Feeling vulnerable at the back of the group, Cally wanted to force the pace. But after clipping the tails of Neep’s skis she dropped back, aware that he didn’t need the added pressure. He was already doing his best. But his best was not going to be good enough. That was obvious.
She wondered how long they had.
She looked at her watch. By the time Richard saw the man leave the cabin, they had already been skiing for about an hour and a half. They had been moving steadily, and Richard said the man was moving fast. So how fast could a Norwegian skier go? Twice as fast as them? Maybe even faster, especially as they had left him a good track, generously saving him the effort of breaking trail.
So if they simply stood and waited, he would probably be on them in under an hour. And if they kept moving at their present speed, how long did they have? An hour and a half? Less than that if he was a good shot with the rifle. And why would he be carrying the rifle if he wasn’t a good shot?
She knew she was guessing. But she was certain of one thing. They would not have had time to go across these rounded hills and then down the track to the main valley. Richard was right to head for the high mountains. But it was a risky tactic. It depended on them getting into the cloud before the gunman caught them – and on the weather remaining bad.
She wished she could think of a better alternative.
As they gained height, the snow surface became scoured, icy in places. The skis slipped on it, but at least they left shallower tracks. Now and then some feature, a craggy ridge or a group of boulders, loomed out of the mist, only to be swallowed again. In that mist lay safety, but the closer they got to it, the more the ground steepened - and the more Neep struggled. Finally, just below an especially sharp slope, Richard stopped to let him rest.
Richard spoke quickly, looking over their shoulders, down the hill. “Take a short break, just a minute, and then come up in my tracks. Leave a lot of space between yourselves – the snowpack is unstable here. I’m going up to check the map. I think things will get a bit easier now but I want to make sure.”
Before leaving, he smiled and said, “I really think we can do this.”
Cally checked her watch, again. By now the gunman must have passed the point where Richard’s tracks detoured to the knoll. So he would know they had been watching him.
When Neep finally felt able to start, the snow groaned ominously under his skis. Cally let him get well ahead before she followed him up to where Richard was waiting. It was as if they had gone into a different climate zone. The wind gusted strongly. The sky was dark and heavy, and the base of the clouds seemed to be just above their heads. The snow surface was even more scoured.
Richard looked anxiously down the hill. “We’ll soon be safe. I’ll try to stay on the barer slopes . . .”
His words tailed off. Cally and Neep turned to follow his gaze.
They could see their pursuer. Green jacket, no rucksack, rifle slung over his shoulders.
He was a long way down, but he was moving fast. Very fast.
And he had seen them.
So now they all had to force the pace, even Neep, who pushed himself hard, taking long strides, thrusting strongly down with his poles, pressing forward into the lowering cloud. Richard kept them on windswept slopes. At a point where the snow had gone completely and the surface was icy and hard, he turned and shouted, “Fan out and make your own tracks, but stay close to me.” Then he set off at a tangent, veering away from their previous line, trying to shake off their pursuer.
The new course led them into a boulder-strewn corrie, and then on to a lea slope where deep snow shifted and boomed under their skis. Richard had no option but to take a steep line, and he side-stepped up, hoping to find safer ground.
The effort was almost too much for Neep. On the unstable snow his skis slipped and his poles gave him little support. He managed to flounder and thrash his way up, but when he finally made it to the top, his voice was desperate. “I can’t do any more of this. You two go on without me. I’ll try to hold him back for long enough to let you get away.”
Before Cally could speak, Richard said, “No way! We’re not leaving you to face him on your own.”
Richard was already looking around, assessing the options.
“I want you both to put on your climbing skins and go up this slope,” he said. “Don’t use your poles or you’ll leave a trail. Stay on the hard surface until you can get in behind one of those big boulders up there. Then lie flat and keep out of sight. You’ve got ten minutes - at most - before he gets here.”
He swung his rucksack off and opened it. “Cally, please take some of my kit. With a light pack I can outrun him. He won’t expect you to go uphill here, and I’ll leave an obvious track to make him think we’ve all gone through that dip over there. He’ll think we’re trying to get down to Storhøliseter, the DNT place we were at yesterday morning.”
Neep was distraught. “Richard, don’t do this! You can’t race a Norwegian skier down a hill -”
Cally cut him off. “Neep, it’s a good idea. Please put your skins on.” She took Richard’s thermos and food and stuffed them in her pack.
Neep now had his rucksack off. Richard passed him the binoculars and the heavy little bag that held his spare waxes, and said, “Give me half an hour to get clear. Then find your way down to Espedalen. Here’s the map – and this is where we are now, just below the top of the mountain, Storhøpiggen. From here you need to go southeast until the ground flattens. Then turn northeast and keep going till you hit the track to Vesterheim.”
He handed Cally another bag. ”Wear my duvet while you’re waiting.” Then he fastened his rucksack. His little thermometer dangled incongruously from it, like a kid’s toy.
“Let me help you make the track,” Cally said. “I know what our pole-plants look like.”
Richard nodded. Then, just before moving off he said, “Neep, before you start up the hill, have a pee. Make it look like we’ve all had one. It’ll explain why the tracks are messed up.”
Cally put her climbing skins in her pocket, then skied with Richard to the dip and crossed the soft snow, planting her poles the way Neep had been doing, one side close to the track and the other about a foot away. Then they both kick-turned and re-crossed the slope, this time without using their poles.
It was time to go separate ways.
“Good luck,” Cally said stupidly.
Richard flashed his smile, then lifted his hands and tapped her on the shoulders – his version of a hug. He said, “We’ll all be fine. I’ll see you at dinner in the hotel.”
Then he turned and went.
As Cally hurriedly fixed the climbing skins to her skis, she watched Neep make his way up the icy slope. Richard had been right – he was leaving no tracks.
With luck the gunman would fall for their deception.
It was time for some luck.
She started up the hill, moving quickly but sliding her skis as gently as she could. Soon she drew level with Neep and they continued up to the boulders that Richard had indicated. They weren’t big boulders, but they would have to do. Cally unclipped from her skis, helped Neep out of his bindings, then lay beside him on the snow, and waited.
The cloud had come down again, thank God, so Cally heard the man before she saw him, heard the steady crunching of his skis and the sound of his poles driving into the snow.
Then the sounds stopped, and there was only the hiss of spindrift moving over the icy slope.
The skier must be standing still, must be at the point where they had left the track. He would be looking at the marks they had left in the snow, working out what they had done.
Cally didn’t dare raise her head to look over the boulders, but through a tiny gap she got a glimpse of the man. No hat, blonde hair, no gloves, big rifle on his back. He was bending forward to rest his weight on his poles. He seemed to be staring straight at her.
He stood for what seemed an eternity, looking up the hill.
The
n he spat on the ground and skied away, following Richard’s tracks.
Chapter 18
Trying hard to hide his impatience, Frederik Voldbakken switched on the lights inside Espedalen Mountain Church. On grey mornings like this the daylight struggled weakly through the windows, and even with the lights on, the interior seemed dark and gloomy.
Being here at this time wasn’t at all convenient for the pastor, but the early-morning phone call from Police Inspector Dahle had left him no choice. Dahle had said that he’d tried to make contact yesterday evening, and his accusing tone made it sound as if the pastor had somehow been neglecting his duty by spending several difficult hours with one of his old parishioners.
The policeman had been insistent. They had to talk. It had to be at the church. And the matter was urgent. In fact it was so urgent that by the time Voldbakken arrived, Dahle was already there, waiting in his car.
Before the pastor could speak the officer said, “As I told you on the phone, I need to talk to you about a visitor you had on Monday, a Scottish man called Richard Slater.”
Voldbakken led the way to the meeting area at the end of the nave. The chairs used by yesterday’s Initiative Group had been tidied away - the sexton must have put in an appearance - so the pastor lifted two from the stack and they sat down.
The policeman took out his notebook. “The security operation relating to this weekend’s sports event at Vesterheim hotel has taken a new turn,” he said. “And that is because of some information about Mr Slater.”
He checked his notes before continuing. “On Monday morning Mr Slater made an entry in a log book at Vesterheim. It said: Bus to Helvete then ski back via Tronablikk Hotel (coffee stop) to Espedalen Mountain Church (meeting) then ski back to Vesterheim. Should be back by 16.00.”
Dahle looked up from his notebook. “Can you confirm that he came here on Monday?”
“Yes, I can. We spent about an hour together and we had a very pleasant conversation.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Mr Slater wrote to me some time ago to set it up. He works at Aberdeen University, and in his letter he said he was engaged on a research project that had a link to this area. It wasn’t an important link, but since he was coming here for a skiing holiday, he wanted to take the opportunity to visit. ”
“How long ago did he write to you?”
“A few weeks ago. I’m sure I could find his letter if you need it. He seemed a very nice man, very spiritual but also very practical, and very knowledgeable about our church and its history. He was fascinated by the church building itself, and about how the repeating triangular shape can be seen as representing the eye of God.”
The police inspector started to fidget with his notebook, sending an impatient signal.
The pastor ignored it. “Mr Slater had a general interest in how, when the idea of community loses its relevance, associations like the church can step in to fill the gap. He was very keen to talk about the way in which, here in Espedalen, the church had grown up in the nineteenth century to serve the nickel miners and their families. He saw parallels with some recent developments in Scotland that involve . . . “
The pastor’s voice tailed off.
The policeman leaned forward. “That involve what?”
“That involve immigrant communities. He is writing a thesis about how his church is responding to the growing east-European population in Scotland.”
“Did you talk much about his thesis?”
“Yes, we did.”
“So you are convinced that he is actually doing a real research project?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean, could he have been pretending to be involved in a research project, just to gain your confidence?”
“Absolutely not! He knew too much. And he left me a copy of a detailed paper that he has written. I took it home but I can send it to you if you want.”
The policeman took a map from his pocket. “Mr Slater wrote in the log book that he intended to ski here from Tronablikk hotel. But as far as I can see from the map there is no track from Tronablikk. Did he come along the lake, make his own track?”
The pastor studied the map and then drew his finger along it. “No, the route from Tronablikk goes here, well to the east of the lake and along a high valley. It’s quite strenuous. And after leaving me, Mr Slater was going to ski all the way to Vesterheim, rather than wait for the bus. He looked like a very fit man. He said he runs to work every day.”
The policeman made a few notes. Then he asked, “When he was with you, did Mr Slater at any time speak in Norwegian?”
“No. We spoke only in English. He knew some Norwegian expressions about church history and about nickel mining but I don’t think he could have strung together more than a few words.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“As sure as I can be.”
Voldbakken thought he saw a flicker of disappointment pass over the policeman’s face. He hoped it meant that the man was coming to the end of his questions.
Dahle said, “One more thing. Were you with him the whole time he was here in the church?”
The pastor shook his head. “No, I wasn’t. I had to leave him for a few minutes when somebody came in to talk about a baptism.”
The policeman closed his notebook and said, “I’d like to take a look round.”
Voldbakken glanced at his watch. “I really should be with someone right now.”
Dahle said, “I’d prefer you to stay here until I’m finished. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“All right. But I have to make a phone call, to rearrange my appointment.”
Voldbakken went into his office and composed himself before calling Martha Skaugen. He thought it best not to mention the police - she had suffered too much distress as it was. He hoped she had been able to sleep last night. She had still been very tearful when he left. Over the years, she had told him, she had grown used to how her brother Håkon, or Hawkeye as everyone called him, would take off into the mountains without any warning. But it had always been for just a couple of days. Now he’d been gone for a week. Before leaving her, Voldbakken had promised to go and see her again this morning but now he would have to postpone the meeting, until Friday at the earliest.
When the pastor came back into the nave after making the call, Inspector Dahle was standing near the pulpit. He was studying the board that Voldbakken used, during services, to display the numbers of the psalms that would be sung. The number 77 had been chalked on it.
Dahle held out a psalm-book, open at the page on which psalm number 77 was printed. A photocopied sheet of paper had been inserted. It bore a photograph of the terrorist, Anders Breivik. Below the photograph, the words No Asylum-Seekers Here had been written in English.
“I’ve checked your stock of psalm-books,” Dahle said. “There is a copy of this in every one.”
Chapter 19
After the gunman had gone, Cally and Neep lay motionless for several long minutes, their faces pressed to the snow. Then Cally took a chance and raised her head, peered through the gap in the boulders. No sign of anyone. But the cloud had thickened, and the visibility was now as bad as she could have hoped for. If there had been a hundred gunmen on the mountain she would not have seen any of them.
She was cold. Neep was shivering. Whispering to him to keep still, she carefully opened his rucksack and found his duvet jacket. Slowly she pulled it from its bag and spread it over him. She took Richard’s jacket from her rucksack and wriggled into it, putting it on over her windproof. Then she got out her own duvet and pushed it under Neep’s legs, to insulate them from the snow.
Soon she felt better, and she could see that Neep had stopped shivering. She took out Richard’s food box. There was one sandwich, a lurid squash of brown bread, cheese and beetroot. She tore it in half and held out a piece for Neep.
“Here, eat this,” she said quietly.
She shook Richard’s thermos. Almost full. On
ly cold water, but anything was welcome after the morning’s exertions. She poured a cupful, drank some and then handed the cup to Neep. “Finish it,” she said. “You’ve still got some saft and we can have that later, when we get off this hill.”
She realised she was trying to make things seem normal, as if by treating this like a food-stop on an ordinary day on an ordinary hill she could make it more bearable. And she realised she wasn’t doing it only for Neep’s benefit. She hadn’t had a benzo all day. And she needed one. Her whole body felt jumpy, as if someone had transfused a solution of acid into her blood. The pills were in the top section of her rucksack, in easy reach. When they were ready to go she would give Neep a minute’s start and take one before catching up with him.
Looking around, she could see only fog, but she felt sure they were near the summit of the mountain. Earlier, when she was skiing up to the boulders, she had looked across at a gully that had spindrift blowing horizontally from its top. At the bottom of the gully there were rocks, and below them a craggy precipice. She hoped that by the time she and Neep were ready to go, the visibility would have improved. This was dangerous ground, no place to be in a white-out.
“Richard did the right thing in bringing us up here,” Neep whispered. “But I hope he’s okay. He’ll have dropped below the fog by now.”
Cally shook her head. “I’m not sure about that. When he left us he was heading into the wind, and the wind was bringing in more cloud. He would have been hoping to be well down the hill by the time it cleared. Richard has known exactly what he’s been doing ever since we found Hawkeye’s body. He took charge of everything last night. And as soon as he saw the car headlights this morning he took charge again. Surely you’ve noticed?”
“I’m sorry,” Neep said. “I haven’t been noticing very much lately.”
Cally looked him in the eye. “I think Richard has done this kind of thing before,” she said. “What do you know about him, about what he did before you first met him?”
“Not a lot. He never really talked about his past. I don’t think many men do. I know he came from the coast, Fraserburgh maybe, and that he worked on oil rigs for a while. But then he had an accident on a rig and somehow that made him religious.”
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