It didn’t take long for Ryker to catch up with the Nissan – there’d hardly been a high-speed getaway. The police car was about fifty yards further ahead, both vehicles traveling at a sensible speed on the twisty and icy road. Ryker kept his distance from the Nissan, not so far as to keep out of sight from them, but simply far enough to drive safely. His brain continued to rumble with thoughts about the boy, Henrik. Where’d he been going? How had the policeman and the pickup come across him so quickly? Pure coincidence? It certainly seemed everyone knew each other, though Ryker guessed perhaps that was simply the way of life out here where so few people lived.
Still, the look on the boy’s face…
Five miles later and they hadn’t passed even a semblance of civilization. No villages or towns, no petrol station, not even any turns from the road. Nowhere to turn. Simply the water on one side and the steep incline of the mountain on the other. Though Ryker did notice they were slowly heading higher. A few miles earlier the road had been all of ten yards above water level. Now they were halfway up the mountain it seemed, the drop to the left, down to the fjord, steep and rocky and deadly. For some reason Ryker’s mind envisaged a car slipping off the road and right through the not exactly sturdy-looking barrier, the wreckage tumbling down the cliff edge to a watery fate.
How many times had that happened?
He shook the thought away and glanced at the GPS screen. Barely anything to see except for the green of forest and the blue of water. No. As he looked again, just coming into view right at the top of the screen was a name. Blodstein. A village, he presumed. He’d seen the name before on the few road signs he’d passed, though it was surely a tiny place given the green and blue all around it.
The flick of red brake lights ahead grabbed Ryker’s attention. He swung his focus out front and got ready to slam the pedal. He held back his foot when he realized the Nissan was only slowing. No emergency stop needed. He slowed too, the distance between the two vehicles closed. He was close enough to see the eyes of the driver in his rearview mirror if it weren’t for the blackened glass at the back of the pickup.
Was the driver looking at him?
The police car remained directly in front of the Nissan. Beyond that a hulking lorry, almost as wide as the road, its bulky carriage piled high with huge tree trunks. Twenty, possibly thirty. Weighty. Which explained why, as they continued to head up the incline, the speed had dropped to below twenty miles per hour.
They rounded a bend and the police car abruptly pulled out and accelerated past the lorry. The sound of the revved engine filtered into Ryker’s cabin and within seconds the police car was out of sight somewhere beyond. The pickup took a chance, on a blind bend, and did the same. That, too, was soon out of view.
Ryker waited a few seconds. Stayed patient. As before, it wasn’t as though this was a high-speed chase. Still…
Thirty seconds later and there remained no end in sight to the continuous bend. Ryker glanced at the GPS screen again. The land snaked around tightly – a good half mile before the road straightened out again.
He decided to go for it. He pulled out. No sooner had he done so, than he spotted the van heading right for him. The horn blared. Ryker braked and swung back behind the lorry as the van blasted past.
He growled in frustration. At himself as much as anything else. What was he doing?
Then he noticed a turning on the right. The first he’d seen in miles. No signpost for what lay down the narrow road. Had the other cars gone down there?
Not long after he passed by another road. And another. Finally signs of life?
They hit a straight. Ryker didn’t hesitate. He pulled out and slammed the accelerator and the Volvo whined as it picked up speed. Ryker held his breath. The width of the lorry gave him only inches to spare on either side.
Nothing to worry about. Before long, the lorry faded into the distance behind him. Ryker kept the pace on, the car gliding around corner after corner, his speed well over the limit but easily within his capability. With the road having previously snaked upward, now he headed down as the land leveled out. Not a mountain anymore. More a gentle hill. In the distance, by the water’s edge, a small cluster of buildings became visible.
Blodstein.
He passed by a grim-looking road sign – indicating the town boundary – that looked like it was from the fifties. Ryker slowed as he reached the first of the buildings at the edge of the town. A warehouse of some sorts, rather than a home, followed by various other commercial buildings, a couple of shops, before he hit the main strip of the town. A bit bigger than he’d imagined it would be. Perhaps a hundred or more homes, tightly clustered around the water and rising into the forest to his right.
No sign of the Nissan or the police car.
Ryker came to a stop at the red light of a crossroads. The layout of the land here was surprisingly flat. Surprisingly uniform too, with a long straight road ahead, and one similarly intersecting it from left to right. Low-rise buildings were dotted along both roads. The cluster immediately by the crossroads were all businesses. A convenience store. A hardware shop. A bank. A café. Plus a church. A quaint town hall. A much more functional building: a police station.
A single police car outside it. Not the one Ryker had followed.
Ryker jumped in his seat when the thunderous blast of a horn shuddered through him. The log-carrying lorry filled his mirrors. He realized the lights were on green.
Ryker turned left and pulled into a small but empty parking lot that seemed to service both the café and the convenience store.
He shut off the engine then took a moment to gather his thoughts before he stepped out. No rain now, but it was much colder here than in Trondheim, even despite the fact that the clouds above were parting, slivers of blue poking through, though little that the winter sun’s rays could do to elevate the temperature.
Ryker closed the car door and looked about the place. The roads were quiet. So, too, the pockmarked footpaths. It was the middle of the working day but Blodstein felt like a ghost town, and what he saw reminded him of some of the far-flung small towns he’d passed through many a time in the American West – low, flat, barren. Not as sandy.
The café was open. Despite there being no other cars near his, he could see – through the tall windows – at least three patrons inside. Two servers.
He hadn’t eaten for hours.
He moved toward the door. In among the pictures of food on the windows, mostly labeled in Norwegian, were plenty of recognizable words too. Diner. Burgers. Fries. In fact, the name of the place was Wendy’s. It all seemed a little surreal.
Ryker opened the door and received a tinkle from the bell above in response. A couple of heads turned his way, but for the patrons, it was nothing more than a cursory glance. The young waitress, however – mid-twenties, he guessed, with long, wavy brown hair – beamed him a smile and tootled over with a notepad in hand. She greeted him in Norwegian. He did his best to respond in kind.
‘You’re English,’ she deduced with ease. It would never cease to amaze him how adept the Scandinavians were with language. Even despite his ability to speak more than half a dozen tongues fluently, he always felt a step behind these people.
‘I am,’ he said.
‘We don’t get so many tourists here,’ she said. The broad smile that remained on her face suggested either she was happy to have someone new for once, or just happy to be able to try out her English.
‘You don’t?’ Ryker said. ‘I can’t understand why. It’s beautiful here.’ He turned around to look outside as the words passed his lips, though then felt a bit foolish when he realized the view from the diner consisted of nothing except for the run-down buildings across the street.
When he faced her again she gave him a dubious look, as though she had no idea what he’d meant.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I guess everyone has their own taste. Are you eating?’
‘Please.’
‘This way.’
She showed him to a table by the window, away from the other customers – two middle-aged men together at the far end, a teenage boy with his face in his phone. Two women – mother and daughter? – closer by him. Two more men on stools at the bar. One was watching the grainy TV. The other was in conversation with the waiter behind the bar who was making coffee from an impressive-looking machine.
Busier than he’d thought.
‘Would you like a drink?’ the waitress asked him.
‘A coffee, please.’
‘Americano? I mean, I know you’re not American, but…’
‘Short black, please.’
She smiled again then headed off. Ryker perused the menu. An eclectic mix that ranged from burgers and fries to any manner of eggs, to schnitzels, wursts, stews, fish. When the waitress returned he settled for a selection of smørrebrød – typically Scandinavian open-faced sandwiches topped with various cold meats, cheeses and fish.
‘Good choice,’ she said to him with a wink.
As he sat and waited for the food, Ryker kept his eyes mostly on the outside, looking for any sign of the police car or the Nissan he’d followed earlier. Or for any of the occupants, the boy – Henrik – included. He saw nothing. Had they all simply passed through this town?
Why did he even care?
The food soon arrived.
‘Where are you staying?’ the waitress asked him.
Ryker stared at her, unsure of the intent behind the question.
‘Sorry, it’s just that…’
‘You don’t get many tourists around here.’
‘We don’t. And there aren’t really many choices for hotels. Just two, actually. Sorry. If you didn’t know that.’
‘I didn’t. But it’s not a problem.’
‘The one near here, it’s not really very good. The nicer one is down by the water. A bit more modern. For business people, really.’ She looked unsure, like she didn’t know what else to say. ‘If there’s anything more you need, just yell.’
‘Shout,’ Ryker said.
‘Sorry?’
‘I don’t know why, but we’d say, just shout. Not yell.’
She looked confused. Then turned for the door when the bell tinkled. Ryker had seen the approach of the woman who stepped inside – hard not to given she wore a thick, bright yellow overcoat. An emblazoned overcoat.
Ryker kept one eye on the policewoman as she continued inside, and the waitress rushed over to her. A flurry of fast-paced, light-hearted conversation between the two followed – they clearly knew one another – before the policewoman was shown to a booth in Ryker’s direction.
Ryker didn’t stare but he kept his eyes flitting back and forth to the officer as she walked toward him and into the booth. She sat down facing him. Three tables away. Suspicion in her eyes every time she glanced his way.
Yes, this place was definitely like his experience of those remote towns in the American West. Ryker was clearly the outsider here. Everyone in this place knew it, even if he felt little by way of threat.
At least so far.
Yet he was only halfway through his sandwiches, chewing through a mouthful of cold salmon when a vehicle outside the window caught his eye. A police car. The police car. He recognized the license plate. And the face of the driver, a glimpse of which Ryker caught when the car pulled off the road and into the parking lot.
Ryker looked over at the policewoman. She stared outside at her colleagues, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. Then she caught Ryker’s eye. Suspicion still. He looked away first. Seconds later the tinkle of the bell once more as not one, but two uniformed officers stepped into the café. No Henrik.
The officers didn’t wait to be shown to their colleague. She turned and smiled to greet them. The portly officer did a double take when he spotted Ryker, glared before he turned to sit facing away. His partner joined him on that side of the booth. Between the two of them, their backs shielded the policewoman from Ryker’s view.
The three began a muted conversation, none of them paying Ryker any attention.
He could just finish his food and leave. Leave the café. Leave this town.
Instead:
‘Is he okay?’ Ryker called out.
The two policemen swiveled to face him. The policewoman craned her neck. All three had their eyes on Ryker. The portly officer, though, was the only one with a seething glare.
‘Who?’ he said.
‘The boy. Henrik, I think? Is he okay?’
‘Oh, him.’ The officer waved the question away with a flap of his chunky hand. ‘Yes, he’s fine.’
He went to turn back around.
‘You took him home, then?’ Ryker asked. ‘I mean, I assume he’s not been arrested or anything?’
‘Why are you so interested?’
‘Just wanted to make sure he was okay.’
‘You feel bad for nearly killing him?’
Ryker paused before he answered that one.
‘He wasn’t badly hurt, was he?’
‘Nothing that a couple of bandages and some rest won’t make better.’
‘I’m glad to hear that.’
His colleague next to him seemed bored by the conversation and turned back. But Mr Portly continued to glare at Ryker.
‘Carl Logan, you said your name was?’
‘I did. And you are?’
The glare deepened if that was possible.
‘Politiførstebetjent Wold,’ he said. ‘That’s Inspector Wold for you.’
Ryker was glad for the clarification as he’d struggled with the tongue-twister that had preceded it.
‘You’re here on business?’ Wold asked.
‘Not really.’
‘Holiday?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
A sniff of disapproval. ‘Well, there’s not much choice here—’
‘Just the two. I heard.’
Wold humphed. ‘And not much to see. Not much to do around here at all, really. Trondheim is nicer. I think that’s where you came from.’
Ryker raised an eyebrow at the statement.
‘Your car. It’s rented from a shop in Trondheim.’
Nothing on the outside of the car showed that which meant Wold had searched the license plate. Interesting.
‘Thanks for the advice,’ Ryker said.
Wold’s eyes narrowed before he turned back to his colleagues. Ryker realized the waitress – over by the bar – was staring. He glanced at her and she nervously looked away.
Odd little place, to say the least.
Ryker finished his food but he didn’t move. He ordered another coffee and kept his eyes busy and his ears strained, but even the little he could hear of the conversations around him meant nothing.
Eventually, Wold and his colleagues got up from their booth. A now customary glower was sent in Ryker’s direction before the three of them headed on out. Wold and his male colleague went back to their car. The policewoman moved off on foot in the other direction. All were out of sight as Ryker sipped the last of his coffee.
Another? No, he’d had enough. He left cash on the table then headed for the door.
Outside, the sun now beamed down, barely a wisp of cloud in the blue sky above. The snow-tipped buildings of the town and the tarmac road and footpath all glistened in the sunlight, the whole scene looking serene and almost fabricated.
Ryker’s Volvo was once again the only car parked up. Across the other side of the street, at the minuscule police station, he saw no sign of Wold’s car. So where’d they gone to?
Ryker moved over to his car. Movement to his left. He looked over to see a bright yellow shape peel away from the shadows by the side of the café.
The policewoman.
‘Officer,’ Ryker said.
‘Pettersen,’ she said. ‘I heard you say something to the inspector about a boy.’
Her English had a softer Scandinavian accent compared to the waitress, or to Wold. The slight lilt to it suggested she’d spent time in the West Midlands in England, or perhaps her English teacher had been from there. It was a refreshing though slightly odd difference to the generally Americanized accent many of her fellow Norwegians had when they spoke English.
‘Henrik,’ Ryker said. ‘You know him?’
A twinge in her eye. ‘No. I don’t think so. But I was interested in what you said.’
‘Because?’
‘Because you’re not from here. I wasn’t sure what this was about.’
‘You didn’t ask your colleague?’
‘Didn’t I?’
A strange silence followed as both held the other’s eye.
‘There was a boy on a moped,’ Ryker said. ‘A few miles from here. He was on the wrong side of the road. He swerved to avoid me and fell off. He wasn’t badly hurt. But he did seem… agitated.’
‘Agitated?’
Did she not understand? ‘Unhappy about something.’
‘Probably you knocking him off his moped.’ She smiled at her own apparent quip.
‘Your colleague, Wold, turned up. He took Henrik.’
‘Took him?’
‘In his police car.’
She looked really dubious now. About which part, Ryker wasn’t sure.
‘The boy said his name was Henrik?’ she asked.
Ryker thought about that for a second. ‘No. The boy didn’t say that. But Henrik is what Wold called him.’
‘So Wold knew him?’
‘Seemed to.’
She nodded.
‘Is this something—’
‘You should go,’ she said.
‘Go?’
‘You weren’t planning on staying here, were you?’
‘I wasn’t?’
‘There’s not really anything to see here. No good places to stay.’
‘So I keep getting told.’
Another silence.
‘It was… strange meeting you, Mr Logan.’
‘Likewise.’
He put his hand on the car door, opened it, and sank down into the seat.
Pettersen remained standing by the side of the car. He fired up the engine, put the gearstick into reverse, and checked the mirrors before swinging out into the road. He selected first then rolled forward to the red lights. In his mirror, Pettersen continued to stand on the footpath, her eyes fixed on him. Ryker looked back at the road.
Left to head further north. Right to go back to Trondheim. Ahead?
Another glance in the mirror. Pettersen remained, clearly intent on seeing him off.
The lights flicked to green. Ryker flicked the left indicator on and headed that way. Pettersen was out of sight.
What would she do now?
He had no clue.
But he did know that one way or another – hotel or no hotel – he wasn’t finished in this strange little town.