The Park – again according to the map – was a square job mostly filled with an artificial lake, but touching on main roads at every corner. That would be why they'd chosen it, of course: a selection of getaways if I happened to bring the Riot Squad with me. Though if the snow got any thicker that wouldn't mean much. And it was thickening, all right.
I waited at the main road before the Park itself, and Draper wandered up, shook his head without looking at me, and went ahead into the billowing curtains of snow ahead. I followed slower. The lights of the town faded behind me and the snowflakes went from silver-white to a vague grey to invisible wet fingerprints in the darkness.
The timing was tricky. I wanted Draper arriving at the rendezvous about a minute after I did, and from the opposite direction; they might expect somebody to be following me, but I hoped they wouldn't think of a collision course. To get there, he'd have to walk all around the lake, but the exercise would do him good.
I found the lake myself by almost tripping over a low iron railing; beyond it was a slope of snow-speckled grass and then the glint of black water. I turned right and slowly followed the path around. Now I was really alone, just me and the Whirling snow like dead kisses on my face and dribbling icily down my neck. I'd done ten paces-and twenty-and thirty…
A figure, waiting, loomed up ahead; just a dark shape with an odd blurriness to the face. I stopped and something poked into my back.
A voice said, 'Hands high, please.' Then, over my shoulder to the first shape. 'He's clear; nobody following.'
I held the Bertie Bear envelope high in my right hand and stared at the vague figure in front while other hands explored my clothes.
'Do you bring your nylon stockings all the way from London, or do you find the Norwegian ones do just as well?'
'Shut up, Card.' Then, more relaxed, 'No gun, friend? Are you slipping or learning?'
'I'm just running out of them.'
He chuckled into the back of my neck. 'All right, I'll take it now.'
'Hold on. I want some sort of guarantee that I'm in the clear with the police.'
'I told you that's bloody nonsense. Hand it over.' Yes, I was sure I knew that voice.
'You'll get me into trouble, losing this.'
'Don't worry, chummie. You'll never hear of it again. Now -give!'
I'd stalled as long as I could; wherever Draper was, I had to act now or for ever hold my peace. I lowered my right hand slowly; the knife was already in my palm, the blade hidden inside the envelope. I twitched it; the envelope fell off and he instinctively ducked to catch it. I whipped around.
There were a stocking-masked face and a gun – but it had wandered off its aim. I slashed for it; the knife bounced off metal, sliced flesh, and stopped on bone.
He screamed and threw himself away from me – but didn't drop the gun. Instead, the torn envelope finally ripped wide open and Bertie Bear came bouncing free.
I jumped, trying to smother that gun hand, and he kicked as he fell and got me on the knee.
Behind me, another pistol exploded, close enough to light the snowflakes in the air around me. The man on the ground yelled,'Don't kill him!'
I turned as fast as I could, but when I saw the gun it was already swinging. I did the only thing left – tried to throw my head in the direction it was about to be thrown anyhow. But it caught me just above the right ear and I tripped on the railing and did half a cartwheel down the snowy grass bank and ended spread on my face just short of the lake.
And there I let things rest for a bit.
My vision seemed shattered, actually busted like a mirror so that I saw several versions of anything I looked at. Dimly, I knew the man who'd thumped me was staring at me. Then helping up the one with the cut hand. Then picking up something. And then both of them watching me for a while, and finally vanishing behind the snow.
They must have said something, too, but something else inside my head was screaming far too loud for any outside noise to get in.
I stared at my hand, flat on the grass ahead of me, and gradually all the versions of it faded into one. The sounds inside my head localised themselves to just above my right ear, and when I touched it, there was already a solid lump. But no stickiness, thank God.
About then, Draper appeared above me. 'Are you all right?'
'Of course I'm not bloody all right!' I said through clenched teeth. 'And where were you when the world ended?'
'Watching it. You did all right, Major.' He helped me on to my feet, or thereabouts.
I brushedon some of the snow on my jacket, looked around, and found the knife. It had blood on the tip, which was about all we seemed to have achieved; at a guess, that hand would hurt a lot longer than my head would. Should I tell Vik to watch the hospitals for a man with a cut right hand? And have Vik ask why I was carrying the knife on his patch, and why I hadn't told him about the meeting, and why I could be blackmailed into it… Hell, a professional like that would never go near a hospital.
'Well, that wasn't really worth staying up late for, was it?' I said bitterly. 'I hops you didn't get too cold or wet or anything frightful like that?'
'Don't say such things, Major. He had a gun, that's why I didn't come out. He'd've recognised me.'
It took a long time for the message to find an unoccupied brain cell. 'You mean you recognised one ofthem? In that mask?'
'I'd know that voice anywhere. He worked for Herb for a couple of years. Pat Kavanagh, that was.'
Twenty-three
The phone woke me.
I'd put myself and my headache to bed with a sleeping pill washed down by Scotch, and now I had that dispersed feeling a drugged hangover gives; it took a long time to find and fit together, more or less, my body, soul, and, more or less, mind. Then I dropped the receiver on the floor and had to grope for it head down, which wasn't a good idea.
'I told you not to wake me,' I gurgled.
'1told them to wake you,' Inspector Vik said.
'What time is it?'
'Nearly ten o'clock. If you want to bea good detective you must first learn to get up in the morning. I am coming to see you, so please stay there.'
'Hell.'
'Did you know there is a town in Norway called Hell? All tourists go to it to send postcards home.'
'Thanks. Now get off the line so I can ring for some coffee.'
'Two cups, if you please.'
He rang off and I got Room Service and ordered coffee for two and a couple of eggs done any way they pleased, I just wasn't up to such mind-bending decisions yet. Oh – and any morning papers in Norwegian, too.
The eggs arrived rather hard-boiled, which wasn't anybody's fault but mine, along with a couple of papers. I didn't understand a word, but I found the Steen story in both. My name included.
Then I had to get out of bed and let Vik in. He was wearing a different suit – dark blue, this time – but which still looked as if he'd slept in it and had a restless night besides. Plus the same overcoat.
I waved my hand at the coffee and left him to it. Halfway through pouring, he caught sight of the papers. 'Do you understand Norwegian?'
'No. It's so's you can read the story to me. Or pay for your own coffee.'
He smiled bleakly and a bit gummily – the cold was still with him – then leaned against the radiator, sipped his coffee, and started reading, 'er… last night there was… er… shot to death Jonas Steen, aged thirty-seven… er, a ship surveyor…'
And so it went on, simple and factual but, even in translation, sounding a little uncertain, like a man unwrapping an unexpected parcel. It obviously wasn't the sort of crime Bergen was used to.
I drank coffee and nibbled various sorts of bread and only listened properly when he said, 'The police are searching for a… er, twenty-two pistol…'