The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

She nodded. “I will take you to the medical centre to sign him over to you in the morning.”

“Sign him over?”

“Yes, to take him home.”

King shook his head. “Sorry, you misunderstand. I am looking his body, and then I want you to take me to where he was found.”

“But…” she shook her head. “That is not what I was told. And besides, his body was found many kilometres from here. Across Lake Inarijärvi.”

“Then we had best do it in the morning. I take it the lake is frozen?”

“Ah, yes. Very much so.”

“But crossable on snowmobile?”

“Of course, but…”

“Then I’ll get my head down for the night, meet you back here in the morning,” he said. “Say, eight-AM?”

She shrugged. “I suppose.” She looked perplexed.

“You don’t have to check with anyone more… senior?”

It was a cheap shot, but it got the response he was counting on.

“No, of course not!” she snapped. “Eight it is.”

“Great.” King put down his half-finished cup of coffee. He saw some reports on the desk, had them committed to memory before he looked back at her. “Can you recommend a hotel that will have vacancies?” he asked hopefully. He did not want his accommodation planned by someone he hadn’t met, either.

She nodded. “The Witch, Serafina,” she said. “The only hotel in town.”

7

The room was a double with a sofa and a television and deliciously warm. The en-suite bathroom complete with a jacuzzi bath was the highlight of the otherwise plain, but comfortable room. Pictures, paintings and portraits of witches lined the corridors, and some had even made their way into the room. It wasn’t the most settling of decors. But King didn’t believe in anything other than flesh and blood and wasn’t put off by a few pictures. As he had checked in he had read a plaque about an author making Lake Inarijärvi, or sometimes just Inari, the home of his fictional witch, and he guessed the book had done well and had a following, and the hotel had sprung up because of it.

King had delighted in shedding his clothes. He had hung his snow gear in the wardrobe and removed the layers and folded them over the back of a chair. He was down to a T-shirt and boxers and was resting on the bed sipping a bottle of Carlsberg beer from the mini bar as he waited for room service. He had ordered reindeer meatballs in what the receptionist had called gravy and blood sauce. It had sounded intriguing. He always liked to try local food, having spent years on burgers and club sandwiches in hotels all around the world, and one day realising he had been missing a trick. The meatballs were coming with rye bread, pickled beetroots and mashed potatoes. He had added cheese and crackers and a pot of tea, told them to keep the lemon and asked for a pot of milk.

King had casually asked if the hotel was full as he had checked in. He had refused the first room he had been shown to, asked for another immediately. There was only one hotel in town, and his room had been pre-booked by the liaison officer he was still yet to meet. He had taken a different route, although he was aware there could have been a tracker fitted to the vehicle. But he had drawn the line at staying in a prearranged room. It was basic security, what was referred to as fieldcraft. He never trusted anybody and put the fact he was still alive down to his built-in and well-honed lack of trust.

King looked up at the sound of a knock on the door. He slipped his cargoes on and tucked the pistol into his back pocket. He checked the spy-lens in the door, let the waitress in with the tray. He showed her to the table, thanked her and gave her a five Euro note. A little higher than he would like for a simple tray-drop, but he felt uncomfortable tipping in coins.

The meal was excellent, and he polished off the meatballs and strange combination of pickled beetroot and creamy mashed potatoes, drank the rest of his beer and picked at the cheese and biscuits. The tea was passable, but the milk tasted sour. He wondered if it was reindeer milk, and the thought made him put the tea down and help himself to another beer from the fridge. He couldn’t pronounce the name, but it was darker and stronger than the generic Carlsberg. King flicked on the television, selected Sky News and sat back on the bed. It was at times like this that he missed Caroline. He wondered if things would ever be the same after her ordeal at the hands of her kidnappers. Her mission in life was now to sever links in people trafficking and the forced sex trade. He knew she was fighting an unwinnable battle and setting herself up for defeat. But he also knew how badly she needed to do something, to feel she was doing something. If not for her, then for the girls she had been held with that had been moved on before she could help. She had escaped, while they had been lost forever.

King felt lonely for the first time in years. He had been a widower for five years before he had met Caroline. He had become comfortable on his own, never needing a relationship or company. And then he had fallen in love again, fallen into the comforts of companionship. These past two years had given him a new lease of life. He was less cynical, less bitter. He was more patient, far more outwardly looking. And now, he felt all of that changing again. He felt on the cusp of a trough. He’d been there before, but he wasn’t