by A P Bateman
King looked up at the sound of a knock on the door. He slipped his cargoes on and tucked the pistol into his back pocket. He checked the spy-lens in the door, let the waitress in with the tray. He showed her to the table, thanked her and gave her a five Euro note. A little higher than he would like for a simple tray-drop, but he felt uncomfortable tipping in coins.
The meal was excellent, and he polished off the meatballs and strange combination of pickled beetroot and creamy mashed potatoes, drank the rest of his beer and picked at the cheese and biscuits. The tea was passable, but the milk tasted sour. He wondered if it was reindeer milk, and the thought made him put the tea down and help himself to another beer from the fridge. He couldn’t pronounce the name, but it was darker and stronger than the generic Carlsberg. King flicked on the television, selected Sky News and sat back on the bed. It was at times like this that he missed Caroline. He wondered if things would ever be the same after her ordeal at the hands of her kidnappers. Her mission in life was now to sever links in people trafficking and the forced sex trade. He knew she was fighting an unwinnable battle and setting herself up for defeat. But he also knew how badly she needed to do something, to feel she was doing something. If not for her, then for the girls she had been held with that had been moved on before she could help. She had escaped, while they had been lost forever.
King felt lonely for the first time in years. He had been a widower for five years before he had met Caroline. He had become comfortable on his own, never needing a relationship or company. And then he had fallen in love again, fallen into the comforts of companionship. These past two years had given him a new lease of life. He was less cynical, less bitter. He was more patient, far more outwardly looking. And now, he felt all of that changing again. He felt on the cusp of a trough. He’d been there before, but he wasn’t relishing the ride. He wished things could be different but couldn’t see how he could change the facts. He didn’t doubt Caroline’s love for him, but he could see a dramatic shift in focus. He never drank much alcohol as a rule, but he had found himself accepting it more and more of late. The Courvoisier in Amherst’s office had dulled the ache, and normally he would never have accepted the offer, and tonight he was well towards the end of his second beer and thinking about a third. He had ordered a couple of vodkas on the plane, too. It wasn’t much by most people’s standards, but it was out of character.
King picked up the map and laid the acetate on top. He could see that his contact had been thorough. The next marking showed the spot where the MI6 handler’s body had been found. Nothing else. Simply three points on a map to aid his investigation. He had no contact methods for the person who had provided him with his car and equipment. No way of using them to further his investigation and mission. He would need to find out more about the second defector if he were to chaperone them back to Britain. Technically, once the defector got clear of Russia, then Finland and Norway were safe zones. The Russians ignored the borders regularly, operated throughout Scandinavia, but there were places with a good infrastructure for a Russian specialist with a secret to hide out safely. But they valued Britain for both what they would make of their wares, and the life it could give them. Which meant that what they had would benefit a world power more than a quiet Nordic country with a pleasant way of life.
King wasn’t happy with the arrangements. If he needed more from the MI6 liaison officer and he could not contact them, then he would undoubtedly be contacted himself. And that put King at a disadvantage. He liked to call the shots; not look forever over his shoulder and be a step behind. However, he did not need help looking into the MI6 handler’s death. He could do that with the Finnish police officer. The female sheriff of a frozen town on a lake famed for a witch.
8
King nodded a greeting to the waitress, who ticked him off a sheet and showed him to an occupied table. She asked whether he would like English breakfast tea or coffee, and he thought about the milk last night and asked for a black coffee. He looked at the woman seated at his table. Having ditched the snow suit and now dressed in a tight-fitting silk blouse and jeans, Lena Mäkinen did not look like a fourteen stone power lifter. He never really suspected she would, but it had been fun guessing. She was slim in a sporty, outdoorsy way. Small-busted, with toned arms and a flat stomach, she looked like she ran a lot. Or perhaps skied. Running wasn’t a pursuit to be practised this far into the Arctic Circle.
She smiled up at him, stood up and held out her hand. “I thought I’d join you for breakfast,” she said as King clasped her hand and shook it warmly. “I hope you don’t mind?”
King shook his head. He could make out a distinctive perfume over the aroma of her steaming cup of coffee. He was surprised at himself, feeling a mild attraction towards her. “Why would I mind?” he asked. “You don’t look dressed for a trip across the lake.”
She shrugged. “We’ll go and see the body first,” she said. “Then get changed and head out to where he was found. I have to warn you though; it is an arduous journey.”
King nodded. “How far?”
“One hundred kilometres. That’s tough on a snowmobile.”
“Tougher on skis,” he said casually. “I’ll be okay.”
The waitress came with King’s black coffee and took their orders. Lena chose porridge with cloudberries while King chose smoked salmon, scrambled eggs and potato pancakes. He ate some rye bread with unsalted butter while they waited and spooned some sugar into the coffee.
“So, what does the Home Office do?” she asked.
King had decided to be vague and not go into his Security Service status. “My department provides security for the government,” he said.
She nodded. “What was Mister Fitzpatrick doing this far north?”
“He was a nature lover,” King lied. “I gather he was up here to see the Northern Lights.”
She nodded. “Did you see them last night?”
King felt foolish. He’d forgotten to look outside his window. “No.”
“They will be better tonight. A clearer sky,” she said. “They are quite captivating.”
“I can imagine.”
Their breakfast orders arrived, and King could already see the salmon was different to anything he’d eaten before. It was flaky and covered with lemon and dill. It looked like cooked fish, as opposed to the bright red, gelatinous texture he was used to. He tried some with a little of the egg.
“Good?”
“Delicious,” he said and meant it.
“I find it interesting that you are not a police officer.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
King shrugged. “Just protocol.”
“We have the internet,” she said. “Even this far north.”
“Can’t escape progress.”
“Or common sense.”
“Meaning?”
“It is easy to search,” she said flatly. “If a British citizen is murdered, in extraneous circumstances, then Scotland Yard may get involved in a supervisory or financial capacity. Like that little girl in Portugal, or the missing boy on one of the Greek islands. But Finland has a competent police service. We are more than capable of dealing with our own crime scenes.”
“I have no doubt,” King agreed noncommittally. He ate some of the potato pancakes. They were a little like a blini and worked well with the scrambled eggs. “I can see a point where we’ll just be going around in circles,” he said. “You’re an intelligent woman…”
“Police officer,” she corrected him. “Being a woman has nothing to do with it.”
“My apologies,” he said.
She shrugged like it was nothing, but King could tell she had not had an easy ride in her career.
“Fitzpatrick was a spook, wasn’t he?”
King sipped some of his tea as he eyed her warily. He placed the cup down and studied her face. He decided she could be trusted. Perhaps he would get what needed to be done if he levelled with her, gained her trust? He could already see h
ow suspicious she was. She had pieced enough together, had enough doubts to search the internet and look at Britain’s protocols concerning international crime.
“What makes you ask that?” he asked.
“Mister King, there is nothing up there for a nature lover,” she said. “The Northern Lights can be seen from anywhere here. A lot further south, even. Up here, at this time of year, it is a fight for survival. The birds have either flown south or are tucked up in their nests. The bears are in torpor, asleep for the winter. What you would probably call hibernation. The wolves are hungry and everything lower in the food chain is prey to something else. The environment is too severe, too cold for nature lovers to be out roaming the woods.”
“So?”
“So, he was staying at The Eagle’s Nest Hotel. It is built high up on a peak. The highest man-made peak in the world.”
“Man-made?”
“Scree and rock moved in from Russia. The Russians built a hydro-electric power station, using rivers that flow to and from the lake for power.”
King frowned. “But it’s frozen.”
She smiled. “The Russians spent millions on the site. Geo-thermal hot rock technology keeps the rivers from freezing. The water powers the turbines, then the water is used for cooling. Apparently, the water comes out of there at almost boiling point. For four-hundred metres from the mouth of the river into the lake, the water is warm all year round. And the river that flows from the lake into the Arctic Ocean leaves the power station just as hot. The dirt and rock dug for the geo-thermal shafts was moved out there across the border at the owner’s request and built into a mountain. Like I said, the largest man-made hill in the world.”
“So, what’s the problem with Fitzpatrick being up there?”
“The hotel is secluded. Like I said, built on top of a man-made mountain.”
“It can’t be that big.”
She smiled. “Trust me, it is. They built the mountain around a funicular rail system. That way, people can enter The Eagle’s Nest Hotel in all weathers and besides, any roadway to the hotel would not be safe in winter. Not for paying guests, at least. Snowploughs and all-terrain vehicles can get supplies and maintenance crews and equipment up there, but the funicular adds a sense of drama and theatre for the guests. As if the hotel, with its castle turrets doesn’t add enough theatre already.”
“Well, how big is this mountain?”
“I suppose, four-hundred metres. It’s shaped like a large mound with a decent ski slope on the northern side. Beginners to intermediates. Chair lifts as well.”
“And all built from waste from a power station?”
“Of sorts,” she paused. “I suppose nobody really knows how much ground was removed for the geo-thermal aspect.”
“Is there Russian money behind the hotel?”
She frowned. “I never really thought about that.”
“Better get on that internet of yours again, then.”
“You can bet on that.”
“So, what’s so wrong with Fitzpatrick staying there?”
“It’s an ideal location for lovers. The Eagle’s Nest builds an ice hotel as well. At the start of winter. It melts away in May. The ice hotel is an extension of pods, really. A place where couples come to watch the Northern Lights. It is built onto the hotel, so guests can walk straight through to the main hotel.”
“Does it have to be exclusively couples?” King asked dubiously. “Sounds exactly the sort of place I’d take some R and R.”
Lena hesitated. “I suppose not…” she said. “But it would be an unusual place for a man on his own to be staying. Especially a man who was up there simply for nature watching.”
“So, what do you think Fitzpatrick was doing?”
She looked at him, her eyebrow cocked slightly. “You have covered a reasonably broad base with Home Office. That department oversees so many things. The police, the Border Force, Revenue and Customs, MI5…”
King could see she had been busy. He could also see that working with her relied on mutual trust. Could he trust her? What ulterior motive could she have?
“Fitzpatrick was working with the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.” He shrugged and added, “MI6,” King said quietly.
“MI6?”
“Yes. And MI6 believe he was murdered.”
“And what department are you with, really?”
“MI5.”
“And they investigate murders?”
“I have before.”
“But it’s not in their general remit.”
“There’s lots of things that aren’t technically in MI5’s remit. It doesn’t stop them doing it though.”
“Them?”
King smiled. Old habits died hard. Too many years working for the opposition. “Why don’t you consider murder as an option?” he asked.
She shook her head. “He was killed by wolves,” she said emphatically. “You haven’t seen the body, yet. Trust me, you will change your mind. When I was twelve, my family dog was killed by wolves. He was shredded to the bone. He was a German Shepherd. A big dog. Aggressive if pushed by other dogs. He wouldn’t have been able to put up any sort of fight. Wolves are not dogs…” she trailed off, her eyes glossy. King could see vulnerability there, a girl at odds with both her age and her status. It made her even more attractive.
“Well, let’s go and see the body, then.”
9
Lena signed them both in at the reception of the health centre and led the way through a door off the waiting room and down a dark corridor. Their snow trousers rustled as they walked. They had left their other garments hung on a series of hooks inside the foyer of the building.
Lena opened the door at the end and they were greeted by an overweight man in his fifties sporting a beard and tousled hair. He wore thick rimmed glasses, and it was difficult to see where the hair ended, and the beard began. Like PT Barnham’s Dog Boy. Or maybe Chewbacca from Star Wars. King found himself staring, and he was a man not easily shocked.
The man spoke quietly for a moment with the police officer, then looked at King, cocking his head to see up and under his jam jar lenses. “You are wasting your time,” he said. “The cause of death was a wolf.”
“And you are?”
“What?”
“Your name?”
The man looked surprised. “Doctor Engelmann.”
King nodded. “I’m Alex King.”
The doctor shrugged like he didn’t care, which King suspected he didn’t.
“So, Doctor Engelmann, the cause of death would have been from blood loss, organ failure or even asphyxiation.” said King. “Death resulting from a wolf attack, maybe. But not the primary cause.”
“There is no point in being pedantic, Mister King.”
“There are factors that should not be overlooked.”
“It was a wolf.”
“Just one wolf?”
“Wolves are powerful creatures. Savage.”
King looked at Lena, who was nodding in agreement. No doubt remembering the dog from her childhood.
King stared at the man, his hirsute features difficult to ignore. “So, what makes you rule out death due to hypothermia and the body being scavenged by a wolf?”
“Blood loss.”
“Maybe he nicked an artery?”
“It was a wolf.”
“And not a pack?”
“What difference does that make?”
King shrugged. “I just want to know if you’re good enough to identify if Mister Fitzpatrick was killed by one wolf or ten. Because I imagine a single wolf would eat some of him, a few wolves would eat most of him, and a pack of wolves would strip him down to the bone.” Engelmann looked at King, was about to say something, but seemed to change his mind. King smiled. “Let me see the body, please.”
Engelmann tutted, turned and opened the door behind him. The room was clad in white plastic sheeting with all the joins sealed with trim strips. The floor was vinyl with a mineral element which g
linted in the light. It had been laid, fitted and glued a full foot up the wall to allow for deep cleaning and sluicing. In the centre of the room was a stainless-steel table with a gutter running around it and a tap on a metal hose resting in a holder at one end with a shallow sink and ridged draining board built into the table. Engelmann led the way past the table and to a bank of metal doors. There were only four doors. It wasn’t a busy part of the world.
The doctor opened one of the hatches and pulled out a trolley. He looked at King with a cynical expression and a wry smile. He had intended to shock him. It might have worked, had King not eaten his breakfast over worse sights in the past.
Lena looked away, took a breath and forced herself to look back at the corpse. Or what was left of it.
“Well, forensics are out of the window,” King said. “Transference is already happening from the three of us.”
“You’re worried about contamination?” Engelmann scoffed. “Look at it!”
“What do you want us to see?” Lena asked, apparently as exasperated in King as the doctor.
King walked over to a counter and pulled a pair of blue rubber surgical gloves from a cardboard dispensing box. He pulled them on as he walked back and eased the tatters of shirt from the sticky flesh. He could see the wolf, or wolves had been busy. The face was gone. As were the ears. Soft tissue was easily pulled and gnawed at, King supposed. The torso was opened-up and the flaps of skin was in tatters.
“Internal organs?” King asked without looking up.
“Gone,” Engelmann paused. “As have most of the intestines.”
King moved around, bent down and peered into the cavity. He reached inside and gently pulled out some intestines. He let them roll around in the palm of his hand. He looked up at Lena. She had turned pale. She was perspiring, beads of sweat mottling her brow. He looked back at the intestines, then up at the doctor.
