The Ice Cage — A Scandinavian Crime Thriller set in the Nordic Winter (The Baltic Trilogy) (6 page)

There was something
nagging at the back of my mind, something I wanted to ask
the pastor
,
but couldn’t remember
.
The conversation stalled as we
look
ed
out over the icescape
,
which had been transformed
overnight by the snowfall
.
The slush had been
coated
with
fluffy white powder to make it
one of those sparkling days that don’t exist in
London
, o
ne
of those days that almost make
it worthwhile enduring months of
boreal
darkness.
Meanwhile, t
he ringing of the church bells travelled across the
silent
ice
. Even the Baltic wind was quiet. I’d forgotten how quickly the weat
her changed in the archipelago, h
ow quickly it went from one season to another, and not necessa
rily the next. Winter always retained
the
capricious
power
to
interrupt s
pring when least expected
.

It
was a perfect day for skating and
–
l
ike a Pavlovian reflex –
it triggered the scratching sound of skates against ice in my head. I
gradually
warmed up
as I
sta
rted rocking
gently
from side to side
.
Fredriksson left me to it and headed back
in
to the church.

11

I never knew my father had been into ya
chting. I would have remembered, because t
his wasn’t yachting in the classical sense. Arriving at the club, I saw the ice yachts zipping over the ice like the wind.
They looked
like miniature catamarans on blades, sailing at o
ver 100 km/h, their thin frames reminiscent of
mechanical pond skaters
as they shot past in a frictionless state. Once I managed to take
my eyes off them, I asked a Viking with a leathery face for Thor.

‘
That’s me.
You must be Magnus.
’

He gave me his paddle of a hand.

‘
Sorry about your father. Henke was a
great g
uy, the best mate you could
imagine, al
ways there when you needed him.’

I hadn’t seen much of my father’s generosity, but I could dwell on that later. I was there to gather inf
or
mation, not to judge or argue. N
ot yet
.
Thor was a gentle giant, a roughed up
,
Scandinavian
version of
Steve Redgrave
. H
e took me to
the back of the club house
, where he’d
shared an office
with my father
. This was my father’
s den, stuffed with skating equipment
and much messier than his house
.
In addition to
the
old Viking skates
back home
, he kept
newer ones and h
i
gh-
tech clothing
here
for serious
skating expeditions
. Thor had
something else to show me and took me
back ou
tside
.
Again, m
y eyes were immediately attracted
to the nimb
le movements of the ice yachts.

‘
Did my father
go on those
?
’

‘
He
lived on the ice
.
’

I followed him into the boathouse, where h
e led me to my father’s yacht.
It was totally black, sails and blades included.

‘
The Black
Pearl
. Henke was mad. Once he even
raced a ferry
to
Sweden
and back.
’

‘
What, across the ice?
’

‘
A bet with a
club mate
.
T
he ferry didn’t stand a chance.
’

The way Thor became absorbed in the story made me think he’d r
eally admired my father’s guts.

‘
There was a strong tailwind and he was lucky to come out of it alive.
Unfortunately, t
he ice isn’t what it used to be. When the winters were colder, people crossed the ice to the Swedish mainland
on horseback or sleds. In the
19
50s there was even a man who drove to
Sweden
across the ice in his car. Life Magazine wrote an article about it.
’

It sounded incredible.

‘
Today it’s trickier. The ferry traffic between
Sweden
and
Finland
is so intense that the ice barely freezes between ships. It’s impossible to get to the mainland without crossing a ferry route.
And w
hen it’s biting cold, the channels are kept open by icebreakers.
’

‘
How did he get to
Sweden
then?
’

Thor
looked at the yacht.

‘
The cockpit works like a floating survival cell
, n
ot exactly ocean
-
going, but enough to paddle over the two channels he had to cross. You have to be a good paddler though. If you don’t keep moving, you sink.
’

I knew my father had loved the outdoors, not that he’d been an adrenalin junkie.

‘
There used to be a postal route between
Sweden
and
Finland
. In winter, they crossed the ice, but the rest of the year they rowed, which wa
s much slower, and m
any men drowned try
ing to deliver the post. In the early 19th century
, 400
Russian
Cossacks
even
made it to
Sweden
on horseback, not to mention people escaping across the Baltic during the
October R
evolution.
’

I was captivated. The ice had connected the Baltic populations and maybe even constituted a threat from possible invaders. It must have been crucial in Baltic war strategy and I could see how my father’s Black Pearl descended from a long history of winters joining up
Sweden
,
Finland
, the Baltic countries and the Åland archipelago. Had the ice been the secret behind
Sweden
’s 17th century greatness? Had climate change altered power relations around
the Baltic? I was no historian
–
I
was an accountant
–
but being half Scandinavian, I’d always been fascinated by the history of the region.

When we came out again, a
ferry appeared
,
mirage
-
like
,
f
rom behind a tree
-
covered island, while a
n
other
ice yacht shot off towards the horizon at dazzling speed.
The scene was surreal
–
t
he ice, the wind, the silence and t
he knowledge that in six months t
his winterscape
would
have melted and morphed
into a glisten
ing sea.
When I looked up again,
I saw
t
he mechanical insect beco
me a dot and van
ish
.

‘
Want to have a go
?‘

‘
Maybe another time.
’

My time was limited and
I needed to keep clearing
my father’s house
.

‘
There’s a yacht ready. Come on.
’

I
n the end I
couldn’t
resist.
When I
’d
first stood
next to the ice yacht
by the shore
,
it looked so fragile I thought it would collapse the moment I squeeze
d
in
to it with Thor, especially as t
hese crafts were
designed for solo rides and he
must have weighed well over 100 kilo
s
.
But these yachts were using the latest materials, combining strength and feather
-
light weight. I needn’t worry.

On
c
e we’d shoe
-
horned ourselves into the cockpit and raised the sail
, I expected us
to speed up like an F
1 car, but we barely moved and I
felt
ridiculous
–
like having my
backside
stuc
k in a bucket with another man.
It was
nothing like the yachts I’d seen
whoosh past
earlier
and
I was
ready to give up, until we reach
ed the end of the peninsula and the wind
suddenly grabbed
the sail
. The acceleration was so fierce that I s
creamed as if on a roller
-
coaster
.
It was unbelievable
,
so much
more
intense and aggressive than skating, with t
he high speed
and the need to anticipate
the wind accurately
keeping
us
on edge
all the time
.
The lightness of the yacht meant that it reacted instantly to any change in wind dir
ection or roughness in the ice.

H
ow Thor
could read
the ice at that
speed
was
a mystery
, but it was second nature to him.
There was no way anyone could react consciously at that speed, it had to be intuitive
and based on years spent on the ice
. Thor
didn’t need
to think, he was one with the wind and the yacht.
The whistling
of the wind and the blades rattling against the ice was
so ear
-
deafening that
w
e had to shout to make ourselves heard.
When Thor finally
let me steer,
he warned me to be very gentle, but
it was in vain
–
we
immediately flipped over
as I tried to avoid a bump in the ice. The right
-
hand blade lifted off the ice and we landed on the side. There was a slight rip in the sai
l and I banged my shoulder heavily
,
but
Thor took ove
r the steering again and headed
for a quick spin around the islands.
It was the most exhilarating thing I’d ever experienced.
I
could see why this
was
addictive.

‘
How do you know the ice will hold
?
!
’

Thor steered away from the wind and the yacht slowed down as he answered my question. Suddenly we were moving across the ice effortlessly and without a sound. The contrast was mind
-
blowing.

‘
It’s so fast and the weight distribution so
good
that
you can usually escape thin ice.
’

It didn’t sound reassuring.

‘
Usually?
’

‘
The kids
use GPS
to see who’s gone the furthest and e
very winter there are unofficial records in all directions. They speak in latitudes and longitudes. Some are even nicknamed after their most daring performance.
’