Mountain Ghost: A Polar Task Force Thriller, Book #2 (PolarPol)

by Christoffer Petersen

  “And Lindström’s last confirmed location?”

  “We found his pickup on the mountain road to Kebnekaise. You know Kebnekaise?”

  “Sweden’s highest mountain.” Etienne nodded. “Gina told me.”

  “Did she tell you about the hose attached to Lindström’s exhaust? That it was threaded into the window?”

  “No.”

  “What about the blood on the back seat?”

  “Lindström’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “But no body?”

  “No body, and the only tracks in the snow around the vehicle were animals – marten and deer, if I recall.”

  “And the engine?”

  “It had been running, but it ran dry.”

  “So Lindström tried to commit suicide, but either he got second thoughts and crawled out…”

  “Closing the door? Leaving the engine running?”

  “Or,” Etienne said, after a moment’s pause, “someone pulled him out, forgot about the pickup, dragged him to safety. Maybe even as far as hospital.”

  “And a few weeks later,” Berglund said, nodding at the screens. “This.”

  Etienne stood and moved his chair back to the wall. He tugged his phone from his jacket pocket, scrolled through his contacts to find Evelyn’s number, then paused, his thumb hovering over the dial icon.

  “You’ve shown me this,” he said. “But you’ve told me next to nothing.”

  Berglund leaned back in his chair; his eyes fixed on Etienne. He said nothing.

  “Polarpol is here at the invitation of the Swedish government. And, if we’re honest, it’s more of an honorary thing. Lindström was on our list of potential Swedish recruits, and I’m guessing, when he went missing, someone saw an opportunity to get us involved. Or,” he said, as a shadow flickered in Berglund’s eyes. “Someone brought us here to throw a spanner in the works – irritating for you, no doubt immensely satisfying for someone else.”

  “You know politics,” Berglund said, with a snort.

  “I’ve had a taste,” Etienne said. “But we’re here now. You may as well use us.”

  “Okay.”

  “But on one condition.” Etienne raised his hand to stop Berglund from getting up. “You have to start talking. You have to start sharing information.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “You can start with Sky Vault.”

  Berglund wiped his hand across his stubbled chin. He cursed once under his breath, then nodded at Etienne. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s check you in to a hotel. We can talk in the bar.”

  Chapter 10

  OUTSIDE LONDON, ENGLAND

  He was on the rooftop, hurdling the twisted ventilation pipes, skirting the air-conditioning units. Every hurdle presented another; every leap was shorter than expected – blocked by cables sealed inside insulated tubes. The surface of the roof was icy, and he slipped all the way to the edge, closer and closer, hurdle after hurdle, but still she fell.

  “Edie!”

  Byrne jerked awake, shaking the last of an all too familiar dream from his head, curious that he was holding the steering wheel – both hands. His fingers were stiff, as if he had been gripping the wheel for some time – or maybe, he thought, the dreams are getting more intense, the closer I get to…

  Home.

  They had a cottage picked out – a bit of land, far enough from London to be inconvenient for all but the most determined visitors. Byrne had had a plan, and Edie was so close to agreeing to it, so close that the events in Iceland, the burning of Edith Teal and Byrne Cantrell, the way the Spurring Group had thrown them to the wolves… Well, Byrne needn’t wonder at his grip on the wheel, or the intensity of his dreams.

  Edie should be alive. She would be alive if it wasn’t for them. If it wasn’t for him.

  In between the rage, Byrne occasionally stepped into an oasis of calm, where the more objective part of his brain analysed Constable Hákon Sigurðsson’s actions on the dock, how the big Icelander – and his sniper accomplice – had planned a through-shot, catching Byrne off guard.

  And that doesn’t happen often.

  Byrne’s grudging respect gave him the reprieve he needed from the anger he felt over his wife’s death, and a moment of pause on his quest for vengeance. He ignored the part of his brain goading him with taunts that he had given up and that Edie’s death will go unavenged if he doesn’t…

  “Enough.”

  Byrne reached for the bottle of water tucked into the drinks holder in the dash. The water was cool, like the temperature in the car. He drank half the bottle, thinking through his next step, wondering – not for the first time – if it really was a good idea to visit Edith’s family home. He knew her parents were grieving in a time-share in Spain, escaping the cold, but the thought of one last look at Edith’s childhood bedroom, the kitchen table where she studied – all the rooms, spurred him on.

  “I need this,” he said, adding another cloud of breath to the misted windows inside Smug Simon’s BMW.

  Byrne took a last sip of water, pausing, the mouth of the bottle against his lips, as he saw the flash of headlights turning into the country lane in which he was parked. He stuffed the bottle into the holder, squinting through the mist as he wondered if he should start the engine, until the car parked at the end of the lane, blocking his escape. A swirl of blue emergency lights penetrating the window mist confirmed it: police.

  “I’m fucked.”

  Byrne heard the crunch of gravel beneath the officers’ boots – one officer on each side of the lane. If the windows were clearer, Byrne might have been able to identify the type of patrol car, allowing him to make a better threat assessment. Were they armed? Was it a K9 unit? Byrne held his breath as the police officer approaching on the left side of the lane reached the driver’s side of the BMW. He shone his flashlight through the windscreen, forcing Byrne to look away if he wanted to protect his night vision.

  “Hands,” the officer said, tipping the flashlight to tap the butt on the windscreen. “Put them on the dash, where I can see them.”

  “What’s this about?” Byrne said, raising his voice. He looked to his left, just as the second officer arched forwards, shining his light through the passenger window.

  “Put your hands on the dash,” the first officer repeated. “That’s it. Keep them there while we open the door.”

  “I have to unlock the door,” Byrne said. “I’m going to have to move my hands.”

  “Go ahead. Just the one hand. Your right.”

  The door opened with a click. Byrne pushed it a few centimetres, then put his hand back on the dash at the flick of the police officer’s light.

  “You just sit tight now. I’m going to open the door.”

  “I’m not moving,” Byrne said.

  “All right. I’m opening the door now.”

  The air trapped between the old brick and ivy walls of the country lane was cold and dense. It crept into the car, over Byrne’s thighs, dragging with it the stink of fox and black, loamy earth. Byrne turned his head, just a little, to look at the officer as he opened the door wide.

  “You want me to step out?” he asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  The police officer took a step back and Byrne slipped his legs…

  “Slowly.”

  …out of the car until he was standing. Byrne turned to face the car, placing his hands on the roof, squaring his feet on the rough surface of the road.

  “You’ve done this before, eh?”

  “I’ve seen a lot of TV,” Byrne said, choosing to relax, not react as the police officer checked him for weapons. He thought about the sawn-off shotgun hidden beneath the passenger seat, and the Glock in the glove compartment. They would find that first.

  And then I’ll have to act. But not before. Byrne let out a soft sigh as the police officer took a step back. And then again, he thought. Maybe I’ll be lucky.

  “What do you think?” the officer asked his partner.
/>   The constable checked his phone and turned the photo on the screen towards Byrne. “Yeah, it’s him.”

  Fuck. Not so much.

  “What’s this about, officer?”

  Byrne considered turning, then dropped the idea as the second police officer opened the passenger door.

  “Is this your car?”

  “I’m borrowing it.”

  “From Simon Partridge, by any chance?”

  “Yes,” Byrne said. “I’m borrowing it from Simon.”

  Byrne turned his head at the sound of something metallic clicking. He guessed it was handcuffs being tugged out of a pouch on the police officer’s belt. Byrne almost smiled. There had been a moment when he thought he was in trouble, but the sound of old-fashioned cuffs put the two officers into Byrne’s favourite category of law enforcement: local, country cops. In Byrne’s experience, a cop with plastic ties was a busy cop, someone used to containing people and scenes – quickly and with necessary prejudice. Plastic ties often meant bad experiences – on both sides of the street.

  But this wasn’t a busy city street in London.

  This was a quiet country lane in the country, a little to the north and west of Reading. Close enough to the capital to commute, but too far to call for backup.

  Of course, Byrne reminded himself, country cops or not, they would have called in the number plate, and backup – the more serious kind, complete with plastic ties – would be on the way.

  “Place your right hand behind your back.”

  “Listen,” Byrne said – calmly, but firmly.

  “Right hand.”

  Byrne head the crunch of gravel beneath the police officer’s feet, guessed that he was anticipating some measure of resistance.

  “My right hand?”

  “Yes, your right hand. Are you deaf?”

  Byrne’s appreciation of cars extended beyond the classics. Although he preferred to drive something with vintage lines, he wasn’t blind to the aesthetics of the newer models, with details like the raised lip like a long fin running both sides of the BMW’s roof, and providing just enough grip for Byrne’s hands, as he curled his fingers around it.

  “Hey,” the officer said, as Byrne kicked back from the car, slamming into the man’s chest, tumbling them both onto the ground.

  Byrne was the first to recover, rolling to his left, but keeping his weight on the officer’s body, as he bent his arm and slammed his elbow into the man’s chest, just above the collar of his stab vest. He pushed himself to his feet, catching the first blow of the second officer’s flashlight on his shoulder, before ducking beneath the man’s arm, inside his defence, and cracking his chin with a savage upwards jerk of his head. Byrne heard the man’s teeth clack together, then followed up with two blows to the man’s face. He grabbed the man’s vest before he fell, pulling him forward and toppling him onto his partner.

  Byrne took the handcuffs – two sets – and locked the men’s wrists together. He fumbled the car keys out of the first officer’s pocket, then jogged to the patrol car, turning off the emergency lights and moving it to one side. Byrne jogged back to the BMW when he was finished, tossing the officer’s keys over the wall before climbing in behind the wheel.

  The BMW started as soon as he clicked the fob into the slot and pressed the starter button. Byrne took his mobile from the glove compartment and dialled Bess Park’s number, then reached for the Glock.

  “Byrne?” Bess’ voice crackled out of the phone’s speakers.

  “You sound tired. I woke you.”

  “It’s…” A pause. “Three fifty-seven.”

  “Yep, and I’m blown – again.”

  “Where are you?”

  “About twenty miles north of Reading.” Byrne slid the Glock under his thigh as he reached the end of the lane. He turned right and accelerated.

  “You’re close.”

  “I don’t want to know, Bess.”

  “But you can’t keep running. You need to sleep.”

  “I had a few hours in the car. I just need…”

  “More than a few hours. Come here. Get a good night’s sleep – a whole night. Food and…”

  “Bess.”

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t put you in that position.”

  “You’re not.” Bess paused as Byrne cursed the air-conditioning, slowing for a dark country road crossing. “The Spurring Group has been tracking me – north of the border. Right now…” Another pause, one in which Byrne imagined Bess checking her computer. “I’m in South Shields. At least, that’s where my phone is. One of them, at least.”

  “You’re using decoys?”

  “Unsuspecting truck drivers. A few have been pulled over, already. I’m nearly out of phones – the ones Spurring knows about.”

  “It’s dangerous, Bess.”

  “So’s sleeping in a stolen car. If they can find you in the country at four in the morning, they can find you anywhere.”

  “Still,” Byrne said, slowing at another tiny crossroads. “It’s too dangerous. You should be out of the country already. I shouldn’t be calling you. We shouldn’t be talking.”

  “But we are, and I’m not – out of the country. Come to my place, then I’ll leave. I promise.”

  Bess’ four-in-the-morning voice was another oasis in Byrne’s fatigued brain. He could almost smell her perfume, and... What was that? Coffee? Hot coffee, freshly brewed, steaming on the kitchen counter.

  “Byrne?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  Not fast enough.

  That was the problem with running and being on the run. Byrne couldn’t remember how many times he had discussed it with Edie, how you had to keep moving. She would counter him – of course – with the argument that running was fine, for the first forty-eight hours, but at some point, you would get tired and make mistakes. At some point you had to stop and regroup.

  Byrne had been on the run for two weeks.

  He had made plenty of mistakes.

  It was time to stop.

  “Bess?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been thinking.” Byrne slowed the car to a stop. He turned down the heat, comfortable now, and a little more confident since the windscreen had cleared. “I need to ditch the car.”

  “Yes.”

  “Somewhere far away, and then I’ll come to you.”

  “Good,” she said. Byrne smiled as he heard Bess’ accompanying sigh of relief.

  “I call you when I ditch the car, then I’ll come some way on foot. You can pick me up.”

  “Where?”

  “That depends on how far away you are?”

  “I’m closer than you think.” Bess laughed. “Hiding in plain sight.”

  “You’re in London?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I know where you are.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Pick me up before dawn. The usual place.”

  “I’ll be there. And then I’ll drive you to the cottage.” Bess paused. “It’s safe,” she said.

  Byrne ended the call. He took a moment, resisting the urge to relax, but curious all the same at the phantom smell of coffee that seemed to grow stronger by the minute. Byrne peered through the windscreen at a farmhouse in the distance. He turned off the headlights, then drove on, slowly, bumping down the farmyard track, in the hopes of ditching the BMW for something less conspicuous. Byrne grinned when he saw the old Land Rover Defender. He parked alongside it, grabbed the sawn-off and the Glock, and swapped cars.

  The BMW might be stylish, comfortable, and smooth. But the Land Rover was a classic. Byrne hot-wired the old Defender into life, and bumped back up the farmyard track, turning south at the crossroads, back towards the city.

  Chapter 11

  GÄLLIVARE, SWEDEN

  Trooper Evelyn Odell was used to small communities. She was used to everybody knowing everybody else’s business, used to living in similar houses, coping with common problems, not least the mystifying time zone shifts i
n her home village of Yakutat, Alaska. Every time the Alaska Highway System ferry pulled into Yakutat harbour, she would hear the loudspeakers reminding passengers of the time when the ferry would leave, and that they should trust their wristwatch, not their phones – because, something screwy happens with mobiles in Yakutat.

  During her early twenties, once she understood more about technology, not just how to use it, Evelyn was convinced there had to be a reason why mobiles lost track of time in Yakutat. But the older she got, the more she appreciated the charm associated with the technological blip, and how she really didn’t need to know the reason why.

  Screwy technology was not Trooper Odell’s field of specialism, but she enjoyed discussing the similarities of tracking people in the wilds to searching for tracks in cyberspace. Like the unique cut in the rubber tread of a missing teenager’s shoe, the same unique tracks could be found in cyberspace, or even in a modest-sized family house in Arctic Sweden, where someone was using cyberspace to keep tracks on his family.

  Evelyn left the explanations to Gina and Filippa, waiting only for Márjá to give her consent for a strange cop from Alaska to go snooping around her house.

  The house felt cold, prickling Evelyn’s skin as she shed her boots, jacket, and hat, to squirm into the crawlspaces in the loft. Ice clung to the rafters closest to the roof tiles like fungus. She pressed her fingernail into it twice, just to be sure. But the loft revealed nothing, and Evelyn dropped down through the hatch onto the first-floor landing, shaking her head when Gina asked.

  “I’d like to look in the bedroom,” Evelyn said, waiting for a nod from Márjá.

  Mats’ wife held their son, Niillas, at her hip. His large brown eyes seemed to suck the light from the room, and Evelyn clicked the flashlight in her hand, praising herself for remembering to toss it into her luggage before her flight. Evelyn smiled at Niillas, and then padded into Márjá’s bedroom.

  The bed was unmade, sheets and duvet wrinkled, but the bedside table on one side was neat, untouched. Evelyn guessed it was the side of the bed where Mats slept. She started her search there. Evelyn closed the door and lay on the bed, hoping Gina would keep Márjá occupied, allowing her to lay back and scan the walls, considering the angles Mats might position a hidden camera.