Nicola Griffith - The Blue Place

I skidded onto the secondary road and brought the Volvo up to a hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. That lasted for ten minutes, then I was back on another twenty kilometers of track but it was a straight stretch, and it was empty. I risked taking my good hand off the wheel to punch in the Bristol’s phone number and tuck the phone under my chin. It was nearly seven in the morning. The desk clerk put me through to Julia’s room without demur. The phone rang and rang and rang. I disconnected and called again. When the desk clerk answered I asked for Rolf.

“Ms. Torvingen. What can I do for you?”

“There’s no reply from Ms. Lyons-Bennet’s room and she hasn’t called me. Did you leave the note?”

“Indeed. I took it up personally.”

“And you’re sure she’s there?”

“A moment.” Ticking of keys. “Yes. She came in late last night and told the desk clerk she would be checking out after lunch.”

“Thank you, you’ve been most helpful. But if you see her, please tell her I’ve been trying to contact her. Please also tell her to stay in the hotel. I should be there in under two hours.”

“I will pass on your request.”

There was nothing more I could do.

I took the hard left onto E16 without slowing and as soon as all four wheels were on the highway, I pushed the accelerator flat to the floor. Like the secondary road, the highway was deserted. My heart was a sledgehammer, driving the car forward. Without taking my eyes off the road, I punched in the number of the cartel’s local contact.

“Hei.” A coffee-grounds voice, dark and used.

“Torvingen.”

“You can call me Sampo.” Sampo Lappelil—the Little Lapp Boy who saves the world from the king of trolls and permanent winter. A bitter man.

“I’ll be there in two hours. Less. You have something for me.”

“Yes.” He gave me an address near the Akershus. “Be here before nine.”

I called the Bristol again, but here in the Oppland my signal just bounced from rock to rock.

I tore south, never easing up, letting speed and adrenalin flense away dread and pain and all feeling until I was bone clothed in muscle moving forward with deadly purpose.

As soon as I hit the outskirts of Oslo and saw the flags fluttering from every flagpole, I understood why the roads had been empty. It was May 17, National Day, a public holiday when proud Norwegians flocked from their houses to commemorate the anniversary of the constitution of 1814, clogging the streets with processions and ceremonies and celebration.

I cursed steadily and aimed the car for the city center.

It was eight-thirty. The boulevards and avenues were empty and silent but for hammering as carpenters put the final touches to speaking platforms, and the shrieks of microphone feedback as techs tested the public address systems. The workers all swung around, astonished, when I screeched by. Good Norwegians all, at least one would call the police.

I pulled up in a no-parking zone in front of the Bristol and brushed aside the doorman and his protests. The man behind the desk literally stepped back a pace when he saw me.

“Tell me what room Julia Lyons-Bennet is in.”

He swallowed. “She’s…I’m sorry. She checked out half an hour ago.”

“Where is Rolf?”

His eyes bugged like boiled eggs. “Rolf?”

“The night manager.”

“His…his shift ended twenty minutes ago.” But his eyes shifted towards a door marked STAFF ONLY.

I vaulted over the counter and slammed open the door. Rolf was a big, soft thirtyish man who leapt out of an easy chair and spilled his tea.

“Where is she?” He shook his head. His left hand cupped his genitals. I don’t think he even knew he was doing it. “Tell me what you said in that note.”

“I kept a copy.” Such a small, tight voice for a soft man.

A copy. So Norwegian. “Show me.”

He edged past me as though terrified I might rip his guts from his belly with my bare hands. He pulled open a drawer under the counter and extracted a sheet of paper. He checked it carefully. What he saw gave him confidence; he blinked but did not shake as he handed it over.

It was written in Norwegian. I crumpled it slowly in my fist. Rolf stepped back. Stupid. I was so stupid. I should never have let her go. So many mistakes. I fought to keep my voice level. “Did you speak to her before she checked out?”

He shook his head. Once started, he couldn’t seem to stop. “No. But don’t you see,” he pleaded, “it was after my shift. After my shift!”

“Give me the phone book.” I looked up Olsen Glass. Dialed. After seven rings a cheery recorded voice told me to call again tomorrow and to have a happy National Day.

When I slid into the car, the phone was still hanging from the counter, the two men standing like figures from a tableau.

Ten minutes to find Sampo.

It was a modern warehouse building. Sampo opened a loading bay and motioned the Volvo inside. He was compact and brown and much younger than I had expected. A man and a woman emerged from the concrete corners.

“Your army stands ready to serve,” Sampo said. He spared me the ironic salute. From the bench that ran around half the bay, he picked up something wrapped in dirty cloth and handed it to me. I unwrapped it. A massive old Lahti, nine millimeter. Full clip. “It’s old. Unregistered.” He held out his other hand. It clinked. “Extra rounds but no extra clip.” I dropped them in my pocket, tossed the Lahti onto the front seat of the Volvo, and took Julia’s passport from the glove compartment.

“This woman is Julia Lyons-Bennet.” Unsmiling, hair pulled back. Beautiful. “She was registered at the Bristol Hotel. She has an appointment with the board, or some members of the board, of Olsen Glass this morning at ten o’clock. It’s an informal meeting, and this is National Day, so it may not be at the Olsen building.” They passed the passport around. “There are two men who want to kill her. You will stop them. Their names are Ginger and McCall.” I gave their descriptions. “Find them. When you find them, get information on who sent them, then kill them. Protect this woman. That is your first priority. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Sampo mused. “And we don’t even know where to begin.”

“You’re not a fool. Check the Olsen Glass building. Find out who is on the board, find out where they live and check there. Find the woman. You have my phone number. Keep me informed.”

I was going to find Ginger and McCall.

In the bathroom of the Rainbow Hotek Stefan I flexed my face a few times and studied it in the mirror. A slightly nervous and rather young woman looked back. Good.

At the reception desk I smiled shyly. “Hello?”

Answering smile. “How can I help you?”

“Well, it’s…it’s silly, really,” I said in a rush, looking over my shoulder, “but, you know the Internet? I’m expecting to meet…well, to meet a man. He’s called Ginger. At least that’s what he tells me. He’s from America. We talked such a lot online. He says he’s young and unmarried and has ginger hair and, I don’t know, I said last week we could meet here this morning. ‘On National Day,’ I said. Only now, now that it’s the day…”

“You think you might have been a bit hasty.” She was only in her early twenties, but she was stern, playing the older and wiser woman of the world.

I nodded, shamefaced. “I thought maybe you could tell me if he’s here. Then I could get a look at him first, before I introduce myself. Just in case.”

“Much more sensible,” she said approvingly, and opened up the guest register screen.

“He was supposed to come here with his business partner, a man called McCall,” I said helpfully.