The Ice Cage — A Scandinavian Crime Thriller set in the Nordic Winter (The Baltic Trilogy) Read Free Page A

distance felt surreal. It could have be en anyone, but i t was my father, stripped of everything that had surrounded him in life . Stepping closer , I could see his face. It was familiar , but I wouldn’t hav e recognised him in the street.
    I hesitated before removin g the sheet, possibly out of fear of being disgusted , or simply of death. There was also something more visceral, a feeling akin to remorse. I’d let him down by letting him die alone. Him, m y father. The words felt odd together . ‘My’ and ‘father’ hadn’t been juxtaposed for a long time in my life. I carefully lifted the sheet to see the whole body. Seeing my procreator could be an indication of my own future, but l ooking at the body, the dominant feeling was emptiness. Coldness. His b ody didn’t reveal anything personal . It was strictly physical. T here was nobody there, no one home. Nakedness is often associated with intimacy, but I could see nothing more impersonal than my father ’s naked body in the funeral home. It was lying in the most sterile of places , deprived of its defining environment and isolated from my father’s belongings .
    I remembered him as t owering over me , but now I was looking down at him. Travelling to Mariehamn, I’d imagined my fat h er the way I’d seen him as a 10 - year old. He was still big, but there was a frailty about him which led me to review my image .
    I stared at his shaved and swollen face. Mum alway s said there was a resemblance . Telling me I looked like my father had been her ultimate insult . S he couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t see it though . Had it been in our smiles or f acial expressions? I n our m ovements? These signs of life were invisible on a dead man. I l ooked at his stomach, chest, shoulders. He was stouter than I remembered. Was it beer, a bad diet, a sedentary life style, or simply a matter of age? His hands were small for his size and didn’t look like the hands of a manu al worker, but h is legs were surprisingly long and m uscular, which must have come from the skating . His feet were big like mine – Carrie would have called them barges. Different parts of t he body told different stories and pointed to diffe rent facets of his personality.
    The body did remind me of my f ather, but i t was n’t him . It was a body he’d inhabited – his skin. At first I ’d regretted com ing and I couldn’t see what it would br ing, but standing there I realised that seeing his body would help me build a new image of him that wouldn’t be based on memories or second - hand account s . It would be real . Mine.
    I couldn’t help asking myself w hat I would have told him if he’d suddenly come alive. What did I want to k now and w hat would he want to know? I imagined him askin g why I hadn’t been in touch and me returning the question . Why hadn’t he contact ed me? Would we have had anything to talk about? Seeing my dead fa ther didn’t provide any answers, i t only triggered new questions.
    As I was leaving, the man in the dark suit said t he funeral would be in two days time, unless I had any objections of course . He asked if I could drop off some clothes and about flower arrangements. I trusted he woul d do a better job than I in the floral department. Heading out after confirming my father’s identity at the reception, I nearly received a second bump on the head as a man flung open the door in my face. It hadn’t been deliberate and he excused himself profusely , but I couldn’t help thinking that luck wasn’t on my side since arriving on this island.
    Driving back to the house with Dahl, I asked where my father had drowned.
    ‘ In the sea… ’
    I knew that.
    ‘ Where? ’
    ‘ Solviken. You m ust have skated there as a kid.’
    He was probably right, but it didn’t ring any bells .
    ‘ Is it far? ’
    ‘ A 20 - minute drive. I also have the details of the couple who found him , in case you want to talk to them. ’
    Dahl’s words ebbed away as I stared out the