Deadly Zeal

by Jean Chapman

  ‘You’d better have this.’ Tomas handed him the brass-handled walking stick.

  ‘Thanks,’ Cannon said, headed for the front door, then asked, ‘Do you have a mobile phone?’

  Tomas produced it. Cannon glanced at the model he had not seen before and asked him to ring Liz’s number. He had faith in her understanding the situation quicker than anyone else, and doing the right thing. ‘She was my partner in the London Metropolitan Police,’ he told Tomas as the Norwegian ensured the phone was ringing out then handed it to Cannon.

  He ascertained Liz and all aboard were OK, told her what had happened and of the particular threat to her first and then to Higham. ‘You’ll let all the authorities know, ashore and aboard?’

  In answer to her question he told her he intended to try to follow Bliss in his car.

  Handing the phone back to Thomas, he saw the man was completely baffled. ‘Who is Bliss?’ he asked.

  ‘Your friend has had several names. Michael Bliss was the latest.’

  ‘His real name is Evan,’ Tomas Midvinter said, his pace slowing as he added, ‘I find this all difficult to believe.’

  ‘So do I,’ Cannon said. ‘I knew the man well before any of this came to light. I’m no expert but I believe there are reasons linked to his home life why, after a serious road traffic accident, the injury to his brain has turned him into a ruthless killer.’

  Now Tomas stopped altogether, shaking his head. ‘Michael? You make him sound like a mad dog!’

  ‘Part of him is. That part is not the Michael Evan you knew,’ Cannon said, adding, ‘I must get to my car.’

  Tomas led him to a more direct path towards the back of the house and the bottom road.

  Cannon’s hire car was there but Tomas’s Land Rover was not.

  ‘Looks like he preferred your vehicle,’ Cannon said.

  ‘I left the keys in the ignition,’ Tomas admitted, ‘and I was packing up my fishing shack for the winter. I had all my bedding and camping gear in the back.’

  ‘Could you ring my partner again and give her your vehicle details,’ Cannon asked, ‘then I’ll give you a lift back to …’

  ‘I live in Tromsø,’ Midvinter said. ‘I have an accountancy business there, if you’re …’

  ‘Yes, it’s the ferry’s next call,’ Cannon told him, opening the car and starting the engine as Tomas spoke to Liz, told her the details of his stolen car, and then held it for Cannon to confirm what he was doing.

  ‘We sail from Tromsø at half past six,’ she reminded him.

  Midvinter heard and shook his head. ‘It will take us four hours, perhaps more.’

  ‘Did you hear?’ Cannon asked Liz. ‘I’ll try but …’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Midvinter suggested, ‘you should think of flying from Tromsø up to Kirkenes and be there to meet the boat when it arrives.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea, John,’ Liz put in. ‘You can’t imagine how strict Captain Anders has security aboard now. I doubt if Bliss would manage to get back aboard.’

  ‘OK,’ Cannon said. ‘ If I miss you at Tromsø I’ll look into that.’

  ‘Take care,’ she said, ‘don’t drive too fast.’

  It was a message he saw rewritten on Midvinter’s face several times as he put his foot down to the floor.

  ‘We have to drive south for a time before we can go north to Tromsø,’ he told Cannon. ‘Our roads are not … well … certainly not direct.’

  They were soon driving with headlights on and a light snowfall whirling in mesmeric patterns beyond the windscreen wipers. ‘We’re not going to make it,’ Tomas said, but Cannon drove grimly on, feeling Captain Anders would delay – for a time.

  When they reached the road overlooking the fjord, Tomas said, ‘There’s your ship,’ and pointed out into mid-channel where the lights of the Nordsol were bright in the evening light as it headed out on the next leg of its journey.

  Cannon pulled into the car parking area near the Hurtigruten terminal. ‘Now what?’ he wondered aloud.

  ‘Well …’ Tomas began, then exclaimed, ‘Hey, wait a minute! There’s my Land Rover!’

  Cannon came to a quick halt, was out of the car looking after the fast-disappearing ship and asking, ‘So is he on board?’

  Midvinter was examining his vehicle and shouted that the keys were in the ignition still but everything else had gone: sleeping bags, blankets, camping gear. ‘He’s got enough equipment to be self-sufficient,’ he added, shaking his head.

  ‘So does that suggest he’s taken another vehicle, one we have no details of, and is driving up to Kirkenes?’ Cannon asked. ‘In that case, why come here to park?’

  ‘Michael often flew to the airport here when he came on holiday,’ Tomas said, locking his vehicle and pocketing the keys. ‘He’d know exactly where he could park and pick up another vehicle without much fear of being seen.’ Cannon glanced at the blank warehouse walls round about. ‘But should you be thinking of driving after him? The shortest route from Tromsø to Kirkenes is some eight hundred kilometres and you have to enter and leave Finland twice. You could try to follow him and miss him in many, many places. You don’t know what vehicle he’s in.’ Midvinter threw out his hands in concern. ‘Surely it must be better to fly to Kirkenes where your partner will arrive in, what, a day and a half’s time.’

  Cannon considered for a second or two; he could update Liz on the situation and she would do the rest.

  ‘If we go straight to the airport,’ Tomas said, ‘you should get on the late-night flight. Public transport in this area is flying,’

  ‘Thanks.’ Cannon was touched by the man’s unquestioning help. ‘You do understand about your old friend? You trust me?’

  ‘I’ve put my life in your hands for the last few hours so …’ Midvinter said.

  ‘Whatever happens I’ll let you know the outcome,’ Cannon said. ‘A letter to your business address, perhaps.’

  ‘Come,’ Midvinter said. He opened the car door, at the same time diving deep into an inside pocket under his fishing smock and pulling out a business card. ‘I would like to know.’

  ‘Sure,’ Cannon acknowledged, taking the card.

  ‘I presume you have your travel documents with you?’

  ‘Yes, I made sure they were in my wallet when I thought I might leave the ship at some point,’ Cannon said, ‘but I wouldn’t mind buying a bag and a few essentials. I’m going to be at least one night without anything.’

  ‘There’s a department store on the way, we could call there. The airport has only the usual duty free goods,’ Tomas said.

  Shopping was never done so quickly, and with a new haversack containing a change of underclothes, a thick jumper and a waterproof anorak, they drove to the airport, which was on the far side of the island the city was built on. By UK standards it was small. Cannon noted there were international flights just to Murmansk and London, otherwise most flights went in and out to Oslo, with fewer marked up to and from Kirkenes.

  At the ticket desk Cannon got a seat on a plane leaving at ten minutes past ten that evening. The two of them went to the waiting area and Tomas suggested they both have something to eat and drink. ‘My wife is away to her sister’s this evening; it will save me having to get something when I reached home.’

  ‘That would be good,’ Cannon said, ‘and this is on me.’

  Cannon was a bit hampered with the walking stick and when he put it under his arm as they queued with their trays, Tomas said, ‘Ah, yes, the stick,’ as if he thought he ought to return it to Christofferson Huset.

  When they had eaten their meal of ribs and chips and drunk a couple of cups of coffee, Cannon said he thought Tomas had done enough and should not wait any longer with him.

  ‘There is just one thing,’ the Norwegian said quietly. ‘I must take the walking stick with me when I go.’

  Cannon had found it a help and would have liked to have kept it. He was about to say so when Tomas added, ‘If you pass it to me this side of the table wher
e no one can see I will show you why.’

  Cannon frowned but did as he was asked. Tomas took the head of the stick into his open palm and traced the outline of the brass beak of the bird of prey, which Cannon saw now was made in two halves, the bottom slotted into the top where the user’s hand rested.

  Tomas curled his hand around it as any user might, but then he squeezed the bottom part of the beak until it disappeared under the top curve with a distinctive click.

  Cannon’s mouth dropped open. This was yet another gun-stick.

  ‘There were several, and sword-sticks, in the house,’ Tomas said quietly. ‘We used to look at them when we were boys and no one was around. I remember we even loaded one once. Wonder we didn’t kill someone then.’

  ‘I could have been arrested,’ Cannon said, leaving the stick in Tomas’s hand.

  ‘Thanks for all your help.’ Cannon stood up to shake his hand as Tomas prepared to leave. ‘You’re a good man.’

  ‘So was Michael Evan when I knew him,’ Tomas said, holding on to Cannon’s hand to add, ‘You will remember that.’

  Cannon nodded.

  Chapter 25

  Cannon had welcomed the speed and seeming urgency which all planes have to achieve to take off, but once above the snow clouds the sense of speed was lost, and he began to worry.

  If anything happened to Liz it would certainly be his fault for hurling himself off the boat, leaving her behind. Reckless, he judged himself, irresponsible – and what had he achieved? Then he was disconcerted by a break in the clouds and the lights of Tromsø clustered around the waterfront: the coloured brilliance of advertisements; shops, cafes, and the illuminated multi-pointed arches of the cathedral, reminding him of Sydney Opera House, all reflected in the water. He saw the lights of the bridge across a fjord. Then the clouds closed like a dense curtain.

  The flight was about an hour and Cannon decided he should use his time to more advantage and caught the stewardess’s eye. ‘I’ve never been to Kirkenes before and have to find a place to stay tonight. Is there a hotel near the airport?’

  ‘No, sir.’ The stewardess bent over him to whisper as others nearby had their eyes closed. ‘You will have to take a taxi but once you are in the town I don’t think you will have any difficulty finding a room. If there’s not a taxi outside go straight to the office near the exit and they will call one for you.’

  ‘Not walking distance then?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing is exactly near the airport,’ she said, ‘and you’ll need all your warm clothing on when you leave the plane. It is night and there’s already a lot of snow in Kirkenes.’

  From what he saw from the window as they came down it was a white-out; only as they were really low could he make out buildings and the lights of a small airport. Any town lights were not visible from where he sat, and the stewardess was right: he was glad he had pulled on his new jumper and anorak over his other clothes, and he promised himself a good woollen hat, scarf and gloves the next day.

  He was surprised to find his name on a placard held by a man just inside the exit doors, then his hand shook and his bag taken.

  ‘Forstmann. Kripos,’ the man, of almost the same tall and athletic build as Cannon, announced, looking him straight in the eye as if to make sure he knew that Kripos was the special agency of the Norwegian Police Service who dealt with serious crime.

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, very,’ Cannon said.

  Forstmann gave a tight-lipped smile and nodded. ‘A room has been arranged for you at a hotel as near as possible to the Hurtigruten terminal, and I’ve a car to take you there.’

  As they walked to the car Cannon asked if there had been any sightings of Bliss. ‘Though I suppose you will be looking for him as Michael Evan.’

  ‘Both,’ Forstmann said, ‘and Heaven, but the only sign so far is that we’ve had a couple of cars go missing on the route from Tromsø to here. He could be swapping cars, and if the second vehicle stolen was also him, he must be here, or nearly here by now.’

  ‘I thought road blocks—’ Cannon began.

  ‘Oh! They were, but this man knows this part of the world pretty thoroughly, I would say.’

  ‘He spent many holidays here as a child; his maternal grandmother left him her house in Harstad.’

  ‘Ah, that explains a lot,’ Forstmann said. ‘We felt at one point that he must have walked over a few hills to miss one of our road blocks, then picked up a car on the other side – and he may have done that more than once.’

  ‘He took quite a lot of camping gear out of the Land Rover in Harstad, left the Land Rover but still took the gear,’ Cannon said. ‘It surely must be cumbersome. Has any of that been found abandoned?’

  ‘These things are usually well packed in portable haversacks,’ Forstmann commented, ‘but why would he burden himself?’

  Cannon shook his head. ‘The only thing I would say about this man is that he seems to plan his movements in great detail, with deadly zeal you could say. Up to now there’s been nothing haphazard or, it seems to me, unplanned in what he’s done. What might seem spur-of-the-moment actions later turn out to be preconceived.’

  ‘A mad murderer to be reckoned with, then,’ Forstmann said as he drew up before the glass doors of a very modern-looking hotel. ‘Before you go in I have to supply you with this.’ He pulled out a mobile phone. ‘You will find my name and the names of various police officers and their duties and ranks in the contacts. Run through them as soon as you get in.’

  ‘You might learn more about how well Bliss knows the area from this man.’ Cannon produced the business card Midvinter had given him.

  ‘Yes,’ Forstmann said, ‘we already have his details from your … partner? Liz?’

  Cannon nodded.

  ‘I’ll see you in,’ Forstmann said and once inside shook his hand in what Cannon felt was a very meaningful way. ‘We’ll be around when the Nordsol docks,’ he said.

  At reception Cannon asked if he might have something to eat sent up to his room. He was given a twenty-four-hour menu and chose a pasta salad. He found his room, put on the kettle, explored the mobile phone, then sent all his important contacts his new phone details. He opened up the mini-bar and was alternately sipping tea and whisky when his door was tapped.

  A very young-looking waiter, his ears his most prominent feature, carrying a tray, hovered in the doorway.

  ‘That all right, sir?’ he asked, as Cannon took the tray.

  Cannon looked down at the film-covered salad, which was colourful and elaborate, and wished he had ordered a sandwich. He nodded. ‘Fine,’ he said, then nodded down at a brown-wrapped parcel on the tray and asked, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It was delivered for you as I came through from the kitchen, so I put it on the tray and brought it straight up.’

  ‘Who delivered it?’ Cannon asked sharply.

  ‘Just a man, sir,’ the youth replied. ‘I only saw his back as he left; he had given it to the night porter.’

  ‘OK, thanks,’ Cannon said.

  ‘Good night, sir.’

  ‘Good night,’ he replied absentmindedly as the door was closed. A surprise present? An unwanted ‘present’?

  He put the pasta on the side and laid the tray and the parcel in the middle of the small table by the armchair, tipped his whisky into his tea and sipped. Half the size of a small shoebox and wrapped in dull brown paper, neatly stuck all around with parcel tape, it could have come straight from a shop, or dealer of some kind. But what kind of dealer? The parcel was not quite pristine enough for a shop. It looked as if it had come out of a warehouse, off a storehouse shelf. Reassuring himself that surely the only people who knew where he was at that moment were the police, he picked it up and made a start on the tape.

  It was quite a task to find a corner. He resolved in future to carry a good penknife in his pocket as again he used a bank card to dig below the tape and strip it away.

  He upended the whole contents of the box on t
o the table: a smaller box and a bubble-wrapped item, both with yet more tape around them. He picked up the parcel – and knew immediately what this ‘present’ was. He sat with the squat but business-like-feeling revolver in his hand, still in its bubble wrap, and knew the smaller box would be bullets for this small-calibre gun. He wondered if this was not a present after all, an ‘unofficial’ present? From Forstmann, or Kripos?

  He did not speculate further; the gun was in his possession and he was glad of it, though it underlined that his position could be perilous. He pulled the wrapping from the revolver, an automatic with a flat profile, suitable for concealed carry. He felt this gun had been carefully chosen for him. There was nothing unplanned in this whole affair. He was being armed and Bliss was carrying the camping gear for definite reasons. But what? What did Bliss intend?

  Cannon cast his eyes in the direction of the pasta salad, decided he definitely was not hungry enough for that, had a long hot bath to ease his aches and bring out the bruises, ate the biscuits provided on the tray with another whisky and went to bed to consider the next day – a whole day before the Nordsol docked – and Bliss’s need for Midvinter’s gear.

  He slept solidly and forced himself up and under the shower to bring his aching, complaining body into some sort of action. Going down to the restaurant for breakfast, he found the hotel had a good number of guests. One group of twenty or so were already in the foyer, and as he passed he heard talk of a trip they were making to the Russian border. ‘Here’s the bus,’ someone called, and all streamed happily out of the front doors.

  At the breakfast bar he realized just how hungry he was, and while piling his plate heard talk of a snowmobile safari and a visit to see new puppies at nearby husky kennels.

  Walking back to his allocated table near the window, he found the party of four at the next table equally involved in what they would be doing that day. The older couple had obviously been before and were advising the young couple what they ‘really must’ do and see.

  ‘The Ice Hotel is a must,’ the older woman said, ‘well, from Christmas to April it is …’

  ‘We were more interested in the trips with the husky-drawn sledges,’ the younger man said.