Hidden in Snow (The ?re Murders, #1)(65)

The guy who contacted the police is Tor Marklund.

“He must be from Skellefte?,” Anton says as they head west. “Everyone from Skellefte? has the surname Marklund.”

Daniel raises his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t be prejudiced, would you?”

“It’s true,” Anton insists. “Everyone who’s born up here knows that.”

Daniel has no counterargument.

Tor is waiting for them in the parking lot at R?dkullen.

Daniel spots him as soon as he turns off the road—a tall, slightly stooped man wearing a woolly hat and a red jacket with the SkiStar logo. He is standing with his legs wide apart in the area between the vehicles and the skiing area.

“Are you Tor?” Daniel asks.

“Yes.”

Tor’s Skellefte? accent is unmistakable, even from that one word. Anton pokes Daniel meaningfully in the side.

“We can go into the cabin,” Tor says, pointing to a low, brown-painted wooden building next to Rautjoxa, the local restaurant. The cabin consists of one room with a square table and a few chairs. Along one wall there is a counter with several shelves and a Melitta coffee machine. A pot is standing on the hotplate, its contents pitch black.

“Coffee?” Tor says, pouring himself a cup.

“I just had some, thanks,” Anton replies quickly.

Daniel accepts a cup that smells worryingly bitter.

“So,” Tor begins. “I don’t know if I was right to contact you, but my partner said I should.”

“Please tell us what you saw—we’re grateful for any information,” Daniel reassures him.

“I was out on the machine in the early hours of Sunday morning. It was late, and I was about to finish my shift. It was after two—I’d been out all evening because of the heavy snow.”

Tor takes out a tin of snuff and tucks a plug under his top lip.

“I’d just finished the top of Stj?rnbacken when I saw a snowmobile zooming along down below me. I couldn’t hear anything because my engine is pretty loud, but I saw the beam of the headlights as it got closer.”

“Where did it come from?” Anton asks. “What direction?”

Tor adjusts the plug of snuff, frowns as if he’s trying hard to remember. “It came from the west. It was on the transportation route for number forty-seven, the one that starts at R?dkullen and ends at the Hummel lift.”

Daniel tries to remember what the piste map looks like.

?re has something like a hundred runs, if you count Duved and Bj?rnen.

“Can you tell us exactly where you were?” he says. “Be as precise as possible.”

“Let me think.” Tor is in no hurry. He adjusts his hat, scratches above one ear. “I was just below the top station on VM6, maybe a hundred yards from the transportation route. My snow groomer was at an angle facing toward the mountain, so my headlights were pointing upward.”

“So whoever was on the snowmobile wouldn’t have seen you.”

“I shouldn’t think so.”

“Then what happened?”

“The snowmobile turned off and drove down Stj?rnbacken. It looked as if it was heading for the VM6

embarkation station, but it disappeared behind the trees, so I couldn’t see.”

“Was there anything in particular that struck you as strange?” Daniel asks.

“It was very late, like I said. At that time of night, it’s usually only us and the snowmakers who are out and about.”

“Snowmakers?” Daniel is unfamiliar with the term.

“They look after the cannons that produce artificial snow. Some cannons are automatic, but some have to be switched on and off manually. They also need a certain amount of maintenance—cleaning and so on.” Tor makes it sound like the most obvious explanation in the world.

“Between November and February we produce artificial snow so that there’s enough to last the season,” he adds.

“The snow must always be at least twenty inches deep on the pistes.”

“I understand,” Daniel says, keeping quiet about the fact that he knows nothing about artificial snow. “So it was the snowmobile that made you react?”

“The thing is, the snowmakers always work in pairs.

They’re not allowed to go out on their own, for health and safety reasons. That’s why I suspected it was a private snowmobile, and there was no reason for it to be there.” Tor takes a sip of his coffee and makes a face. “Pure fox poison,” he says.

“Do you remember what the snowmobile looked like?”

Daniel wonders.

“That was the odd part. It was way too dark to belong to SkiStar. I can’t tell you the exact color, but I’m guessing it was black, because it was hard to make out.”

“What do your snowmobiles look like?”

“They have orange stripes on a white background. The idea is that they should be clearly visible, even in bad weather. The drivers also wear high-vis clothing—their jackets are neon yellow. Plus all our snowmobiles have extra equipment—for example, there’s a flag on the handlebars.”

Daniel is impressed—there’s nothing wrong with Tor’s powers of observation.

“With hindsight, maybe I should have reacted more quickly,” Tor continues, “but I thought maybe some kids were messing around, or on their way home after a late party. Teenagers do take a shortcut across the slopes sometimes, and there’s not much we can do about it.” He looks down at his big hands. A small amount of snuff has attached itself to his index finger, staining the tip brown.