by A P Bateman
“You still think it’s a wolf?” he asked.
“Of course!”
“Interesting.”
King could see that the man’s salopettes had been more difficult for the wolves to get through. There were bite marks and tears, the fibres peeling away more easily in one direction than another. Something to do with the weave. He pulled at the material, could see that the man’s genitals were gone. His legs though, were largely intact. King ran his hands over the body’s legs, stopped when he noticed something. He bent down, using the light above him to catch the sight of the material better. He eased his fingers around a patch of blood, a smear.
“You don’t believe this was a wolf?” Engelmann asked incredulously.
“I believe he was eaten,” King replied. “But he wasn’t killed by a wolf.”
“Then what?” Lena asked.
“He was killed by a knife.”
“A knife?” Engelmann scoffed, then broke into laughter. “Tell me, why do you think that?”
King pulled on the remains of the intestines. The sound was wet, but it was the smell which was most unpleasant. Lena gagged and turned away. She swallowed hard and turned back, her pallor gone, replaced with a blush which radiated heat. King ignored her. He thought most people would have vomited, so she had nothing to prove to him. Engelmann smirked, but his expression became incredulous as King pointed to a link of gut that looked like a length of Cumberland sausage.
“That’s why,” he said. He fingered a clean slash of four inches or so. “Too clean for an animal to have made. Whether it was one wolf or a pack of wolves. Or even a wolverine,” King paused, looking at Lena. “What you might call a gulu-gulu.” He smiled. He’d done his research, too.
Lena forgot all about the smell and leaned in. She stared at the slash, looked up at King. “That does look like a clean cut…”
King dropped the length of intestine and walked over to the examination table and pulled on a length of paper towel. He wiped his gloved hands and turned back. He wished he could see some of Engelmann’s face under his incredible beard to gain insight to his colour. The doctor’s opinion had been called, but King wasn’t done yet. He looked closely at the thick nylon salopettes, gently ran his fingertips over the material.
“I noticed this,” he said. He circled his finger around a patch of bloodstain. “Here, this looks like a smudge. There are bloodstains all over, but this stood out…” He looked at Engelmann and added, “To me, that is.”
“What is it?” asked Lena.
“Blood,” replied King. “But inside the smear looks like fingertips. There is also thin and equally clean cut as on his intestines. Again, four inches or so in length and barely slicing through the material, but you can see a clean slice through the top weave. There is blood either side of the cut.” He straightened up, removed the gloves and tossed them at Engelmann’s feet. The bin was just as near, but he thought the man deserved to be rattled. “I think, or rather, I’m convinced that Fitzpatrick was gutted wide open and left for the wolves. That slash in his guts would denote that.” He pointed at the smear and the thin slice in the material of the man’s snow trousers. “Whoever did it then their hand and the blade clean. One way, and then the other. Most hunting knives are sharpened and honed on a stone and do not have an equal edge. The blade leans, ever-so-slightly, to one side or the other. The person wiped one way, then the other and the knife edge just kissed the material enough to cut through part of the weave. Not all the way through. The blood smears from thick, through to thin. The marking is unnatural, but the cut in the material confirms that he was killed, murdered.” He looked back at Engelmann. “I’m surprised you missed that, doctor.”
King turned back to the cadaver. The left hand was missing, the flesh taken clean off the bone all the way up to the elbow. The right hand was intact, although the wolves had chewed most of the way through the thicker parts of the meat and stripped most of the bicep away. Survival was about taking the easiest option, and animals were masters of survival. Fitzpatrick had been disembowelled and that had opened the store cupboard. The animals had taken the pungent and malleable internal organs. Rich in minerals and calories with little effort expelled. The torso was soft and there was plenty to eat without working through bones. King could picture the scene, the carnage. He just hoped the MI6 man had been dead before the animals had started feeding. He studied the intact hand. He could see the frostbite on the fingers, the broken nails. He suspected how that had happened, but he decided not to divulge anything more.
“I… I must have been taken in by the severity of the trauma,” Engelmann said quietly.
King stared at him for a few seconds before answering. His stare was as cold as the temperature outside, his eyes glacier blue and unnerving. “Yes, that must have been it,” he said coldly.
10
“So, have you ridden a snowmobile before?”
Like so much in his life, King had to think. He had compartmentalised much of his existence, put incidents to bed far too often. He shook his head, still unsure. Better to get a briefing anyway.
“Forget anything you’ve ridden or driven before,” she paused, doing her utmost to supress a smile. “These things are on another level for acceleration.”
King studied the machine in front of him. He decided he hadn’t ridden a snowmobile. But he had ridden plenty of quadbikes, a couple of fast motorcycles and even driven a Jaguar F-Type. The supercharged one. He was quietly confident.
“Fully automatic,” she said. “Neutral select here, press it before you start and when you stop. Accelerator here, or what some people call the throttle. It revs like a chainsaw, so no gears.” She indicated a thumb lever. “No front brake as there is on a motorcycle, but the left one is a brake to the belt-drive, and it’s severe. Because of the traction of the snow, as soon as you take your thumb off the throttle, the machine will slow dramatically. The brake will be like dropping an anchor.”
King had already sussed the controls. Similar in layout and function to the last quadbike he had ridden except for the front brake lever. He had already looked at the starter button and like most utilitarian machines, there was an idiot instructional block of pictures stuck to the frame.
“I’ll do my best to keep an eye on you, but take note if you see me do this…” She held up a fist. “That means I’m stopping suddenly. The lake is wide, and we will avoid the islands, but you might still want to ride in my tracks, as the going will be easier.”
King nodded. “I think I’ll be okay,” he said confidently, if with a little arrogance.
Lena shouldered the sling of the Tikka hunting rifle. It was made of polymer composite and the barrel and bolt were stainless-steel. No outer cleaning or maintenance required. He had no idea of the calibre, but the five-round magazine looked wide and thick.
“How long has Doctor Engelmann been here?”
She swung her leg over the snowmobile, looked at him as she straddled the seat. “A year or so,” she replied. “Why?”
“And his credentials?”
“All good, I imagine. Nothing to do with the police service.”
“Then who decides?”
“The medical centre is a private practice but subsidised through government grants. So those entitled, and that’s all Finnish citizens, get free healthcare. The fact it’s a private practice is because living this far north has got to be a choice. Private contractors have lucrative benefits. And many of the Sami hold a protected status. They do not earn the levels of income that the Finnish do, so the practices must be equipped with good facilities and amenities, like surgery and x-rays. And then there is tourism. These people are not entitled to free healthcare. There are many visitors up here for the skiing, and although not world class, the snow is guaranteed. And of course, there are the Santa visitors…” she smiled like it was a secret only the people of Lapland really knew.
“And Engelmann’s tenure?” King asked. “How did that come about?”
“Doctor
Jokela was killed in a traffic accident. He slid off the road and hit a tree. Very sad…”
“So, Engelmann was appointed?”
“I imagine he bought the practice,” she replied. “I don’t know the details, but that would be his way in.
King nodded. His face was near-frozen, and he pulled his beanie down as far as it would go and pulled the fake fur-lined hood over the top. Lena handed him a pair of goggles and he put them on over his hood once he got onto his machine. Lena started her snowmobile and it throbbed into life, then settled into a surprisingly quiet tick-over.
She adjusted her scarf and hood, shouted above the sound of King starting his engine. “Why? Don’t you trust him?”
King shrugged. He said nothing, simply nodded for her to lead the way.
Lena drove steadily out of the parking lot and used the edge of the road for approximately two hundred metres before turning off and heading through a well-used snow path through a belt of forest. King found the throttle responsive, increased it a little to close the gap. Lena slowed and disappeared in front of him. King could see why after a few more seconds, as he caught sight of her heading down a sixty-foot cliff at an angle of forty-five degrees. He slowed, followed in blind faith and found himself gripping on with his knees as if he were on horseback. Lena shot forwards at tremendous speed, and when King levelled out he pressed the throttle and both hands came away from the handlebars and he almost sprawled backwards. He struggled to sit up, then finally got his hands back on the grips when he had slowed enough. He had never experienced acceleration like it, short of freefall parachute jumps. He took a better grip, opened-up the throttle and held on for dear life as the snowmobile shot past sixty miles-per-hour in around two seconds. He hung on all the way up the rev-range but dared not take his eyes off the ground ahead of him to check his speed. The traction was so complete that he felt the machine flexing underneath him. He had ridden a few motorbikes in the past. Several trail bikes and a sports bike with a full race fairing and 1000cc’s of tuned engine, but that didn’t even begin to feel close to the acceleration of the snowmobile. He knew the snowmobile would top out at around one-hundred miles-per-hour, simple physics would control that, but getting there was the most extreme way he had ever travelled. He caught Lena up, slowed to what he figured was around seventy and settled into her machine’s tracks like she had told him.
The ride was flat, and the snow was hard and frozen. King could already feel icy air through some seams of clothing. His goggles had steamed up and he was using all sorts of angles tilting his head to see through the mist. His arms were aching already, and he found the thumb position awkward. It would not be long before his thumb cramped altogether.
Lena held up her fist and King eased off the throttle. He pulled alongside and selected the neutral button on the handlebar. The engines on tick-over were a welcomed break to his ears.
“Okay?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“Fast?”
“You could say that.”
“I thought I’d give your thumb a rest,” she said, flexing her fingers. “I’m used to it, use one of these most days, but each winter, it takes a while to get used to.”
King squeezed his hand into fists about ten times. “I can see that,” he said.
“Clear your goggles,” she said.
King removed them and wiped them with his gloves. He could feel the fog had already frozen. He scratched at the ice inside the lens. “I’ve never been somewhere as cold as this,” he conceded.
“I love it,” she said. “The air, the clear skies, the feeling of shedding your heavy clothes in a warm room… It’s glorious.”
King replaced his goggles and tidied up his beanie and hood. The area of skin on his cheeks which was uncovered felt numb. “City girl?”
She nodded. “Helsinki,” she said. “Career suicide, I suppose. I’ll never be the detective I wanted to be, but I’m happy doing what I do. The community is fun, too.”
“A bad break-up, a fresh start?” King asked.
She stared at him, her eyes hostile within her goggles. “Yes,” she said. “How did you guess that?”
“It seems the sort of place people run away to,” he paused. “I contemplated living in places like this, once.”
“After a bad break-up?”
“My wife died,” he said.
“And you’re still alone?”
“No.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Serious?”
“Yes,” King shrugged. Despite Caroline’s sabbatical, her one-tracked ideal, he wasn’t so sure anymore, but wouldn’t have answered any other way. “You?”
“No. But I like it that way,” she replied. “For the most part,” she added. “We all have needs, of course.”
King nodded. He wasn’t sure if she was dropping hints, or if he had misread it. He chose his usual approach and said nothing. He’d decided long ago that he couldn’t get in the shit any deeper if he said nothing. She stared at him, her eyes softening.
“We’d better get going,” he said.
11
He had the edge. Tracking your quarry was one thing but knowing exactly where your quarry would be was quite another. And that was worth everything. Of course, getting there would be difficult. He did not have a huge time advantage, but he did have local knowledge. He would have to travel a little further east for his tracks to remain out of view, but he would do so at full speed. He would not have to slow for an amateur snowmobile rider. His muscles were well-acquainted with the controls and buffeting that would have to be endured at riding at full-speed, and his controls were lighter to use. An older machine, though certainly no slower. Well-oiled and maintained, the parts worn enough to work easily to the touch.
The myriad of islands would work well for him. Keep his tracks from view. He knew his way in the winter, knew his way by boat in the summertime, too. He knew where the rocks were hidden, protruding above the lake ice and just under the snow. Perilous for most, and that was why they travelled in huge tracts of three or four straight lines. But he could weave his way through and gain precious minutes. He had already started out ahead of them, which would give him enough time to set up his hide and watch them through the scope of his hunting rifle.
12
King’s arms ached as if they were on fire and his legs shook with the constant grip his thighs maintained against the edges of the seat. His thumb felt as though it would fall off at any minute. He eased off the throttle and the machine slowed dramatically. As he neared Lena’s stationary machine, he applied the brake and pulled up alongside. He cut the engine and the silence was overwhelming.
“Who discovered the body?” he asked loudly, his ears ringing. He removed his goggles and pulled down the hood to adjust his beanie. It was easier without gloves, so he removed them and put them down on the dashboard, which housed the speedometer, rev-counter and fuel gauge.
Lena removed her goggles also. Steam cooled in the air around her face, misty and pulsating as she breathed. “A trapper,” she said. “A Sami.”
“What else did he say?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “He called it in. I suppose we were lucky he did that much.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “The Sami are integrating with Finnish society, but some are still traditional. There are families out here, entire tribes even, who live in tents and keep up with their reindeer herds all year. Nomads. Others live wild, off the grid. This trapper phoned it into the central police number and reported it when he reached a large enough settlement.”
“You don’t find it strange that he did that and disappeared?”
“Not really. He may well have been bear waking, wanted to avoid questions, as it’s illegal.”
“Bear waking?” King asked, pulling his snow goggles back on. Already, his skin was freezing.
Lena nodded as she did the same and adjusted her hood. She stepped off the snowmobile and crunched through a
top layer of softer ice. “See?” she pointed to her boot, an inch into the ice. “It is warming!”
King laughed. The thermometer on his instrument panel showed -22°C.
Lena smiled. “Bear waking is the term used for killing hibernating bears. It’s dangerous work.”
“Sounds it, what with the bear being asleep and all,” King said incredulously. He stepped off the machine and adjusted his clothing. He brushed a hand subconsciously against the pistol in his pocket. “Sounds more dangerous for the bear,” he added.
“Well, it is more dangerous than it sounds. First, the hunter must find the bear’s resting place. Usually a hole dug out of the first fall of snow. The hunter does this by locating a suitable place, then listening for the bear’s breathing or heartbeat through a specially prepared stick, that they insert into the ground and hold to their ear. When they find the bear, they must then dig,” she paused. “Very carefully. A charging bear will explode through the snow and ice, a three-hundred kilo animal that is scared, and most pissed off.” She unhooked the hunting rifle from her shoulder and worked the bolt. King saw the flash of a large brass cartridge leave the magazine and slide seamlessly into the breach. The stainless-steel bolt locked forward as she locked the bolt action down. “But you can’t just shoot into the hole or the roof of the cavern. That would mean far too much digging. You need to coax the bear out. Prod at it with your hand, or even a foot if the bear is deep. Wake the bear and get them to come after you. Time it right, and the hunter puts a bullet down through its head as it leaves the tunnel you have dug. Time it wrong…” She cradled the rifle and took a step in the snow. “And the bear gets a mid-hibernation meal. Like a home delivery,” she smiled. “A bear is good meat and the fur is invaluable in winter.”
