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

by Christoffer Petersen

  Evelyn reminded herself it wasn’t a voyeur or a pervert who installed the cameras – if there even were any cameras – but a concerned father and loving husband. She had to assume that Mats was loving and concerned. There was little to suggest he wasn’t, apart from the nagging feeling that he could have acted differently, that this was almost cowardly.

  “Stop thinking like that,” Evelyn whispered to herself as she looked around the room. “You don’t know all the facts. Until you do…” Evelyn sat up and swung her feet off the bed, just as Márjá opened the door. “Ah, hey,” Evelyn said. “This isn’t what you think.”

  Márjá closed the door.

  “Is Niillas back in bed?”

  “No,” Márjá said. She walked around the bed to the dresser against the wall. She leaned against it and then pointed at the deck. “In the autumn, Mats started going out there every evening. Niillas sleeps in our bed. He has his own room, but…”

  Evelyn waited, suddenly conscious that she was sitting on Mats’ side of the bed. She stood up and moved to the door leading onto the deck.

  “He would watch us from the window.”

  “Did he smoke?”

  Márjá shook her head. “He just needed air, as if he was suffocating. I thought it was me. I even asked him about it. Imagine that – I asked my husband if I was suffocating him. The hardest question I ever asked him. But if he was here now…” The skin around Márjá’s mouth tightened as she pursed her lips. “I have more questions. Hard questions. If he was here…”

  “I’m looking for something,” Evelyn said. Her feet were cool on the floorboards, but when she touched the radiator it was piping hot, not unlike Márjá – her cool exterior, barely contained boiling rage inside.

  “Gina told me. I haven’t seen anything strange – no cameras.”

  “They would be small.” Evelyn pinched her fingers. “Like an LED bulb. You know?”

  “Yes,” Márjá said. The lines on her face softened as she thought, then, without a word, she pushed away from the dresser and joined Evelyn at the door. “He looked from there,” she said, turning. She held her arms straight out in front of her, as if lifting a box, palms pressed to the sides. “He looked this way. Always this way.” Márjá lowered her arms to her sides. “Sometimes I would hear the snow squeak beneath his feet.” She smiled. “It was before I knew what was eating him, before I knew he was scared. I would hear the squeak, but I would keep my eyes closed. It was like when I lived at home. Mats would crawl up onto the garage, peeking into my window, until my dad chased him off the roof with a broom.” Another smile, then a tear. Márjá sniffed. “I still hear the squeak sometimes. And still I don’t open my eyes. Think, what if he was there? What if he wasn’t. I like to pretend he is – still there, watching me and Niillas sleep. Watching over us.”

  Evelyn felt her toes clump in the cold. She had felt it before, when sorrow and grief sucked all the heat out of a room. If she could do something for this family, she would.

  “I have to keep looking,” she said, softly, and then, “You say he always stood here?”

  “Yes.” Márjá nodded. “Just outside the door.”

  “Can I?”

  “Sure.” Márjá stepped back as Evelyn opened the door to the deck. She paused to look at her feet, the snow on the deck. Evelyn lifted her foot, ready to step onto the snow, until Márjá stopped her.

  “Mats’ boots,” she said, pressing them into Evelyn’s hands. Evelyn tugged them onto her feet, smiling when Márjá asked if they fit.

  “Mats has small feet,” Evelyn said.

  She stepped onto the deck, conscious that Márjá was watching her, but aware too that this was an important step – for Márjá and the investigation. She ran her fingers around the door frame, pausing as she bumped against a small, thin nail, bent around a stiff cable. Evelyn took a step closer to the door, scratching at the red paint covering the nail, wishing that she didn’t bite her fingernails, that she had more to scratch with.

  “Do you have a pocketknife?”

  Márjá nodded. She walked around the bed to the side she slept on, slid her hand under the mattress and removed a long leather sheath roughly the same length as Evelyn’s forearm.

  “A Sami knife,” Márjá said, drawing a thick metal blade out of the ornate sheath. “It’s a bit bigger than a pocketknife.”

  “More like a machete,” Evelyn said. “You keep it under the mattress?”

  Márjá shrugged. “Since Mats…”

  “Of course.” Evelyn took the knife, hefting it in her hand as she frowned at the weight, before scraping the tip against the cable. She stopped and then beckoned for Márjá to have a look at it. “Do you have any outside lights?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe a sensor or a burglar alarm?”

  “We were burgled,” she said. “No alarm.”

  “Then you don’t know what this cable is for?”

  “I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Do you mind if I…”

  “Go ahead,” Márjá said, before Evelyn could finish.

  Evelyn traced the cable, scoring the paint from the plastic at regular intervals, following the cable around the deck, through a hole, and then – once she walked down the stairs – into another hole drilled into the base of the wall. The paint was still tacky, like new, rather than the older, dry paint on the walls. Evelyn climbed the stairs back onto the deck, and followed the cable, tracing it to the side of the windowsill, about head height, when she measured it.

  “Can you look on the other side,” Evelyn said. She tapped her finger against the glass. “About here. On your side.”

  Márjá pressed her face close to the glass, then lifted her fingers, frowning as she picked at something. “There’s a blob of something.”

  “Is it clear?” Evelyn stepped into the bedroom, joining Márjá at the window.

  Márjá took the knife from Evelyn’s hand, then pressed the tip into a depression in the wood. She flicked a thin film of clear plastic off the window frame, and then stood on tiptoe to peer into the hole.

  “You found something,” Evelyn said. She took the knife, worked some slack into the cable outside by removing the nails, then pushed the cable, feeding it into the bedroom until Márjá gasped.

  Evelyn stopped when Márjá ran out of the room, bumping against the bed, and then off the dresser, before grasping the handle of the door and yanking it open.

  “Shit,” Evelyn said, as she lowered the knife.

  “What did you say to her?” Filippa asked, stepping into the bedroom. “What did…” Filippa stared at the camera lens poking out of the window frame. “Is that?”

  “A camera.” Evelyn nodded. “There’s a cable that leads into the basement. I want to have a look.”

  “Why? What’s in the basement?”

  “I think we’ll find a small computer or something.”

  “What for?” Filippa pointed at the camera. “Is someone spying on Márjá?”

  “I think so.”

  “Is it him?”

  Evelyn started to speak, but Filippa cut her off, grabbing Gina’s arm as she stepped into the bedroom.

  “Berglund is spying on Márjá,” Filippa said. “He’s spying on Mats’ family.”

  Evelyn caught Gina’s eye, shaking her head ever so slightly, but not enough to convince Filippa, Gina, or even herself.

  “I never even thought of that,” Evelyn whispered to Gina, as they stood in the basement. Evelyn pointed at the tiny box computer screwed into the wall. Once Evelyn traced the cable from the outside, they had found the computer in seconds, hidden behind an old cabinet. “I never thought it would be SÄPO. But it makes all kinds of sense.”

  “Before, maybe,” Gina said. “But not once he left, and not likely in the bedroom. There’s nothing to see there.” Gina knelt beside the computer, tapping her finger against the plastic as she studied it. “This is new. SÄPO would be more discreet. They may have cameras in the house, but they will be h
arder to find. Someone did this in a hurry. And I bet we find a tin of red paint and a sticky brush in the garage.”

  “You think it’s Mats?” Márjá said, as she entered the basement. Filippa followed with Niillas in her arms. “You think Mats put that there?”

  “Yes,” Gina said.

  “Then he’s still alive. That’s what you think?”

  “Márjá,” Gina said, gesturing at Niillas.

  “He doesn’t speak English,” Márjá said. “No more stalling. You brought this woman into my house to look for cameras. She found one.” Márjá pointed at the wall. “That’s a computer. Mats bought a computer with our credit card before he went missing. I never saw it.”

  “If we could see the bank statement,” Gina said, with a glance at Filippa.

  Márjá took another step into the basement. “He planned this. He bought a computer, hid a camera. He planned these things. He planned to watch me and Niillas, because he knew…”

  “Márjá,” Gina reached out as Márjá stalked towards her.

  “He’s alive,” she shouted. Then, turning to the computer, shouting louder still, “You’re alive. Mats Lindström – I see you. You’re alive.”

  Márjá sank to her knees, sobbing, shaking. She slumped against Gina’s leg as the Swedish detective pulled her close.

  “We’ll find him,” she said. Gina turned to look at Evelyn, nodding as she repeated, “We’re going to find Mats. We’re going to bring him home.”

  Evelyn excused herself, stepping around Márjá, and then to one side as Filippa carried Niillas to his mother. Evelyn climbed the stairs to the ground floor. She paused in the kitchen, taking a sip of cold coffee from the mug she had been given when they first arrived before she turned Márjá’s life upside down.

  Evelyn listened to Márjá’s sobs, then Niillas’ confused cries. She heard Filippa speak softly in Swedish, Gina’s deeper tones – more Swedish, more crying. There was plenty going on in the basement.

  They don’t need me, she thought.

  Evelyn drained her coffee, wiped a splash from her chin, and then headed for the stairs.

  It was one thing to watch his family while they slept, but Evelyn struggled to think it was the only room Mats would have put a camera in. Besides, there were two more USBs connected to the computer. Two more cameras. Evelyn intended to find them, and she had a pretty good idea where to start.

  Chapter 12

  OUTSIDE LONDON, ENGLAND

  Hákon dozed in the passenger seat as Ansel drove out of the city, snatching at sleep between the stretches of motorway lighting, wondering how the British would cope on Icelandic roads – no lights, no hard shoulder, no nothing. Plenty of tourists had been caught out during unexpected winter squalls. The official line was for everyone – native and tourist alike – to stay with their vehicle, to not venture off the road. Hákon struggled to remember just how many times he had joined a search for a driver who thought they could walk back to the nearest town. It had gotten better over the years, the message had sunk in to more people. And yet, when Iceland chose to focus on tourism to rescue the economy, the sudden influx of tourists simply meant more people. Autumn was perhaps the worst, when the subarctic weather fooled tourists and the snow was heavy and wet. The English roads, by comparison, were just wet.

  “I don’t know how you can sleep,” Ansel said, as Hákon fidgeted. “I should have borrowed a bus or a transit. You could have stretched out in the back.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re sure? You don’t look it.”

  Hákon shifted position, straightening his back, and sitting up. He winced as a twinge of pain twisted through his right foot. He shrugged the pain away when Ansel looked at him.

  “Tell me where we’re going,” Hákon said.

  “A little village just outside Reading. Two constables found a BMW registered to Simon Partridge – the dead guy from the lockup.”

  “I remember.”

  “They found a man fitting Cantrell’s description in the driver’s seat, told him to get out, and the rest is a blur.” Ansel accelerated past a removals van, settling back into the middle lane once he was clear. “Their biggest mistake was getting him out of the vehicle. But then they don’t know Cantrell.”

  Hákon considered how well he knew Byrne Cantrell, answering Ansel with little more than a nod and a grunt as he remembered what Clay had told him via the video Evelyn had taken in the Reykjavík hospital. Cantrell’s association with the Spurring Group was perhaps the most curious, thoughts about which encouraged Hákon to challenge Ansel on what he knew, and, more importantly, what he was holding back.

  “I think that’s a conversation for another time,” Ansel said, as Hákon broached the topic.

  “Why?”

  “Well, for starters, you haven’t got the necessary clearance.”

  “Cantrell is linked to the Spurring Group. He kidnapped my daughter and shot me. What more clearance do I need?” The top of Hákon’s head scratched the ceiling of the car as he turned to look at Ansel. What might have intimidated some, did little more than draw a smile on Ansel’s face.

  “Granted,” he said. “That puts you at the top of the list of people with a right to know more, if only they had the necessary…”

  “Clearance,” Hákon said. “You’ve said that already.” He paused, as Ansel pulled out and around another van. “Do you have that clearance?”

  “Yes.”

  “MI5 clearance?”

  “Shit,” Ansel said. “You’re still not convinced, are you?”

  “Back at the lockup.” Hákon shifted position – another twinge of pain. “You gave Constable White a bribe.”

  “A tip. There’s a difference.”

  “Does MI5 tip all the police officers they work with? Aren’t you all working for the same government?”

  “Look,” Ansel said, slowing for the junction slipway. “I get it. Iceland is all squeaky clean. You do things by the book. But Constable White was given the shitty job of guarding that lockup. Sure, he made out that he is in the know, that he’s well-connected. But what he really is is a young police constable with fuck all experience, and a shitty future ahead of him. He’s not bright enough to move up the ladder. But we come along…” Ansel slowed to a stop at the roundabout at the end of the slipway, turning right onto a smaller road signposted for Collingwood. “And we ask all these questions, and he’s got the answers. He feels good, all chuffed that he knew something we didn’t. He feels useful – more than usual. So I slip him a twenty, and now he feels really good.”

  It made sense, whatever Hákon thought about it. But there was the other thing, and whether it was prudent or not, Hákon decided he had nothing to lose by asking.

  “But you already knew, didn’t you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You knew that Cantrell was there. And you knew everything that went down inside the lockup.”

  Ansel fiddled with the GPS, ignoring Hákon for the moment, pretending to concentrate.

  “And how would we know?” he asked, tapping the GPS screen to begin navigation.

  “Because you saw it.”

  “Right. How’s that?”

  “You had a camera inside the lockup.” Hákon settled back in his seat, looking forward, ignoring the pain in his foot as he continued, laying out his theory. Of course, if he wanted to gauge Ansel’s reaction, he should have been looking at him, but the MI5 officer’s breathing, and his silence, said enough. Hákon had his attention. “I found a camera when you left. White gave me five minutes before he locked the door.”

  “A camera?”

  “I’m guessing,” Hákon said, avoiding Ansel’s questioning tone – convinced it was of a rhetorical nature, “that you have more cameras installed.”

  “Across the whole country?” Ansel snorted. “That’s rich.”

  “Not the whole country. Just those places you think Cantrell is likely to visit. You’ve probably had them under observation for a while
, setting things up before he ran.”

  “Before?”

  “Yes,” Hákon said. “Because you knew he would, you forced him. And now you’re trying to corral him – closing down certain avenues, opening others.”

  “It’s a fine theory, Constable. Really, it is.” Ansel slowed as they entered the village of Collingwood. He followed the directions on the GPS to the parking area opposite a small police station. Ansel parked, unbuckled his seatbelt and turned off the engine. “There’s just one problem. Let’s suppose you’re right, and ‘we’ – because you seem to associate me with this Spurring Group, no matter how hard I try to tell you different. Assume for a minute that we knew Cantrell was going to run, and we knew he would fall back on the contacts he had – the same contacts we had helped him create. And here’s the thing, Constable. Don’t you think Cantrell would know all that? Don’t you think he would anticipate our actions? Hell, if he’s good enough to survive a bullet and a dip in the Atlantic, then he’s good enough to see through our plan to catch him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes?” Ansel laughed. “What the fuck does yes mean?”

  “It means,” Hákon said, as he opened the passenger door, “I think Cantrell knows what you know, and that keeps him just one step ahead of you. Putting me in a safe house isn’t going to draw him out. He’s not going to come after me when he knows it’s a trap, especially if it’s the kind he would create.”

  “You’re forgetting that he’s desperate. He’s wild, Constable. You made him that way.” Ansel sighed. “But you’ve got a point.” He pointed at the light in the window of the police station. “Come on. Let’s talk to these two clowns and then get going.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Ansel said. “Clowns first.”

  The clowns did little more than confirm that their assailant was skilled, that he outwitted them – something Ansel softened with a gentle: you’re not the first – and that they didn’t know where he was.