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

bottle and filled the glasses to the brim. Was he trying to blind me?
    ‘ To Henke. ’
    He emptied his glass in one go and refilled it before emptying it again and looking at me. I tried to refocus the conversation.
    ‘ Do you know where my father kept his camera? ’
    He lifted his glass.
    ‘Skål.’
    I downed half the glass. I saw another hug coming , but really didn’t want it. Something about him reminded me of the hugging policeman and the ferry terminal lady. Maybe it was a cultural thing. If it was , I certainly hadn’t inherited it.
    ‘ Bottoms up. Say omelette! ’
    ‘ Omelette ’ was the Swedish photographers’ version of ‘cheese’ and he probably had the magic Finnish word lined up for me too. I barely had time to slurp the rest before he gave me a refill. This was Scandinavia , where protests were in vain as long as there was still aquavit in the bottle. Once opened, it had to be emptied.
    ‘ Like father like son. ’
    Not sure what he meant – my father was dead. He gave me a slap on the shoulder, making me spill half of my glass. At least I wouldn’t have to drink that.
    ‘ How can I help? ’
    ‘ I can’t find his camera. Thought it might be in for a service. ’
    ‘ Nope. It’s a work of art. Unbreakable. The death of the camera servicing industry. ’
    ‘ I can’t find any recent photos on his PC and the camera has vanished. ’
    ‘ I might be able to help. ’
    ‘ You know where the camera is? ’
    ‘ I can’t help you with the camera, but Henke was using an online backup system. I suggested it a fter he’d lost all the photos from one of his yachting trips. The GPS tagging was ideal. He only needed to add some notes and he had an illustrated logbook. The uploading is wireless and can be done from almost anywhere on the planet. ’
    Sven logged into Henrik’s account.
    ‘ How do you know his password? ’
    ‘ I set it up for him. Henke didn’t believe in building fences. He s aid real - life fences become rabbit hutches in our heads. They’re against nature. We think they make things easier , but end up spend ing our lives trying to untangle them. ’
    ‘ Wasn’t he worried about his work being stolen? ’
    ‘ He would have loved people to steal his photos and see what he’d seen, because then he wouldn’t have needed a camera. He had it all in his head. The camera was only there to share . ’
    There were thousands of photos, mainly nature pics. I didn’t know what exactly I was looking for. I just wanted to see the last things my father had seen by focusing on the last few days from the moment of Anna’s disappearance. It was hard to tell my father’s mood from the photos or if they had any s ignificance in relation to Anna. He practically lived in the archipelago and its manifestations probably h ad other meanings to him . The m ost banal things can be special to lovers, whereas they look like rubbish to outsiders. What was it that the photos didn’t show? What had he seen that I couldn’t spot? Even when limiting myself to his last couple of days, th e number of photos was endless.
    I asked Sven for a map and most of the photos appeared to have been taken in a five - kilometre radius around the boathouse bay. I didn’t know for sure , but I assumed he’ d been searching for Anna. These were his last movements and they were all I had to go on for the moment. I needed to take a system atic approach. W orking my way backwards , starting from the last photos seemed to make most sense. Sven offered to lend me a GPS camera with a direct link to the backup system to facilitate my search.

 
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    Knowing that she always stayed on for some extra laps, he ’d waited in the girls’ changing room. The benches along the walls were empty except for her clothes. Her leather boots were standing neatly under her spot and her puffer was hanging on the hook. He picked up her blouse and was inhaling her scent as she came in. Sh e snatched it from him.
    ‘ Get out!