Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel Read Free Page A

Lena.
    “A car mechanic receipt?” Agnes asks.
    “Two weeks old,” Lena says. “It’s got the license plate details. I bet it belongs to the man we’re looking for.” She takes the note and walks towards the front door. “Call in and check the number plates.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “Down to the street. If it’s his car, it might still be here.”
    *

John
    John awakes in a blizzard.
    Slowly, he forces an eye open and looks around. He is naked, lying flat on his stomach while a strong wind tugs at his hair. Coating his body is a powdering of snow, so cold it burns like hot ash.
    He tries to lift his arm, but it is too heavy, perhaps frozen to the ground. There are no other sensations; the rest of his body is lifeless, numbed by the freezing gale. He tries to move his head, but patches of frost have bolted his cheek to the ground.
    John relaxes again. Moving leads to pain and effort; being still means only pain. Better to lie down and sink away. To let go, give in to the chill, and float down into the black well he senses underneath him. It is close, only a thought away.
    “John.”
    He blinks and wills his eyes to stay open.
    A flickering, yellow light illuminates the patch he lies sprawled on, but he cannot see the source of the light. Farther away are dark cliffs rising into the murk and forming walls that curve around him. There are no openings or crevices where he can hide from the wind. The ground beneath him is icy to the touch, almost perfectly flat, and as unyielding as stone.
    He is trapped at the bottom of a chasm filled with a glacial storm. The weak glow around him is the only light he sees. If there are any smells, they are sterilized by the icy gale. A faint notion of something important hangs in his mind, a thing forgotten or lost, but raw ache has dissolved the thought.
    “John.”
    There it is again, a shrill voice calling a name. He realises it is his name, although he has no memory of being called John before this moment.
    Groaning, he tries to lift his head again, but his cheek could have been welded to the ground. No, not ground. The surface is too cool and smooth.
    It is ice. A frozen lake covered by snow and surrounded by towering cliffs. Why he is here, or where he is, he does not know, and has no interest in finding out.
    “John, come on.”
    Someone is screaming his name close to his ear, but he cannot turn to see who it is. Once more, he closes his eyes and begins to drift towards that dim, welcoming depth.
    As he fades away, the voice speaks again, a mutter in the glacial wind.
    “ John. Oh, for fuck’s sake–”
    Something strikes John’s face hard. His head rings from the blow, but the pain also lifts him up from oblivion and forces him towards consciousness. With a groan, he rips his cheek from the ice and looks around.
    Squatting on the ice close to his head is a woman in her early twenties, rocking on the balls of her feet and frowning. Her eyes are so green they are almost black. She is dressed in a gray woollen coat, large blue boots and pink knitted mittens with a matching hat pulled down low. A bag hangs from her shoulder on a thin strap.
    On the ice next to her stands a robust old-fashioned lantern, the candle inside shielded from the storm by glass panes fitted in black metal frames.
    “About time,” the woman cries over the wind. “You had me worried. Can you stand up?” She pushes the hat back from her eyes, sniffles and wipes her nose with a gloved hand.
    Wincing with every movement, John tries to rise, and this time he succeeds. Forcing himself into a sitting position takes half a minute and leaves him wheezing. He shivers as he tries to focus on the woman by his side.
    “Good,” she says and nods. “Now get on your feet. No? Hang on.” She holds the hoop of her lantern between her teeth, grabs John under his armpits, pulls him upright, and drags him backwards, towards the cliffs. “Here we go,” she calls in his ear. “Just a little