Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (303 page)

No way this man could give Olivia what she wanted. Not if the last two nights were any sign. Chris felt his pulse slow with relief. Maybe she was just trying to show the man how committed she was to their work and to her future career.

He closed his laptop, grabbed his overnight bag, and headed outside to find a taxi. Darkness was still several hours away but it was time to get back to Fort Simpson. Time to put this frustrating case on the back burner and return to regular duties. He felt a twinge of regret and disappointment at the thought.

The taxi drove down Miles Canyon Road alongside the broad, bustling Schwatka Lake. Float planes bobbed at docks all along the shoreline, and boats big and small were out on the lake despite the fine drizzle. Steep, dark cliffs rose up on the other side.

Chris was leaning forward to scan the docks for his own plane when an Otter with a familiar Eagle logo on its tail caught his eye. He was startled. Hunter Kerry usually operated out of Fort Simpson, or occasionally the smaller towns up the Mackenzie River. Rarely did he venture to Whitehorse. He noticed Hunt loading a canoe into the belly of the plane. More gear was piled on the dock. A moment later, Victor Whitehead emerged from the plane and began to pick up the gear to toss it inside. Another man was supervising from the dock. Curious to see who else Victor was travelling with, Chris signalled the taxi driver to pull over out of sight.

He watched as Victor loaded the rest of the packs and turned to speak to Hunt, who climbed into the cockpit and started the engine. A few seconds later a fourth figure appeared in the doorway and hopped down onto the dock. The figure was dressed in jeans, hiking boots, and a hooded rain jacket, but as Chris watched she thrust back her hood and shook lose her ponytail.

Olivia.

He sat frozen, wordless, as Olivia turned to the mystery man, rose on tiptoe, and gave him a soft, playful kiss. He was still watching as Victor climbed into the plane, Olivia unhitched the ropes, pushed off, and leaped nimbly aboard. The mystery man remained as the plane taxied away toward the middle of the lake. He lifted his hand to wave as it gunned down the water and rose into the air, its wings dipping in the cross wind. Only then did he turn and walk back down the dock to shore.

By then Chris felt no surprise. Professor Elatar.

Fort Simpson, September 24, 1944

My Darling Lydia,

It broke my heart to say goodbye. I miss you and little William already, but the cabin in winter is not a place for a baby. Or you, ma cherie. In Whitehorse you will have company, help, all the comforts. I know it’s difficult, but I don’t want to give up on the mine yet. When the war is over, there will be lots of people looking for new investments. For now, we just need a little more money to bring more equipment to the site. I hope we hear from Gaetan soon, or at least receive the money he promised. I am very upset with him. It has been more than two months. Nicolette is in despair. He has not even written her to ask about his child.

Please be patient, my love. The war is almost over. The Germans are in retreat. Imagine the future. Imagine peace, no more rations, everyone driving cars, buying gas and jewellery for their girls. One more winter. Maybe less if the fur is plentiful.

Yours forever, Guy.

Chapter Seventeen

Nahanni, July 22

 G
reen paused in his climb and leaned against a boulder at the edge of the trail, gasping for breath. Sweat poured into his eyes. He dropped his pack to the ground so that he could peel off another layer of clothing. Up ahead, Sullivan was wearing only a T-shirt as he strode confidently upward.

They were following what Jethro called a game trail almost straight uphill toward the ridge. Must be a mountain goat trail, Green thought. It had rained lightly overnight, and the stones still glistened damp and slippery in the pale mist. Like Hannah and her group, they had left their canoes and heavy gear down by the creek and were carrying only the essentials for inland camping. The other three were shouldering most of the weight, leaving Green ashamed and cursing his desk-bound existence. Once again, in an effort to distract himself, he planned the fitness regime he would institute once he returned home. He even managed a private grin at Sharon’s imagined reaction.

They were above the treeline now, scrambling up barren slopes of loose shale and rock and past clumps of lichen and wild grasses that nestled in the damp pockets of the hillside. To Green, the acres of rock and grass looked undisturbed, but Jethro pointed out the minute signs of intruders. Lichen nibbled by sheep, stones overturned by a passing foot. He even pointed out a tiny set of parallel ridges carved into wet sand.

“A hiking boot,” he said. “We’re on the right track.”

After years of looking at crime scenes, Green thought his eye should be better attuned to the minuscule bits of trace evidence. As he pushed off the boulder to continue the climb, he focused on the ground and trained his eye. Soon the stones lost their grey uniformity and became multicoloured, shot through with rust, white, purple, and green. The grasses took different shapes and sometimes he even spotted tiny flowers nestled at the centre.

When he finally topped the crest, he found Jethro and Sullivan sitting on the ground, eating pita with peanut butter and dried apples. Jethro was slipping dried moose meat to his dog. Green unsnapped his pack and let it drop to the ground with relief. He flexed his shoulders and took a long swig of water as he looked out over the valley. The sun was beginning to burn through the mist, lighting the land with silver and gold. Below them lay the dark folding swaths of boreal forest and the winding silver ribbon of the river. In the distance, tumbling one behind the other in a timeless skyscape, the gauzy silhouettes of the Ragged Range. For a moment he was transported from the fatigue and fear he had carried up the mountain.

“God, it’s beautiful,” he muttered.

Sullivan arched his eyebrows in surprise. He held out a pita rolled with peanut butter and apples.

“Not exactly smoked meat on rye,” he said. “No one is going to recognize you when you get back, Mike. Look at those biceps already!”

Green chuckled. “Yeah, and it will take me months to lose this tan. My reputation may never recover.” He flopped down at Sullivan’s side. “Where’s Ian?”

Sullivan nodded to a small dip farther along the ridge. “He got a phone call and he went over there to take it. Better reception, or privacy. Not sure.”

The distant drone of an airplane caught Green’s ear and he shielded his eyes to search the sky. The sound grew louder, and a few seconds later a float plane appeared through the wispy cloud, flying low over the mountain range to the south. Green felt a surge of hope.

“Part of the SAR operation?” he asked.

Jethro trained his binoculars on the sky. Green watched as the plane dropped lower and circled back. “That’s Hunt Kerry’s plane,” Jethro said. “Flying awfully low for those mountain peaks.”

“I wonder if he’s spotted something.”

The plane was a mere pinpoint of white against the clouds as it banked in a wide circle before disappearing behind the mountain peaks. It looked to be several miles farther inland, away from the river where the search had been concentrated.

“Looks like he’s going to land.”

“Pretty tricky to land in there, even for Hunt,” Jethro said. “No water big enough.”

As if in answer, the plane reappeared a few minutes later, banked east, and climbed rapidly until it was swallowed in the distant clouds. At that moment, Elliott came into sight over the rise.

“Did you see Hunter Kerry’s plane?” Green asked excitedly. “Looks like they’re expanding the search farther from the river.”

“Hunt’s not part of the search,” Elliott replied. His normally sunny expression was taut and his tone brusque. He stood over them a moment in silence, fingering his satellite phone. Green recognized that look. He’d used it often enough himself when he was trying to formulate bad news. His gut tightened.

“What is it?”

“The Mounties called off the search.”

“
Why
?”

“They think the group is not missing or in jeopardy.”

“But Hunt was clearly looking —”

“Then he’s acting on his own initiative. The Mounties now think the group is on a hike inland, and no longer their concern.” He imitated Nihls’s prissy tone. “‘Until we receive new information to the contrary, we will not be committing costly resources to the search.’”

Green was driven to his feet by outrage. “A thousand square kilometres of trees and ravines and wolves, and they’re not going to help? Not even flyovers or infrared imaging?”

Elliott shook his head unhappily. “You have to admit things have changed. This is looking less like a crisis and more like an expedition.”

Green swung on him. “Are you pulling out too?

“Mike, that’s not fair.”

Elliott held up his hand. “No, Brian, it’s a fair question. I’m not pulling out. We’ll find these kids. For one thing, I’m not convinced they have the expertise or the equipment to survive in the wild. They’ve already made some very stupid mistakes, including failing to register their itinerary with anyone. Not even their families, let alone the Mounties or the park. This is not some city park. People die up here.”

Jethro shot him a swift glance and Elliott winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply —”

“But it’s true,” Green said. “That’s why we have to find them. And why the RCMP’s decision is so infuriating.”

“I know, but from the SAR perspective, a full-scale search is premature. Park staff and trippers will still be on the lookout, of course, and Nihls did ask me to keep him posted. At the first sign of danger, they will re-evaluate.”

“These are professionals, Mike,” Sullivan said. “We have to let them do their job.”

As they were talking, Jethro had packed up his lunch and wordlessly left the group. He carried a short willow branch that he called his tracking stick. It was marked with O-rings that he moved up and down with precision. With his dog criss-crossing behind, he was exploring the ridge top.

“Just like him,” Elliott added softly.

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” Green started to pack up his own lunch. Most of his pita was uneaten but he’d lost his appetite. “Should we be helping him?”

Elliott shook his head. “We need to stay out of his way until he picks up the trail. He’ll let us know.”

Just like an Ident officer, Green thought, taking out his phone. “Fine. Maybe I should phone Hunter Kerry and find out what he was looking for, and whether he saw anything.”

“Hunter flies people up here all the time. Over to the Cantung Mine that’s back in there, or up the Flat River for fishing.” Elliot seemed to read Green’s expression, because he smiled sympathetically. “He wouldn’t call you back before next week anyway.”

Green had to admit the truth of that. He sank back down on the ground and pulled his notebook from his pack. He had intended to keep a detailed log of their activities and observations for the future, but he found himself instead watching Jethro with fascination. The man was wandering in seemingly aimless loops across the ridge, backtracking, studying, retracing his steps. Now and then he’d bend down to study the soil. He’d lay out his tracking stick, mark, measure, and then examine another spot. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his movements precise.

Green knew that tracking, like crime scene searches, was meticulous. Down to grains of sand, sometimes. But after half an hour he felt his impatience mounting.

“Were they even up here?” he shouted finally.

Jethro looked over, his expression unruffled. “Oh, yes. But there are four of them, all going in different directions.”

Green approached. “Can the dog help?”

Jethro glanced up in search of Tatso. He had sent her to the farthest perimeter of the ridge, where she was zigzagging methodically along with her nose to the ground. So far she showed no signs of being on the scent.

Jethro shook his head. “The scent’s too old. Might be ten days since they passed through here. Probably before the flash flood. There are a couple of good tracks but very worn. But they are changing directions, sometimes taking big steps, sometimes small. Like they’re looking for something. Or undecided.” He straightened. “If we can figure out what they were looking for, we may be able to pick up a trail.”

In his quiet way, Jethro seemed to read Green’s pent-up impatience and helplessness, for he pointed to the edge of the ridge where the land dropped precipitously into a gully. The terrain was a series of folds, like a clumsily folded quilt that had been tossed open upon the land.

“I’m going to follow the edges of the ridge to see where they began their descent. You three can do a line search of the middle area here for any signs of them. Tent peg holes, flattened vegetation, burnt stones. It’s open land so twenty feet apart should do.”

Green had ordered enough line searches in his career to know what to do. Usually they were in dense shrubbery or woodland, where the smallest piece of evidence could be invisible one foot away. In comparison, this search was easy. The three of them soon developed a rhythm that covered half the top of the ridge in less than an hour. They had just finished their eighth pass across and were approaching a small, lichen-covered ledge when a flash of sunlight caught Green’s eye. It seemed to be shining from a jumble of rocks beneath the ledge. Was there something reflecting the light?

He broke formation to get a closer look, expecting a shred of foil or plastic wrap. Instead, nestled amid the odd pile of rocks was a broken mason jar.

He stepped away and shouted for Jethro. The man was the closest thing he had to an Ident officer. If anyone could read the evidence to find out how it had been broken and how long ago, it would be Jethro.

Soon all of them were clustered in a circle as Jethro crouched on the ground. He balanced a shard of glass in his fingertips and studied the glass, the broken edge and the debris that had collected inside.