Bonereapers (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

Erika,

I helped you before when you were weak and couldn’t stand up to your husband. What you did was wrong and you should beg God to forgive you. You ruined Maks’ life and now you would ruin Colt’s. You chose. You don’t get to change your mind like Lofoten light. I will pray for you, but I won’t help you. It is the end.

Inge

Dinah replaced the note in the envelope and peeled off her gloves. Whatever additional questions the message may have raised, it answered two. It had zilch to do with an infestation of cutworms in Africa and Erika hadn’t wanted Dinah to read it.

For lack of a better explanation, Dinah decided it must have to do with sex. So much of life’s Sturm und Drang revolved around sex. Good sex, bad sex, too much sex, not enough sex, sex with somebody whose heart you break, sex with somebody who breaks yours. In Erika’s case, sex with anybody other than her husband would constitute a scandal. The way Dinah interpreted this Inge person’s words, Erika had broken the heart of a man named Maks and, if she changed her mind and went back to him now, it would ruin Colt’s life or his election prospects, which probably amounted to the same thing. Maybe Erika had gotten wind of a romance between Colt and a woman named Hannalore and that had ignited a yearning to return to Maks. Maybe Erika had lost track of Maks over the years and wrote to Inge asking where she could find him. It crossed Dinah’s mind that Maks might have been the songwriter who’d been hung up on Erika back in the day.

It was hard to credit the unflattering portrait Valerie had painted of Erika, especially in light of Valerie’s evident feelings for Colt. But Inge didn’t paint a very flattering picture of Erika either. She sounded like a cold-blooded femme fatale. Dinah tried to picture her getting tanked in the Beached Whale, seducing Eftevang, and killing him at the end of the night. If she was disposed to alcoholic blackouts, she might not even remember what she’d done. The picture didn’t gel. Alcohol could unleash all manner of demons, but Dinah couldn’t see Erika driving a lethal weapon into a man’s chest.

Feeling frustrated and ickily voyeuristic, she put the note back in the parka pocket and looked at her watch for the umpteenth time. It was already four-thirty. She wished Thor Ramberg would call and say that he was ready to re-interview her. More than anything, she hated waiting. To stave off a fit of the jimjams, she decided to break her number one birthday resolution and buy a pack of cigarettes. She didn’t have to smoke them all, just one or two. These were extenuating circumstances. She would make a new and lasting New Year’s resolution to quit.

She went to the small gift shop located in the lobby, bought a pack of Norwegian-made Petterøes, parked herself in front of the fireplace, and lit up. From here, she could monitor everyone’s comings and goings. Tipton Teilhard III bustled through, running messages between the senators and Mahler, no doubt. He lobbed her a blameful look, as if she’d committed high crimes against the nation. Valerie must have advised him of her flippant attitude. The little toady. If he wasn’t careful, he’d stick his nose too far up some politico’s fundament and suffocate one of these days.

A man with a Bluetooth module in his ear and a stern look on his face bent over her and held out a saucer. “
Unnskyld, fr
øken.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, yes. Excuse me. It is not permitted to smoke in the lobby.”

“Can I smoke in the bar?”

“Not in the bar or in the restaurant. It is the law.”

Grudgingly, Dinah crushed out her cigarette. Brander Aagaard was obviously a scofflaw and the Kaffe & Kantine a place where the law could knowingly be broken.

The elevator dinged and Jake Mahler and Thor Ramberg stepped out. Mahler held the door open with one hand and continued talking amiably and smiling. Ramberg didn’t reciprocate the smile. Mahler patted him on the shoulder and held out his hand. The two shook, then Mahler got back in the elevator and the doors closed.

Dinah stood up. “Inspector Ramberg?”

He saw her and walked her way.

“Inspector, were you planning to interview me again? Because I have some information. Not about the missing laser. About Herr Eftevang. I don’t know if it’s important, but I’ll feel a lot better after I’ve passed it on to you.”

I’ve been talking all day, Miss Pelerin. Is it Miss or Miz?”

“Miz.”

“I’m tired and my throat is dry. Perhaps…”

“No.” She felt a pang of anxiety. Had Valerie said something to undercut her credibility, too? “I promise I won’t talk your ear off and I’d really like to get some things off my chest as soon as possible.”

He gave her an appraising look. “Will you have dinner with me? You can talk as much as you like as long as it’s over a beer.”

“Sure.”

“It’ll be my treat, a peace offering for invading your room last night. There’s a
vertshus
that I like not far from here. I’ll drive so you won’t get too cold.”

He seemed less arrogant and overbearing than he had during their first meeting, or maybe the American contingent had worn him down.

She said, “Give me five minutes and I’ll get my coat.”

In her room she grabbed her gloves and Erika’s parka. She took the letter out of the pocket, put it in her purse, and started out again. A last minute glimpse of her face in the mirror stopped her. She tossed the parka on the bed, went into the bathroom and applied a touch of lipstick and a dot or two of perfume. Well, it was just sitting there in her cosmetic case wasting its sweetness in the Arctic air.

When she returned to the lobby, Inspector Ramberg was booted up and waiting for her at the front entrance. She removed the spent toe warmers from her boots and considered whether to insert replacements. “How far is your car?”

“Right in front. I’ll turn on the heater for you.”

She omitted the toe warmers and preceded him out the door. The wind had died down, but it was still snowing hard. She walked around to the passenger side, but he didn’t follow to open the door for her. She reminded herself that this was a police interview, not a dinner date.

As soon as they sat down and buckled up, she said, “I know you spoke with Erika Sheridan the night you searched our rooms, but did Senator Sheridan make an excuse for her not to speak with you today?”

“I spoke with her.”

It wasn’t what Dinah had expected. “Did she seem frightened or under duress?”

“She was somewhat distant and evasive, but she didn’t seem fearful.”

“Did you speak with her alone?”

“Yes. Why do you think she’s under duress?”

“Because she’s been held captive with a guard posted outside her door ever since we heard about the murder this morning. The guard, acting on her husband’s instructions, wouldn’t let me talk with her. I’m surprised they didn’t put you off with a story that she was indisposed or sedated or in a medically induced coma.”

“I have a badge.” He started the engine, turned on the heater full blast, and pulled out into the street.

Dinah started to doubt herself. If Erika were afraid or in trouble, she could have let Ramberg know her situation in her native tongue. Even if she hadn’t spoken the language in decades, she must have retained a few basics, like “Help!” and “I’m being held prisoner!”

Ramberg said, “I will concede that my badge hasn’t been as persuasive with the American senators as it usually is with people of lesser rank. It’s frustrating to listen to so much talk and glean so little information.”

“I hope tonight isn’t similarly frustrating for you.” She was wishing she’d kept her own counsel. He’d interviewed Erika and Aagaard and Mahler. She couldn’t add anything to what he knew already. “Are there any dives in this burg where a person can smoke a cigarette without being arrested?”

“Only if you have immunity.” He didn’t say it as if he were kidding.

“Jerusalem.”

He drove beyond the city center, past a polar bear warning sign, and past a large, brightly lit building with one or two cars and a flock of snowmobiles in every color parked all around.

“What’s that?”

“Huset. Longyearbyen’s finest restaurant, pub, and cinema. It has a Michelin star.”

“I don’t see anything beyond.”

“Not a member of the Flat Earth Society, are you?”

“No.”

“I’ll show you Longyearbyen’s seamier side. Where we’re going they won’t call the cops if you smoke.”

“Call the cops. You sound like an American.”

“Sounding American is a contagion.”

“I take it you’re not an admirer of American culture.”

“I don’t care much for American military swagger or its tendency to intervene in other countries’ affairs, but I like American music and American slang. And I’m addicted to reruns of old American detective shows.”

“You get American TV way up here?”

“How else could I have learned how to perform my job?”

She awarded him an inward smile. Maybe he wasn’t as cold and arrogant as he’d first seemed.

After a couple of miles, they passed a ramshackle wreck of a building.

“What is that?”

“One of the old collieries. Coal mining was the main industry in Longyearbyen for a hundred years. It’s still big business. Half the population works for Store Norske, which runs two mines. As the old mines have closed over the years, the buildings and equipment have been left standing as historical artifacts. They’re handy as landmarks.”

He turned left. There was no road sign or marker. He seemed to be driving off-road, across very rough terrain. The car whumped over a series of moguls and ground to a stop in front of what looked like the entrance to a mine. Lanterns mounted on a ledge over the door illuminated a crooked wooden sign: Løssluppen Hole.

A score of carelessly parked snowmobiles lay scattered about like discarded toys. “What
is
this place?”

“Used to be a rail spur for a mine. Løssluppen means abandoned. The mine was abandoned and now it’s a pub.” He killed the engine, doused the headlights, and got out.

Expecting no gentlemanly courtesies, she got out on her side. “You forgot your keys in the ignition.”

“No car thieves in Longyearbyen.” He opened the pub’s door and motioned her inside. It was dark and dank and smelled vaguely of rotten eggs.

“We don’t have to descend in a bucket, do we?”

“Nothing like that.” He picked up two headlamps off a table. “Slip this on.”

Feeling positively eerie, she put on her miner’s head lamp and followed his back down a black tunnel. The ceiling was so low that he had to stoop and rail cart tracks stretched into the distance. Dinah felt the onset of claustrophobia. She began to have misgivings. Was he leading her into Hel, the realm of darkness and dwelling place of the dead? She imagined carbon monoxide and other noxious gases seeping out of the walls and filling her lungs. The Norwegians didn’t mind eating in filthy underground mine shafts and they banned cigarettes?

Her guide pointed to a crude ladder affixed to a pillar. “This is where we climb up.”

“I don’t think so.”

“At the top of the ladder is a bistro.”

“Or a corpse-eating eagle.”

“It’s quite agreeable. Trust me.”

An explosion of raucous laughter burst into the tunnel behind them. Dinah turned and saw a swarm of headlamps bounding toward them. They looked and sounded like college kids, jostling and hooting at each other. They reached the ladder and clambered up like a brigade of firefighters. When the last one disappeared up the hatch, somebody shouted, “Ø
l, øl, øl
!”

“Beer,” translated Thor and started up the ladder after them.

What the hey. When in Rome. Dinah climbed up behind him and topped out in a rectangular room the size of a basketball court with a bar that ran the full length of the room. The glass shelves above it held the most comprehensive lineup of booze she’d ever seen. Thor gave her a hand and she scrambled out. The smell of garlic and fresh baked bread won her over immediately. There was a man sliding a pizza into a wood-fired oven so somehow this place was vented to the outside.

Thor hung their coats on an antique, multi-pronged coat hanger and led her back to the table farthest from the noise. “What would you like to drink?”

“Red wine, if they have it.”

“They had over twenty thousand bottles at last count. Anything in particular?”

“Italian. Tuscan. Not too expensive.”

“I’ll ask Gunnar what he recommends.”

He went to the bar and Dinah settled herself and looked around. The Løssluppen must have been dug out of the side of a mountain. The pine floor and bar had been polished to a golden sheen, but the walls were dark, rough-hewn rock studded with hand drills and sundry miners’ tools. Porthole windows had been punched out of the rock and the lights of Longyearbyen shone in the distance. Above the bar hung a huge survey compass and at the far end of the room, an old-fashioned jukebox sat next to a wooden coal car filled with chunks of coal.

The inspector came back with a schooner of beer, an open bottle of Montalcino, and a wine glass.

She said, “I like this place.”

He sat down and poured her a glass of wine. “Longyearbyen is riddled with abandoned mines like this one, some gypsum but mostly coal. Today there’s only one operational coal mine. Some were destroyed by the Germans during World War II, some rebuilt and closed in the mid-nineties. But there are plenty of ghost shafts dating from the early years of the twentieth century covered by talus and ice and snow. Gunnar had the novel idea to turn this one into a restaurant.”

Whether it was the wine or the laid-back atmosphere or the fact that Ramberg was an aboriginal like herself, she felt the stirrings of simpatico. She said, “It’s bizarre to think of the Arctic as a former swamp with enough plants and trees and heat to decay and in a few hundred million years form coal.”

“Our buried sunshine.” He regarded her with another of his appraising looks. “I saw you in front of the Beached Whale this morning.”

“It’s on a public street, Inspector Ramberg.”

“Call me Thor. This isn’t an official interview. Dinah.” He lifted his beer glass. “
Sk
ä
l
.”