Free The Ice Cage — A Scandinavian Crime Thriller set in the Nordic Winter (The Baltic Trilogy) by Olivier Nilsson-Julien Page A

reassured, but I wasn’t , because Anna had left right after my father’s death and he’d bee n looking for her. Was there a connection between his death and her departure ? Had he found her or h ad she been running away from him? Now I really needed to talk to her, but she’d left the island and would be even harder to find. When I thanked the woman behind the counter , I realised that h er smile hadn’t budged while I’d had all these thoughts about Anna. She was obviously recovering from the achievement of a lifetime.
    As I was leaving she looked at her computer screen again and – hey presto – there was a sign of life.
    ‘ Excuse me ! ’
    I was halfway through the door when I turned .
    ‘ She never boarded. ’
    ‘ She didn’t take the ferry? ! ’
    ‘ That’s right. ’
    ‘ How do you know? ’
    ‘ All the passengers have to put their boarding passes through the check - in machine before getting on . ’
    She’d intended to tak e the ferry but hadn’t made it. H ad she missed it, changed her mind or been held back ? If so, by whom?

 
    26
     
    I searched my father’s house for his camera and finally dug up a prehistoric Agfa, but nothing remotely digital or GPS - inclined. The place had just been burgled, so t hat might explain that . Looking through his papers, I eventually found the camera manual with a re ceipt from a local camera shop.
    S ven’s Camera Shop was closed, but it was unclear if it was for the day or for good , as there was no open/closed sign and t he window looked like it had n’t been dressed since the 1970s . A layer of period dust was there to testify that this was completely unrelated to the ongoing revival. Time had simply stopped in that window 30 years ago. I couldn’t remember, but it was probably still exactly as it had been when I lived in Mariehamn as a kid. That shop window lived in a time warp.
    I banged on the door but there was no answer. When I asked in th e bike shop next door , the manager immediately gave Sven a ring. All I could hear at the other end of the line was shouting, which made t he cycle man smile.
    ‘ He was having his nap. He’ll be down in a sec. Sven thinks he lives in Spain . It’s all mañana with him. ’
    I waited outside the camera shop for a good 10 minutes before there was any movement. The bike shop owner stoo d in his doorway watching me the entire time. Sven obviously hadn’t moved onto digital processing yet. I was about to give up, when I heard the faint sound of someone coming down a set of stairs. The next thing I knew, a man riddled with sleep wrinkles materialised in the doo r.
    ‘ What do you want? ’
    And grumpy at that.
    ‘ My father bought a camera from you. ’
    ‘ Not the first father to do so. ’
    ‘ A GPS camera. ’
    ‘ Fathers buy all different kind s of cameras. ’
    The more I looked at him, the more familiar he seemed. Where had I seen him? At the yacht club?
    ‘ I’m looking for my father’s camera. ’
    ‘ Ask your father then. ’
    ‘ He’s dead. ’
    ‘ I need my sleep too. ’
    He pulled the door to, but I blocked it with my foot and held up the receipt.
    ‘ Henrik Sandberg. I’m his son. ’
    The wrinkles went and his face opened up.
    ‘ Henke! Why didn’t you say so?! ’
    Suddenly energised, he opened the door and dragged me in. He’d finally snapped out of his siesta setting.
    ‘ You must be Magnus! Last time I saw you, you were… ’
    He tried to show me with the palm of his hand but couldn’t quite decide on a height. From the look of it I must have been small for a 10 - year old.
    ‘ It’s been a while. ’
    ‘ You can say that. Henke missed you. ’
    Did he really? I still couldn’t understand my father’s passiveness. Look where it had got us. It seemed such a waste that w e’d n ever met again and never would.
    ‘ What will you have? ’
    ‘ Oh… a glass of water. ’
    ‘ I’ve got some of Henke’s home - distilled. Top notch. ’
    I couldn’t refuse. He took out a