The Near & Far Series

by Serena Clarke

  “Zoe Bailey?”

  She turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man coming up the steps towards her. No moustache. And no hat or scarf either, she noticed, shivering as she nodded in reply.

  “Yes.”

  “Wildlife volunteer?” A cloud of steam accompanied the words, and she half expected it to turn to ice and shatter on the ground.

  “Yes,” she said again, uncertainly. Unless her googling skills had failed her, she was pretty sure this wasn’t Bengt Nilsson. All the pictures on his website had shown him as small, stocky and approachable-looking—pretty much the opposite of this man, who radiated impatience from a great height. “Sorry, you’re…?”

  “Here to collect you,” he said. Then he took her suitcase, lifting it without flinching at the weight, and set off down the steps. “The car is this way.”

  She hesitated, watching him go. Was he kidding? Whoever he was, he was a) rude bordering on surly, and b) utterly watchable. Sweden was supposed to be safe, right? So maybe getting into a car with a strange man—who happened to be hot enough to melt the snow in a ten-foot radius—would be fine. In her mind’s eye she imagined the snow and ice running away into rivulets as he walked, leaving only warm cobblestones in his wake.

  He turned. “The Nilssons sent me.”

  She jolted to attention. “Oh, okay, sorry.”

  Gah, why was she apologising to him, when he was the one being so abrupt? Well, manners or not, she’d better get down there if she wanted to warm up some time this year. She dashed down the steps to catch up, aware of his steady gaze on her. Down one, two, three…and then an icy patch…and then she was airborne. In the brief moment of suspension, as her legs flew out from under her, she had time to be embarrassed, and then afraid, as the ground loomed below.

  The impact knocked the air out of her with a whoomp, and she heard herself emit an agonised grunt. Oh, it hurt. It really, seriously hurt.

  He was there in a second, holding out a hand to help. But she shook her head. “I’m fine.” Trying to catch her breath, the gulps of freezing cold air were cut glass in her chest. “I’m fine, really.”

  She forced herself to her feet, brushing snow off her coat sleeves, the side of her face, and her tender backside as she avoided his eye. Oh, very polished. Nice one.

  He looked at her feet, clad in the black knee-high boots she’d splashed out on the winter before.

  “Don’t you have any other boots? You’ll need something stronger than that.” His tone made it clear that her inadequate footwear was a probable reflection of her suitability for the job ahead.

  She bristled, even though she had her own doubts about what she’d signed up for. “I do. I have proper hiking boots. But I thought these would be okay for the trip.” What qualified as non-slip in Selfridge’s and on London pavements obviously wasn’t non-slip enough for frozen Swedish winters.

  “Good,” he said. “Come on then.”

  He held out his arm, as though inviting her onto the dance floor at a ball, and she hesitated, then took it. The hesitation was only partly because she was still annoyed. Despite her aching butt, the thought of touching him gave her a rush that definitely took the chill off certain body parts. Then he smiled for the first time, just a little, and it went straight to her head. Uh-oh. This was not why she was here.

  “I hope you can sit comfortably,” he said. “We have to drive about twenty minutes.”

  She cringed inwardly at the indirect reference to her bottom, which was probably blossoming into a huge bruise about now. She took a icicle-laced breath, and gathered herself together. She was in PR, after all—and even a reluctant spin doctor like her should be able to turn a situation to her best advantage.

  When they reached the car he opened the door for her, and she lowered herself gingerly into the seat, wincing a little as she touched down. Then, with her suitcase stowed in the back, they set off. Still hunched up from the cold, she looked at the dashboard display: eighteen degrees below zero. My God, no wonder she was frozen.

  “It’s really cold,” she said redundantly.

  He looked sideways at her. “It’s winter. What were you expecting?”

  “Um…cold. But I’ve never felt anything like this.” It was reassuring to think of all the thermal underthings in her suitcase, most of which were deeply unsexy but practical.

  “Try this.” He flicked a switch, and pretty soon she felt the seat underneath her start to heat up.

  “Oh, that’s good. Thank you.”

  She pulled off her hat and unwound her scarf, and then struggled out of her coat. Finally feeling a more human temperature, she turned her attention to the view. They’d left the town behind, and although it was only late afternoon, the light was almost gone. He seemed to be driving very slowly—for safety, she supposed, or maybe the speed limit was low around here—but it gave her time to admire the houses they passed. Each one was a little oasis in the trees, light spilling into the snowy yards, and a surprising number of them had a flagpole in pride of place. She especially liked the houses painted in yellow or red or blue, trimmed with white. “It’s so pretty here.”

  He just shrugged. “If you like that kind of thing.”

  She looked across at him. “Don’t you think so? The houses are so gorgeous. I love the colours, and how they all have those steep roofs.”

  “They’re steep so the snow won’t pile up and break the roof and crush the house. Snow looks pretty, but it’s heavy, and it’s work. It’s not only for snowmen and Instagram pictures.”

  It was only then that she realised two things about him (apart from what she’d already gathered—that he was hot, but grouchy). First, his English was really, really good. And second, was that a…Scottish accent? She was tired from the trip, and a ridiculously early start in London, but she was pretty sure there was more than Swedish in those deep, slightly husky tones.

  “I’m not on Instagram,” she said.

  “Well then.” He glanced in her direction, and there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. He wasn’t entirely humourless then.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” she said. Better late than never—and that accent had given her a clue.

  “Jakob,” he said, pronouncing it as though it started with a ‘y’.

  And there it was. In the background documents The Shark had given her, a Jakob Westermark was named as the researcher employed by the Scottish Wolf Reintroduction Society. Apparently he was finishing a PhD in endangered species management (specifically wolves), doing his own research here while providing information that could help the society’s case in Scotland.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you,” she said. “Your English is so good. Have you lived somewhere else?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “And thank you.”

  She waited, but he didn’t volunteer any more information. And she had to be careful—she didn’t want to jump in with the wrong question and give herself away in the first hour. Small talk, then.

  But her next comment was overtaken by a huge yawn—after the day’s travelling, humming along the road in the warm car was lulling her into drowsiness. Really, she should be a better conversationalist. She could at least find out a bit more about him. She leaned back against the headrest, working to keep her eyes open. The last thing she wanted was to fall asleep and end up lolling and snoring in the passenger seat…

  * * *

  It was quiet. She jerked awake, suddenly aware that her mouth had been hanging open. Oh, great. She put a hand to her lips, but seemed all clear in the drool department. Small mercies.

  Jakob sat in the driver’s seat. How long had they been stopped? And where were they? For a moment she panicked, her sleep-fuddled mind convinced that he was, after all, a serial killer fit for a Scandinavian crime novel, and her once-warm behind would be found in the forest, half-eaten by wolves, come spring.

  But then there were footsteps outside the car, and her door was pulled open.

  “You are here!” boomed a hearty voice,
much larger than the small man it was coming from. “Welcome! Come inside now, come on.”

  She smiled up at Bengt Nilsson, who did indeed look exactly like his website picture. Her journey was over, for now, but her mission was just beginning.

  Four

  Her footsteps crunched through the snow as she followed Bengt to the front door, noticing his slightly uneven gait. When they reached the steps, the door opened, and she recognised the other half of the Nilsson Vildmark Lodge team. According to Google, vildmark meant wilderness—and it seemed like the lodge was just a tiny pocket of habitation in the wilderness that surrounded it, part of which was a designated wildlife reserve. Greta wasn’t dressed in the colourful blue and yellow traditional costume she wore on the lodge’s website, but her friendly, welcoming face was unmistakable.

  “Here she is, Greta,” Bengt announced from the path, and his wife clapped her hands.

  “Wonderful! Come in, come in,” she said, waving them up the steps. “I have two girls who are excited to meet you.”

  “Really?” Zoe said, still feeling half asleep. “Thank you, it’s lovely to be here.”

  Greta took her coat and hung it with her scarf and hat on a row of pegs by the door.

  “Thank you, Jakob,” she said, as he carried Zoe’s suitcase into the warm house. Then she turned her attention back to Zoe. “Are you hungry?” she asked, looking concerned.

  “Well…I am a bit.”

  The house smelled like all kinds of delicious things, and her stomach grumbled. She realised she was starving. It felt like ages since she ate at the railway station in Stockholm, just before getting on the train. Jakob said something to Bengt in Swedish, and they fell into conversation. The lilting, quick-fire staccato of their words was completely unfamiliar, even though she strained to recognise something from the Swedish language tutorials she’d been watching on YouTube.

  Then Greta ushered her into the big kitchen, where a pine table was set with platters of meat and vegetables, bread rolls, pastries, fruit, and a giant pot of black coffee. Just the smell was enough to sharpen her up after her mobile nap.

  Greta pulled out a chair for her. “I wanted to come and get you, but Malin needed a babysitter for her girls. And Bengt had the usual things to do here.”

  “Oh, that’s okay, we were fine.” She winced as she sat down with a bump, forgetting the hard landing she’d already had that day. “Ow.”

  “Are you all right?” Greta asked, pausing mid-pour with the coffee pot.

  “Yes, I just…I fell over on the steps at the railway station.”

  “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. Were you hurt?”

  Greta’s English was just as good as her husband’s, and Jakob’s, and Zoe felt a pang of inadequacy at her lack of linguistic skills. Her French was almost passable, but the smattering of other languages she’d picked up as a kid, living with her parents in all kinds of places, had mostly faded away. Her brain still held a bunch of phrases in everything from Italian to Arabic, but this kind of fluency was something she’d never achieved.

  “No, I wasn’t hurt. Well, apart from my pride. And my bottom.”

  She rubbed it, shaking her head. Then she heard giggling from the doorway, and turned to see two little girls, each one as blonde and blue-eyed as the Nordic cliché.

  “Hi,” she said, giving them what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

  The little one clutched the bigger one’s arm and squeaked out a laugh, and her sister gave her a shove. Greta went over and steered them both in.

  “This is Lena and Ebba,” she said, pointing to each one in turn. “And this is Zoe. Can you say hello?” she asked them in slow, clear English.

  But they just stared at Zoe, giggling behind their hands at this alien suddenly landed in their midst on a random Monday.

  Greta looked encouragingly at the bigger sister. “Lena?”

  Lena wound a strand of hair round and round her finger. “Hej,” she whispered, pronouncing it hay, just as Zoe had heard online.

  “Hej,” she replied, and received endearing smiles from both little girls in return.

  Greta gave them each a little bun with pearl sugar on top, and they went off happily back to the other room, whispering to each other.

  “They’re lovely girls,” Greta said. “Malin waited a long time for them. Usually, she would never leave them overnight, but she has some appointments in another town. And I looked after her when she was little, so she trusts me.”

  “They’re gorgeous,” Zoe said. “If I was their mum I wouldn’t like leaving them either.”

  Then Bengt came back in, rubbing his hands together. Zoe looked behind him, expecting to see Jakob’s tall figure following.

  “Is Jakob gone already? I never thanked him.”

  “He went back to his cabin,” Bengt replied. “He’s not very…” He hesitated, looking at Greta.

  “Social,” she provided for him. “He likes to be…private.”

  Zoe had started to figure that out herself. She didn’t know what to make of him yet, but she did know this feeling creeping over her—disappointment.

  “Oh, well….it was nice of him to come and get me. Does he live near here?” She took the cup of coffee Greta offered, black as ink, and reached for the milk jug. “Thank you.”

  “Yes,” Bengt said. “He’s staying in one of our cabins.”

  “Oh, he didn’t say that.”

  He hadn’t said much of anything—if she didn’t already have him in a file, she’d still be totally in the dark. Mind you, she hadn’t exactly wowed him with her conversational skills either. Unless talking in your sleep counted for something. And although she already knew why he was here, she was interested to hear what the Nilssons would tell her.

  Greta shook her head. “That’s Jakob. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t work for us officially. But Bengt had an operation a few months ago, and Jakob wanted somewhere to work on his projects. So he came back to help.”

  Bengt gave a wry smile, and pointed to his knee. “I needed a new one. Fine now.”

  “That’s good,” Zoe said. “It was lucky timing, that he could be here to help.”

  “Ja,” Greta said, the agreement more like a little gasp than a word—sort of an affirmative intake of breath. Zoe had heard someone on the train do the same thing in conversation. “We like having him here,” Greta continued. “And the volunteers seem to like him a lot.”

  Other than the obvious aesthetic reasons, she wondered what the volunteers found to like. But he couldn’t be a complete grump, if he’d come to help Bengt and Greta when they needed it.

  “Did he tell you he’s studying the wolves?” Bengt asked.

  “No, he didn’t.” She knew that already, of course, but now she’d met him, she found herself interested to hear more about Jakob Westermark. Purely a professional interest, of course. Nothing to do with those dark eyes, or the hint of smart humour she’d caught in his smile. Strictly business.

  Bengt stole a miniature plaited bread roll from the table, and Greta handed him a plate. He took it obligingly, and sat down. “It’s not a government programme, like our work,” he said. “The county administrative board watches wolf numbers, but Jakob’s work is funded by private investors in Scotland. He’s doing his PhD at the same time. He loves his wolves…but they are not popular with everyone, you know.”

  “Are there quite a few near here then?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Oh, yes. We are unusual, because we seem to be right where the territory of two wolf packs overlap. There has been a lot of activity this winter.”

  Zoe felt a chill run up the back of her neck. Of course she knew there were wolves here, but sitting in this house surrounded by forests and snow, talking about wolf packs, suddenly made it real. Just the idea of them was primal, wild—the unpredictable and the untamed.

  Greta must have noticed her expression. “We don’t see them close to the house. They would rather stay away from us.”

  She didn’t want to se
em like a complete rookie, even though she was. So she smiled. “They must be really interesting to study.”

  “Jakob seems very dedicated,” Greta said. “It’s good for him.”

  The way she said it piqued Zoe’s curiosity, but it seemed too personal to ask why he might need something that was good for him. She took another sip of the coffee. It was potent stuff—she could feel a hum running through her veins already.

  “And what about you?” asked Bengt. “You must also be very dedicated, to come up here in the middle of winter to help us.”

  She shifted in her chair a little. It wasn’t dedication that had brought her here, but company politics and paying clients. She was interested in wildlife protection and conservation in principle, of course…just not interested enough to risk hypothermia. But, on the bright side, part of her role would apparently be to monitor the local golden eagle population, as captivating as any creature she’d ever seen on a David Attenborough documentary. Also, she’d always wanted to try a snowmobile, and she hadn’t been ice-skating since she was a kid. And, for all his surliness, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad working alongside tall, dark and Swedish Jakob…

  And then, there was the other reason for her to come to Lillavik—Claire. She wouldn’t share that with the Nilssons though, not yet.

  “Oh, well,” she replied. “This was the only time of year I could come.”

  That was actually true—according to The Shark, the volunteer places here were all taken from the coming spring until the following winter, and their clients wouldn’t wait that long. Now that she thought of it, she wondered if that was really true. She wouldn’t put it past Alcina to send her in the most frigid of months, just because she could.

  “Well, we’re grateful to have you,” Greta said. “It must seem like a terrible climate, but we still have lots of visitors in the guesthouse. And Bengt is busy taking them skiing, now that his knee is better, or on safari with the snowmobiles. He doesn’t have enough time to do everything else. And Jakob will have things for you to do, helping with his research.”