Page 18

2019

Alex is so wound up after leaving Agatha’s that he doesn’t head straight to his cabin. He stops in one of the bars in town and sits at the counter, where he orders an old-fashioned. He looks around, wondering if this is the bar the girl Kaya worked in.

He’s given Agatha Vicky’s handle for her second email account. But he didn’t tell her he might have guessed at Vicky’s password for that account. Alex wants to check it first in case there are any emails that Vicky wanted for his eyes only.

That bloody user handle, though.

It always amused him how Vicky could return to acting like a little girl when she came home for holidays in their parents’ house. It’s not like their parents were daft and didn’t know their daughter was a bit wild. They’d seen the pictures on her Facebook page. Foam parties in Ibiza. Skinny-dipping in Portugal. They knew she worked in nightclubs and as a holiday rep and had lots of boyfriends. She wasn’t an innocent.

Their parents didn’t, however, know just how lacking in innocence their favourite child was.

Alex did, though. He knew all about those six months when she made plenty of money.

[email protected]

Vicky’s assigned email when she worked at the exotic dance club in Marbella. Strip club, for want of a better name.

Vicky wasn’t ashamed of what she’d done. Alex knew he shouldn’t have been either; he didn’t own his sister. But, truthfully, he was embarrassed. It mortified him, that his sister had resorted to that type of work. And she knew that, so she goaded him with it, always emailing him from that address to provoke a response. Insinuating, in her way, it was his fault she’d done it at all. It was Vicky at her worst. You won’t lend me money. Fine, I can earn it myself.

When she’d claimed to have money last summer, enough to pay her half of their parents’ anniversary gift, he had assumed the worst.

That’s why he’d blanked her. Out of anger. He was sick of subsidising her lifestyle, then being emotionally blackmailed when he didn’t.

Alex sighs and looks around.

Over in the corner, he spots the Lodge manager, Harry. He knows Harry has seen him, but he doesn’t acknowledge Alex. Harry, instead, angles his body away, so he’s facing the older man in his company, a guy in an expensive shirt, with a vain goatee. The stranger glances at Alex, a peculiar look on his face. As though he knows something Alex doesn’t.

An older man with bushy brown hair comes out from behind the bar and joins Harry and the stranger. He deals from a pack of cards but he too glances over at Alex.

Alex feels his pulse quicken, and immediately talks himself down.

I’m being paranoid, he tells himself. They’re curious about me because of Vicky. It’s normal.

He turns back to the bar. The TV screen mounted above the optics is showing a recent American football game, the Ravens versus the 49ers.

The whole bar, in fact, is a love note to the United States and all things international. The English-written menu offers burgers, pizza, chicken wings and bratwurst. The bottled beer in the fridges is a mix of American, German and Finnish beers. And the barman had given him his old-fashioned without blinking, even using an appropriately high-end bourbon.

Where am I? Alex wonders.

He takes out his phone and is about to try Vicky’s email address when he sees he has a missed call from his father. He dials back.

‘Alex. Any news?’

‘Still nothing,’ Alex replies. ‘But. . . there’s definitely something off.’

‘Off, how?’

‘Vicky wasn’t the first woman to go missing around here.’

Silence. Then:

‘What does that mean? How many women have gone missing?’

Alex stares into his glass.

‘Three,’ he says. ‘Over a long number of years and none of them were found. Now, Vicky. I’m asking questions. I don’t know if it means anything.’

He listens to his father’s heavy breathing.

‘If you smell something is off, something is off,’ his dad says, after a few moments. ‘Do you think the police are hiding information?’

‘It’s the police telling me this,’ Alex says.

‘Well, at least there’s that. Wouldn’t trust our own lot.’

‘How’s Mum?’ Alex asks.

‘They’re waking her up tomorrow. They say things look good. Alex—’

Alex waits.

‘I almost wish they’d leave her under another couple of days. It will be like living through it again.’

Alex understands and he’s glad he’s not there for it.

‘As soon as she wakes,’ he says, ‘get on the phone to me.’

‘I will. As soon as you find out anything there, do the same. And I’m, eh, sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘When I said you needed to keep your temper in check. I shouldn’t have said it.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Alex says, when they both know it matters a lot.

‘Right. Goodnight, so.’

Somebody has sat down beside Alex. The bar counter is full of empty stools but this chap has settled himself close enough to Alex for their elbows to touch. He’s in his sixties, maybe, and looks like he’s employed to play Santa in one of those tourist villages.

‘That looks good, what you’re having.’

He points at Alex’s drink, then nods to the barman.

‘Can I help you?’ Alex asks.

The man studies him.

‘Isn’t it me who can help you?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’re Vicky Evans’ brother, aren’t you?’

Alex tenses.

‘Who are you?’

‘Time was, I would be the one dealing with your sister’s case.’

Alex hesitates.

‘Patric?’ he asks.

Patric nods.

‘Let me get you another one of those. You look like you need it. And I just had a date that didn’t go too well, so I guess I need one, too.’

Alex doesn’t protest.

‘So,’ Patric says. ‘You’re gonna solve your sister’s murder.’

‘I never said that.’

‘Do you trust Agatha to do her job?’

‘No offence but, from what I heard tonight, the local police don’t exactly have a sterling record when it comes to young women around here. You’ve lost a few, now.’

‘No offence, eh?’

Alex shrugs. He’s only met the guy; he doesn’t care if his feelings are hurt.

‘Agatha is a better chief than I ever was,’ Patric says.

‘Terrific,’ Alex says. ‘That means, one way or the other, I’ll get justice for my sister. But, between you and me, mate, she didn’t look too on top of things tonight. She opened her door waving a gun at me.’

Patric narrows his eyes.

‘Did something happen? Was she okay?’

‘She was fine. I think you’re missing the point.’

‘Even police officers have lives of their own,’ Patric says, quietly. ‘Was there anybody else there when you arrived?’

Alex frowns. The other man seems particularly anxious.

‘Like who?’ he asks.

Patric tugs at the whiskers in his beard.

‘Has she mentioned Luca?’ he asks.

Alex shakes his head.

‘No.’

‘Then it’s not my place to say any more,’ Patric says.

Alex takes a sip of his drink and, in his head, starts to add up the parts. Agatha living on her own. Her jitteriness this morning when the kids answered the door without her, then the gun this evening. Plus, she brought the kids in the car with them to the lake, like she didn’t want them out of her sight.

Patric might not be giving a lot away but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out Luca must be Agatha’s ex, possibly an aggressive one at that.

‘I called over to Agatha tonight to ask her about this Miika guy,’ he says.

Patric takes a sip of his drink. He doesn’t speak for a minute or two and Alex begins to grow uncomfortable in the silence.

‘This was where she worked, you know,’ Patric says, eventually.

Alex blinks.

‘Kaya?’ he says, stunned at the coincidence. There are at least ten bars in the town, and even though he had mused about it, he’s genuinely surprised he wandered into hers.

‘Kaya,’ Patric repeats, and in the way he says the name, Alex knows in that instant the man is haunted by her. ‘Pretty girl. Knew her most of her life. Her parents blamed me, for not finding her. The whole town had the case solved, convinced it was Miika.’

‘You weren’t, though.’

‘From the start, I knew it was him.’

Alex stares at Patric.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I wanted it so badly, I made it him,’ Patric says. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I’m going to tell you this because this whole town is prepared to send you off hunting a man who doesn’t deserve it. And I helped cause this problem. I wanted Miika Virtanen to be guilty because it made sense. And if he was guilty, he could tell me where Kaya’s body was so I could give her back to her parents.’

‘And how do you know you were wrong?’

Patric faces the bar again.

‘When I was finished with him, he still had the same story.’

Patric looks down at his knuckles and Alex, suddenly, understands.

Patric lifts his glass, drains the drink. Alex does the same.

‘Agatha is better than me,’ Patric says. ‘And she’ll do it the right way. Whoever it is, the person who did this to your sister, she’ll find him.’

Alex absorbs this.

‘Thank you,’ he says, finally.

‘For what?’

‘For feeling it. For that girl, I mean. Whatever guilt you’re torturing yourself with, I bet her family would be glad to know you did what you could. If you could tell them.’

Patric shakes his head, unwilling or unable to accept the absolution offered by a stranger.

‘You should go home,’ he tells Alex.

‘I’m not leaving ,’ Alex says.

‘I mean home to the Lodge. Don’t sit here drinking all night. The morning is wiser than the evening.’

‘Say again?’

‘Finnish wisdom. I think you’d say, everything will be clearer in the morning.’

Patric gets off his stool, throws a note on the counter and grips Alex’s shoulder.

Alex bows his head, a little acknowledgement.

As he watches Patric leave, he realises he can feel eyes on him.

Alex turns. Harry and the two other men are still sitting in the corner, ostensibly playing cards. All three have been watching him and Patric talk.

Alex stares back, until they look away.

Back in his cabin, Alex barely pauses to take off his coat before opening up Hotmail.

He types in Vicky’s email address, then the password he suspects she used.

Bingo.

He’s into her account.

The messages in her inbox are old and mainly from the manager of the club she worked in when she was exotic dancing. There are a couple more that Alex has to back out of straight away. Emails from pervy customers talking about what they were thinking when Vicky was dancing and how they’d like to meet up in person.

Alex shakes his head. How could his sister cope with that shit? Of course that was Vicky, wasn’t it? Thinking she could handle anything and anyone.

He opens her sent emails. It’s possible, he knows this, that she might have sent him an email and that he’d deleted it without even reading it. He can’t remember doing that, but if he’d been drunk and had seen a message from that email address come in. . . yes, in a fit of anger, he might have just got rid of it and forgotten all about it.

There are no recent sent emails. None from around the time she went missing.

The last email she sent him, that he definitely did see, is still there.

Alex checks the inbox again but there’s nothing. He checks the trash. No emails of import there, either.

So, why did she tell Josephine in TM we’re just a small offshoot. But the farm is also owned by Lassi.’

‘He’s quite the entrepreneur.’

‘Yep. But he’s still struggling, I reckon. That hotel up on the mountain has really dented his business. He has to– how do you say it?– juggle a lot of balls to keep it all going.’

Alex presumes he’s going to sit in the sled while Nicolas does something. . . leads the dogs on or whatever. Instead, Nicolas points to the sled handlebar and the skis that jut out to the rear.

‘Something fun for you,’ Nicolas says. ‘So, stand on the skis. Hold on to the handlebar. That footrest in between your skis is the brake. It will slow the dogs down. Just take your left foot off and put it on the brake, but make sure you keep your balance on the right ski when you do. You don’t want to fall. Also, don’t jump off. If there’s nothing stopping them, the dogs will run like crazy and I’ll end up in a ditch with my neck broken. Whatever you do, keep your hands on the handlebar. Don’t try to touch stuff as we pass; the dogs might speed up and you’ll lose your fingers. Good to go?’

‘I’m sorry, what? You’ll have to run through all that again—’

Nicolas is already loosening the rope tying the dogs to the fence pole.

‘Hold her steady so I can get in the sled,’ Nicolas says.

‘Christ,’ Alex says, jumping on the right ski and balancing his foot on the brake. As soon as Nicolas is in the sled, Alex takes off the pressure.

The dogs take off at a pelt and Alex almost loses his balance.

‘I don’t know the way,’ Alex shouts.

‘The dogs know the way,’ Nicolas calls back.

For a few minutes, Alex concentrates on the dogs. When he realises they can’t go much faster and, in fact, have settled into a rhythm, he begins to relax. He even gets the hang of using his foot to help the dogs up the inclines. Then he starts to enjoy the passing landscape. It’s serene; unblemished white snow as far as the eye can see, dense spruce to either side.

‘I’m starting to think we’ve been approaching dogs all wrong in Britain,’ Alex says. He’s freezing, yet exhilarated.

‘It’s not for me,’ Nicolas says. ‘I don’t even like dogs.’

‘And they put you on husky duty?’ Alex says. ‘Where are you from, anyway?’

‘Moscow.’

‘Oh.’

‘You thought I was Finnish.’

‘Sorry. All the accents are blending into one,’ Alex says.

‘Netflix English, we call it. I’m a mongrel. Finnish mother. I try not to mention my dad too much around here. Harry has a Russian father, too, but he grew up here. Can’t imagine that was easy. His parents didn’t work out. I’d bet any time his mother and father fought, she called him the Russian invader. . .’

Alex smiles.

They travel in silence for a few minutes. Then Nicolas speaks.

‘I know you’ll be wondering about me,’ he says. ‘And all of us who worked with your sister. Vicky and I were friends. There was nothing more. I’m gay. I don’t mention that much, either. Wouldn’t have been a good idea where I grew up and the habit stuck. So, I wasn’t some broken-hearted lover of Vicky’s. And we never fell out over anything. But, she wasn’t universally adored, like people are saying. And. . . I didn’t think it was strange that she’d left.’

Alex tightens his grip on the handlebars.

‘What do you mean?’ he asks.

Nicolas hesitates.

‘Vicky was a good-looking girl. She got a lot of attention. Not always from the right people. And that kind of woman can also make other women jealous.’

Alex frowns.

‘Other women like who? Niamh?’

‘No. Vicky and Niamh were never in competition for any guys. Niamh has her own little crush going on and Vicky had no interest in him. Niamh is devastated about Vicky.’

‘I know,’ Alex says. He wonders who Niamh has a crush on, but it’s irrelevant in the scheme of things.

‘Look,’ Nicolas says, shrugging. ‘Vicky and Niamh were like those popular girls in school. Fun, flirty. Tight with each other. And take Beatrice, for example. Every time a hot guy stayed in the Lodge, Beatrice had to wait and see if Vicky or Niamh wanted him first. And then just Vicky, because Niamh stopped chasing tourists after a while. That must have stung.’

Beatrice, Alex thinks. He remembers how the woman had accosted him with warm wishes that first day he arrived, the uncomfortable feeling he’d had of overfamiliarity.

‘You hardly think this Beatrice killed my sister because Vicky was more popular than her?’ Alex says.

‘I haven’t a clue, my friend,’ Nicolas replies. ‘Vicky was struck on the head, wasn’t she? Girls– they can be vicious. But, look. I’m just using that as an example. Maybe there were a few things on Vicky’s mind. Guys harassing her. Other girls being jealous. Or maybe she thought Harry was going to fire her ass. She wasn’t the best guide and she did miss a few shifts here and there. Whatever it was, I got the impression that Vicky was thinking of moving on.’

‘They asked everybody for alibis,’ Alex says.

‘I know. I wasn’t here the night she disappeared. I spent the night in the hotel on the slopes. I was with somebody.’

Alex digests this, the fact Nicolas feels the need to tell Alex exactly what his alibi is. He’s also trying to figure out if the chap is genuinely trying to be helpful by telling Alex his feelings about Vicky and Beatrice, or if he’s stirring some shit.

Alex lands on the side of helpful. There’s nothing in Nicolas’ tone that feels malicious or trouble-making. He’s just telling it how he saw it.

Alex is so focused on his thoughts that when he shifts his leg weight, he forgets his foot is actually on the brake, slowing the dogs down. The dogs feel the jerk and take off. The side of Nicolas’ face bangs off the sled; Alex is thrown but he manages to get his foot on the ski. Luckily, the dogs aren’t as energetic as they were at the start and their pace evens out.

‘Sorry,’ he says.

‘It happens,’ says Nicolas.

They ride in silence for several more minutes.

Alex spots the Lodge through the trees and realises they’ve done a short loop and are doubling back. A delivery van has pulled up to the rear of the Lodge; a large man in a blue puffer jacket and trapper hat is taking a box of goods out of the back.

‘Have you heard of this Miika guy?’ Alex asks.

‘He only delivers every second week.’

‘I’m sorry, what?’ Alex says.

‘Miika. Over there.’

Alex stares over to where Nicolas is pointing. The man at the delivery van has turned towards them. His movements are slow, measured. He stares over for a moment, then walks towards the service door to the Lodge’s kitchen.

The dogs veer right, towards their enclosure.

‘That was Miika?’ Alex says, his heart racing. ‘The guy who lives up the mountain? The one they all think murdered his wife?’

‘Yeah. If you had venison this week, it came from his farm. Can’t let a missing wife get in the way of a good produce deal.’

Alex has forgotten how cold he is. Inside his suit, he’s sweating.

That man was huge. He could see it, even with the jacket and the way he slouched. Miika gripped that box and lifted it with ease, when anybody could see how heavy it was.

Is that the man who murdered his sister?

When they arrive back at the dog enclosure, Alex instinctively wants to race to the Lodge to confront Miika, but Nicolas tells him to keep his foot on the brake until he’s tied the dogs back up.

Alex waits impatiently for the other man to give him the nod. He’s about to be liberated when, from within the folds of his outer-wear, he hears his phone ringing.

Alex pulls off his leather over-gloves and then his right mitten, unsticks his pocket velcro and searches for the phone, frustrated by all the layers.

It’s his father calling and Alex just answers it in time.

‘Dad, I have to—’ he begins to say, but he’s interrupted.

‘Alex,’ his mother croaks.

Alex stands deadly still, forgetting everything for a few seconds bar what it’s like to hear his mother’s voice. Nicolas looks at him questioningly.

‘Mum? Are you okay?’

‘I’m okay.’

She doesn’t sound it. She’s alive, she’s talking, but Alex knows his mother will never be okay.

‘Oh, Alex,’ she says.

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ he says. ‘I’ll be home soon.’

‘No,’ his mother says, and Alex falls quiet. ‘Your father told me where you are and what you’re doing. You do this, pet. Find out who hurt my little girl.’ She breaks off with a weak sob. Alex waits, listening, a lump in his throat.

‘I’ll be here,’ his mother says, when she recovers herself. ‘I’ll be waiting for you. And Vicky.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Alex says, weakly.

He can hear his mother’s pause.

‘Your best has always been good enough,’ she says.

They both know that’s not true, Alex thinks, but his mother cuts into his thoughts.

‘I know you think you let us down, Alex,’ she says. ‘You were only a kid. Sixteen. You show me a lad up here who hasn’t got handy with his fists at some point in his life.’

‘It was more than that, Mum.’

‘I know, son. But it feels important to tell you how little that matters and how much I love you. I know you still carry it. I wish I could have told Vicky that anything in the past. . . it was irrelevant. It’s my job to love you anyway.’

They say nothing for a few seconds; Alex listens to his mother’s ragged breathing, knowing each word must be a strain for her.

‘Alex, you meant the world to her, you know that,’ his mother says. ‘She always looked up to you.’

‘I wasn’t a good brother, Mum. She didn’t even have my phone number when she needed me.’

‘I know that, pet. She wasn’t always a good sister. Or a good daughter. Vicky wasn’t perfect. But she was ours and we were hers.’

Alex blinks away the tears that threaten to break free from his eyes.

They talk for a couple of minutes more.

Alex is shivering by the time he hangs up. Nicolas doesn’t ask who was on the phone. Alex’s side of the conversation gave it all away. They walk back towards the Lodge in silence, the tall Finn/Russian lending Alex support by his presence.

When they arrive, Miika’s van is already gone.

Alex is fairly certain guests aren’t supposed to be in the kitchen of the Lodge but nobody is paying him any attention.

It’s a large area, filled with sparkling clean stainless steel units and the bustle of lunch preparation. Every cooker ring is heating a pot, every counter is topped with chopping boards and trays of diced and julienned vegetables and other ingredients.

At the centre of this hive of activity is a large woman in a chef’s apron, her hair pinned in an industrious bun, her glasses steaming from the heat.

She looks at him blankly when he stands in front of her, momentarily trying to establish whether he works for her or is lost.

‘Are you Cecelia?’ Alex asks. Nicolas had told him who to ask for.

‘Yes?’

‘Can I talk to you? I’m a guest at the Lodge.’

‘No, no, sorry. No guests in here. You–’ she points to one of her worker ants– ‘take him back to the restaurant.’

‘My sister Vicky was a guide here.’ Alex uses the magic words.

Cecelia’s face registers this, then fills with distress.

Before Alex knows what’s happening, she’s enveloped him in a tight embrace and he’s almost gasping for air. The woman’s arms could crack walnuts.

She stands back then, without a word.

‘Thank you,’ Alex says, and he means it. There’s something. . . maternal in Cecelia and after the conversation with his mother, Alex needs that.

Before Cecelia can offer to feed him up, which Alex knows is coming, he speaks.

‘I wonder if I can ask you a few questions—’

‘Absolutely. She was such a good little worker, you know. Unlike some of the others. She was always happy to roll her shirtsleeves up and pitch in, even if it wasn’t her job.’

Alex nods in appreciation. He’d never thought of Vicky as a hard worker. Turns out, there’s plenty he didn’t know about her.

Cecelia leads Alex to the side of the kitchen, away from the many listening ears.

‘I wanted to ask you about the guy who delivers your venison. Miika Virtanen?’

The older woman’s eyes darken.

‘Him?’ she says. ‘What about him?’

‘I heard some tales about him,’ Alex says.

‘Of course you did,’ Cecelia says, eyeing him shrewdly. ‘Most tourists wouldn’t be bothered by local gossip. But you’re not a tourist, are you?’

Alex shakes his head.

‘It was a little strange to see him delivering goods here,’ he says.

‘That’s Lassi for you. Our lord and master. He’d do a deal with the devil if it meant a discount. Lots of men round here will buy from Miika. I suppose they don’t feel threatened by him. I won’t deal with him when he comes here. I get one of the lads to take the boxes.’

‘You believe what they say about him, then?’

‘What they say about him, Pulu ?’ Cecelia says. ‘I am they . We all know what he did.’

‘To his wife.’

‘To his wife–’ Cecelia lowers her voice – ‘and to the others.’

She glances around, but Alex senses she isn’t worried in the slightest about anybody listening. She’s queen of all she surveys in the kitchen. She might be worried the boss or the owner might wander in, though.

‘Is it possible,’ Alex asks, ‘that he might have had something to do with what happened to Vicky?’

Cecelia doesn’t answer immediately. Alex can tell that, while she’s the sort who considers it her God-given right to speak her mind, she’s aware in his presence that this isn’t historical or something that’s happened to somebody else. When she answers him, her tone and words are measured.

‘I can’t say yes or no,’ she says. ‘What I will say is that, just as a matter of routine, I would ask him where he was the night your sister vanished. But I don’t see how Vicky would have come across him. Miika is only in town when he’s delivering, twice a month at most.’

‘But,’ Alex says, ‘he delivers to this Lodge. Isn’t it possible she might have encountered him if she helped you out in here the odd time?’

Now Cecelia frowns.

‘Well, yes,’ she says. ‘But it’s normally the boys I ask to take in deliveries. Not that I’m sexist– I’m stronger than most of these little things– but it’s just what you do, isn’t it?’

Cecelia places her hands on her hips, deep in thought. Then she turns around and bellows.

‘Beatrice!’

Alex is surprised to see Beatrice emerge from behind a counter at the far end of the kitchen. She must have been there all along but he hadn’t spotted her.

She walks towards them, her face contorting into that sympathetic expression she had when he first met her. It only serves to make Alex feel uncomfortable.

‘Hello, Alex,’ she says.

‘Beatrice helps out when I’m under pressure, too,’ Cecelia says. ‘Beatrice, you were in here a good bit with Vicky. Do you ever see Miika, the guy who does my venison deliveries?’

Beatrice hesitates.

‘You can speak freely,’ Cecelia says. ‘I don’t care what your opinion is of him.’

‘The weird guy from the mountain?’ Beatrice says. ‘Not really. I was warned to avoid him when I started working here. He is only down once or twice a month, yes?’

‘Did you ever see Vicky talking to him?’

‘Only that one time.’

Alex tenses up; he can see Cecelia does the same.

‘When?’ Alex asks.

‘A couple of months ago. I saw Vicky talking to him outside but it wasn’t for long. She said he asked her if Lassi was here. Vicky wasn’t bothered by him. She’d heard the tales, too, but she said it was all. . .’

Beatrice trails off.

‘All what?’ Alex presses.

Beatrice glances nervously at Cecelia and then back to Alex.

‘All stuff and nonsense . I told her she was being stupid. I mean, there’s no smoke without fire, is that not the saying? But she just laughed. She always knew best. Thought she did, anyhow. . .’

Beatrice stops. She looks at Alex, mortified, then down at the ground.

‘Thank you, Beatrice,’ Cecelia says, her tone colder now. ‘Could you bring those trays of graavilohi out to the ski party?’

‘Sure,’ Beatrice says, and scarpers.

Cecelia looks at Alex.

‘She’s not as clever or as nice as your sister was.’

Alex says nothing. He agrees.

‘Maybe Vicky saw Miika for a moment or two,’ Cecelia adds. ‘But I’m sure it’s just like Beatrice says. She answered his question and that was that.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Alex says.

They look at each other. Cecelia’s face is full of pity.

He imagines locals like her are already speculating that Miika, the monster who lives on the mountain, has struck again.

But now Alex has proof that the man did in fact talk to his sister, that he must have known who she was.

He wonders whether the police are even aware.

Before Agatha leaves the station, she braces herself, picks up the phone on her desk and dials one of the only numbers in the world she still remembers off by heart.

When her call goes straight to voice message, she doesn’t know if she’s grateful or annoyed. She’d prepared herself to have the conversation, argument, or whatever it could be called. But she didn’t want to have it, not really. Now, though, as she listens to the automated voice message, she wonders, what does this mean? That the person on the other end can’t hear the phone? Or can’t come to the phone? Or is ignoring the phone?

At the beep, Agatha takes a deep breath.

‘Olavi saw you. I don’t know what you’re playing at. I warned you, Luca. Stay away. If you love them, if you ever loved me, just stay away.’

She hangs up the phone, pulling her fingers back quickly, like they’ve been singed. Agatha doesn’t know if Luca will try to ring back, which is why she has used the station phone. She’s long since blocked Luca from her mobile. And her email. And Facebook.

Outside, in reception, Janic is struggling with a string of fairy lights, trying to unknot them with the intense focus of a kid trying to build the Millennium Falcon with two thousand pieces of Lego.

‘Gotham City all safe, Janic?’ Agatha says.

He looks up, confused. Agatha nods at the fairy lights.

‘Thought we should have a little bit of Christmas,’ he says, defensively.

‘That little bit of Christmas will take until next year to unravel.’

Agatha reaches under the counter, takes out the petty cash box, opens it and hands Janic a fifty-euro note.

‘Go to the store and get new lights and a small tree. I don’t want people calling me the Grinch.’

‘That’s not what they call you.’

‘Oh? What do they call me?’

Janic’s eyes widen in panic.

Agatha smiles.

‘And when you’ve decked the place out, maybe do a little bit of police work.’

‘Yes, Chief.’

Agatha leaves the station.

After working herself up to make the call to Luca, then failing to connect, she now just wants to forget about it.

She is, in fact, already regretting it.

Outside, Agatha takes one of the snowmobiles. She plans to travel across Inari and it’s quicker that way.

She passes by the slopes, already dotted with skiers descending from the hotel and taking the lift back up. She remembers when those hills only contained trees. She likes the large, wooden-styled hotel– it’s pretty, inside and out– but it has also taken over the town like it was always there and part of her resents that.

The journey only takes minutes along the edge of the lake. Agatha enjoys the cold on her cheeks under her visor. She’s always felt more comfortable on the snowmobile than on skis. Odd, because every Lappish child is practically born with them on their feet. But Agatha always wanted to go faster. She still remembers her mother screaming at Agatha and her sister to slow down whenever they took off from the house on the snowmobiles. The girls never obeyed. They liked to race each other. The seeds of competition to be the best, the fastest, the biggest risk-taker were sown early in their household.

The red wooden house stands where it has always stood, at the edge of the lake, its deck stilts currently encased in several metres of ice. Agatha remembers calling out here as a kid, when her friend Becki used to invite her on sleepovers. They’d hike for miles through the forest then return, sweating, and cannonball from the deck into the lake.

Becki still lives in the house, with her mother, though she and Agatha don’t spend as much time together as they’d like and certainly not as much as they did as children. First, Agatha had to go to Rovaniemi for training. Then, when she returned, it wasn’t long before she became police chief and had to manage that as well as being a single mom. And Becki’s mother, Henni, has grown older and more cantankerous, which means Becki spends a lot of time with the tourists they take in, making sure Henni doesn’t rile the people who pay their bills.

There isn’t an awful lot of time for hanging around on Becki’s deck, drinking to the changing seasons and chatting about life.

But Agatha is proud of her friend and happy to see the red house is still doing what it always did. People imagined the hotel and the many holiday cabins in town would put Henni’s place and Lassi’s Lodge out of business. But the Lodge kept going and the red house has endured too, with its quaint charm and more intimate Lappish experience.

When Mary Rosenberg stayed with them back in 2007, it was her third or fourth winter there.

Something about talking to Alex last night, showing him her case board in the basement, has unsettled Agatha. Everything she told Vicky’s brother was true. She doesn’t think there’s a serial killer operating in . She doesn’t want to think it. People go missing all the time, for lots of reasons.

But, can you ever rule something out?

It has bothered Agatha over the years.

Sure, there’s no pattern.

But there are three missing women.

Becki hears the snowmobile and comes out onto the deck to see who’s calling. She’s wearing an oversized cream woollen cardigan, tied at the waist, and her beautiful blonde hair is swept into a full ponytail. She was always a stunner and, if anything, has got better-looking in her thirties. Agatha swallows her little pang of envy. You shouldn’t be jealous of friends, she tells herself. And what do looks matter to Agatha anyway? It’s not like, even if she had any, she’d be in a position to try to use them.

Becki smiles when Agatha takes off her helmet.

‘At last,’ Becki says. ‘I thought we’d get all the way to Christmas before I saw you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Agatha says, automatically. ‘It’s been crazy with this case. . .’

‘You don’t need to apologise to me, I’m the one who should have called by to see you and the children. I should be far more help to you than I am. Come on in, I’ve just taken cookies out of the oven and I’ve a pot of hot chocolate on the stove. My God, I’ve just heard myself. I sound like a proper little homemaker.’

Agatha parks up the snowmobile, then walks up the steps to the rear of the house, kicking snow off her boots as she goes. Inside the back door, she changes into slippers and removes all her damp outerwear.

The inside of the wooden house is a Christmas wonderland. Most Laplanders decorate tastefully for Christmas, simply, wooden ornaments and candles taking centre stage. But the tourist destinations always try to meet international expectations and Becki has a nine-foot fir in the centre of the high-ceilinged dining room, twinkling with thousands of lights and ceramic baby angel Gabriels tooting horns.

‘Understated,’ Agatha says. ‘I sent Janic to the store to get some fairy lights before I left the office. I see, now, I should have sent him here for inspiration.’

Becki cheerfully ignores her.

When she’s settled Agatha on a comfortable settee with a fur blanket over her knees, Becki pours them both hot chocolates and puts a plate of cookies on the coffee table.

‘Do you have many staying at the moment?’ Agatha asks.

‘Just one family for Christmas. One very wealthy family. They’re out hiking with Mom at the moment. You should have seen their faces, this little old lady telling them she’d be their guide.’

‘They don’t know your mom,’ Agatha says.

‘She’ll leave them for dust.’ Becki cocks her head. ‘But at least she’ll keep them on the straight and narrow. They wanted to go looking for Sami people. Take pictures. Went on like they were hunting trolls. They nearly died when I told them the driver in the Adidas tracksuit who brought them here was a Sami man. Anyhow, you didn’t come out here to check up on me. What’s on your mind? You have your chief of police hat on.’

‘Am I that obvious?’

Becki tilts her head.

Agatha smiles and takes a sip of the hot chocolate, savouring its warmth.

‘Mary Rosenberg,’ she says.

‘I thought she’d be playing on your mind. Mine too. When I heard a body had been found in the lake, I figured it would be that girl from the Lodge. Too weird, otherwise. But, you never know. Every time I hear something, that’s where my mind goes. I know there were others, but she’s the one who stayed with us so she’s stuck with me.’

‘It’s been twelve years, now,’ Agatha says. ‘I’m just wondering if there’s anything you or your mom remembered afterwards that we might look at now in a different light.’

‘What sort of light?’ Becki sits forward. ‘The police were sure it was an accident.’

‘Yes,’ Agatha says. ‘I remember.’

She’d been training in Rovaniemi at the time. Becki had rung with the news– she’d been quite distraught, Agatha remembers. They’d searched and searched for Mary.

Patric had told her, on the one-year anniversary, after Agatha had returned to , that he’d been convinced the lake would thaw that summer and Mary’s body would be found. It was unusual that somebody so familiar with the countryside would fall foul of it and yet an important reminder that it could happen to anybody. Even the most experienced skiers.

It was only when Mary stayed disappeared that the rumours started.

‘But she never was found,’ Becki says, sadly.

Agatha shakes her head.

‘Becki, I’m sure you’ve heard that Vicky was murdered.’

‘Obviously,’ Becki says. ‘The phone lines started buzzing with that one as soon as you got back from Rovaniemi. But what are you saying? You think Mary might have been murdered, too?’

‘I don’t know,’ Agatha says. ‘I just need to make sure that’s not what happened.’

Becki studies her. Agatha can see her friend is considering something.

‘There was something that I always thought strange,’ she says.

Agatha puts down her hot chocolate.

‘It might be nothing,’ Becki continues, ‘but I found her fiancé a bit odd.’

Agatha frowns. She wasn’t expecting this.

‘Her fiancé?’ she says. ‘The guy in Canada?’

‘Did she have more than one?’

Agatha rolls her eyes.

‘But he wasn’t here,’ she says. ‘He never came over with her. He only arrived after, didn’t he? To help with the search.’

‘Oh, I know that,’ Becki says. ‘I don’t mean he flew here and he killed her. That’s why I didn’t mention it, at the time. What I mean is, he never stopped calling.’

‘When she went missing?’

‘Yes. But before, too. He was always phoning her. Phoning and emailing. He seemed really possessive. I used to think, that’s the reason she comes here each winter. To get away from him.’

Agatha remembers the guy. He’d come over for the one-year anniversary of Mary’s disappearance. Agatha had stood at the lake with the locals, Mary’s fiancé among them, as they tossed white winter roses on to the ice.

He’d been distraught. When Agatha took over, Patric told her that part of her job would be dealing with relatives who’d lost loved ones over the years and never got a resolution. Agatha had taken a couple of calls from the fiancé. He’d always seemed charming. Sad, but soldiering on.

‘Maybe he was just concerned about her being over here on her own,’ Agatha says.

‘Maybe. I’m sure you’re right.’

Becki doesn’t sound convinced. And Agatha knows how important it is never to dismiss somebody’s gut feelings.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asks. ‘Is there something you’re worried about?’

‘I just wondered, well, I always thought– what if Mary wanted to get away from him? You remember that movie? Sleeping with the Enemy ?’

‘Julia Roberts?’ Agatha says, her eyebrows raised.

‘Yes. She fakes her own death to get away from her husband.’

Agatha half smiles.

‘I remember it was a great movie,’ she says.

‘You’re laughing at me,’ Becki says, smiling. ‘I know. It sounds ridiculous. I’m letting my imagination run away with me.’

‘I’m not laughing at you,’ Agatha says. ‘It’s just, I know it’s actually a lot harder to disappear yourself than how they make it look in those movies. Mary’s picture was in all the papers. . .’

‘All the Finnish papers,’ Becki says. ‘What if she’d left Finland?’

‘Her stuff was still here, though, wasn’t it? Her passport, her clothes.’

‘Yes, but no money. Her purse was gone.’

‘That’s hardly that unusual,’ Agatha says.

‘On a cross-country ski? Was she going to pop in somewhere for a cola? And she brought a bag of supplies on the trip. What if she’d put a change of clothes and some essentials in it? A fake passport. . .’

Agatha narrows her eyes. Becki shrugs.

‘It’s just a theory,’ she says.

Agatha sits forward and places a hand on Becki’s knee.

‘Becki, I want you to be completely honest with me. Have you got a fake passport, a grab bag and some money, and are you planning to do a runner on your mom? It sounds like something you’ve fantasised about and I know she can be a pain in the ass. . .’

‘Agatha, I can assure you, if she ever gets too much for me, I’ll just shoot the old trout.’

They both laugh but Agatha’s brain is already running double time and she goes over what Becki has said and the possible avenues it offers up.

When she’s leaving, Becki grabs Agatha’s hand and asks her if everything is okay at home.

Agatha smiles so hard her jaw clenches.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You looked like a ghost when you arrived and you still look like a ghost,’ Becki says. ‘And it’s not just your case. Spill. Luca?’

‘Maybe,’ Agatha says, reluctantly. ‘I’m not sure. I’m trying to stay focused on work but. . .’

Becki purses her lips.

‘Why don’t you all come here for Christmas Eve?’ she says. ‘Stay a few nights. You’re allowed time off, aren’t you? The American family are nice, you’ll get on with them. And you know our place is big enough; you could take the attic rooms and see nobody, if you wanted. Or, I could pay you to wear traditional garb and pretend to the Americans I’ve caught a real Sami family.’

They both laugh.

‘Actually,’ Agatha says, ‘if you aren’t too busy, would you object to me sending the kids up for a sleepover, sooner?’

Becki studies Agatha. Agatha tries to look relaxed, like her stomach isn’t churning with fear every waking moment.

‘They can stay with me as long as you want,’ Becki says. ‘You know they’ll be safe here and I can keep them very, very busy.’

Agatha squeezes her friend’s hand, unable to express her gratitude with words.

When she leaves, Becki waves until Agatha can’t see her any more.

And Agatha realises, as the snowmobile puts miles between her and Becki’s house, that the prospect of getting the children out of town has left her feeling more relaxed than she has since Olavi told her his secret.