Snowblind

MARGARET HAFFNER

Snowblind

COPYRIGHT

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperFiction

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1993 by The Crime Club

Copyright © Margaret Haffner 1993

Margaret Haffner asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780002324090

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2017 ISBN: 9780008252724

Version: 2017-03-28

DEDICATION

For Ted Wood,

with thanks for his encouragement

Snowblind

Simon Hollingford, an Ontario Provincial Police detective, has been suspended while a charge of police brutality against him is investigated. He jumps at the chance to get away from it all by volunteering to be the radio operator for a scientific expedition in Canada’s high arctic.

Once in the north, his enjoyment is marred by the information that the previous year’s radio man, the scientist Phillip Loew, had been lost in a storm and the body had never been found. Then a series of potentially fatal accidents sets everyone on edge.

While birdwatching one day, Simon stumbles on the body of the lost man—but he hasn’t died of exposure. Two bullets in the chest prove the theory that high-velocity lead poisoning can kill faster than sub-zero temperatures.

All the same people are back in the north this year, which means one of them is a murderer. Amid steadily deteriorating weather conditions, Simon searches for the answer and uncovers a web of lies and hatred. Everyone had a motive for wanting Phillip Loew dead, and someone is willing to kill again to keep their secret safe …

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Keep Reading

Other Books By

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

September, 1985

Phillip Loew staggered and fell again to the frozen ground. He fumbled at his shoulder and his hand came away wet with blood. His blood. As his vision blurred with pain he clenched his teeth against rising panic. Hard-driven snow blasted his face and the icy wind tore the breath from his lungs. He gasped for air.

Struggling to his feet, Phillip strained to see through the shifting veil of snow. Whichever way he turned, spicules of ice lashed at his face, and his eyes streamed. Was his assailant still out there somewhere? It didn’t matter; he had to get back to camp. He swung his head from side to side like a deer scenting the breeze. Which way? He couldn’t afford to guess wrong. ‘If the wind is coming from the west …’ He turned his left cheek to the strongest of the icy blasts and stumbled forward. Hand pressed to the bullet wound, blood still oozed between his fingers. He choked back a wild, hysterical laugh.

He’d been walking for what seemed like hours when he blundered against an arch of ice across a frozen stream bed. As his knees buckled, he slid down its smooth side to lie crumpled beneath it. He reached painfully for his backpack and the food it contained but the pack was gone. ‘Rest … just for a minute …’

Considering the severity of his wound and the abysmal weather conditions, Phillip Loew had done well, but then he was a strong, determined young man. In fact he had struggled far enough to get back to the camp. It was a shame he’d been going in circles.

CHAPTER 1

May, 1986

Simon Hollingford watched as the immense load of equipment disappeared into the belly of the Hercules transport plane. It was hard to believe a group of eight people could need this mountain of supplies. ‘What is all this stuff?’ he wondered aloud.

‘Scientific equipment, food, tents, arctic gear for starters,’ a voice answered from behind.

He turned to see a woman whose short-cropped hair and workmanlike attire did little to conceal a very feminine face and form. Unconsciously Simon straightened his six foot one inch body, pulled in his stomach muscles and brushed his unruly brown hair back over his small bald spot. It sprang back immediately.

‘We’ve cut back to the bare minimum,’ she was saying. ‘As it is, I’ve had to leave three absolutely irreplaceable plankton nets behind, not to mention my second litre of Lugol’s iodine. It’s scandalous that they expect us to do our work under these restrictions.’ Her tone was lighter than the words.

‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced,’ Simon murmured.

Holding out a friendly hand, she identified herself. ‘I’m Anne Colautti. Plankton.’

‘Simon Hollingford. Brawn,’ Simon returned, giving the warm, tanned hand a hearty shake.

‘So I see.’ Anne nodded appreciatively, then turned back to watch the loading proceed.

Armed forces uniforms were everywhere at this military base just outside Winnipeg. It was a giant anthill of organized chaos but in among the khaki-clad workers he saw more brightly dressed individuals. The rest of his scientific party, Simon mused?

By the time the gear stacked on the tarmac was swallowed up, one of these civilians, a distinguished man of sixty-odd years, came up on Simon’s right. The young Warrant Officer, Jean Beaulieu, approached from the opposite side.

‘You folks might as well sit in the canteen and have a coffee, Dr Karnot,’ the officer said to the older man. ‘We’ve got to load our own gear now.’

‘How long will it take?’ the scientist asked.

‘Forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour.’

‘How much more can you get on that plane?’ Simon couldn’t help asking.

The Warrant Officer pointed towards a tank and another mountain of crates being manœuvred towards the Hercules.

‘All that?’ Karnot sounded dismayed.

‘Plus a little more which isn’t up here yet,’ returned Beaulieu. ‘The canteen’s at the far end on the basement level.’ A hint of a grin crossed his youthful countenance. ‘Don’t forget the army motto: “Hurry up and wait!”’

Simon turned to Dr Karnot. ‘I’m Simon Hollingford, your radio operator and Man Friday.’ He held out his hand.

Karnot gripped it and nodded graciously. ‘Sylvester’s relative.’

‘Brother-in-law. He’s the one who talked me into coming along and now he’s backed out himself!’

‘Too bad, but you’ll be too busy for socializing, Mr Hollingford. This isn’t a holiday!’ Karnot nodded dismissively and headed for the canteen at a brisk pace. Simon followed behind less enthusiastically. It was his holiday even if it wasn’t Karnot’s. How had he let Sylvester talk him into this?

‘It’ll be great, Simon,’ his freckle-faced relative had assured him. ‘You maintain radio contact with Resolute, lug a few boxes, and the rest of the time’s your own … just what you need while the inquiry’s completed. Even the Commissioner can’t bug you way up on Bathurst Island. Essentially you’re getting a free vacation in the high arctic!’

‘I’ll get you for this, Syl,’ Simon promised under his breath as he sauntered towards the canteen.

Balancing a cup of what purported to be coffee, Simon eased his bulk into a tiny opening around the green formica table with the rest of his group. Speaking to the youngish man on his left, he held out his hand to introduce himself.

The stranger limply touched his hand. ‘Dr Colautti. Tony Colautti,’ he amended with a slight flush as if realizing the pretention of the title among a host of fellow Ph.Ds. ‘My wife, Anne,’ he added, gesturing towards the woman at his other side. It was the blonde from the landing field.

‘We’ve met.’ Simon smiled a greeting but Anne only nodded.

Simon’s expectations took another dive but just then a friendly voice accosted him.

‘Hi.’ A wiry, grey-haired woman with tanned, leathery skin, and penetrating grey eyes, grasped Simon’s hand with remarkable strength and pumped vigorously. ‘Viola Legget.’

‘Simon Hollingford.’

‘You must be our new colleague, the radio operator. Thank heavens you could make it!’

‘Thank heavens?’

‘Yeah. If you hadn’t come we would’ve been stuck with a soldier. The army won’t let us go off without a radio operator.’

‘Soldiers are bad?’

‘No, not bad,’ Viola laughed, ‘but all they do is make radio reports to Resolute twice a day. We’ll get more work out of a civilian with no superior officer to protect him.’

‘It sounds like I’m going to be slave labour,’ Simon protested, only half in jest.

‘Nonsense. Glad to have you along, Simon, you’ll love it. Just love it!’ Her words were more like a command than a statement, but her enthusiasm was encouraging.

‘I’m sure I will, ma’am,’ Simon replied politely.

‘Don’t “ma’am”, me, young man. I’m not your mother. It’s Viola to my friends. The Old Bag to my enemies. You’d best choose.’

‘Can I get you something to drink, Viola?’ he asked, noticing that the table was empty in front of her.

Viola barked with laughter. She jiggled Anne’s elbow and cackled into her ear. ‘Our new friend here wants to buy me a drink.’

Anne smiled, her reserve softening a little. ‘How’s he to know the brutal truth about flying on a Hercules? Give the poor man a break.’

Simon’s eyebrow shot up as he spread his arms wide. ‘What are you two talking about?’

‘Look around, young man. Use your eyes. What do you see?’ Viola demanded.

Obediently, Simon studied the table and its occupants. Including himself, there were five men, and two women, all, as far as he knew, part of this expedition. A low murmur of conversation rose from the group. Simon caught a few isolated words—tents, pH meters, experimental design—but he knew this wasn’t what Viola meant. Assorted doughnuts and sandwiches, in various states of demolition, sat on the table with the drinks. Five drinks. ‘Ah-ha!’ Simon declared with a flourish.

‘Well, Holmes?’ demanded Viola.

‘Only the men are drinking.’

‘Very good. Why?’

‘Alas, my dear Watson,’ said Simon, entering into the spirit, ‘it’s all too clear. From the few facts before me I can only deduce there are limited toilet facilities on the aircraft.’ Simon produced his conclusion with more confidence than he felt.

‘Well done,’ Viola congratulated. ‘I deduce you are someone who can use his eyes and his brains at the same time. We’ll make a scientist of you yet, young man.’

‘It’s Simon to my friends, Young Man only to Old Bags.’

‘Touché.’ Viola snatched up a tired-looking sandwich. After eyeing it doubtfully she shrugged and took a bite. She grimaced. ‘Very dry. I’ve never had a sawdust sandwich before. I don’t recommend it.’ She tossed the rest away. ‘Have you met everyone, Simon?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Come over by me and I’ll give you a run-down.’ Viola detached herself from the group clustered around the table and with a conspiratorial index finger motioned him to join her.

‘You’ve met Anne and Tony?’

‘Yes.’

Viola snorted. ‘I don’t know what’s come over Tony lately—he used to be a great guy even if he wasn’t much of a scientist. But Anne’s worth ten of him, scientifically and personally. She’s a darn good limnologist no matter what that dried-up Jeff Jost says. Jeff’s the shadow over there in the corner. He’s with the Geological Survey. His type gives civil servants a bad name.’

Simon appraised Jeff—a florid fifty-year-old with the figure of a pear and the expression of a prune. Another charming companion, he thought sourly. Damn Sylvester. Would he be any better off with this lot than he’d be at home?

Viola’s fingers bit into Simon’s arm as she hunched herself even closer, grey eyes flashing. ‘See that tall man beside Jeff? The one with his nose in the air?’

Simon nodded. This was the autocratic man who had questioned the Warrant Officer. In Simon’s opinion, the white goatee was a trifle overdone.

‘That’s Eric Karnot. Birds. He’s quite good, though I’d never tell him so. His opinion of himself is already overinflated. He’s followed his feathered flocks all over the globe, taking photos and writing monographs. I hear he’s even done one of those glossy coffee-table books about tropical birds. Very elegant, I understand. Eric’s the golden boy of Bellwood College.’ Viola paused to give Simon time to admire his classic profile.

‘What and where is Bellwood?’ Simon asked. ‘I’d never heard of it until my brother-in-law mentioned this expedition.’

‘Not surprised—we’re a small university. We have a reasonable reputation although Eric’s really the only “name” professor we’ve got. Bellwood owes its reputation to him. And Wally Gingras.’ Here Viola indicated the slovenly figure beside Eric Karnot. The contrast between the latter’s crisp, fashionable appearance and Wally Gingras’s unkempt person was startling. It was hard to believe they represented the same species.

In response to Hollingford’s raised eyebrow, Viola chuckled and continued in her penetrating whisper. ‘He isn’t your idea of a bright light? Dung’s his thing.’

‘You can’t be serious!’

‘Wally’s a world authority on microbial ecology or “dung decomposition” in arctic habitats. A very erudite field, I assure you.’

‘No kidding.’ Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Simon studied Wally again. He was a short man, with greasy, yellow-grey hair hanging in lifeless hanks over his threadbare shirt collar. Thick lenses made his pale blue eyes bulge forward, and across the bridge of his bulbous nose a wad of adhesive tape held his glasses together. Simon guessed Wally to be about fifty-five and imagined he could smell him from where he was standing, fifteen or twenty feet away. Hope I don’t have to share a tent with him, Simon worried.

‘Isn’t it strange how so many people’s personalities match their field of expertise?’ Viola nudged Simon to regain his attention.

‘After that comment, I’m forced to ask what you do,’ Simon remarked.

Giving a crack of laughter, Viola poked his chest with a bony finger. ‘Mammals in general, musk oxen in particular.’

‘And what should I infer from that?’

‘Whatever you like, Young Man!’

Three hours later, Simon felt on the point of physical disintegration. Ever since the engines of the Hercules transport plane revved up, his body had vibrated like jelly in an earthquake. His very molecules were resonating in unison, about to finally split apart. And it wasn’t just the vibration. The sound waves themselves took possession of his brain.

Simon forced himself to re-examine his surroundings. He and his fellow sufferers sat strapped in web ‘seats’ slung just inches off the dull green metal floor. The accommodations could have been designed by the Inquisition’s Torquemada during a particularly bad attack of indigestion. The looming bulk of the tank three feet in front of him effectively eliminated any leg room. Fortunately, numbness had finally set in and his legs no longer felt cramped, but whether he would ever walk again was debatable. When Viola gave him a cheery wave from her comfortable seat in the assistant navigator’s chair he forced a smile in response. So much for equality!

Only a lucky few had been issued earplugs and Simon wasn’t among them. His eardrums were on the point of implosion.

To distract himself, Simon studied the young woman, Joan Winik, seated beside Viola. She hadn’t been part of the group in the canteen. A pain in the ass—wasn’t that how Viola had described her? She appeared anorexic and somewhat grim. Her long dark hair hung in a loose pony tail and, on her, the escaping tendrils looked messy rather than sexy. Maybe it’s those straight black eyebrows which make her look so angry, Simon decided, and the rude message on her sweat shirt. She dozed in her comfortable seat.

Simon groaned and shifted position, but he didn’t dare get up again, not after the last fiasco. When his leg cramps were at their worst, he had joined Private Schmidt in a stroll between the women’s seats and the freight. Pacing the six steps permitted in each direction, he fiddled idly with a steel funnel hanging from a string.

The private tapped him on the shoulder and said something.

Simon shook his head. ‘I couldn’t hear you. Speak louder!’

‘Stop playing with the urinal!’ Schmidt yelled.

It took a second for the message to register. When it did, Simon hurled down the funnel. It swung back and forth on its string, mocking him. Simon glanced around. Thank God he couldn’t hear the snickers! He’d slunk back to his web seat, vowing never to move again. So much for his brilliant deductive powers. Par for the course, of late.

The Hercules plane put down at Resolute, a tiny outpost on Cornwallis Island. At 75° latitude, it was the farthest north Simon had even been. Even at ten p.m., when they arrived, the sun shone with a distant, feeble light. The expedition members bedded down in the temporary army camp.

In the army mess the next morning, Simon breezed through the food line. Most of the soldiers had finished breakfast long before and the tent was almost empty.

The Colonel in charge motioned him over to where he sat alone at a long table. ‘Mr Hollingford, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Colonel. Thanks for the hospitality.’

Colonel Fernald grunted. ‘Don’t thank me. Orders.’ However, after fortifying himself with another swig of the excellent coffee, Fernald relented. ‘Glad to have you all here, actually. It does my men good to see that some people actually want to come north.’

‘This isn’t a popular spot?’

‘No, but we’re only here for three months. We’re having exercises to test our men and equipment.’

‘Wouldn’t it be more sensible to test in the winter?’ asked Simon.

‘We’re going to be doing that too,’ Fernald replied. ‘Another popular idea. But manœuvring in summer isn’t all that easy either—no roads, lots of fog, hills, cliffs, sand and gravel, deep coastal indentations to cross, not to mention polar bears, wolves, and musk oxen.’

‘It sounds challenging,’ Simon commented, through his mouthful of bacon.

‘Just getting all the stuff here was half the battle!’ Fernald declared with feeling. ‘Even now, weeks into the exercise, we’re still bringing up odds and ends.’

Simon’s thoughts went back to the tank which had added such discomfort to his flight the day before. Was it an odd or an end? ‘Logistical problems, eh?’ he remarked with sympathy.

Fernald snorted. ‘You know what our biggest problem is? The weather at this godforsaken airport! The place is fogged in like it was Newfoundland. Every flight has to be postponed three or four times.’ Colonel Fernald stared morosely at the series of wet rings his coffee mug had made on the white surface of the mess table.

‘We got in OK yesterday,’ Simon reminded him.

‘You were damn lucky. But I’ll bet we can’t get you to Polar Bear Pass today. Didn’t you notice the fog rolling in?’

‘Can’t say that I did,’ Simon replied. ‘The sun was shining when I came across.’

Colonel Fernald tapped the table with his coffee spoon and shifted in his chair. He cleared his throat. ‘Hollingford … I’ve heard you’ve had a little trouble recently.’

Simon sighed. He’d been foolish to think he could escape his problems by running away. ‘A drug-dealer claims I beat him up when I arrested him.’

Fernald stopped tapping the spoon and looked Simon straight in the eye. ‘Did you?’

Simon shrugged. ‘I hit him. He had a knife and was planning to use it.’

‘The charges against the man were dropped. And no knife was found.’

‘You’ve been well briefed.’ Simon felt a nerve jumping in his cheek and clenched his teeth.

‘I like to know the people I’m responsible for. And I don’t want any trouble.’ Colonel Fernald hadn’t raised his voice but a warning had been uttered nevertheless.

‘Neither do I.’

‘Good. We understand each other.’ Fernald pushed himself away from the table, shoved his tray of dirty dishes into the rack and headed for the door. Simon saw him nod briefly at Tony and Anne who were on their way in.

Anne got through the food line first and came to sit beside Simon. Tony frowned but followed her. His brooding presence limited the conversation to dull platitudes.

Simon wolfed down the rest of his breakfast. ‘Think I’ll go have a look around,’ he said, pushing back his chair.

‘Mind if I join you?’ Anne popped up too.

‘Not at all.’ Simon hid his surprise as he waited for her to collect her things. Tony, barely into his heaping plateful, frowned ominously, but Anne ignored him.

Once they left the mess tent, Anne took the lead, proceeding down the slight grade to the left. The sunlight, so bright when Simon got up, was watery now and an iridescent halo circled all the lights. They walked in silence until they cleared the huddle of khaki and grey tents and approached the edge of a long, narrow bay. Across a hundred metres of water, the opposite shore wavered indistinctly in the gathering mist. Like a watercolour in muted tones of blue and grey, its outlines blurred. The water itself, an incredible grey-blue, was dotted with crazily shaped splashes of white. Ice.

‘Look!’ Anne pointed to an ice sculpture to their left, close to shore. ‘A cowboy hat.’

‘And an eagle’s head.’ He indicated a much larger formation, farther out in the bay. ‘This is better than cloud-watching.’ Along the shore to his right another ice buttress intruded on to the shore. Its silhouette reminded him of an old, bad-tempered man. The smile faded from his face. How was Duncan managing their father? Simon hadn’t been away from home for more than three or four days in years. Dad had become so hard to handle …

The raucous cry of a gull brought Simon back to Cornwallis Island and Anne. Forget the old man, he told himself. Have fun for once. He directed his attention to the other shore. Hills, low and rolling, ranged at right-angles to the grey and barren coastline. Between the two largest peaks the valley was white with ice and unmelted snow—a mini glacier ending at the sea. With the hazy sky, the grey hills, the white ice and the grey-blue water, the effect was unreal and dreamlike.