by Lin Anderson
Ten glorious minutes later, she brought them to a stylish halt in North Street, just down from the grandiose building that housed the famous Mitchell Library.
‘My other day job,’ she told him.
‘You’re a librarian?’ McNab failed to mask his astonishment.
‘No, but I do frequent the Mitchell quite a lot.’ She indicated the building she actually meant.
‘A Harley-Davidson shop?’ McNab registered that his voice appeared to have risen half an octave in his surprise.
‘No,’ she corrected him. ‘The Harley-Davidson shop.’
McNab digested that as far as it was possible to do so. ‘Where you … ?’
‘Fix bikes. Well, I mostly add the extras people buy to make them look even cooler.’
This female is way beyond perfect. Why the fuck is she having anything to do with me?
She must have spotted that look. ‘You’re uncomfortable with that?’
McNab bounced back. ‘Hey, are you comfortable with having a polis riding pillion?’
‘I rather like it. Shall we park the bike back at the shop and look for somewhere to have that drink now?’
The snow came on as they meandered through Glasgow … to who knew where.
As far as McNab was concerned this woman could take him anywhere she wanted.
24
One wall of the snow cave was bare rock, the other three hard-packed snow and ice that sparkled like jewels in the beams from their head torches.
The burn, kept at zero degrees by gravity, occupied half the space. To the back, a miniature waterfall tumbled down a rock face as it entered the cave to swirl left of the injured climber. Merely a yard from her feet, the burn exited to plunge noisily to the loch below.
‘Don’t drop anything,’ Kyle told her. ‘It’ll be over there in a second.’
The young woman lay flat on a rock, her right boot in the running water. She was shivering, a shudder running through her every few seconds. Despite this, her face glistened with sweat.
After Kyle had climbed in and surveyed the scene, he’d urged Rhona to join him. A radio report had already been sent and he expected a contingent of searchers from the Shelter Stone to arrive soon.
‘Okay, where does it hurt?’ he now asked the girl.
When she didn’t answer, Kyle repeated the question. The girl was, Rhona suspected, stunned from her fall into the cave, or experiencing the onset of hypothermia, and with it, confusion. Eventually Kyle got a reply.
‘My back and my ankle.’
Rhona manoeuvred round Kyle to take a look. The swelling was obvious, but possibly less than it might have been if the girl hadn’t had the good sense to keep it in the running water, which had acted like an ice pack. If it was broken, much better to leave the boot in place until they got to the hospital. Rhona said as much. The girl’s back was another matter. That would require support on the stretcher.
‘Right, let’s deal with the pain, then get you warm and comfortable,’ Kyle said. ‘There’s Entonox in the gear,’ he told Rhona. ‘Can you reach it without getting soaked?’
It was virtually impossible to move around in the cave while avoiding the spray from the waterfall at the rear, but Rhona did her best.
As Kyle fixed the mask in place, he explained the need to take a big breath to open the valve and let the analgesic through.
By her expression, the first couple of attempts didn’t do the trick.
‘When the pain comes, breathe in deeply,’ Rhona urged her. ‘It’s like being in labour. Although you probably don’t know about that yet.’ Her quip brought a faint smile to the girl’s lips.
‘We’ll use the vacmat,’ Kyle said. ‘Then get her warmed up.’
He spread the vacuum mattress out on the stretcher. Minutes later they had her on board and in both a sleeping bag and a survival bag. While Kyle secured her neck with a brace, Rhona tucked a heat bag next to her body.
Kyle now proceeded to check her pulse and breathing. When he’d finished, he quietly told Rhona the result. ‘Her blood pressure’s down and she’s close to hypothermic. Try to keep her conscious, while I find out how soon the others can get here.’
Rhona moved alongside the ashen-faced girl, registering the purple bruising round her eyes and the badly cut lip. As the analgesic began to ease the pain, the girl’s eyes flickered shut in relief, so Rhona strove to keep her talking by asking her name.
‘Isla,’ came the faint reply.
‘So, Isla. How did you get here from the Shelter Stone?’
The eyes re-opened and she looked briefly puzzled by the question, then fear swept in. ‘Oh my God. Where’s Gavin? And my friends? Are they okay?’
Rhona glanced across at Kyle, who mouthed a silent no. The girl was in a bad way and they needed her to stay strong enough to get her off the mountain.
‘There are searchers over there now,’ Rhona said, hating her prevarication, yet knowing that it was the lesser of two evils.
‘What about the man?’ the girl said, as though suddenly remembering.
‘What man?’ Rhona said.
‘The Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui.’
The girl was mumbling now, something about Gavin. Then, staring into whatever dream or reality she was reliving, she added, ‘I scratched his face.’
‘Why?’ Rhona asked.
‘Because he tried to kill me.’
‘Who did?’ Rhona said, confused.
‘The big grey man. But he wasn’t grey, he was white.’
Rhona eased her backpack over beside her and said quietly to Kyle, ‘I’m going to take a sample from under her nails.’
‘She’s delirious,’ he responded with a puzzled expression. ‘The big grey man’s a mountain myth. A figment of climbers’ imagination.’
‘I know. But if she did scratch someone, I’d like to know who it was.’
Isla was sleeping now, and peacefully. No wonder, after what she’d endured over the last forty-eight hours. Rhona was tired herself and planning shortly to retire to the overnight stay hospital bed they’d kindly offered her. She would seriously have liked to be back in the hotel in Aviemore with Sean, but that had proved impossible. Anyway, she wanted to be here tomorrow at the mortuary, when the postmortem was performed on the climbers’ bodies.
The girl’s cheeks, which had been so pale in the ice cave, were now a little pinker. The pain etching the face had gone, the bruising round the eyes already turning yellow. Pumped full of drugs now, Isla was still unaware of the full horror that had ended her climbing trip to Hell’s Lum.
It had taken an hour after the team had arrived to rescue Isla from the cave, the opening proving too narrow for the stretcher. As night had approached, the temperature had plummeted, turning the surrounds of the escape hole to thick ice. Kyle had climbed up, and suspended by the team above, had hacked his way through to create a big enough gap. As ice pieces had hurtled down on his head, his language had been enough to colour the cave purple and had even brought a smile to Isla’s wan face behind the mesh basket they’d fixed over her head to protect her from falling debris.
Once out, Rhona had heard a shout of ‘Let’s kick ass’, and the stretcher bearers, plus herself and Kyle, had begun their walk back down to the frozen loch, in anticipation of the chopper’s arrival, the fall in temperature having thankfully been accompanied by a lessening in wind strength.
Settling down on the frozen loch on only one wheel, the pilot had skilfully tilted the chopper to allow them to avoid the rotors, and soon she and Kyle had risen swiftly into the cold night air, their casualty safely aboard.
Moonlight had bathed Loch Morlich below, suggesting a benign landscape, contradicting everything Rhona had experienced up to now. They’d remained silent as the pilot flew them north, travelling the route of the A9, empty of vehicles, the snow gates having been closed further south at Drumochter. Then they were over the final hill and looking down on the lights of Inverness, and the shining waters of the Moray Firth.
They’d landed on the six inches of snow that encircled Raigmore Hospital.
‘Okay,’ said Kyle as they’d touched down, ‘we’re here.’
Sean answered almost immediately.
‘Where are you?’
‘Raigmore Hospital in Inverness. They’ve given me a bed for the night.’
‘I was worried.’
Rhona registered the hesitancy in Sean’s voice. He knew she didn’t like a fuss, so such an admission went against the grain.
‘I’m fine,’ she assured him. ‘I’ll stay here for the postmortem on the climbers.’
‘They’ve promised the A9 will be open tomorrow.’
‘Then go home. I’ll follow.’
There was a short silence as Sean digested her news.
Rhona almost said, ‘I’m sorry,’ but didn’t. ‘How did tonight go?’ she said instead.
‘Good,’ Sean conceded. ‘I like Aviemore. I’ll come again.’ He didn’t say, I hope you’ll come with me, but Rhona heard those words anyway.
‘I’ll see you back in Glasgow,’ she answered.
‘What about your suitcase?’
‘Take it with you.’
‘Okay. Ring me,’ Sean said.
He’s playing the part I cast him in, Rhona thought. Lover but not partner. She rang off then, before any more need be said. Coming up here wasn’t meant to cement or change their relationship, and it hadn’t.
Rhona lay down, wondering if she would or could sleep with all that had happened. In the darkness, she heard the muffled sounds of a Highland hospital in action. The arrival of another helicopter, the swift trundle of a trolley, a woman’s sobs, a man’s quiet assurances. Eventually all merged with the remembered sounds and images of the snow cave. The young woman’s pain and distress, Kyle’s reassuring and steady voice, her own response. And through it all, the whispering of the burn alongside, before it plunged to the valley floor below.
25
The chopper’s distinct sound had wakened him. Disorientated in the darkness, he couldn’t for a moment remember where he was. The knock he’d taken as the plane had landed on the frozen loch had, he acknowledged, given him a mild concussion. Concentration on eliminating the danger to both himself and the job had kept him focused up to now.
I’ve grown careless in sleep.
He’d felt his way towards the entrance tunnel and crawled along it, the exit lit by moonlight on the white blanket of snow. Emerging, but keeping low, he’d scanned the sky and spotted the beams of the chopper over towards the loch.
Why were they back there now?
There would of course have to be an investigation into the crash, but it would hardly begin in the middle of the night. No, that hadn’t been the reason for the helicopter’s return. The rescue team had returned to provide their prime function … to rescue someone. And the service did not transport the dead. Which meant there was a live casualty.
With that, the nagging doubt had returned. Of course, it was highly likely that other climbers had been caught out by the swift onset of bad weather over the holiday period. There was bound to be more than one rescue required.
But it might be the girl.
That thought had brought him out of the snow hole. If they had found the girl, then there had to be a team nearby. And where there were searchers, there were lights. It hadn’t taken him long to spot them. A line of head torches had been bound eastwards to meet the chopper. A larger group were headed towards the summit and the ski lodge, their job done.
Packed up now, he forsook the snow hole. Despite the freezing temperatures, he saw no further reason to remain there. The sky was clear, the moon bright, the wind no longer a threat. Convinced that the girl had been rescued, he wanted to know what her story was. And the best place to find that out was on the valley floor.
26
Stavanger, Norway, 31 December
Police Inspector Alvis Olsen departed his apartment on Kirkegata and set out towards the Commissariat de Polis on Lagårdsveien. The twenty-minute walk to work was, he thought, always a pleasant one, even at this time of year. The steep cobbled streets of Stavanger’s old town glistened underfoot, a light fall of snow having occurred overnight. At this hour, most of the shops hadn’t yet opened. Once they did, such snow as there was would quickly disappear under the footfall of the inhabitants.
Earlier, enjoying his morning coffee on the balcony at the top of the apartment building, Alvis had noted the arrival of yet another giant cruise ship, now tethered in the guest harbour, the upper decks of which reared even above Valbergtårnet, the old stone fire watchtower that crowned the highest point of the wooden-built town. Stavanger, as well as being the oil capital of Norway, was also a big tourist draw and no doubt this latest arrival was bound for Lysefjorden, the most famous fjord in the Stavanger region, as stunning in winter as it was in summer.
Now, reaching the park at Breiavatnet, he left the road to walk the western edge of the shallow lake, which according to local legend contained few if any fish, although home to swans and ducks. The park that surrounded the small expanse of water with its central fountain was deserted apart from himself, although ahead, at its southern end, the railway and bus stations were already busy with travellers, despite the early hour.
Having left the car-free area behind, he made for the pedestrian crossing at the foot of Lagård Gravlund, intent on spending five minutes in the company of his wife. Summer saw the graveyard green and blossoming. Midwinter was a different experience, one he enjoyed as much, although not on the all-too-frequent rainy days. Today, a crisp cold sun sparkled on the grey gravestones, some of which were as old as the town itself.
Entering the gate, Olsen turned left, to follow the path to the rear of the cemetery, immediately leaving the sound of traffic on the main road behind. Coming to the bench which was his usual resting place, he took a seat opposite the grave he had come to visit. As always, his eyes were drawn to the neighbouring stone, erected after Marita’s. He found the message on it strangely comforting, although it featured an image of a baby boy who had died at nine months old. Marita had longed for children in life, and it seemed to Olsen, morosely perhaps, that she now had the companionship of at least one, in death.
Turning his attention to her own simple gravestone, he closed his eyes and brought his wife’s face to mind, just as it had been two years ago, the last time he had seen her alive. It would be always thus, he realized. Marita forever young and vivacious, even as he grew old, wrinkled and worn.
As usual, he silently relayed what was on his mind and as before, when alive, Marita, in his head at least, listened with that quizzical look she would adopt as she tried to assimilate the suspicious workings of a police brain, so far removed from her own. The product of a Scottish mother and a Norwegian father, Marita had, to Olsen’s mind, featured the best qualities of both nationalities, whereas he was purely Norwegian.
Talking silently to his wife always seemed to make things clearer, though it never worked half as well elsewhere, such as at home or in his office in the Commissariat. In this instance, the tale itself involved a child, or more correctly children, although not as young as her nearby companion in death. And it was not a pretty story.
As he completed his conversation, Olsen felt the light touch of snowflakes on his cheek and looked up to discover the bright morning sky now clouded over. Rising, he said a silent goodbye, then made his way back to the gate and the noisy world outside.
There were difficulties, as he’d explained to Marita. He had no option but to acknowledge that fact.
His visit to the north and the subsequent discovery of the dead children had altered his perception of the investigation.
Having returned, he was now required to alter the view of others involved in it. Plus there might well be the problem of international relations and diplomacy. Something he wasn’t interested in, and which he believed shouldn’t affect the investigation, but of course he was wrong in that respect, and probably naive. There wa
s the law. And then there were those who believed themselves to be above and beyond it.
The walk alongside Lagård Gravlund complete, Olsen waited at the junction. Across the main road, the strange shop of many and unusual artefacts was advertising a sale with fifty per cent off, although wasn’t yet open to allow buyers to take advantage of the offer. On his side, the imposing white-fronted edifice that was the Commissariat de Polis now came into view, and by the comings and goings around its entrance was definitely open for business.
A couple of young women stood hesitant under the awning, either taking momentary shelter from the thickening snow or else wondering about entering. Both were ill-dressed for the wintery weather and, listening to their murmured words as he approached, Olsen registered that they weren’t Norwegian. The Politidistrikt Sør-Vest, which incorporated Stavanger, was home to more than one hundred different nationalities. Schengen offered European citizens such as these young women the freedom to work and make their home in Norway, despite the fact that the country wasn’t a member of the European Union.
Realizing a police officer wished to enter, they swiftly stepped aside to allow him passage. Olsen contemplated asking them if they wanted to speak with someone, but noting the consternation with which they’d viewed his approach, decided to send a female officer out instead.
A wave of welcome warmth met him on entering the large reception area. A few people sat on the long padded benches that lined the left-hand wall, a few stood before the glassed enquiry desks. Olsen waited until one was free, then related his wish for a female member of staff to approach the young women, after which he made his way to the security door at the rear, which led upstairs to the functioning heart of the Commissariat.
The strategy meeting was scheduled to begin in ten minutes, where he would report his findings and suggest what might be their next move. Releasing the double security doors, Olsen entered to be greeted by the two women currently on duty on the switchboards.
‘Someone ordered pannekaken for your meeting,’ Birgitt informed him with a smile. ‘Maybe you’re having an important visitor?’
‘Or maybe we’re expected to be in there for some time,’ Olsen countered as he made for the conference room.
