‘Maybe,’ Harry said.
‘The neck wound had fresh blood. His heart must have been beating when he received that wound, Harry. Beating pretty strongly, too. It should have been possible to dig out a living man in time. But you prioritised Kaja, didn’t you.’
‘Well,’ Harry said, ‘I think Kolkka was right.’ He emptied the rest of his coffee in the snow. ‘You have to choose sides,’ he quoted in Swedish.
They found the snowmobile tracks at three o’clock, a kilometre from the avalanche, between two large fang- shaped rocks, a refuge from the wind.
‘Looks like he paused here,’ Harry said, pointing along the edge of the track left by the tread of the rubber belt. ‘The vehicle has had time to sink in the snow.’ He ran his finger along the middle of the left ski runner while Bellman swept away the light, dry, drifting snow.
‘Yep,’ he said, pointing. ‘He turned here and then drove on northwest.’
‘We’re approaching the cliffs and the snow’s getting thicker,’ Harry said, looking up at the sky and taking out his phone. ‘We’ll have to ring the hotel and ask them to send a guide on a snowmobile. Shit!’
‘What?’
‘No coverage. We’ll have to make our own way back to the hotel.’
Harry studied the display. There was still the missed call from the vaguely familiar number of someone who had left those sounds on his voicemail. The last three digits, where the hell had he seen them? And then it kicked in. The detective memory. The number was in the ‘Former Suspects’ file, and was embossed on a business card.
Along with ‘Tony C. Leike, Entrepreneur’. Harry slowly raised his gaze and looked at Bellman.
‘Leike’s alive.’
‘What?’
‘At least his phone is. He tried to ring me while we were in Havass.’
Bellman returned Harry’s gaze without blinking. Snowflakes settled on his long eyelashes and the white stains seemed to be glowing. His voice was low, almost a whisper. ‘Visibility’s good, don’t you think, Harry? And there’s no snow in the air.’
‘Exceptional visibility,’ Harry said. ‘Not a bloody flake to be seen.’
He quickly jumped back on.
They stuttered through the snowscape, a hundred metres at a time. Located the snowmobile’s probable route, swept the tracks with a broom, took bearings, surged forward. The gouge in the left runner, probably caused by an accident, meant they could be sure they were following the right scooter tracks. In a few places, in tiny hollows or on wind-blown hillcrests, the trail was clear and they could make fast progress. But not too fast. Harry had already shouted warnings about precipices twice and they had had some very close shaves. It was getting on for four now. Bellman flicked the headlights on and off, depending on how much snow was drifting in their faces. Harry studied the map. He had no clear idea of where they were, just that they were straying further and further from Ustaoset. And that daylight was dwindling. A third of Harry was slowly beginning to worry about the trip back. Which just meant that the two-third majority couldn’t care less.
At half past four they lost the trail.
The drifting snow was so thick now they could hardly see.
‘This is madness,’ Harry shouted above the roar of the motor. ‘Why don’t we wait until tomorrow?’
Bellman turned to him and answered with a smile.
At five they picked up the trail again.
They stopped and dismounted.
‘Leads that way,’ Bellman said, trudging back to the snowmobile. ‘Come on!’
‘Wait,’ Harry said.
‘Why? Come on, it’ll soon be dark.’
‘When you shouted just now, didn’t you hear the echo?’
‘Now you mention it.’ Bellman stopped. ‘Rock face?’
‘There are no rock faces on the map,’ Harry said, turning in the direction the tracks indicated.
‘Ravine!’ he yelled. And received an answer. A very swift answer. He turned back to Bellman.
‘I think the snowmobile making these tracks is in serious trouble.’
‘What do I know about Bellman?’ Roger Gjendem repeated to gain some time. ‘He’s reputed to be very competent and extremely professional.’ What was Nordbo, the legendary editor, really after? ‘He does all the right things,’ Gjendem went on. ‘Learns quickly, can handle us press types now. Sort of a whizz-kid. Er, that is if you know…’
‘I am somewhat conversant with the term, yes,’ said Bent Nordbo with an acidic smile, his right thumb and forefinger furiously rubbing the handkerchief on his glasses. ‘However, basically, I am more interested in if there any rumours doing the rounds.’
‘Rumours?’ Gjendem said, failing to notice a relapse into his old habit of leaving his mouth open after speaking.
‘I am truly hopeful you understand the concept, Gjendem. Since that is what you and your employer live off. Well?’
Gjendem hesitated. ‘There are all sorts of rumours.’
Nordbo rolled his eyes. ‘Speculation. Fabrication. Direct lies. I’m not bothered with the niceties here, Gjendem. Turn the sack of gossip inside out, reveal the malevolence.’
‘N-negative things then?’
Nordbo released a pondorous sigh. ‘Gjendem, my dear man, do you often hear rumours about people’s sobriety, financial generosity, fidelity to partners and non-psychopathic leadership styles? Could that be because the function of rumours is to please the rest of us by putting us in a better light?’ Nordbo was finished with one lens and engaged on the cleansing operation of the second.
‘It’s a very, very idle rumour,’ Gjendem said and added with alacrity: ‘And I know for certain of others with the selfsame reputation who categorically are not.’
‘As an ex-editor I would recommend you delete either for certain or categorically, it’s a tautology,’ Nordbo said. ‘Categorically are not what?’
‘Erm. Jealous.’
‘Aren’t we all jealous?’
‘Violently jealous.’
‘Has he beaten up his wife?’
‘No, I don’t think he’s laid a hand on her. Or had reason to. However, those who have given her a second look…’
61
The Drop
Harry and Bellman lay on their stomachs at the edge where the snowmobile tracks stopped. They stared down. Steep, black rock faces sliced inwards to the ground and disappeared in the thickening swirl of snow.
‘Can you see anything?’ Bellman asked.
‘Snow,’ Harry answered, passing him the binoculars.
‘The snowmobile’s there.’ Bellman got up and walked back to their vehicle. ‘We’re climbing down.’
‘We?’
‘You.’
‘Me? Thought you were the mountaineer here, Bellman.’
‘Correct,’ said Bellman who had already started strapping on the harness. ‘That’s why it’s logical for me to operate the ropes and rope brake. The rope’s seventy metres long. I’ll lower it as far as it can go. Alright?’
Six minutes later Harry stood on the edge with his back to the chasm, binoculars around his neck and a
