away from the glare of snow, everything seemed dark, threatening. They tried to move quietly, but immediately a flight of steps took them down to a narrow concrete corridor where the sound of every movement was amplified. Then there was an open door and they were in the kitchen, a metallic, echoing place with lights that were much too bright.

  They came to another door, a closed one. Elin stopped. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible. “The dining room is on the other side of this. Open the door a little. Pull it toward you. Then don’t move or make a sound.”

  Cally did as she was told, then waited while Elin leaned forward and pressed her face to the gap in the door.

  “I think it’s all clear,” Elin said, after an eternity. “But stay here until I tell you to come in.”

  Elin pulled the door open and edged forward, her rifle ready. She took a few paces, turned round slowly, her eyes probing the hidden spaces, and then beckoned Cally in. It was the room where Cally and the men had shared the cake on the night they arrived and where they had eaten breakfast before starting the tour. It had seemed a cheery place then, but now it was not so benign. Now explosives were taped to the bottom of most of the pillars that supported the ceiling of the big semi-circular space.

  “They intend to demolish the entire building!” Elin said, in a whisper that Cally thought was much too loud.

  They crossed to the dining room’s main entrance, the one the guests used. The door was closed. Cally remembered that there was a waiting area behind it; she had stood there on the first morning while Elin told everyone about the graffiti. Elin opened the door a fraction, peered in, and then closed it again.

  “I can see the door to the bar, and it is closed,” she said. “I really think Ash is in there.”

  They crept into the waiting area. “You open the door and I’ll keep the gun ready,” Elin said. “But first I need to turn off the lights, or he’ll see us.”

  When Elin switched off the lights, Cally said, “Give me a minute to get used to the dark.” She also wanted to try to calm down. She was short of breath, but not from exertion and not only from fear. Her hands were sweating. She recognised the signs and tried to shake them away. She inhaled deeply, relaxed her shoulders, inhaled again. Then she tried the door. It was heavy and she had to pull harder than she wanted to. Everything had to be gentle. No sudden movements that would attract attention.

  Finally she could see into the bar. The room was dimly lit, but she could make out the form of a man, crouching beside a big square pillar. A box was beside him on the floor. The man’s back was toward her but when he turned to take something from the box, Cally could see that it was Elin’s boyfriend. She pressed her face to the door and strained to see the rest of the room.

  “I’m sorry, Elin, but it’s definitely your boyfriend,” she whispered, after she had gently closed the door. “He’s working on one pillar and as far as I could see he has done all the others.”

  Elin switched the light on and led the way back into the dining room. Her face was impassive. “If he is on the last pillar, that means he’ll come out soon,” she said. “We need to get him out of the building. I can’t use the rifle in here. Not with all these explosives.”

  She looked around, assessing her options. “We’ll do it this way,” she said. “You go back through the kitchen to the end of the corridor and wait there. I’ll stay here, with this door open a little, and as soon as Ash comes out of the bar I’ll come into the kitchen and signal to you, like this.” She waved her hand. “I know a place in the kitchen where I can hide until he is outside the building, and then I’ll come out after him.” She paused. “Can you do this? You have gone very white.”

  “I’m okay,” Cally managed.

  Elin continued, “When you see my signal, rush up to the car, sound the horn a few times to make Ash think the other man wants him. Then drive off as fast as you can. And leave Ash to me.”

  She held out the car key.

  Cally accepted it, wishing she was able to suggest a better alternative. “All right,” she said. “But I don’t do a lot of driving.” Even that was a gross exaggeration. I’ve had a few lessons would have been more truthful.

  “You don’t need to do a lot of driving now. Just get yourself away. Go up on to the road and keep going until you feel safe.”

  While Elin took up position behind the door, Cally went through the kitchen to the end of the corridor and waited.

  She felt the sweat on her hands, the acid in her blood. This was not good. There was no way she could give in to a panic attack now. She had to hold on, wait for the new pills to kick in. Surely that would happen soon?

  At last she saw Elin come into the kitchen and give the signal.

  Finally released, Cally raced up the steps. Opened the outside door. Looked around for something to prop it open. Rushed to pick up the box that the big Norwegian had been carrying. It would have to do. Then she climbed into the car and turned the ignition. The engine started right away. Relief! She pushed the centre of the steering wheel to sound the horn and recoiled at the loudness of the noise. There was no way Ash could fail to hear that. Even so, she gave three more long bursts. And then another three - just to make sure.

  She looked anxiously toward the side door, hoping there was no-one. But then she was gasping for breath, trying to fend off the panic attack but knowing it was inevitable. Desperately trying to delay it a few more seconds, she banged her fists on the steering wheel, wanting the pain, hoping it would keep her conscious. She managed to put the car into gear. She knew she had to be careful not to stall the engine, so she pushed down hard on the accelerator.

  She released the clutch slowly and started to move forward. But then to her horror the passenger door flew open and Elin’s boyfriend climbed into the moving vehicle. His face was angry, his handgun was pointing at her.

  And he was shouting. But Cally couldn’t make out the words, for now she was convulsing. She banged her head against the side window, sounded the horn, tried to fight away the blackness, forced the awkward vehicle forward. She struggled to breathe, wanting to keep going but needing oxygen. But there was no oxygen. No oxygen.

  So she would need to see how far she could get without oxygen. She kept her foot pressed to the accelerator, crashed a gear change and surged violently forward, causing Ash to fall back into his seat. When she drew level with the flag poles she wrenched the steering wheel hard and turned the big vehicle with its cargo of explosives on to the snow slope.

  Down it went, picking up speed over the gentle part of the slope, pitching wildly when it hit the bumps in the kids’ section, accelerating again when the piste steepened. The engine was roaring and Cally was aware of Ash shouting for her to stop, aware that he was hammering her hands with his gun. But the pain was good, it gave her something to focus on, something to keep her from blacking out.

  She turned her face away from the man’s blows, looked out on the snow slope and had a sudden and intense memory, a vision of Richard speeding past on skis, shouting Come on tough guy!

  She made one more effort, pressed her foot hard against the floor, increased the speed even more. She wished she had oxygen enough to shout, You killed one of my friends and you almost killed another one. And now I’m going to kill you!

  By then Ash Kumar had stopped shouting, had stopped hammering Cally’s hands with his gun. She could see the disbelief on his face. She was aware of him wrenching the door open and jumping out.

  Only then did she allow herself to lose consciousness.

  * * *

  From her vantage-point in the lay-by, Agnes Tvete had watched with alarm as her son ran out of the hotel and was then driven down the hill by the crazy woman.

  Now she could see that Ashoni had managed to get out of the car and was walking down the piste. He seemed uninjured. As far as Agnes knew, the Olsen woman had not left the building, so Ashoni must have dealt with her already.


  Agnes’ attention was distracted by the sight of a car approaching, travelling fast. It slowed abruptly and indicated to turn in to the hotel car park. She recognised it as Morten Espelund’s car.

  She pulled out and flashed her headlights, then edged over to the middle of the road, making him give way. She was not going to allow that swine to mess things up now. None of this would be happening if he hadn’t abandoned her in the first place, sloped off to the army and left her, the nerdy vulnerable daughter of a pastor, clingy and needy and spurned - and easy meat for his best friend, the dear departed Hawkeye Skaugen.

  She drove into the car park ahead of Morten, and stopped where she was sure he would not be able to see down the piste. When he pulled up beside her she lowered her window. “Morten, thank God you’ve come!” she said in a panicky voice. “A helicopter has crash-landed and I saw two women get out of it and go into the hotel. I think they’re hurt. I would have gone in after them, but I’ve injured my leg while skiing and I can hardly walk.”

  Morten looked anxiously across to the helicopter, “I saw them fly over Tronablikk and realised something was wrong,” he said. “I could see that Elin Olsen was the pilot, and that she was having trouble. I rushed here to make sure she was alright.”

  He turned away and started toward the side entrance, hobbling arthritically.

  As she watched him, Agnes saw a chance to achieve a double justice. When he entered the building she reached across to the passenger seat and picked up the detonator. Then she got out of her own car, moved painfully into Morten’s vehicle, and drove it up to her vantage point by the road.

  * * *

  Cally slowly regained consciousness. She could see that she was in trees at the edge of the piste. The car was on its side, driver side down, and it had turned almost completely around, so that it was facing up the piste. The engine had stalled. She was alone in the vehicle. The air-bag had deployed but had now partly deflated. She had dust in her mouth and in her eyes, probably from the bag. She coughed it away, and sent a stream of vomit down the side of her face, on to the side-window where it mixed with blood that had dripped from her head.

  She looked up and saw someone coming down the hill toward her. Ash Kumar. She hadn’t shot him yesterday, after all, for she could see that he wasn’t limping. He was coming quickly, more quickly than she could get free from the air-bag.

  She struggled desperately and managed to get to her knees, but Kumar was now almost upon her. She realised she couldn’t escape but hoped she had one more chance to deal with him. She ducked down behind the dashboard, forcing him to come right up to the vehicle before he could take his shot, bringing him as close as possible to the explosives.

  She could hear his hurried footsteps on the snow. Then there was a shot, a loud crack. Then silence.

  Cally raised her head, risked a glance above the dashboard.

  Kumar had stopped and was looking up the ski slope, to where Elin Olsen was standing, about fifty metres away. She had obviously been running hard, for even at this distance Cally could see the heaving of her shoulders. Just as she could see that the woman had lowered the rifle and was hanging her head, as if she regretted firing the shot.

  The piste was now silent and when Ash Kumar spoke, Cally could hear his mocking words.

  “You really are such an amateur, Elin my sweet. Can’t run a hotel, can’t get pregnant. And now you can’t even shoot me when you have the chance.” He walked slowly toward her, his gun in his hand.

  Cally was horrified by Elin’s inaction. It was as if she was unable to bring herself to hurt her boyfriend, even after all he had done.

  Then she saw Elin’s shoulders stop heaving. And she understood.

  She watched Elin inhale one more time, taking every chance to lower her heart-rate, delaying as long as possible. Waiting right until the moment when Ash Kumar raised his handgun.

  Then in a smooth, practised movement, Elin swung the rifle to her shoulder and fired a bullet into the face of the man she had loved, the father of the child that was growing inside her.

  When the echo of the rifle-shot faded there was silence. Then there came a booming sound, followed by more booming sounds. And then the hotel on the hilltop simply collapsed, each storey telescoping into the one below, sending a cloud of dust high into the air.

  The debris seemed to settle, but then it came on to the snowy slope and started to roll down, picking up speed as it went.

  Cally made a final effort, wrenched herself free from the car and hauled Elin into the meagre shelter of the trees.

  EPILOGUE: MID-MARCH 2015

  Standing outside Aberdeen Crematorium on a grey March morning, Cally wondered if funerals might be easier to bear in the months of summer, when the thudding sense of emptiness left by the closing curtain might at least be tempered by the blue of the sky or the brightness of a drift of flowers.

  Even in the relative warmth of the chapel the minister’s sonorous talk of Hope had sounded unconvincing. Out in the raw east wind, his message had dissipated immediately.

  In Cally’s opinion the whole Christian story was just a load of shite. The baby Jesus, son of Santa. A myth kept alive by retailers desperate to plug the gap between Bonfire Night and Valentine’s Day. And by clergy who made an easy living out of explaining how the Holy Bible - although it was of course unshakeably the real deal - shouldn’t be taken literally when it said this thing or that thing. Or the next thing.

  Not so long ago Cally might have felt the need to stand up and tell the minister what she thought. But today she had been content to let him get on with it. If Christian beliefs helped him through life, it was okay by her.

  Christian beliefs had obviously helped Richard.

  Cally was intensely aware of how comforting it would be to think that Richard’s eternal soul was truly on its way to the minister’s Majesty of Heaven. But as it was, she was simply relieved that her friend’s mortal body had now been incinerated. She had seen the hunter, Hawkeye, after he had been dead a week, and there had been no majesty there. And now Richard had been dead for a month, and had been out of the refrigerated recesses of Lillehammer’s police mortuary for several days.

  It didn’t bear thinking about.

  To the taped sound of a choir singing Abide with me, fast falls the eventide, Cally and Neep had filed out with the other mourners, and now they stood exchanging awkward condolences with people from the ski club. Club members made up about half of the mourners. The others were mainly Richard’s divinity associates. Cally had never met any of them before.

  She had been hoping to talk to someone from Richard’s family, to get some kind of idea as to what had happened in the past, get some real sense of the man that she had thought she knew. But no-one from the family had turned up.

  Instead, she had listened to one stranger talking about another stranger.

  The minister told the congregation that he had been Richard’s mentor ever since Richard came to Aberdeen University to study divinity.

  “His early life was hard,” the minister said. “He was estranged from his family at a young age, and was occasionally in trouble with the police. Things seemed to turn around for the better when he enlisted in the army at the age of eighteen, but that too ended badly, and he was discharged. Then he tried the fishing industry, working on the Peterhead and Fraserburgh fleets. But it was a brutal existence - and a brutalising one - and again he did some things he should not have done, things he later regretted deeply. But eventually he found himself in Jesus . . .”

  And then the holy man had talked about how Richard began to build a new life, got into university to study divinity, got involved with several community projects and developed a love of the mountains. “It was doubly unfortunate for him to lose his life while on a ski tour in those beloved mountains,” the minister said.

  It had all sounded worthy, but vague. The only tangible thing Cally came away with was a piece of white card, an Order of Service to commemorate Richard Morrison Slater, fo
rmerly known as Ricky, a man whose dates of birth and death showed that he had been forty-one years old when he died. And even that had surprised her. She would have said that Richard was much younger - early thirties maybe. Maybe that was because he had kept so fit and slim. The discrepancy seemed to emphasise how little she knew about this man, even though he had been part of her life for such a long time.

  She wanted to ask the minister about the “things” that Richard had “regretted deeply”. But the man had rushed off as soon as the service finished, and Cally realised why when she saw the TV cameras at the end of the driveway, keeping a respectful distance from the building. Neep was obviously surprised to see them. The people at his own paper had decided to play things low key until there was more to say – at which time, no doubt, they would milk the story for all it was worth. So far they had contented themselves with a short inside-page report, alongside a picture of Neep, Richard and Cally that had been taken on some ski club outing.

  In Norway things were starting to become clear. Elin Olsen had phoned Cally, to let her know that her doctor had advised her not to travel to the funeral, and she had given Cally an update on the enquiry. The police had formally identified the two bodies they’d found, alongside Richard, in a storage shed that Ash Kumar rented from the power company in Vinstra. One was confirmed as the hunter Hawkeye, unsurprisingly. The other was named as Olav Tvete, or Kumar, an ex-soldier who had worked as a mining engineer in Africa. He was now known to have been the son of Agnes Tvete and therefore the half-brother of Ash Kumar. Agnes herself was still at large, along with her third son. By the time the police had determined that the body under the rubble of Vesterheim was Morten Espelund and not her, she was long gone. Nobody knew where she had gone. Although she had told everyone that she had lived in Oslo for many years, the police could find no record of that. Instead they were working on the possibility that she had stayed on in Africa until just a few years ago, and had left soon after her husband had been violently murdered.