Page 24

2019

Agatha lets Janic leave early for the evening. She tells him it’s because of his good work on the Hilda Paikkala case; really, she wants him out from underfoot. He’s only ten years younger than her but sometimes it feels like a lifetime.

Once he’s gone, she and Jonas sit together in the back office and Jonas makes coffee.

‘I think I’m tipsy,’ she tells Jonas. ‘I had two beers in Elliot’s.’

He shrugs.

‘If people only knew how much of a chatterbox you are in private, Jonas,’ Agatha says.

Jonas smiles into his coffee.

‘I want you to look into something for me,’ Agatha says.

Jonas waits.

‘Discreetly. Can you check if there’s been any rezoning on the mountain or anywhere around the lake?’

‘Rezoning for what?’

Jonas is interested now.

‘Mining for precious metals,’ Agatha says.

‘Is this to do with those scouts Janic was on about? You know he was probably just skiving?’

Agatha smiles tightly.

‘Why not ask the councillors outright?’ Jonas asks.

Agatha shrugs.

‘I have a feeling it might not be common knowledge.’

Jonas says nothing, but she can see he’s intrigued.

‘Plus, if I’m right and Lassi Niemenen is involved, the other councillors will just do what he says,’ Agatha continues. ‘Actually, how difficult do you think it would be to get a warrant to look at his bank accounts?’

‘Very difficult,’ Jonas says. ‘Unless you suspected he was involved in financial fraud on the council.’

Agatha raises her eyebrows.

It’s always a possibility, she thinks.

She fills him in on the Hilda discovery and what happened in the bar.

‘So, the town might owe Miika an apology,’ she concludes.

‘Maybe. Or maybe it’s just Hilda he didn’t kill.’

Agatha frowns.

‘You don’t agree with Patric, then? That he should be left in peace?’

‘Patric can’t see beyond his own guilt.’

Agatha sits forward. She’s guessed at what happened between Patric and Miika but Patric has never given her the details. Possibly for fear Agatha would have to act if she knew the whole truth.

Agatha has always seen Patric as more than a mentor. She hero-worships him, she knows that. But not blindly. Policing has changed over the years. Agatha is aware that she is probably far more by the book than Patric ever was.

‘Tell me what happened,’ she asks Jonas. ‘When Patric brought him in. What did Miika say? Did he mention this Kaya-and-lover theory of his?’

‘Yes, he mentioned that,’ Jonas says. ‘But Patric didn’t believe him.’

There’s a few moments of silence.

Then Jonas speaks.

‘Patric was absolutely convinced Miika murdered Kaya and hid her body. He thought the lover thing was an attempt by Miika to divert attention from himself. I wasn’t sure. I reckon Kaya could easily have found somebody to keep her warm at night. She deserved a little happiness. And she was a good-looking girl. Harry used to be obsessed with her. They worked together, in the bar, you know that? Before Harry got the job in the Lodge. I always thought she might have been seeing him.’

‘Was he interviewed at the time?’

‘Sure. He said they were just friends. He’d got married young, too. Said he felt sorry for Kaya. Said it in a way that you knew his marriage would also end up on the rocks, and so it did. But he claimed he hadn’t seen her after the last shift they worked together. There was no evidence to the contrary.’

‘So, Patric was fixed on Miika?’ Agatha says.

‘Yup. And frustrated that he couldn’t break him. That last interview. . . he was tired. I went to get us coffees—’ Jonas holds up his mug, ironically. ‘When I came back, Miika looked like he’d gone ten rounds with a bear. And Miika is no lightweight. Patric. . . he wanted to kill Miika. He was convinced he could get the truth out of him. And Miika, he just sat there, blood pouring from his face. He was smiling.’

Agatha sits forward. She’s barely breathed in the last few seconds.

‘Smiling?’ she says.

‘Yeah. Like he knew he’d won. Because he’d provoked Patric to do something out of character and it still resulted in nothing. Patric wasn’t the same after. And we never found Kaya or arrested anyone, so maybe Patric was right to beat him. Because maybe Miika did do it.’

They drink coffee in silence for a few moments.

‘I think she might have been with Lassi,’ Agatha says.

Jonas frowns.

‘Do you think he’s capable of killing a woman?’ she asks.

Jonas considers this.

‘I think Lassi is capable of a lot of things,’ he says, eventually. ‘I’ve seen him use people and toss ’em aside. Look at what he puts his wife through. It was her money that helped him launch his empire. And eventually he moved her out of town, away from her friends and neighbours, and put her in that big house, so she’d have nobody while he was down here playing king. He’s got wickedness in him. But murder? I don’t know.’

Agatha chews on this. She sits back, puts her feet on the desk and rocks the chair back on two legs while she drinks her coffee.

She knows her hatred of Lassi is irrational and it’s irrational because it’s personal. She might be targeting him because of that, but she needs somebody objective to tell her if that’s the case.

‘He slept with my sister when she was pissed drunk,’ Agatha says.

Jonas doesn’t say anything. He just puts his coffee cup down and listens.

‘I came in and found him, getting out of her bed, his little thing shrivelled up and a big smile on his face. She was incoherent. He claimed she was aware of what they were doing. He looks at me sometimes and. . . well, you know Luca and I look alike. For all I know, he could be the father of one of the kids. He gave her money afterwards. Why would he give her money? She never accused him of anything, but I wonder. He’s an evil little bastard.’

Jonas nods, sympathetically.

‘I’m going to ask you this once,’ Agatha says. ‘And I want you to be absolutely honest with me. Do you think, if Patric realised that Lassi was involved, that he could have chosen to look the other way? I mean, after he beat up Miika, if Miika said something that made Patric realise he was wrong, that somebody else had taken Kaya. . .’

Agatha trails off. She can hardly believe she’s even considering it. She thinks of all the times Patric has helped her, has stood up for her, has put himself out for her. She’s known him her entire life. But she also knows that, in towns like this, sometimes things work a certain way.

Not any more. Not on her watch.

But years ago, when a small group of men were all pulling in one direction, all trying to keep safe from mining and build a viable life for its residents. . .

Could Patric have been afraid to rock the boat?

And yet. . .

Patric might have been a flawed officer, flawed enough to beat a confession out of a man, but Agatha can’t bring herself to believe he’d ignore a murder.

But she must ask the question. Because if Patric is capable of crossing one line, maybe he’s capable of crossing others.

Jonas shakes his head.

‘Agatha, how could he let somebody get away with murder when there wasn’t even a body? There was nothing connecting Kaya to Lassi. Whatever her husband said about a lover, whatever anybody might have suspected, not one person in town could confirm that Kaya was having an affair. You know Lassi. He’s not exactly discreet. You don’t think if he was screwing Kaya Virtanen, he’d have told somebody?’

Agatha realises he’s right. Lassi probably would have taken pleasure in the town knowing he’d landed a twenty-two-year-old. But then, he’d never told anybody about Luca, either. Lassi was a good bit older than Kaya, even then. Would he have been clever enough to have realised some conquests could be misinterpreted?

Agatha knows she’s going around in circles.

But there’s something just not right about the whole thing. She feels it in her bones.

Alex hears him before he sees him.

Charlie bloody Mills, in , in the bar.

‘Alex!’

Charlie bawls so loudly when Alex enters that every person in the place turns around.

Alex lets Charlie descend on him and grab him in a bear hug so tight that Alex is practically levitating.

‘Charlie,’ he gasps. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘It’s nearly Christmas, mate. Your sister just died and your mum’s in hospital and forgive me the presumption, but I reckon I’m pretty much your best friend in the world.’

He is pissed as a fart, Alex realises. He wonders how long Charlie has been in the bar and who he’s met.

Charlie brings their foreheads together. Alex is deeply uncomfortable with this intense proximity but Charlie is holding firm.

‘I brought you a rake of gear over and a hug from your mum and I’ve promised I’m going to bring her back a present from you for Christmas. By the way, we’re top and tails tonight. I don’t want any Eton-type carry-on, just so you know.’

‘Hold on,’ Alex says, ‘I’ll be home for Christmas.’

‘Come on,’ Charlie replies. ‘You think they’re going to release Vicky’s body this side of the year’s end? Unless you’re planning on going home and coming back– and I tell you, your folks don’t expect that—’

‘Wait, have you been up to Leeds?’ Alex asks, still trying to catch up.

‘Too right, I have. You think I’m going to leave my best pal’s parents at the mercy of some provincial backwater hospital? That was quite a battle your dad put up on moving your mum. Wedded to the NHS, he is. Must have been a nightmare growing up with him. He’s all “Labour this, Labour that”, isn’t he? Where you came from. . .’

‘Did you get my mother into a private hospital?’

Alex’s head is spinning. He can’t put any of these pieces together. Charlie standing in front of him in ; Charlie visiting his parents in Leeds (God knows what his father made of him); Charlie getting his parents to agree to a hospital transfer.

‘Plus,’ Charlie says, throwing his arm out and indicating the huge spruce at the end of the bar and the snow falling softly outside the large windows, ‘like I said, it’s nearly bloody Christmas and you’re currently residing in Santa Claus’ pad. Of course, I was going to come over. Just overnight up here, mind. I’m on a plane back to Helsinki in the morning. I’m going to spend the weekend there and hit some nightclubs. And do a bit of business. I don’t mind saying–’ Charlie lowers his voice– ‘that’s a bit more my style than staying up here and freezing my balls off.’

‘You have to slow down, Charlie,’ Alex says. ‘You took time off work to come here?’

‘Sort of. I’ve tied everything up. Nice little end-of-year bonus. Your Cassidy contract’s all signed off. You owe me for that, by the way. Anyway, enough of this work bollocks. Look at where we are, mate. I just met the lovely Beatrice– you should tap that, by the way. Good friend of your sister, she was. I can’t believe you haven’t used the grief card yet. She showed me your cabin and I’ve stuck some gear in there. What are you wearing, by the way? I’ve bought you Canada Goose, the whole kit and caboodle. The most expensive gloves—’

‘Mittens are better,’ Alex says, reflexively, because he really feels like he’s in dream-mode.

Charlie stares at him.

‘What did you just say? Mittens? Bugger, the cold really has gone to your brain. Let’s get you a hot toddy. Then see if we can get some hot teddies for our bed.’

‘Charlie,’ Alex says.

His friend falls quiet. His face grows sombre.

‘I know, Alex boy,’ he says. ‘I know. Your goddamn guts must be churning every minute of every day. I just wanted to check you were okay. Figured you’d do the same for me. We’ll have a few drinks tonight and I’ll be gone again tomorrow and you can get the head back down and find the cunt.’

Alex isn’t sure he would have done the same for Charlie. Sorted out his parents and bought supplies and flown to the middle of nowhere without even a room booked? The guilt of how better a friend Charlie is to him hits Alex like a hammer.

‘Thank you,’ Alex says.

Charlie beams.

Beatrice approaches them. Alex can see Niamh, Nicolas and Florian at the bar, being served by Harry. They’re out of uniform, off for the night. Niamh is wearing a tight black number, entirely inappropriate for the weather and garnering a lot of attention.

‘I’ll get in the drinks,’ Charlie says. ‘Remember, sharing is caring.’

He winks overtly, leaving Alex cringing. Beatrice waits until he leaves, then turns to Alex.

‘I think you might want to talk to me,’ she says.

‘Why’s that?’

‘You’ve been talking about me.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘I have just been given the third degree by Miss Popular.’

Alex can only assume she’s referring to Niamh and he can tell by a glance in her direction, and from Niamh’s embarrassed expression, that he’s right. He should have been more careful in what he said to her last night. She obviously left his cabin this morning full of suspicion about Beatrice and made it her business to confront the woman.

‘You should know,’ Beatrice says. ‘I might not have been Vicky’s best friend. But we never fought. And I wasn’t jealous of her. She didn’t have anything I wanted.’

The last sentence is uttered with such viciousness that Alex is taken aback.

He stares at her. He’s unable to reconcile this version of Beatrice with the one who greeted him with gushing condolences when they first met. Beatrice is cool now, her defensiveness bordering on aggression. But she’s also immature and petty.

He glances over and can see Nicolas observing the exchange, eyebrows raised.

You’ve got this one right, Nicolas old boy, Alex thinks.

‘If you want to know who had a problem with your sister, you should be looking at the guys here, not the women,’ Beatrice says.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Alex asks.

Beatrice shrugs.

‘Unrequited love. It can get quite frustrating. Is it even love, then? Or is it obsession?’

Alex stares at Beatrice, then over at the tour guides at the bar, being served by Harry.

Beatrice is half smiling now. Alex bites the inside of his cheek, hard. He doesn’t like this head-fucking. And he’s damn sure Vicky wouldn’t have liked it, either, all these half suggestions and accusations.

Beatrice is actually not that hard to figure out, he realises. She just wants to play a bigger part in Vicky’s story. This little drama is important to her.

But he doesn’t think that this woman is capable of killing somebody.

Beatrice’s talent is shit-stirring.

‘So, do you have something to say to me?’ Beatrice says.

Alex nods.

‘Yes,’ Alex says. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about, Beatrice; I -haven’t given you a moment’s thought. In fact, you don’t matter at all.’

With that, he walks away.

As he approaches the bar, he’s momentarily distracted from eye-fucking the male tour guides by the scene playing out to his left. Charlie and Niamh.

Charlie has his arm around Niamh’s waist in a very affectionate manner. And on closer inspection, Niamh appears to be a little the worse for wear.

Alex knows it’s none of his business– and he also knows a psychiatrist would point out that somewhere in the recesses of Alex’s brain, he’s substituting Niamh for Vicky– but. . . he feels he should intervene.

He approaches the pair.

‘Charlie, they do a superb cocktail in here, something with vodka in it. Could you get me one?’

Charlie frowns. He thinks he’s on to a good thing with Niamh, Alex reckons, but now he’s trying to figure out if he’s gone and trodden on his mate’s patch. It wouldn’t matter if they were in London. All’s fair in love and women, over there. But over here, grieving for his sister, Alex is allowed to have first pick of the cherries.

‘Okay, old boy,’ Charlie says, but leans in and whispers something to Niamh before he goes. Because Charlie is not good at losing, even to a friend he considers a brother.

Niamh giggles and Alex grimaces.

‘Your friend is a lot of fun,’ she says to Alex.

‘He’s also flying home tomorrow and, I’m not going to lie to you, Niamh, he is quite the ladies’ man,’ Alex says. ‘Or would like to be.’

Niamh shrugs. He can see, at this proximity, that she is indeed very drunk.

‘I thought you were into Harry,’ Alex says.

Niamh looks over to the bar, where Charlie is being served by Harry.

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘But, s’all rules, rules, fucking rules with him. I didn’t think he was serious but he means it. He doesn’t want to be in a relationship in work. Talk about shutting the stable door. . .’

Her eyes soften and cloud with something; an expression reminding him of a wounded animal. And he realises then, as Charlie banters with Harry and Harry glances over, exactly what’s going on.

‘Don’t do this,’ Alex says quietly. ‘You’re not going to make Harry jealous by going off with Charlie.’

‘It’s just a laugh,’ Niamh says, in a tone that says this is anything but fun.

‘Charlie’s not going to care about you,’ Alex says.

‘Well, you’re not interested.’

She slurs this, leaning her body towards him, her eyes wider now. A question.

To which his answer is no.

‘Harry’s not worth it,’ Alex says.

Niamh sways a little. She looks at him, angry now.

‘I get to decide that,’ she says.

She glances at Harry again, with a longing in her eyes, and Alex feels an overwhelming pity for her. She’s a young woman, suffering a very recent trauma, in love with a guy who has no time for her.

Alex, who’s never been in love, still knows what people in love are capable of.

He wonders again how blind she might be to Harry’s flaws.

Blind enough to cover up for him?

Alex waits up for Charlie to come into the cabin. They’d separated in the bar; Charlie left with Niamh. Alex had tried to talk Charlie out of it, but he was too drunk to pay any heed, and a young, attractive woman was taking him home.

Niamh’s eyes never left Harry’s face the whole time she was walking out of the bar.

Harry didn’t look at her once. Alex knew this, because he was watching Harry.

Alex knows Charlie and Niamh are adults. It’s not his job to chaperone. But he can’t help feeling guilty because he knows Niamh’s actions are irrational and she’ll regret them in the morning.

When Charlie comes in, a huge smile on his face, Alex sighs.

‘I love it here,’ Charlie groans, collapsing on to the bed like a starfish. ‘I might stay.’

Later, when Charlie is fast asleep in Alex’s bed, Alex rings his father.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Charlie is here.’

‘He said he was flying over today. How is he?’

‘He told you he was fly— Are you buddies now?’

‘He’s a good lad.’

‘Did he get Mum transferred to a private hospital?’

‘It’s just for her aftercare.’

Alex takes a deep breath. It’s entirely hypocritical of him to be annoyed by this. He’s the very one who wanted his parents to have private healthcare.

‘He’s a character,’ his father says. ‘A real Cockney.’

And now Alex knows how it played out. Charlie rocked up, gave it a bit of this and a bit of that, and won Ed around before Ed even knew what was happening.

‘She’s okay?’ Alex asks.

‘Right as rain. Sleeping at the moment. You should have seen the lunch they gave her. Enough to feed a whole family. Do you have any news?’

Alex sighs.

‘Still nothing,’ he says, abject failure in all three syllables.

‘It’s not nothing,’ his father says.

Alex is staring out the window, looking at the mound of snow that’s grown even bigger outside his cabin. He’s not sure he’s heard his father right.

‘Sorry?’

He listens to his father’s deep breathing for a few moments.

‘When Vicky was born, I don’t know if you remember this, but I took you out for the day,’ Ed says. ‘Some of the fathers, they were staying in hospitals for the birth around then, but I had my own father’s attitude ingrained in me. Anyway, your mother wanted her mum with her. Somebody of use. Not me, passing out at the sight of. . . stuff. Anyhow, we dropped them in and you and I drove out to the Dales.’

‘I remember,’ Alex says. ‘I didn’t want Mum to go into the hospital. I thought she was sick.’

‘You cried in the car until you saw where we were going, then you cheered up.’

Alex closes his eyes. He used to love the Dales. These days, he rarely thinks of them. Does he even notice the parks in London? When was the last time he sat on grass or walked anywhere he felt he could actually breathe?

‘I brought you on a hike,’ Ed says. ‘A long one, and even though you were only six, you kept up. It was like you knew already you weren’t the youngest of the house, that you had to grow up. And then we got lost.’

‘We got lost ?’ Alex is aware he’s parroting his father, but he just can’t fathom a scenario where his dad could get lost in the Dales. His father has moss and flint in his blood.

‘Yep. I got us lost. A mist came in, I couldn’t get my bearings. I was worried the hospital would be trying to get hold of us, and there I was in the middle of the bloody hills, no sense of which way was home. You took my hand and you said, “Don’t worry, Daddy. I have a packet of jellies in my pocket”.’

Alex laughs. His father does too.

‘The point is, Alex, even then, you were unflappable. You were only six and I’d never been so proud of you. It doesn’t matter what happened when you were a kid. I want you to know that. I’ve been in plenty of fights in my time. You just had bad luck. The worst luck. I’ve always been proud of you. The way you picked yourself up and made a life for yourself. I might not be a fan of the job you took, but I always knew that you’d make a good man.’

His dad hangs up. It’s abrupt and yet, totally predictable. Alex guesses Ed could just about cope with getting the words out– he couldn’t cope with hearing his son’s response.

Alex sits very still, listens to his heart thumping in his chest, unable to swallow for the lump in his throat. His father, in all his memory, has never spoken to him like that.

The way Ed had looked at him, when he’d picked him up at the police station that time. Alex had been sixteen and he’d almost killed a boy with a single punch. Alex had thought he’d never recover from that look of disappointment.

He wonders now, in this place so far away, if his father’s expression was a projection of something he’d felt within himself. Had Ed been dismayed that he’d spent so much time fighting for other people, he’d taken his eye off the ball with his own son?

Alex allows the tears to fall. He can do that here, on his own, in a cabin in the frozen north. He can let himself feel something for all the years they’ve missed, if they’d only had this conversation earlier.

If only it hadn’t taken Vicky’s death for it to happen.

Alex is startled from his thoughts by a particularly large snore from Charlie. He’s just about to make up a bed on the chair again when his phone rings for the second time. He stares at the number, unable to immediately identify the country code, which is something that normally only happens when it’s a work call. But all his work contacts have been redirected to the office.

He’s not able to talk with a stranger. The call with his dad has emotionally drained him. He just wants to sleep. But he answers, out of habit.

‘Alex Evans,’ he says.

‘Alex?’ An American accent. ‘This is Bryce Adams. I hope it’s okay to call you like this. The guy in the police station in , he gave me your number.’

Alex’s pulse quickens.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Eh, that’s fine. I’m glad you called.’

‘I had to get in touch,’ Bryce says. ‘I have something important to tell you.’

Alex is at the window now, his forehead resting against the cold glass. He straightens up, every inch of him alert.

‘I’ve spoken to the police and my friends have too, and listen, I want you to know that I went to your sister’s cabin the night they say she disappeared, but I wasn’t with her or anything. I know that sounds kinda unbelievable. She was a pretty girl, lots of fun. But, truth is, I don’t think she was into me. And I’ve never forced myself on a girl. Never will. I told the police this. Vicky wasn’t interested. She made it clear. I guess. . . I think she was kinda using me.’

‘Excuse me?’

Bryce laughs uncomfortably.

‘I know, right?’ he says. ‘I don’t get that a lot as a jock. Hey, I don’t mean to be offensive. I’m not angry at her. I mean, I wasn’t. Look, girls’ brains. They’re different to ours, right. I got the impression, though, maybe there was some guy there she wanted to make a point to, or something?’

Alex says nothing but he thinks back to what happened in the bar tonight, Niamh leaving with Charlie to make Harry jealous. Had Vicky done the same with Bryce– but not to make someone jealous. . . to make a point to somebody that she wasn’t interested?

‘I left her safe and well,’ Bryce says. ‘She didn’t seem scared or anything. She did say she was thinking of moving on. I asked her why, she said it was just time.’

Alex exhales.

‘Is that all you wanted to tell me?’

He’s disappointed there isn’t more.

‘I also wanted to tell you that Vicky was really cool,’ Bryce says. ‘I have a few photographs we took in the cabin that night. Even after I realised I wasn’t going to be, well, you know. Selfies, funny pics. I haven’t posted them on Instagram but I thought you might like them. I know when you lose someone, every single memory of them is super important.’

Alex takes a deep breath.

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I mean, yes. I’d like them.’

They exchange email addresses. Alex gets the sense Bryce feels some kind of moral responsibility towards him. They’re not going to be friends. But Alex knows that Bryce will be the sort to message every Christmas just to check in, and he’ll always tell the story of the fun girl he met in and how she was there one minute and gone the next.

The email arrives moments after they’ve hung up. Alex opens the folder of photos.

His sister is laughing in every single one. There’s not a hint of distress or fear or any knowledge of what’s to come on her face. Her eyes are twinkling; those dark brown eyes he’s known all his life but never really appreciated.

In these laughing, smiling photographs, Victoria Elizabeth Evans, twenty-six years of age, is happy.

Alex lies back in the chair, his phone open on one of the pictures, and stares at the captured moment until the pain becomes unbearable.

It’s late, but Martti doesn’t express any surprise when Agatha turns up on his doorstep.

‘What can I help you with, Chief?’ he asks. ‘How’s Elon doing, by the way? I asked him to call back in but have seen no sign of him.’

‘He’s back out on the ice, fishing,’ Agatha says. ‘I don’t think you have to worry. Whiskey is the only treatment he needs, Martti. And as for why I’m here, I’m after old medical files.’

It’s almost midnight but Martti barely blinks.

‘Anybody in particular?’ he asks.

Agatha follows him through the house. It’s similar to her own, and just like hers is the house that comes with the position of chief, this house is the one that comes with the position of doctor.

‘The files all went digital in 2015,’ Martti says. ‘I’d have done it as soon as I arrived but it took a while to organise the system. You know how it is. My secretary wanted to do it the way she’d done it for her last boss. They’d a good set-up, though, even if it was just paper. There are records going back to 1965. The old doc kept them and we moved them into the basement here.’

‘Kaya Virtanen and Mary Rosenberg,’ Agatha says. ‘And while I’m here, do you have a file on Vicky Evans?’

‘Only post-mortem. She never came in to see me. Fit, healthy girl, by the looks of it.’ Martti frowns. ‘Kaya, Mary– those are the women who went missing. . .’

‘You know about Kaya, too?’ Agatha asks. Martti had only moved to in 2012. But of course he must have heard of Kaya. He’ll have heard of Miika. Ergo, he’ll have heard about his wife.

‘We used to come up here for skiing,’ Martti says. ‘I heard about it at the time. And then there was Mary. And Hilda.’

‘It looks like Hilda has been found,’ Agatha says, tightly.

‘Well, that’s something. Where was she?’

‘She was in Sweden. Ran off with a drug-dealing haulier. Love’s young dream.’

Martti’s eyes widen.

‘Some people have all the fun,’ he says.

The doctor leads Agatha down into his well-lit basement.

‘I’m sure the chief at the time would have looked at these records,’ Martti says.

‘They’re mentioned in their missing persons’ files. I just want to check them myself.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘I know Kaya Virtanen suffered some domestic abuse. Somebody got me wondering about Mary Rosenberg’s fiancé. She came over here every winter and the doctor saw her a couple of times for her back. But I wonder if he noted anything else. Old breaks in her bones, things like that.’

‘Things that would indicate she was abused, too,’ Martti says, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. ‘And you’re thinking maybe she just ran off, like Hilda. That she escaped a bad relationship. Kaya, too?’

‘I don’t know,’ Agatha says.

She doesn’t tell him there’s very little detail in the police files about Kaya and Mary’s medical records, but that she was able to read between the lines of what’s there relating to Kaya. A broken nose. A black eye. Other little things that all lead to the same conclusion. She doesn’t doubt Miika caused those injuries. She also knows that domestic violence runs rife up here and that many of the same men casting judgement on Miika have probably lashed out at their wives at some point in the past.

As promised by Martti, the old doc’s system is a good one and they find the relevant files after only a few short minutes. They bring them upstairs and Agatha sits at the kitchen table and starts to read.

‘I’ll make the coffee,’ Martti says.

There are no surprises in the first few pages of Kaya’s medical file. The last doctor had treated her from childhood. Aged twelve, Kaya had broken her leg when skating. Aside from that, she’d been sent down to Rovaniemi to have her appendix removed. Then there are the few mentions of what Agatha knows are injuries consistent with domestic violence.

It’s on the last page that Agatha reads something that catches her breath.

She reads it twice and lets it sink in.

That might explain a lot, Agatha thinks.

She barely notices Martti putting the coffee down beside her.

She’s already scanning Mary Rosenberg’s details. This file is light. It records a few ski-related injuries, but there’s nothing that says beaten woman.

It doesn’t matter, Agatha thinks. If the husband was psycho-logically controlling her, it wouldn’t show up on these pages. She might still have wanted to get away from him.

And then, Agatha sees something identical to what she spotted in Kaya’s file.

She covers her mouth.

Martti, sitting beside her, senses something is amiss.

‘Am I reading this right?’ she asks him.

He pushes his glasses up his nose and looks at both the pages, then at Agatha, shocked.

‘Yes,’ he says.

Agatha drives home. Her head is full of questions and theories but it is so late now she knows they’ll have to wait until morning. She’s tired and not thinking straight. As she turns on to the main street, a group of young men spill off the pavement, bantering drunkenly with each other. Agatha swerves in the snow and beeps her horn loudly at them.

‘We can’t see where the path ends and the road starts,’ one of them shouts in English, laughing.

Agatha doesn’t smile in return. Tonight, she’s not the friendly town chief, on hand for the tourists. She’s something else altogether.

She parks up and rests her head on the steering wheel for a few moments.

How had she missed this? Why hadn’t she checked the medical files before?

Because there was nothing in the missing persons’ files that made her think she had to check the medical records.

But, it couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? Two missing women with the same entry in their files? Why hadn’t that set alarm bells ringing?

A bang on the driver’s window makes her jump and yelp at the same time.

Patric is staring in at her.

She gets out of the car.

‘God, Patric, you scared the life out of me.’

‘ You scared the life out of me,’ he says, his voice muffled by his scarf. ‘Where have you been?’

She almost laughs– he’s speaking to her like she’s a teenager who has broken curfew.

‘Doing my job,’ she says. ‘Why are you here this late?’

‘I came to check,’ he says.

‘Check what?’

‘Where are the children?’

‘Oh!’ Agatha realises. She places her hand on her forehead. ‘The kids aren’t here. They’ve gone up to Becki’s.’

She understands now why Patric is so concerned. She forgot to tell him the kids wouldn’t be in the house and he must have been worried when he called by and saw the place in darkness. Agatha hasn’t spoken to him today; she hasn’t been able to tell him there’s been no further contact from Luca. Yet.

‘Hell, Agatha. I wish you’d told me. I’ve been going out of my mind here. Why weren’t you answering your phone?’

Agatha takes her phone out. It’s completely dead.

‘Battery,’ she says.

Patric rolls his eyes.

‘As long as you’re safe,’ he says. ‘And I’m happy to know the kids are up with Becki and Henni.’

Patric is about to walk away, but Agatha grabs his arm.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she says. ‘I was going to call in to you in the morning. Patric, I need to talk to you about Kaya Virtanen and Mary Rosenberg.’

Patric frowns.

‘What about them?’

Inside, they sit at Agatha’s kitchen table and she quickly fills Patric in on the Hilda developments. Initially, his face registers surprise, but soon he’s nodding, like Agatha has just confirmed something for him.

‘Now it makes sense,’ Patric says. ‘Do you remember? No, wait, you weren’t there for that interview. Jonas was with me. One of her oldest friends said Hilda could be silly about men. We thought the friend might have been a bit unkind– the owner of the café where she worked and his daughter just said that Hilda had a flirtatious nature. But her friend implied it went a bit further than that, that Hilda was the sort to drop everything for a man. That led me to wonder whether she might have been stupid enough to get into a car with a stranger who chatted her up. But, if she was actually seeing some criminal character and she ran off to be with him– yes, it adds up. Foolish, foolish woman.’

Patric shakes his head, then bangs his hand on the table.

‘All those resources! All that time wasted.’

‘I know,’ Agatha says. ‘Not to mention the rumours and specu-lation.’

Patric nods, distressed.

‘There’s more,’ Agatha says. ‘There was something in Kaya and Mary’s medical files. Something that wasn’t in the police reports.’

He frowns.

‘What?’

‘Both of them were pregnant.’

She can tell by Patric’s face he’s genuinely shocked.

‘They were both pregnant?’

‘How did you miss it?’ Agatha asks. ‘They both went for blood tests, both tests came back with high levels of HCG. The files didn’t actually say pregnant but the blood tests and the HCG levels implied it.’

‘I never saw the medical files,’ Patric says, blankly.

Agatha frowns now, confused.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘They weren’t murder cases, Agatha. They were missing persons. The doctor told me what was in their files– what he thought was relevant, anyway. There was no legal requirement for him to hand over their records and he cited patient confidentiality. He told us that Kaya had some domestic abuse injuries. Christ, most of the town had seen it with their own eyes. Everybody knew Miika was fond of a drink and of using his fists. But Mary was perfectly healthy. We checked, just to make sure she wasn’t lying somewhere in a diabetic coma or something. But the doctor said nothing about them being pregnant. That would certainly have given me pause for thought.’

Patric gets up and starts to pace.

‘Why wouldn’t he think it relevant?’ Agatha asks.

‘I don’t know! It’s not like we can ask him, the man is dead seven years.’

‘Could he have been hiding it for a reason? How well did he know Kaya? Mary, even?’

‘He’d have known Kaya as well as the rest of us,’ Patric says. ‘I don’t know how well he knew Mary.’

‘It has to mean something, doesn’t it? The fact both of them had pregnancy tests and went missing? What if. . . ?’

Agatha trails off.

‘Say it,’ Patric says, halting his pacing.

Agatha is still hesitant. She knows she’s blowing Patric’s cases wide open and yet, she can’t forget what she’s learned.

She can’t pretend he did a good enough job.

‘I had a notion they were both fleeing abusive partners,’ Agatha says. ‘But what if they were pregnant by the same man? I asked Martti; he says he doubts the pregnancy confirmation blood samples were retained, so we can’t check DNA. But if each of them had told the father and he’d, well, if he’d killed them. . . Or if the doctor had told the father? He’d have known they were pregnant, and if he wanted to help the father cover it up, that would explain why he never told you what was in the files.’

‘But surely Miika would have been the father of Kaya’s baby?’ Patric says. ‘And Mary could have been pregnant when she came over. . .’

‘Miika told you he thought Kaya had a lover.’

Patric slumps into a chair.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But there’s no proof. Agatha, those women were years apart. It can hardly be the case that the same person who slept with Kaya then slept with Mary. Who in this town—’

‘Lassi Niemenen,’ Agatha says.

Patric opens his mouth, then closes it. He says nothing for a few moments, but then he shakes his head.

‘No, Agatha,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe that. I’m glad you found out about Hilda but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree here. We don’t have a serial killer in . We couldn’t. Do you really think I would have missed that—’

‘But Lassi also knew Vicky!’ Agatha protests. ‘It’s starting to fall into place, Patric. Just because Hilda is safe doesn’t mean we don’t have a predator on our hands—’

‘Or maybe I was just wrong about Miika Virtanen!’ Patric shouts. ‘Maybe he killed his wife, and Mary Rosenberg just had a goddamn accident on the ice!’

‘Why are you so keen to defend Lassi?’ Agatha shouts back.

‘Why are you so eager to see him hung out to dry?’

Agatha’s heart is racing. She and Patric have never fought before. She knows he’s angry because he’s defensive, and that she’s just as angry because she needs to solve Vicky’s case but, still, it’s unsettling to be having this argument with her mentor.

‘Lassi would have told everybody if he’d been with Kaya,’ Patric says, calmer now. He, too, must be unsettled by their fight.

‘Then somebody else,’ Agatha says, because Patric has just made the same point Jonas did and Agatha can’t help but consider the veracity of the argument. ‘Somebody else in the town could have been with Kaya and Mary.’

‘There was nobody in town Kaya could have been having an affair with,’ Patric said. ‘She was only ever down here for work in the bar with Harry and. . .’

Patric stops. Like he’s just thought of something.

He and Agatha look at each other.

‘Harry and Elliot,’ Agatha says.

Elliot, who was part of the group of men who helped build the town and put it on the map. Lassi, Elliot, the old doctor. The town’s most important men.

‘Harry and his wife divorced a few years back,’ Agatha says.

Patric nods.

‘I remember,’ Patric says. ‘My Léah was dying and I couldn’t believe anybody would let a marriage go so easily. So willingly.’

‘She divorced him, didn’t she?’ Agatha asks. ‘Why?’

Patric shrugs. Then he shakes his head.

‘And Elliot is barely ever home. He sleeps in the bar. His wife practically lives her own life.’

Patric frowns in concentration.

‘Agatha,’ Patric says. ‘It still just sounds like you’re chasing shadows. Lassi, now Elliot. Or Harry. And don’t they all have alibis?’

‘Alibis can be faked.’

Patric is about to reply when he freezes.

Agatha has heard it, too. A noise outside, on the back porch.

Patric jumps up.

‘What is it?’ she says.

Then she remembers how she found him, waiting outside her house. Rattled, even for Patric.

‘Patric– why were you really here tonight? Was it just that you were worried because my house was empty?’

He looks at her.

‘I thought I saw somebody,’ he says, his face colouring. ‘Agatha, it was probably nothing.’

There’s a knock on the back door.

Agatha starts to tremble.

‘Don’t open it,’ Patric says.

‘You said it was probably nothing. Did you see her, Patric? Did you see my sister?’

Patric doesn’t answer.

He so badly wants to protect her, Agatha realises. And she’s filled with fear.

She crosses the kitchen floor before he can stop her.

There’s always been an invisible pull between them. A cord that draws the twins together.

She opens the door.

All of the missing women leave Agatha’s thoughts.

There’s an actual ghost on the doorstep.

Luca is standing in front of her.