“Evelyn?” he said, passing the photos to her.
“It’s difficult,” she said, after a moment’s pause. “The images are grainy to begin with.” She looked at Gina. “Blown up for printing?”
Gina nodded.
“His clothes are similar. But, if we could see more photos, maybe match them with others he has on his profile.” Evelyn looked at Filippa. “Was his profile public?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, pushing back her chair. She yanked at a stiff wooden drawer in the dresser opposite the outer wall. The candles flickered in the rush of wind from her movements, and again when she slapped a sheath of papers onto the table. Filippa spread them on top of the photos and said, “There. Look.”
Gina took the first paper, holding it close to her face as she studied it.
“Mats’ bank statements,” Filippa said. She leaned over the table and pressed her finger against numbers someone had circled in black ink. “Seventy-five Swedish kroner in a gas station – LPG, in Kiruna. Coffee and a snack. Dated…” Filippa paused to peer at the paper. “December twenty-second. The same night as the party.”
“You have Mats’ bank statements?” Gina asked.
“They come to his house. I’ve been emptying his mailbox. Márjá can’t handle it. I told her I would empty it, leave her mail, then tell her if she had to deal with anything for Mats.” Filippa narrowed her eyes as she looked at Gina. “I didn’t look at Mats’ accounts. Not at work.”
“His card wasn’t blocked?” Etienne asked.
Filippa bit her lip, sinking into her chair before answering. “They never found his body.” She turned to Gina, stabbing her finger onto the bank statements. “My brother is still alive.”
“Filippa…”
“No,” Filippa said, shaking her head. “Look there.” She reached for one of the other statements. “This is November. He was at another tank station three days after he left Márjá.”
Etienne leaned forward to look at the statement. “Where?”
“Svappavaara,” she said, turning to Gina. “You know where he’s gone, Gina.”
“Even if he is there… It’s winter.”
“He’s prepared. He’s coming into town for food. When he runs out.”
It was Gina’s turn to shake her head. “Filippa… This is something else. Someone has his card. That’s the only explanation. Someone found him, took his wallet…”
“No.” Filippa slapped her hand on the table. “He’s alive, Gina. You just have to go to the mountain. You have to search there. Check all the cabins. He’s there. I know he is.”
“What mountain?” Evelyn asked.
“Kebnekaise,” Gina said, with one eye on Filippa, a flat smile on her lips. “It’s the tallest mountain in Sweden.”
“Mats has been there many times,” Filippa said. “He knows the area.”
Etienne swapped a look with Evelyn, then reached for the papers, spreading the statements to one side, before returning to the photos. “Just supposing Mats is alive.” He lifted his hand, stopping Gina as she started to speak. He turned his attention to Filippa, then gestured at the photos. “If he’s alive, why would he be in these photos?”
Filippa’s lips curled as she answered. “You’d have to ask him,” she said, hiking her thumb over her shoulder, pointing at the kitchen door.
“Who? Berglund?”
“Yes, him.”
“Filippa,” Gina said.
“You know what he’s doing. It’s exactly the kind of thing they do.”
“Who? SÄPO?”
Filippa nodded, then turned to Gina. “Tell them what I said, the first time we talked about this.” She pointed at Etienne. “Tell him.”
“Okay.” Gina set her coffee cup down. She sighed before she began.
Chapter 6
LONDON, ENGLAND
Hákon waited in the passenger seat of Ansel’s car as the MI5 officer approached the police constable guarding the lockup. The two men shook hands, after which the constable slipped his hand into his pocket, securing the bribe Hákon believed Ansel had given him. Hákon shifted in his seat, suddenly curious as to why a government agent would bribe a police constable. Ansel dispelled the thought with a wave of his hand, beckoning for Hákon to join him inside the lockup.
The concrete floor was stained with blood, leaving plenty of DNA evidence, and a map of sorts, revealing the movements of the different actors involved in the incident.
“Carnage,” the constable said, as he followed Hákon and Ansel inside. “That’s how the detectives described it.”
“You saw the bodies?”
“Oh yes, I saw them.” The constable stepped around Hákon, pausing briefly to look up, as if to confirm that the Icelander was really that tall, before pointing to the chair on the other side of the splintered desk. “Smug Simon was there – bullet to the head, more in his stomach. The detectives said they thought he tried to get out of the chair which made me laugh.”
“Why?” Hákon asked.
“Well, Smug Simon never leaves his chair. I mean, okay, maybe when he goes for a piss, but he’s always sitting down.”
“And here?” Ansel said, stepping around a pool of blood and drag marks in front of the desk.
“That’s where the kid was. Severed in half from a shotgun.” The constable walked around the blood and tapped the splintered remains of the desk. He grinned, clearly enjoying his new-found status as crime scene expert. “Everyone knows Simon kept a shotgun wired under the desk. Just like he always had two men with him for every meeting. The detectives said the kid must have caught both barrels.”
“Why?”
“Say what?” the constable looked at Hákon.
“Why would the kid get both barrels?”
“Well, you’d have to ask Simon that, but if you ask me…”
“I am.”
“Then,” the constable said, nodding at a chair lying to one side. “That chair would have been in front of the desk, and in front of Simon and his shotgun. That’s how he did his business transactions – one fat hand under the table, finger on the trigger, like.”
“You seem to know a lot about Simon,” Hákon said.
“Well, yes, this is my beat. I know what goes on around these parts. I wouldn’t be much good if I didn’t, would I?”
“Constable White has wormed his way into the local community quite quickly,” Ansel said. “Given his short time on the force.”
“Three years,” White said, puffing out his chest.
“He knows both sides of the street.” Ansel nodded at White, encouraging him to open up.
“You have to, don’t you?”
Hákon curled his hand around the gnarled wood at the top of his walking stick, as White studied his face. “Yes,” he said, after making eye contact with Ansel. “I suppose you do.”
“Suppose?” White laughed. “Listen, mate, you’ve got to get on with everyone round here, if you’re going to get anywhere. Know what I mean?”
“So,” Ansel said, drawing White’s attention away from the Icelander’s wrinkled brow. “What about the one that got away? What do you know about him?”
“Him?” White shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose it was a him. But he’s got the detectives stumped, hasn’t he?” White pointed at the blood, then at the metal filing cabinets pushed against the side of the lockup. “Simon collected a tonne of dirt on the locals – coppers included. It’s all in these files. At least, it was, until the detectives took it. I bet they burned it or kept the good stuff. But whoever did this didn’t take any of it.”
“What did they take?” Hákon asked.
“Well, the guns were gone, and Simon’s extra shells for the shotgun. Oh, and the BMW. Nice black X series. It used to be parked opposite. Nice set of wheels. It was the first thing I noticed was gone.”
“And you told the detectives?”
“No,” White said, with another shrug. “I didn’t think anything of it – I mean, I knew it was gone, but I
didn’t think anyone had taken it.”
“But you do now?” Hákon shifted on his feet, ignoring the pain in his foot, as he waited for White to continue.
“Yeah, I do. It’s obvious, isn’t it? He took it, like a getaway car.”
Ansel stepped around the blood and slipped another note into White’s hand. “Thanks, Constable. You’ve been really helpful. Now, if you’ll give us a minute.”
“You don’t need any more from me?”
“No, not at the moment.” Ansel smiled, gesturing at the door. He said nothing more until they were alone, and the constable had closed the door behind him. “Carnage, eh?”
“Yes,” Hákon said.
“Simon’s a fixer. He can get anything you want, within reason. But he’s pretty low on the food chain. White thinks the filing cabinets were a goldmine of information, but that’s not the case. Part of Simon’s charm was the way he pretended to have information – lots of sly implications and knowing winks and nods of the head in conversation, but nothing of substance.”
“Then why did Cantrell come here?”
“Because, along with that charm comes a certain lack of credibility. Simon dealt with the lowlifes, making his money from lending out money to drug users and single mothers in a jam – convicts with families. You get the picture? Anyway, anyone with any real skin in the game, avoided coming directly to Simon, it just wasn’t done. You didn’t want the association.”
“I don’t understand,” Hákon said. “He was a criminal.”
“He was a sleazebag, feeding off the very bottom of society. If anyone higher up the food chain used him, they had a go-between.”
“But Cantrell…”
“Came in person. That tells us a couple of things.” Ansel righted the chair in front of the desk and sat down. He made a fist and extended his thumb. “One, he’s desperate, and he knows all other avenues are cut off to him. He can’t use his regular contacts as they are all connected.”
“To whom?”
“To what, more like.”
“You’re talking about the Spurring Group.”
Ansel tilted his head to one side, suddenly quiet, and giving Hákon the impression that he had the man’s full attention, and more besides.
“Funny,” Ansel said. “I don’t remember mentioning them.”
Hákon volunteered nothing more, his eyes fixed on Ansel until the MI5 man looked away.
“Anyway,” Ansel said, unfolding his index finger from his fist. “The other thing this tells us is that Cantrell is still fully wired.”
“How?”
“Just look at it.” Ansel gestured at the blood on the floor, the broken furniture. “Carnage. He’s operating with extreme prejudice.”
“Maybe he had to.” Hákon raised his stick and pointed at the underside of the desk, at the empty rig for the shotgun screwed into the wood.
“That’s possible, of course. The word is out there that there’s a price on Cantrell’s head. But he’s angry, Hákon. Look at this. He held nothing back.”
“But he took only what he wanted.” Hákon gestured at the filing cabinets, untouched. “If he needed money…”
Ansel shook his head. “He’s got plenty of money. He made sure of that before his last job. No,” he said, standing up. “This is him letting off steam. Yes, he’s desperate, but it’s just making him more dangerous.” Ansel drummed his fingers against his thigh as he looked at Hákon. “You’re sure you still want to be the bait?”
“Nothing has changed. You say he’s desperate. That just makes me more determined to do what I can to protect my family.”
“Then I’ll put out the word. Get you into a safe house, but we’ll leave the back door open, if you know what I mean?”
“A trap,” Hákon said.
“I’ll have plenty of men in the shadows. You’ll be safe.” Ansel took another look at the blood on the floor. “But no guarantees.”
“How will you let him know?”
“You’ve already said it.” Ansel pulled out his phone as he nodded at the door. “The Spurring Group. You’re right, Cantrell used to work for them. Going rogue like he did, puts him at the top of their most wanted list. Also, the message he left in Ferne Butcher’s body, has got them on edge. But he took one of them with him – Elisabeth Park. She was his personal assistant and I guarantee you he’s still got a line of communication open with her. Which, curiously enough, so have I.”
“You have a contact in the Spurring Group?”
Ansel walked to the door, stopping before he opened it.
“The Spurring Group is in the security business, just like MI5. We work together from time to time. It really is a small world, Hákon, which is helpful when some jobs need to be done at a distance. If you know what I mean?”
“You do work for MI5?”
“Yes.”
“And the Spurring Group?”
“Just MI5.”
“But you’ve been tasked to help the Spurring Group?”
“Cantrell’s a threat to national security, Hákon.”
“Because he killed a small time criminal?”
“You’re forgetting Ferne Butcher. But as for this?” Ansel snorted. “This is just intermission. If we don’t stop Cantrell, I guarantee you things are going to get a lot worse. Now…” Ansel waved the phone in his hand. “I’m going outside to make a call. I’ll see you back at the car.”
Ansel left Hákon inside the lockup, leaving him with more questions and another deep set of wrinkles on his brow. Ansel’s guarantees gave Hákon even more pause for thought, as he assured Hákon that Cantrell was both dangerous and predictable. The idea that Cantrell would stay in contact with his personal assistant bothered Hákon, as he wondered who was playing who. He took a last look around the lockup, tapping his stick on the floor as he worked through what he knew.
“I’m going to have to lock it up,” White said, as he poked his head around the door.
“Okay,” Hákon said. “But I’ve got one more question, if you could help me?”
White stepped inside, then dipped his head towards Hákon’s hand, as if expecting something to materialise in it. A second look up at Hákon’s face, suggested the Icelander either didn’t understand the rules, or chose to ignore them.
“All right,” White said. “But quickly now.”
“Do the detectives have a suspect in mind for this?”
“What’s that?”
“A name?”
“Not yet. Not that I’ve heard.”
“But you would have heard?”
“Of course. You can’t keep a thing like this quiet. Even if you tried, there’s the rumour mill – you know,” White said, as Hákon’s frown deepened. “Shop talk, between coppers. A case like this gets everyone talking, and there’s always someone who’s keen to let everyone know that he is in the know.”
“And?”
“Nothing,” White said, with a shake of his head. “Like I said, the detectives are stumped.”
“Okay,” Hákon said. “Thank you, Constable.”
“My pleasure.” White glanced again at Hákon’s hand, then gave up with a shrug. “I have to lock up.”
“I understand. But…” Hákon paused as he caught a glimpse of something reflecting in the light from the street. “Just a few more minutes.”
“Five minutes.” White rolled back his sleeve to look at his watch. “I’ll be outside.”
Hákon waited until White had left, then walked around the blood, around the remains of the desk, and all the way to the back wall. While some found the Icelander’s height to be intimidating, it had other uses. Hákon stepped closer to the back wall, reaching up to where he had seen a tiny flash, as if the light had caught on a smooth, shiny surface. He ran his fingers across the brick, brushing them back again as he felt something like glass beneath the tip of his finger. Hákon walked back to the desk for the chair Ansel had sat on. He carried it back to the wall, cursing the pain in his foot as he stepped onto the c
hair. With his face close to the brick, Hákon peered into a tiny glass lens, about the size of an LED bulb. Given what he knew about police surveillance equipment, Hákon guessed that the lockup was being watched. He stepped down off the chair and carried it back to the desk, setting it down where he found it. Of course, if the camera was on, and transmitting, whoever was watching would know that Hákon had found it, but there would be time to worry about that later. What worried him on the way out of the lockup and along the street to Ansel’s car, was the idea that someone knew Cantrell would come to Smug Simon. They knew that Cantrell had few other options – they had made sure of that. All other avenues were cut off, as Ansel had said, followed by all his contacts are connected.
They were already tracking Cantrell, with all likely ports of call being monitored.
Ansel doesn’t need me, Hákon thought. He’s already got Cantrell’s movements plotted. All he needs to do is wait.
But Ansel couldn’t wait. That much was obvious as Hákon considered the information he had gleaned from Constable White and the camera in the lockup. As to the reason why, that would have to wait.
“Everything all right?” Ansel asked, as he leaned against the side of his car. “You took your time. Find anything interesting?”
“Yes,” Hákon said. “Maybe.”
“Well, now you’ve got me curious.” Ansel slapped the roof of the car. “Let’s get going, Constable. You can tell me on the way.”
“Where are we going?”
“West, just outside London. We’re going to Edith Teal’s old neighbourhood.”
“Why?”
“A hunch,” Ansel said, as he settled into the driving seat.
Hákon paused at the passenger door, wondering just how many places Ansel, or perhaps the Spurring Group, had under surveillance. Spurring, Evelyn had told him, was an old Scots term for tracking, something Ansel seemed adept at doing, leading Hákon further and further from London and closer to Cantrell.
Mountain Ghost: A Polar Task Force Thriller, Book #2 (PolarPol) Page 5
