Cold Blood Read online

  When anyone said ‘frankly’ to me, I knew they were lying. ‘But why all the gloss? If Rune gets the wrong idea about Jack and his mates he could be in for some big surprises and potential fuck-ups.’

  ‘Rune’s guides know what to do. They could get a bunch of geriatrics to the Pole if they had to.’

  ‘You’ve vetted them, have you?’

  ‘Don’t be awkward, Stone. Just take it from me, they’ll know what they’re doing. Let’s deal with one thing at a time. Your job is to get Jack on board, then get him to the Pole. I’ll worry about the rest.’ He sighed, knowing I was almost pissed off enough to bin the whole idea. ‘Look, sorry if I’m sounding impatient. Just want to make this work for Jack. I … I owe him that, I suppose, after all he’s been through. What matters is getting him hooked up with Rune. Leave me out of it as much as you can. The more he gets a sniff that I’m behind it, the more likely he is to cut up rough. But the truth is, he’s never had an opportunity like this before. And it’s about time he got his own way.’

  Was that what Cauldwell really thought? I hoped so, for Jack’s sake.

  ‘OK.’ I kept my voice low. ‘But before I see him, and before you walk me into any more meetings where no one’s expecting me, I’m going to need a proper briefing. The full three-sixty.’

  Rune finished his call and Cauldwell got to his feet. ‘I think that’s plenty of information for now. Thank you for your time, Rune. We’ll be seeing you very shortly.’

  I shook hands with Rune as Cauldwell headed for the door. ‘Mate, thanks for that – and can I take your number, in case I need some help?’

  ‘But of course. No problem.’ He scribbled it down on a ripped sheet of A4, then waited expectantly for me to return the favour.

  ‘Thanks, Rune. Hope to see you soon.’

  10

  Back in the Merc, Cauldwell was like a coiled spring so I piled in first. ‘If you want someone who doesn’t ask questions when questions need to be asked, I’m the wrong man. Rune’s clearly got no idea how fit they are.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Fighting fit? Ready for the fray?’

  He sighed. ‘Look, if these people drop out like the last lot, Jack goes home with nothing and we’ll never hear the last of it. He’s set his heart on this. And so has his mother, more to the point. Your task is to make sure it all comes together.’

  He stared off into the darkness. I was getting the message. Maybe I did have to give Cauldwell the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he really did have his son’s best interests at heart.

  ‘He always had this ridiculous idea in his head that he wanted to be an explorer. I blame David Attenborough. And I don’t mind admitting I never thought he had it in him. No capacity for endurance – none whatsoever. He’s a good lad, but lacks self-direction. That’s why I steered him towards the army – for his own good, so maybe he’d learn some of that. You know what I mean, don’t you, Stone?’

  Better than he realized. The army could make a man out of almost anyone, but Cauldwell was another matter: a hard bastard for anyone to please. Who’d want to be his son?

  As if he’d decided to justify his position, he added, ‘In any case, it seemed the natural thing to do.’

  To him, maybe. ‘And he went along with it?’

  ‘Well … he came round in the end.’

  And then some bits of him got left in Afghanistan.

  ‘So you blame yourself for what happened next.’

  He didn’t like that, but I didn’t care. If only for their sake, I needed to know as much as possible about what I was getting into. He reddened and his voice went up a few decibels. ‘That’s not what I’m saying at all. He was a bloody fool to have been where he was at that …’

  He tailed off. Guilt mixed with anger made a toxic cocktail.

  ‘Anyway, that’s all in the past now. Water under the bridge.’ He was trying to convince himself as much as me – and failing. ‘What matters now is getting this show on the road.’

  ‘So?’

  He gave me one of his looks. ‘So you’re going to meet him – deliver the good news. Coming from you it’ll … Well, there won’t be any baggage, will there?’

  ‘So I’ve just dropped into Svalbard like his guardian angel?’

  ‘That’s the ticket.’ He gripped my shoulder. ‘Use your powers of persuasion. You’ve always had a reputation for getting what you want. I doubt you’ve lost your touch.’

  His capacity for fitting the facts to his opinions never ceased to amaze me. I didn’t count family mediation as one of my core skills at the best of times – and this wasn’t the best of times by a very long shot. Never mind that he wanted me to mislead Jack about his involvement.

  There was now more than a hint of desperation in his eye. He was running out of options. He’d offered me the job. I’d accepted it. So I decided I might as well give it a go.

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘He’s staying at the Miners’ Refuge, the town’s cheapest guesthouse. But you’ll find him in the Spitsbergen Bar and Grill. Get down there and give him the facts of life.’

  I got out. My breath clouded in front of me in the freezing night air. At least, it called itself night, even if it didn’t look like it.

  ‘Oh, and you’ll need one of these.’ He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out something silky that felt like a tie.

  ‘The Spitsbergen Bar and Grill has a dress code?’

  ‘Very funny, Stone.’

  I opened it out: an eye mask.

  ‘So you can get some sleep.’

  And he was gone.

  11

  The Spitsbergen Bar and Grill turned out to be a slightly grander version of Rune’s building, in the same flat-pack style – another job lot of Norwegian pine.

  As I opened the inner door, a massive shout went up on the far side of the room. A giant TV screen was showing a football match to a group of about forty onlookers. Almost all of them were in the same sort of gear, padded dungarees with zips up the outside of the legs so they could be pulled on and off over boots. I made my way through a fug of sweat, smoke and alcohol so thick I could have sliced it up and had it for dinner with chips.

  It was an international set, but more piston than jet. Tough-looking Africans, Asians and Chinese mixed with Scandinavians and, of course, Russians, all in chunky sweaters and fleeces, their heavy-duty work coats on a long row of hooks by the door or thrown over the backs of chairs.

  Everyone had a beard. It helped with insulation and, anyway, shaving was a pain in these conditions. There were plenty of signs of cold injuries, hands trussed up in cotton wool, which made lifting a pint a two-fist job. Several had gel pads over their noses and foreheads where they’d caught the wind. They also had the resigned expressions of men who couldn’t stop gathering wherever there was a fast buck to be made from dangerous manual labour without a safety net.

  Maybe the Owl had been right: this was the twenty-first-century Klondike – oil prospectors, engineers, labourers who pumped the stuff out from under the permafrost or from the freezing oceans, all there in search of the pot of black gold at the end of the rainbow. In 1840s California it was the shovel-sellers who made the big bucks. Here in Svalbard, I didn’t need the Owl to tell me it was the lawyers.

  I skirted the TV audience – no clean faces there – and burrowed further into the crowd. The football sounds gave way to some forgettable Euro-rap, its pulsing beat almost impossible to distinguish from the hubbub.

  A sign hanging above the optics boasted ‘The Coolest Bar in the World – Literally!’. In front of it stood a droid in a leather waistcoat, with the drooping build of an off-form sumo wrestler. His solid, bald-headed presence seemed custom-built to deter bad behaviour when tempers frayed, as they always would in a place with too many men, too much alcohol and too little distraction. I hoped it worked, for his sake. He’d kicked the steroids, but looked as if anything more strenuous than lifting a bar-stool might bring on cardiac arrest.

/>   A tall woman with bottle-blonde hair stood behind the bar, prettier than the clientele deserved, and with an attitude that said they could look but not touch. I settled myself on a vacant stool, shoved my day sack down at my feet and ordered a Diet Coke. Men who didn’t drink would have been rarer there than sun-loungers, but she served it without raising an eyebrow. I got a laugh when I asked her to repeat the price, though. No wonder the place was so full of piss-artists: the soft drinks cost way more than the beer.

  Jack Cauldwell had changed dramatically since my last sight of him. Partly it was the hair: much thicker and wilder. He was still only in his twenties, but wore the look of someone much older. He wasn’t alone in that – I’d seen it before on any number of once-fresh faces, after a bit of shot and shell, facing a new set of battles back in so-called civilization. His skin had the colour and texture that too much alcohol or weather can beat into it, but it was hard to tell in that light which was to blame.

  He was at a corner table with four bodies. One was mixed race, with a mass of dreadlocks tied at the back; his posture told me he was ex-services but hadn’t seen the gym in a while. Another had a shaved scalp and was jiggling a little, not in time to the music, but from nerves or something chemical. The third seemed to enjoy being the centre of attention. Good-looking in an upmarket sort of way, head thrown back, pleased with himself. In fact, he seemed pretty much perfect until he adjusted himself in his chair to get closer to the woman beside him. His right sleeve was empty.

  He draped his arm over her shoulders, asserting his right to the only female customer in the place. I didn’t blame him. She had short, jet-black hair and, to add to the semi-Goth look, a nose piercing and a small silver ring in her left eyebrow. Their body language suggested they were an item. She sipped her drink and gazed up at him as he held forth.

  I tried to picture this crew striding across the ice – and failed. If first impressions were anything to go by, Cauldwell was right: they looked like a bunch of no-hopers. No wonder the sponsors had fled. And no wonder he wanted someone able-bodied in the mix.

  Yet they must have had something going for them or they wouldn’t have got that far. I had nothing going for me except the need to get away from myself.

  12

  I planned to sit back and watch for a bit, get the measure of Jack and his mates as they made swift work of their beers, but he soon caught my eye. At first he gave me a hostile what-you-looking-at? glare. When I raised my glass he frowned, working hard to ID me, until the time-and-place part of his brain kicked in and threw him the answer.

  He got up and wove through the crowd towards me, one hand on his left thigh. For a one-legged man he was doing all right. As he drew closer, though, I could see that his once shiny blue eyes were now clouded and tired. Age, experience and long-term pain had conspired to make him a lot more like his dad. Just as well he hadn’t got anywhere near a shaving mirror in the last couple of days.

  ‘Hey, Jack …’ I added my name so as not to embarrass him if that part of his memory had taken a knock too.

  ‘I remember you, Stone. Why wouldn’t I?’ The same clipped tone as his old man. If he realized it was hostile, he didn’t bother dialling it down. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

  ‘Just getting away for a bit.’

  Technically true. But that wasn’t how Jack saw it. His eyes narrowed, full of suspicion. ‘Well, this is away, all right. About as away as you can get.’

  He shook my hand and some of the Sandhurst pedigree showed through his weariness.

  ‘What’re you drinking, Jack?’

  ‘I’m good, thanks.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘OK, a pint. Thanks.’

  I aimed him at the nearest stool and gave the barmaid a wave. She smiled at him as if they were old friends. He seemed not to notice. Maybe the loss of his sponsors – which I wasn’t meant to know about – had sucked up all his mental and emotional energy. A straight guy in those parts would have to be seriously distracted not to spend a moment or two checking out any female, let alone an attractive one.

  ‘How long you been up here?’

  He shrugged. ‘Couple of weeks. You?’

  The blonde set his pint in front of him and tried the smile again. She could have had the pick of the entire room. I wondered what he had that the rest of us didn’t.

  ‘Arrived this afternoon. Had some fun and games with the landing.’

  He took a sip of beer.

  I decided to take the plunge. ‘I heard about your walk.’

  He stiffened. ‘From my old man?’

  No way round that. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You keep in touch, then?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘You know what the Regiment’s like.’ I wasn’t going to say ‘a family’. That was bollocks, and he’d know it. ‘So how’s it going?’

  Jack blew out a lungful of air between pursed lips. ‘A few ups and downs.’

  I admired his gift for understatement. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, let’s see. Ten days ago the fucking sponsors pulled out.’

  ‘Ah.’ For the moment I’d pretend this was news to me.

  ‘The old man was probably delighted. He thinks I can’t find my own cock with the light on.’

  I let it go. I’d already established that we had one thing in common: not being able to shake off his father. Now I caught a glimpse of what was driving him: the years of being a disappointment, of having his boyhood dreams rubbished, of giving in and dancing to the old man’s tune until he’d had half a leg blown off.

  ‘Are you in touch?’

  He snorted. ‘We don’t talk. I realized some things after …’ He paused. ‘You get to spend a lot of time thinking when you’re on your back in a hospital bed. Too fucking much.’ He necked half his drink. ‘I promised myself that when I got mobile again I was going to put some clear blue water between my father and me. Switch off the comms, pull up the drawbridge. Go my own way. He didn’t like it, of course. He can’t stop trying to plan my whole fucking life.’

  He took another huge swig. ‘Me getting blown up hasn’t changed much …’ His laugh was more of a bark – dry and full of self-loathing.

  ‘He must have taken it badly.’

  Wrong move.

  ‘Oh, fuck, yeah. He “took it badly” all right. He was even angrier and more disappointed than he had been about all my other failures. It was like he thought I’d jumped up and down on that fucking IED just to spite him – to punish him for pushing me into the army in the first place.’

  I must have looked sceptical because he went up a gear.

  ‘It was all about him. Always. He didn’t care about me. Everything was about how it reflected on him.’

  His voice was cold, measured, but his eyes blazed with the anger simmering beneath. Not so much no love lost between them as no love there to lose. Suddenly the emptiness in his face solidified into bitterness and self-pity.

  ‘Christ knows he talked enough about the Regiment, like you were his fucking family. Well, it may surprise you to hear that he’s never been any sort of fucking father figure to me.’

  I let him run on until he’d burned off some of the excess resentment and I could shift the focus back to the expedition – not easy, bearing in mind that it wasn’t going to happen without the old man.

  If I had any chance of making this work I needed to get Jack to trust me. I certainly wasn’t going to contradict him. In the circumstances, I figured the less I said the better.

  ‘So if you’re here with some kind of olive branch from the old bastard, you know where you can stick it.’

  I thought he was going to fuck off, right there and then. But he stayed where he was.

  ‘You got kids?’

  He’d opened a door, whether or not he meant to, and I walked through it.

  13

  ‘I’m sure you’ve got a million reasons to hate your father. And you know what? I don’t blame you. Parents fuck you up. Mine did. Then my stepdad did too.’r />
  I thought I’d buried all that shit long ago. I was wrong. Just thinking about it, I felt the ache sweep through me like a toxin. At least physical wounds healed … I mentally gripped myself. I wasn’t about to turn this into a joint therapy session, with me talking about my loss and him talking about his. I just needed to seize the chance to establish some common ground while it was there. ‘Look, I never got to find out what sort of dad I might be, but I do know that every parent makes mistakes. Not just yours.’

  ‘Mistakes? That’s the fucking understatement of the century.’

  ‘But he’s not evil. He wants to do right by you. He’s got some new sponsors lined up and—’

  ‘I knew it. You—’

  ‘Listen, he asked me to make you an offer. He knows you won’t take it from him. And it’s not just about cash. Some good may come out of this at the same time. Fuck who’s doing the giving, or why. It’s a way for you and your mates to crack on.’

  He wasn’t remotely interested in what that good work might be. He wasn’t even listening. ‘So you are his messenger boy.’

  ‘If you like. But if you throw all this back in his face, it’d be a great big shame. It’s a means to the Pole. To your goal. You going to chuck everything away simply because he’s the middleman? Don’t pass up this opportunity. Just fucking grab it, Jack. Life is short. Trust me on this.’

  He raised his glass again, fighting to control himself. He was getting so angry that if he’d been a cartoon he’d have had fizzy lines coming out of his head.

  ‘Look, Jack, I’m not here to sort out your family problems. And, to tell you the truth, I don’t care if you go to the Pole or freeze to death in the fucking car park.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ He held up his free hand. ‘But to be very, very clear, I do not want any help, any money, any anything from him. Done.’

  I shrugged. ‘OK. I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Thanks, Nick.’ His beer hand started to shake. The rim of his glass missed his mouth and collided with his cheek. It wasn’t just his old man that had sparked him up. ‘I’m … I’m s-sorry … for kicking off at you, but …’