Contents
Mountain Ghost
Author's Note
Map: Sweden
Mountain Ghost
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
If you enjoyed this book
Get more Scandinavian Crime stories
About the Author
By the same Author
Mountain Ghost
Mountain Ghost
Polarpol series, book #2
Christoffer Petersen
Don’t miss Book 1
Northern Light
Author’s Note
Mountain Ghost continues the story begun in Northern Light – the first book in the Polarpol series of novels. The Polarpol novels borrow characters from my other series, with a direct crossover from The Bolivian Girl, however, it is not necessary to read the other series before reading Mountain Ghost, although the reader would benefit from reading Northern Light.
There are at least nine novels planned for the Polarpol series, with each novel set in a country with an Arctic territory, plus an additional story planned for Denmark.
Polarpol is a fictitious and fledgling police force, trying to find its feet despite the political and geographical obstacles thrown in its way. But, in all honesty, the Polarpol stories, written in British English, are indulgent flights of fancy with plenty of ice, snow, and action, that I enjoy writing.
Thanks for joining me for second leg of the Polarpol journey.
Chris
November 2020
Denmark
Mountain Ghost
Prologue
GÄLLIVARE, SWEDEN
Thick flakes of snow spun in the streetlight, rising and falling at the whim of the Arctic wind curling around the streets of the small Swedish town of Gällivare, one hundred kilometres north of the Arctic Circle. Mats Lindström’s breath misted his glasses as he stood on the deck of the first floor of his house on Zinkringen, a good twenty minutes’ walk to the town centre, longer when one accounted for the deep snow lining the street. A cloud of ice crystals curled off the blanket of snow on the roof, dusting his thick black hair, brushing the back of his neck. He ignored it with barely a shiver as he looked over the wooden railings at the snow piled up against the garage door. If he had known that this night would be the night he chose to disappear, he would have left his pickup on the street.
Disappear.
The word soured on his tongue, as he fought back various chafing counter thoughts reminding himself that he wasn’t a bloody magician, that this was no trick. He had to get away and the snow drifting against the garage door would slow him down. Shovelling it might even wake his wife, Márjá. He turned his head. He could just see Márjá through the frost on the bedroom window, her hand curled around the corner of the duvet, tucking it under her chin as she slept in the glow of the nightlight. Sweet Márjá, named after her Sami grandmother. Niillas, named after Márjá’s grandfather would be snuggled against his mother’s back. Beyond the crisp crackle of air inside his nose, Mats could almost smell Niillas’ skin, the baby powder Márjá dusted him with each night. Mats smiled at the early evening memory of Niillas clapping the powder with tiny fat hands, giggling as Márjá spluttered the talcum from her lips. Once Niillas was in bed, Mats had wiped the powder from Márjá’s nose, brushing it from her cheeks, teasing it from her long blonde hair, before slipping his arms around her belly as she turned to look at their son, whispering, “See what we made.” Márjá smoothed her hands over his, as Mats pressed his nose against her neck, drawing her scent into his memories with each long inhale. Three-year-old Niillas snored softly on his pillow. Out on the deck, Mats could almost hear him, if he just kept his feet still on the snow covering the tired wood. Scents and sounds would help him preserve the image of his family, would keep the memories strong, intact – whole.
That’s why I have to disappear, he reminded himself. To keep my family whole.
Of course, he knew it wasn’t enough to just disappear. Which is why he left the letter on Márjá’s bedside table. He had written the words, not typed, absorbing a string of mental punches to the gut with each curve of a ‘t’, each dot of an ‘i’.
Necessary. To keep my family whole. To keep them safe.
He imagined Márjá would eventually return to her grandparents in Jokkmokk, that Niillas might go to the Sami secondary school, that he might even become a reindeer herder. It was folly, he knew, but ever since the day he knew he had to disappear, Mats had forced himself to imagine a different future for his family, than the one he and Márjá had dreamed of on their wedding day.
“The garage,” he whispered, his words crackling in the dry cold pressing down upon his home. Márjá’s home now – according to the will.
Everything was planned.
It was all explained in the letter.
All that remained was to clear the snow from the garage door, grab his backpack and skis from the rafters in the roof, and hope the pickup was heavy enough to roll out of the garage and onto the street before he had to start the engine.
Stop stalling, he thought.
Mats walked off the deck, taking the steps slowly, pressing the air out of the thick snow with the heels of his boots, barely a squeal with each step. He skimmed the first layer of snow from the drift with a plastic shovel, tossing it to one side. The snow glittered in the streetlight, settling in powdery heaps as Mats added more snow, slowing as he reached the older layer of ice coating the drive. The garage door opened with a sigh, drawing a nod from Mats as he praised himself for remembering to oil the springs earlier in the week. He placed the shovel in the bed of his pickup, fetched his pack and skis from the rafters, tucking them beneath a canvas tarp he tied behind the cab. He had a pistol in the glove compartment. Mats checked the magazine, then slipped it into the holster on his right hip. He closed the driver’s door as quietly as he had opened it, slipped the pickup out of gear, and let gravity do the rest. It was Niillas who had discovered that the garage floor was not level, chasing his football the length of the garage during the summer, before rolling it back, away from the door, to begin all over again.
I’m sorry, Niillas. And Márjá… forgive me.
The back wheels of Mats’ pickup rode through the lip of new snow over the curb as he turned the steering wheel, positioning the pickup for the run downhill to the first curve of Zinkringen where he intended to start the engine.
He had courted Márjá in their final year of school, waited for her to finish studying languages at Uppsala University, while he fast-tracked through the police academy. She was gifted with the language of her grandparents, while he impressed his tutors with the language of the future, coding his way into the welcoming arms of SÄPO, the Swedish Security Service. Mats and Márjá fell in love in their teens, married in their twenties, and planned to have one
more baby before they turned thirty – less than two years away. But it had taken Mats less than ten minutes to leave all of that behind.
Mats started the engine, clicking the pickup into four-wheel drive as he slid into the first corner. His glasses demisted in the flow of air as the heater warmed up, but the salt from his tears obscured his vision. He pulled his glasses from his face, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then headed north for Kiruna, distracting himself with thoughts of his final destination: Kebnekaise, Sweden’s tallest mountain, the place Mats had chosen to disappear.
Chapter 1
QUÉBEC CITY, CANADA
The lights of Québec City’s German Christmas market reflected in Kaitlin Garry’s thick-rimmed glasses. She tugged her wool bobble hat further over her ears, pushing RCMP Inspector Etienne Gagnon away as he tried to help.
“You’re covering me in icing sugar,” she said, stepping to one side.
“Your ears are pink.”
“Because it’s cold.”
“It’s winter.”
“Yes.” Kaitlin finished adjusting her hat and pulled her mittens out of the deep pockets of her long wool jacket. “I noticed.”
“But you’re pleased you came?”
Kaitlin stopped beside a wooden enclosure, turning to look at the geese before giving Etienne one of her more penetrating stares. Beyond the square jaw, the trim haircut taming his unruly brown hair, and his uniform taste in clothes, she sensed there was something more to Inspector Gagnon and had to admit that she was pleased she had accepted his invite, regardless of his motives.
“Let’s see,” she said, holding up her hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Counting off my fingers.”
“Inside your mitten?”
“Yes. You’ll have to take my word for it.”
“All right.” Etienne leaned against the enclosure, spilling crumbs and spores of powdery sugar from his stollen Christmas bun as Kaitlin talked.
“One,” she said. “Your timing was perfect.”
“A lucky accident,” Etienne said. “The Logan was diverted back to the States for Christmas. I should be in Sweden.”
Kaitlin tilted her head to one side, releasing a curl of black hair as it escaped from her hat. “Are you going to let me finish?”
Etienne flicked his gaze towards Kaitlin’s mitten. “How many fingers?”
“One. I told you.”
“I couldn’t see.”
“Right.” Kaitlin took a step away from the enclosure, waited for a group of festive tourists to pass, and then redoubled her efforts. “I can see you’re going to be difficult…”
“Not difficult…”
“Challenging,” Kaitlin said. “You are a challenge, Inspector, and I challenge you to keep quiet while I work through my list.”
“Both hands?” Etienne laughed, raising his own hands in mock defence. “I’ll be quiet,” he said.
“Two.” Kaitlin glanced at a fat goose as it waddled over to hoover up Etienne’s spilled crumbs and sugar. “You paid for my flight. Which made it easier to accept your invitation. And, of course, there’s the associated guilt.”
“Kat,” Etienne said. “We’re past that.”
“You might be.”
“You wrote an article. Polarpol exists today because of your article. You applied the pressure I needed to stay in the game.” Etienne jerked away from the enclosure as the goose thrust its neck through the railings to nibble at his leg.
“My brave Mountie,” Kaitlin said, with a giggle.
“It’s a goose. They can be vicious.” Etienne brushed the last crumbs from his jeans and offered Kaitlin his arm. “Come on, let’s go before he escapes.”
Kaitlin slipped her arm through Etienne’s drawing him close as they walked through the crowds, winding their way past the toymaker’s stalls, turning their heads at the smell of candied almonds spiced with the heady tang of Glühwein.
“You were saying?” she said, as they joined a slower stream of tourists.
“I was saying I don’t think about it anymore.”
“I was Aaron Barnes’ spy, Etienne. I was supposed to dig up the dirt on you, to use it against you.”
“But you didn’t.” Etienne bumped shoulders with a large man on his right as the crowd slowed into a bottleneck between two popular stalls. The man smiled, said something about currywurst and pointed at the queue of tourists waiting to buy the popular German curried sausage. “Good idea,” Etienne said, tugging Kaitlin gently into the line. “And your number three,” he said.
“Number three.” Kaitlin paused. “I’ll have to think.”
She rewound her thoughts to arriving in Québec, meeting Laurier Gagnon outside the airport – a slightly taller and older version of his son. Then there was the ride into the city, the stylish deep hues of the wood panelling in the hall and study of Laurier’s house, contrasting with the vibrant clothes and personality of Etienne’s sister, Mariève. While there was nothing overtly romantic going on between Kaitlin and Etienne – she had the spare room, for God’s sake – meeting Etienne’s sister was still strange, in the same way that boyfriends meeting brothers was strange. It helped, she mused, that Mariève’s personality disguised her military background, something that Kaitlin wasn’t sure she could cope with in addition to the whole sibling thing.
“Well?” Etienne nudged Kaitlin as they reached the stall.
“I was thinking.”
“And I’m buying sausage. Are we sharing or…?”
“Sharing,” Kaitlin said. She pointed at a couple leaving a table. “I’ll get seats.”
Etienne brought the sausage first, then went back for the forks and coffee.
“I’m not sure about coffee with curry but there was a queue for the Glühwein.”
“Coffee’s good.”
They picked at the sausage, plastic forks clashing as they competed for the larger pieces. Etienne suggested he buy another portion, muttering something about the number of people joining the queue. A brass band started playing and he leaned over the table, turning his ear towards Kaitlin’s mouth as she started speaking.
“Tell me about Sweden.”
“What about number three?”
“Later.” Kaitlin forked the last piece of sausage. “Sweden first.”
“Well,” Etienne said, finding the right pitch to compete with the band. “We should have sailed there directly from Iceland.”
“From the conference?”
“That’s right.” Etienne studied Kaitlin as he paused. “What do you know?”
“Not much,” she said. “Something about a high-profile assassination, foreign agents – deniable, of course. The man they killed was a tech guru about to blow the whistle on the industry and the government players – the interested parties.”
“You don’t know much, eh?”
Kaitlin licked the last curry from her fork. “Hi,” she said, tugging her hand from her mitten and grasping Etienne’s. “Kat Garry, journalist. Have we met?”
Etienne clasped Kaitlin’s hand between his, blowing on her fingertips, smiling as he nodded for her to continue.
“Go on, Kat Garry,” he said.
“The fact that Senator Hayes’ daughter was in command of the Logan gave the whole thing a few more paragraphs than it might have, although an assassination of a prominent tech guru…”
“He was killed with a stray bullet,” Etienne said, as they lowered their hands to the table. He moved his hand back slightly, until Kaitlin pressed forward, keeping the contact.
“You left an Icelander in charge.”
“Hákon Sigurðsson.” Etienne smiled. “Big fella.”
“He was shot.”
“In the foot and through the chest.” Etienne let go of Kaitlin’s hand to press two fingers into the space below his collarbone. “Vitaly, our Russian, shot him from behind in order to shoot another man.”
“Who?”
Etienne frowned, then made a show of search
ing under Kaitlin’s arms, stopping short of checking her pockets.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“You introduced yourself as a journalist. I’m looking for your notepad.”
“I’m recording.” Kaitlin slapped at Etienne’s fingers. “Keep going.”
“Vitaly shot a man called Byrne Cantrell. We don’t know much about him, only that he was in Iceland to make sure the assassination was a success.”
“You know that for certain?”
“It’s a good bet.” Etienne stood as Kaitlin shivered. “You’re getting cold. Let’s take our coffees and keep moving.”
“You’re wondering about jurisdiction?” Etienne took a sip of coffee as they walked.
“I think that’s Senator Hayes’ headache, not mine.”
“We were invited to assist the Icelandic police. That’s the point of Polarpol – to assist, where needed, anywhere in the Arctic.”
“Above the Arctic Circle?”
“Above and just below, really.” Etienne said. “We can go into subarctic areas, but it’s a grey area. I think staying above the Circle is easiest.”
“And this man, Cantrell.”
“What about him?”
“What happened to him?”
Etienne slowed as they reached the last stall of the market. “Unknown.”
“You said Vitaly shot him.”
“Through Hákon, that’s right.”
“And then?”
“He slipped over the side of the dock and into the water.”
“The sea?”
“Yes.”
“In Iceland, in winter.”
“Yes.”
“He’s dead then. He has to be.”
“That is the general consensus,” Etienne said. “But…”
“What?”
“Hákon’s not convinced.”
“The big fella?” Kaitlin took Etienne’s empty coffee cup, slipped it inside her own, and tossed both into the trash as they left the market. She pushed her mittened hand inside her pocket, curling the fingers of her other hand around Etienne’s. “You trust him, don’t you?”
Mountain Ghost: A Polar Task Force Thriller, Book #2 (PolarPol) Page 1
