Lindstrom Alone

by Moss, John

  “At least now your ex-partner will get that I wasn’t the victim of a frozen lock.”

  “I think Morgan’s on your side, Harry.”

  “Well, you know it couldn’t have been me doing the killing. I was in Toronto General, having my toes amputated.”

  “Bits of your toes, Harry, and they fell off, they weren’t cut off.”

  “A matter of semantics. I still have the pain as reminders.”

  “She was probably dead before you went into the hospital, Harry. From reading the accumulated snow layers, it seems likely she died before Christmas. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

  “And no one reported her missing?”

  “Not until mid-January. She was basically a street kid, scrounging to make ends meet, estranged from her family.”

  “And she ended up among the Rosedale elite. If she was in a garden maze, it must have been Rosedale. Was she naked when she died?”

  “Explain?”

  “Was she in the blanket already, or bundled up after she was dead?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll get back to you on that.” For a moment neither said anything, and then Miranda continued, “So, do you have an address for Bernd, can you talk to him in Stockholm?”

  “And say what? Did you kill a girl in Toronto before you left home? I can reach him through his NGO. What was the girl’s name?”

  “Ilsa Jóhannesdóttir, if I’ve got the pronunciation right. Seventeen years old. Her family had just moved to the city last fall.”

  “Jóhannesdóttir. They were probably from Gimli.”

  “And you know that because?”

  “The Icelandic name. Gimli is on the shores of Lake Winnipeg; the people are mostly Icelandic, with a few Swedes and Ukrainians thrown in for excitement. I’ve got relatives there. You can’t seriously be asking if I killed her.” Since Miranda said nothing, he continued defensively, “Some of my Swedish forbearers emigrated north from Minnesota about the same time as the mass immigration from Iceland in 1875.” He paused. “So, Ilsa Jóhannesdóttir; no rape, no torture. But naked. That’s different. How did she die?”

  “So far, it seems from exposure. And one more thing. Her fingernails had been bitten to the quick; they weren’t cut. But there was blackening on her fingertips, black nail polish.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  Harry glanced at Arnason who was laughing and joking with the couple at the next table and still managing to take in every word on Harry’s end of the conversation. “Her family, how’re they doing?”

  “Torn to shreds. They’re taking her back to Manitoba when we release the body.”

  “Can you send me a full report?”

  “Unofficially.”

  “I’m staying at Bentleys Hotel in Stockholm; it’s on Drottninggatan Street, not far from the station. Do you want to make a note of that?”

  “I’m recording us, Harry. I’ve got it. I can email the file.”

  “I’d like a hard copy, including pictures. I don’t want to use a printing service; it’s a little too grisly. I’ll talk to both Ghibertis if I can track them down.”

  “Isn’t that why you’re going?”

  “Yeah, and everyone lives happily ever after, unless someone else dies.”

  “If there aren’t more murders, you’ve got a dead end. You can come home.”

  “There are only dead ends, Miranda. You said your girl was naked. The bodies in Sweden have been fully clothed, without coats, but indistinguishable from random deaths by misadventure in winter. So, apart from the fingernails, what connects them?”

  “At this point, you.”

  Harry said nothing.

  “I’ll talk to you soon, Harry. I just thought you needed to know. And Harry—” For a moment he expected her to pass on her regards to Karen. She didn’t. “You take care,” she said and clicked off.

  Harry handed the phone back to Chief Constable Arnason, who spoke unabashedly about overhearing the conversation.

  “I know the name, Jóhannesdóttir. A young woman, yes. Death by snow. It happens. Naked, not so often.” He looked sad for a moment, then rallied. “Would you like me to arrange a tour for you? Seljalandfoss Waterfall is just south of here; it falls two hundred feet from an overhanging cliff. Spectacular at dusk. We do have a few hours of daylight, you know. Iceland hangs like a jewel from the Arctic Circle. We only have full darkness one night of the year. I can go on, if you wish. Like a tourist brochure. What about a thermal plunge in the Blue Lagoon? But, Harry, you’re tired. Perhaps you would like to retire and join me for dinner, say at 8:30, here.”

  The big man stood up before Harry could respond and once Harry was on his feet, gave him a huge bear hug, his bushy beard scratching insistently at Harry’s ear like it had a life of its own, and walked out into the strangely luminescent twilight of the late afternoon.

  At the door, Harry thought to ask him about Birgitta.

  “Birgitta Ghiberti? No, I don’t think so. Is she Italian?”

  “Swedish.” Harry described her.

  “Was she travelling alone?”

  It had not occurred to Harry she wasn’t.

  The next morning, Chief Constable Arnason reported back that there was no record of a Mrs. Ghiberti landing in Iceland, and no one answering her description had stood out as a guest at any of the larger hotels in Reykjavik—which was not surprising, given her Nordic features.

  The chief constable drove Harry out to Seljalandfoss. Higher than the Horseshoe Falls with a fraction of the volume, the water billowed like shaken silk and pooled at the base, not crashing through rock like Niagara. He had already seen the falls on an episode of The Amazing Race, but as they approached it seemed unfamiliar.

  Harry had an abiding appreciation for the sublime, Schopenhauer’s blend of beauty and dread that moved him to awe, but when he stood behind the cascading curtain of water at the base of the falls, he felt sick at heart. Karen had been curiously absent on the drive out along Route 1. For some reason he couldn’t comprehend, Harry had not connected a natural tourist attraction in Iceland with the murderous waters of the Devil’s Cauldron on the Anishnabe River in Algonquin Park. Not until he got there. And then the horror of his memories sent waves of shock and remorse coursing through him so that he had to grasp Arnason’s arm to steady himself.

  While they drove from the falls to Sólheimajökull Glacier, Chief Constable Arnason didn’t intrude on his silence with questions. Harry admired him for that. For all his garrulous bonhomie, he was a sensitive man.

  The glacial tongue was intriguing but Harry felt emotionally bruised from his experience at Seljalandfoss Falls and declined Arnason’s offer to take him on a private tour of the more accessible reaches of ice illuminated by the midday sun. He opted to return to the hotel for a Guinness or two.

  The policeman obliged, and they drove back in companionable silence. The big Icelander, however, excused himself at the hotel entrance, having police business to attend to, and Harry didn’t see him again before his departure the following day.

  CHIEF CONSTABLE ARNASON’S cousin was to meet Harry at Arlanda Airport and drive him to his hotel in the heart of Stockholm. He insisted it would be no trouble at all.

  Coming into the arrivals area, Harry looked for a replica of Arnason. A woman blocking his way smiled warmly. She was well over six feet tall and quietly beautiful, if beauty were sound and quietude a measure of perfection. He tried to step around her. As he moved to his left, she moved to her right. He assumed she was smiling at someone behind him and sidestepped again, and she did the same.

  “Either you are Chief Constable Arnason’s cousin or I am exceptionally awkward,” he said, assuming she understood English.

  “You are, and I am,” she said, turning her smile up to full volume. “Hannah Arnason, yes.” She reached out and shook his hand, then took his bag, which he relinquished without a fuss. He was tired and his toes hurt. She was undoubtedly stronger than him and a good two inches taller. Four in heels.


  And, Karen admonished, she’s a good deal better looking than you are, Harry. You’re an attractive man, my darling, but she’s so outrageously perfect, it could be classed as a disability. There’s no future in it, Harry. Everyone, including yourself, would wonder why she bothered. Although, I repeat, you are attractive, but you’re only a mortal. Be nice, but be wary.

  They walked to the car without talking and for the first time in over three years Harry wondered where Karen’s voice was coming from. Her description of him as attractive amused him. Her warning about another woman, based on his limitations, unnerved him.

  “You will like Sweden very much,” the woman said as they drove toward the city. “You have been here before many times?”

  “No,” said Harry. “Only once, with my wife.”

  “Ah, you have a wife. That is good.”

  Harry gazed out the window as they drove along an embankment beside a frozen river. His toes hurt. He hadn’t taken his shoes off on the flight, afraid he might not get them back on. Finally, after they circled through side streets and pulled up in front of Bentleys, he turned to her and explained, “My wife is dead.”

  “I am so sorry. Was she a good wife?” Her question was awkward but without condescension or malice.

  Yes, Harry thought, she was. She is. He got out, retrieved his bag from the back seat, thanked Hannah Arnason, and walked a little painfully up the steps, through the outer door, up more steps, and turned to the small reception desk tucked off to the side.

  Bentleys was a small hotel with a curiously Britannic name where Harry and Karen had stayed for a few days after an academic conference during their first year at Huron. He had booked there because he remembered the name; it was not about reliving the past.

  After registering, he took the open elevator that ascended behind a mesh screen up the middle of the circular stairwell to the fifth floor and hobbled along to his room, a small and charmingly minimal garret with a tiny balcony and a spacious bathroom. He said nothing to Karen, but he knew exactly where she was in the room, dressed in her signature jeans and Armani blazer, the wedding outfit she had worn on their earlier visit.

  He unpacked and hung up his few clothes and put away his sweaters and small things in dresser drawers.

  “Karen?” he said in a soft voice.

  Yes, she responded. He liked when she seemed to be talking out loud.

  “This is silly.”

  What?

  “We’re having our first posthumous quarrel.”

  You are, I’m not.

  “I’ll never see her again.”

  That would be stupid; she could be useful.

  “Not if it upsets you.”

  Harry, how could it upset me? I’m not even here.

  “Yes, you are.”

  No, I’m not.

  “We sound like a Rogers and Hammerstein musical.”

  Please, for God’s sake, Harry, don’t break into song.

  “Let’s have a nap, then we’ll go out and explore.”

  Harry, it’s dark, it’s cold. I’m staying here. You go without me.

  “See, you’re annoyed.”

  No, I’m not.

  “Yes, you are.”

  No, I am not, I am not, I am not.

  “Go to sleep. I love you.”

  And I love you, Harry. Sleep tight.

  When he felt himself beginning to wake up, Harry caught a subtle scent of lilacs, but he was disoriented. Before opening his eyes he scanned through his mind, trying to sort out where he was, while an unfinished dream urged him to fall back into a deep and comforting sleep. He could hear muffled sounds of the city drifting up from the street. He had smelled snow in the air when he came in, and he was sure it was snowing. Big flakes, because it wasn’t all that cold and there was no wind in the eaves outside his window. With his eyes still closed, he could tell it was daylight. He had slept right through. Despite his stopover in Iceland, he was jet lagged.

  A horn honked warily on the street below, someone shouted. The Drottninggatan was open for business, allowing limited access for delivery vans and service vehicles. A few blocks south, the street was a pedestrian walkway, running right through to the old town. Harry opened his eyes to confirm he was in a room at Bentleys.

  The bedside telephone jangled and he grabbed at it, trying to choke off the noise.

  “Mr. Lindstrom. There is a visitor for you. Please come downstairs to the dining facilities.”

  Harry hung up without asking who it was. He loved the precision of so many Swedes when they spoke English. He thought of lyrics by ABBA but couldn’t remember anything other than a throbbing “mama mia,” which kept resounding through his skull while he shaved.

  It would be Bernd Ghiberti. Miranda had said he was on his way. Obviously, he was already there. Eating breakfast, no doubt. Harry was enthralled with the rich generosity of Scandinavian breakfasts. He assumed Bernd would indulge.

  Harry walked down the stairs to get his blood flowing, but when he swung around past the reception desk into the breakfast room, he discovered Hannah Arnason sitting by herself in the window overlooking the street. She was a stunning apparition, sipping coffee. Beyond her, outside, snow filled the air.

  9 A DEAD WOMAN IN THE PARK

  SHE’S NOT MUCH OVER THIRTY, KAREN WHISPERED.

  Ah, said Harry to himself, then she’s older than I thought.

  “Ms. Arnason. Good to see you. Don’t get up. I’ll just grab a coffee. Can I get you a refill?” When Harry slipped into the comfortable chair opposite, he started to offer an apology for his cold behaviour coming in from the airport.

  “It is Inspector Arnason,” she said. “No, you were not so cold. We do not know each other. For the present moment, I am here on police business.”

  “Police,” said Harry with surprise. “I hadn’t realized. National or County? I understand your two forces overlap.”

  “NCP,” she said. “National. I work closely with the Stockholm police on criminal cases that extend beyond their jurisdiction.”

  “Ah,” he said, eyeing the plates of cold cuts and cheese, breads and yoghurt, sweet buns and cereal being removed from the buffet table and taken back to the kitchen. “I appreciate the offer, but for the time being, I’ll just poke around a bit and see what I come up with. It’s far too soon to get the police involved.”

  “You are already involved with the police, Mr. Lindstrom.”

  Harry looked at her, trying to decipher the impenetrable blue of her eyes.

  “Really? How involved?”

  “I am in need of clarification. Your credentials are suspect. Is that the word?”

  “Possibly it is. I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You were a private investigator in British Columbia, yes?”

  “Yes, briefly. Several years ago.”

  “In a place called Nanaimo, yes? It is very beautiful, I understand.”

  “It is and it isn’t.”

  “And you had some trouble there, am I correct?”

  “Not really,” said Harry. “I didn’t pay much attention.”

  Hannah Arnason ducked her head to the side and looked over at him through a veil of hair the colour of moonlight. Her features were relaxed.

  Express the unexpected, Harry. Beautiful women learn that from birth.

  “Who told you about this?” he asked, ignoring Karen.

  “I would not be permitted to say.”

  Harry turned to gaze out the window. The air was filled with snow but the pavement was nearly bare. Either Stockholm was exceptionally efficient with snow removal or it received relatively little precipitation. He looked back into the room, surveying the worn floor. Two men at the far side of the room began unrolling a Heriz carpet of astonishing beauty that reached almost from wall to wall. An ornate field of madder red floating on a sea of midnight blue filled the room with warmth. He had a Heriz in his living room but this one was better, although not so old. Neither he nor Inspector Arnason said anything as the men m
anoeuvred tables and chairs until the final roll of the carpet was at their feet.

  They stood up and moved aside. The workmen said nothing but rearranged their chairs on the cleaned carpet, then motioned for them to sit down again, which they did. Hannah Arnason offered a generous smile. A fine carpet in the restaurant of a small hotel: this was Sweden, gracious to a fault.

  Harry sat back abruptly and stared out the low-slung arched window that created the illusion of an intimate alcove, although from street level they appeared to be under its heavy curve, bearing up the weight of the building. Tall blonde women walked by, each wearing a garnish of snow, each dressed immaculately in a wrap-around coat with a fur collar, stepping through the fresh snow in high boots with fur trim. In fact, most of the women on the Drottninggatan, and the men as well, might have been walking along Bloor St. in Toronto. People in more temperate climates always looked surprised by winter. Not in Stockholm. And not all of the women were blonde, or tall. But they were all dressed for the cold.

  He turned to address Hannah Arnason but fell quiet when she smiled again. He realized he was scowling. He did his best to smile in return as he recalled lines from a Yeats poem he’d studied years ago: “Like a long-legged fly upon the stream, Her mind moves upon silence.” He found the description unnerving.

  He said, “As far as I know, only a handful of people are aware I’m in Stockholm. Two of them are cops, one in Toronto, one in Reykjavik. Another is my travel agent. And then there’s Bernd Ghiberti.”

  “And myself, of course.” Her smile was unnerving. “I know you are here, Mr. Lindstrom.”

  “I’m here as a private citizen, a Canadian in good standing.”

  “And you are Swedish, also?”

  “A long way back. A Canadian smorgasbord: Swedish, Scottish, German, English, Mennonite from Switzerland.”

  “You are religious?”

  “After fleeing the American Revolution to protect their faith, my Mennonite ancestors settled in Canada and lost it.”

  “Québécois? You have French?”

  “No. I lived there for a couple of years when I was a kid.”

  “And from Sweden? Where?”