Black River Read online

  Praise for Dark Pines

  ‘Dark Pines crackles along at a roaring pace… This is the first in a series, and Moodyson, whose deafness is handled sensitively by Dean, is a character whose progress is worth following.’

  Observer, thriller of the month

  ‘The tension is unrelenting,

  and I can’t wait for Tuva’s next outing.’

  Val McDermid

  ‘The best thriller I’ve read in ages.’

  Marian Keyes, author of Anybody Out There

  ‘A remarkably assured debut, Dark Pines is in turn, tense,

  gripping and breathtaking, and marks out Will Dean

  as a true talent. Definitely one to watch.’

  Abir Mukherjee, author of A Rising Man

  ‘Dean never lets the tension drop as

  his story grows ever more sinister.’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Bravo! I was so completely immersed in Dark Pines and

  Tuva is a brilliant protagonist. This HAS to be a TV series!’

  Nina Pottell, books editor for Prima Magazine

  Praise for Red Snow

  ‘For all those who loved Dark Pines by Will Dean I can tell you that the forthcoming sequel, Red Snow is even better. Scandi noir meets Gormenghast. Just wonderful. Can’t get enough of Tuva Moodyson.’

  Mark Billingham

  ‘A complex plot suffused with the nightmarish quality of Twin Peaks and a tough-minded, resourceful protagonist add up to a stand-out read.’

  Guardian

  ‘Makes the blood run even colder than Dark Pines: Will Dean goes from strength to strength.’

  Erin Kelly, author of He Said / She Said

  ‘Even better than the original… Dean couldn’t have a finer talent for ingenious metaphorical description of snowy landscapes as if he were an Inuit. His feeling for place is matched by the quality of his characterizations, and his book is blessed with one of those wonderful multi-layered plots in which a dozen mysteries large and small are finally connected at the end with a craftsman’s skill. This is just what crime fiction readers want: the old magic formula made to seem fresh.’ The Telegraph, best thrillers and crime fiction of 2019 so far

  ‘Thoroughly enjoyed Red Snow… Great Scandi noir with an excellent heroine. Though beware – liquorice will never taste the same again.’

  Ruth Ware, author of In a Dark, Dark Wood

  For Dad. Always.

  1

  The vintage American car on the hard shoulder bursts into flames.

  Orange flames from its turquoise bonnet and from the air vents above the front wheels. The driver’s standing behind, his head in his hands, and I’ve already called the fire department. A belt hangs down from the boot. The driver looks like it’s his mother who’s ablaze, burning to death in front of his eyes. He’s sweating through his rockabilly shirt and he’s yelling at the distant fire truck to hurry up.

  When the sirens approach I switch off my hearing aids. Then I photograph it all: the old car with its chrome features reflecting the fire, the driver standing there in his cowboy boots screaming at the firefighters, the thick grey smoke heading off towards an abandoned DIY store beside the motorway. Anders, my new editor, is a stickler for good photos. There’s a group of eight or nine shirtless guys. They’re grilling sausages on disposable gas-station barbecues, and they’re watching the fire, and they’re filming the whole scene on their phones. My dash reads 30 Celsius. Could the turquoise car explode? Could its gas tank ignite and engulf us all in a searing fireball? I switch my aids back on and take in the scene: hazy motorway just outside Malmö, smoke from a burning Buick, nine shirtless guys with nine charred pork dogs.

  ‘You call yourself firemen?’ yells the driver. ‘Get the water on it!’

  The firefighters are calm and they are not impressed with cowboyboots driver-guy. I have never seen anyone ignore a person as much as they ignore the angry, sweaty Buick owner. They talk amongst themselves. Two men take the fire hose and drag it towards the burning car as two more place cones to stop curious Midsommar drivers from getting too close.

  You’d expect the firefighters to stand back and hose down the car from a distance but they walk straight up to it and aim the hose through the open door into the front seat and onto the bonnet. The fire goes out in about thirty seconds flat. The turquoise car isn’t turquoise any more.

  ‘What am I supposed to do now?’ asks the driver. He still has his car keys in his sweaty hand.

  The firefighters ignore him some more.

  I step out from my air-conditioned Hilux, the air thick with heat and noxious smoke, and gesture to cowboy-boots guy. He steps closer, a puzzled expression all over his glazed, indignant face.

  ‘Tuva Moodyson.’ I show him my press ID. There are two photos tucked behind it. One of Mum and Dad. One of me and Tammy out by Gavrik reservoir. ‘I’m a reporter at the Sundhamn Enquirer.’

  He looks at me like ‘so?’

  ‘It was a beautiful car. What caused the fire?’ I ask.

  He moves closer.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What caused the fire?’ I say again.

  He just points to the fire crew.

  ‘They were too slow getting here and they didn’t get water on the flames fast enough. She could have exploded. I have a mind to sue…’ He turns to the firefighters. ‘Why were you so fucking slow?’

  A woman climbs down from the fire truck. She’s about a head taller than me and she has a slightly different uniform from the other firefighters. She walks straight to cowboy-boots driver-guy.

  ‘Did you have an extinguisher in your vehicle, sir?’

  ‘Never needed one before,’ he says, his voice an octave higher in front of the fire chief.

  ‘You needed one today,’ she says.

  ‘I never wanted to get the interior wet,’ he says. ‘Cream calf leather.’

  ‘Well,’ says the fire chief. ‘It’s wet now.’ She pauses and looks over to the smoking skeleton of a vintage car. ‘Shame. Nice vehicle. Looks like you restored her well.’

  He says thanks but it’s so quiet nobody can hear.

  ‘We can help you with the recovery and the paperwork,’ she says. ‘Nobody’s hurt so that’s something.’

  She takes him away and I open my truck door. The coolness is a balm but the smoke’s trapped inside the cab like someone just got cremated. Reminds me of the fire behind the Grimberg Liquorice factory back in February, back up north, back in my old life. I’ve been down here for four months and they may not have been fun months, quite the opposite, but I’m not drinking. I’m starting fresh. Good new job with a boss I can learn from. Friends can come later. There’s still time. My phone starts vibrating so I sync it to my hearing aid.

  ‘Tuva Moodyson.’

  ‘Tuva, it’s Lena, I’m on the runway. I can’t talk, listen to me.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask. ‘You sound strange. Is the plane okay?’

  There’s interference and I can hear people shouting at Lena, my old Gavrik boss. I can’t make out the words but I can hear people yelling at her.

  ‘Lena, can you hear me?’

  There’s more smoke in my truck now. The young guys have finished grilling their sausages and they’re standing closer to the motorway looking at the car wreck and the fire truck and me in my Hilux, each of them with a hot dog in hand, each of them shirtless.

  ‘Missing,’ I hear her say. ‘Get to Gavrik,’ I hear her say.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  Then there are more voices and it sounds like someone’s trying to take Lena’s phone from her hand. People are threatening her. Forcing her.

  ‘She’s missing,’ says Lena. Someone screams in the background. Lena says, ‘Tammy’s gone missing.’

  2


  The line goes dead.

  My core temperature rises to fever levels. I’m sweating all over and my air con is freezing the moisture as it exits my pores.

  Tammy? My best friend’s gone missing?

  I call Lena but it goes straight to voicemail.

  Is Tammy hurt?

  I start my engine and pass the fire truck even though they’re telling me no, you can’t do this ma’am. I indicate and move to the fast lane and accelerate as hard as I can.

  I call Tam.

  Nothing.

  Not even a voicemail greeting.

  I’d give anything for her to pick up right now and say, ‘it’s okay, all a big misunderstanding, I was at the mall in Karlstad, some ratshit guy wouldn’t leave me alone, I’m fine, told him where to go, no big deal.’

  But nothing.

  I call Lena again but her phone’s off. She must be up in the air by now.

  The E6 northbound is a mirage of heat-haze and Volvos driving at a sensible speed. I’m pushing 140. Sign says Gothenburg 277km. You can double that for Gavrik.

  My dash reads 29 Celsius and 9:55pm. But outside it’s as light as a September lunchtime.

  I call my old office on the off-chance someone’s working late.

  Nothing.

  I call Tam’s food van.

  Nothing.

  I call Thord’s direct line at the police station.

  Nothing.

  Tammy, where the hell are you?

  I stare out my windscreen, the dry summer landscape flying by at an unfamiliar rate, and I think of Dad. I look at the shimmering blue sky and I plead an unspoken plea. ‘See her,’ I plead. ‘If she’s in danger – help her.’

  I hit traffic approaching Helsingborg and do something I never do. I weave, I undertake, I piss people off. I get through and call the general police station number.

  ‘Gavrik police department, Thord Petterson speaking.’

  ‘Thank God. Thord, it’s me, Tuva.’

  ‘Hello stranger. How’s life down south?’

  I live in a tiny overpriced apartment. I don’t have any friends in Malmö yet because I am sober. Three months sober to be precise. I have shrunk my life down to a tiny thing just like Mum did. But with me it’s a fresh start. A strategy. A survival plan.

  ‘Have you heard about Tammy?’

  There’s a pause. I hear him swallow.

  ‘Yes, I have. Town’s gossiping about it already, people talking in Ronnie’s bar. But I don’t reckon there’s too much to worry about. She’s a grown woman, been reported missing less than a full day. Happens more than you think and it always works out okay. She’ll be on a date, or got the food poisoning holed up in some bathroom someplace, or else she’ll have taken a few hours off is all.’

  ‘But Lena called me from her plane. She sounded very worried and she doesn’t scare easy.’

  ‘We got reports of a scream but that could have been anything.’

  ‘A scream?’

  ‘Some ICA shopper heard a yell when she was packing up her shopping. You want to call me back in the morning for an update, Tuvs? I’ll know more by then and more than likely she’ll be able to tell you what happened herself.’

  ‘I’m driving up right now,’ I say.

  ‘All the way up here?’

  ‘I’m halfway,’ I lie. ‘When does your shift end?’

  ‘6am,’ he says. ‘This time of year it feels more like a day shift.’

  ‘Call me if you hear anything,’ I ask. ‘Anything at all.’

  ‘You got it.’

  I end the call and accelerate harder.

  They heard a scream?

  At eleven I take my sunglasses off and pass Gothenburg.

  By one I’m at Vänersborg and the light’s coming back.

  By three I’m passing farmers out with their tractors on the E45 getting their working days started. They have to fit a year’s worth of work into a few light, non-snow months so they tend to get a jump-start on the day. Some are driving real tractors and others EPA tractors, aka unregistered, uninsured trucks. Those ones can be a real nuisance, let me tell you.

  The view in front of me, through my bug-speckled windscreen, is of dark storm clouds. Indigo. Threatening. But in my rear-view mirror it’s clear blue skies and sunlight. I’m driving from the light back into the dark.

  Should I have waited before driving up here? Am I overreacting?

  I don’t care if I am. Tam is the human closest to me in the world. Like a sister. She’s the reason I lasted all those years in Gavrik. Her warmth, her humour, her innate toughness. I should have visited her in the past months. Why the hell didn’t I? Because I was afraid I’d take the easy option and stay. Be trapped in Gavrik forever. Since Mum died I’ve only really got Tammy and Noora, and some miserable part of my brain wants to distance myself from them. To escape Gavrik. Where could Tammy be? I get flashbacks to the eyeless Medusa victims lost in the depths of Utgard forest. Except this time it isn’t a dead hunter. It’s Tammy. Each socket empty to the bone.

  By four I’ve refilled with gas and I’m on the familiar E16 to Gavrik. The lanes are empty save for lumber lorries feeding the pulp mill further north. These routes are never-ending; further and further away from the big cities. The forests on the side of the motorway are thickening. It’s wilder this far north. You can feel it in the air.

  I text Lena and Noora and tell them both I’ll be arriving soon. Then I remember Noora’s in Gotland on vacation. Lena calls back. She’ll meet me by Tam’s food van.

  It’s 5am and I have to wear sunglasses. I’ve drunk three bottles of proper Coca-Cola and I’ve eaten a whole pack of wine gums. My teeth feel like I haven’t brushed them for weeks and my eyelids are heavy. But I’m here.

  Toytown.

  A place the world forgot.

  The twin chimneys of the liquorice factory glow gold in the clear morning sun. I approach the two gateposts of Gavrik town, McDonald’s and ICA Maxi, and feel queasy in my stomach. A one-horse town surrounded by a one-thousand moose forest. There are no people around. The sun’s out and it’s strong but the roads are empty like an apocalyptic movie. It looks like a nuclear accident at midday. A leak. Some toxic emergency. I pass ICA Maxi and see Tammy’s food van in the distance and I see the police tape wrapped around it and my stomach twists and knots itself and I feel like I might sink through my seat.

  Lena’s Saab is parked by the food van.

  I drive towards it and she steps out and stands, her arms crossed, by her driver’s side door. She looks sad, exhausted, worried.

  I open my door and almost fall to the tarmac. I’m not sure if my jelly legs are from the long drive or from worry or from seeing blue and white police tape. I walk, unsteadily, to Lena, not looking straight at the van, and she opens her arms.

  ‘I came straight up,’ I say.

  ‘I know.’

  We both turn to face Tammy’s food van.

  It’s not that there are chalk body outlines or blood pools or spent shotgun cartridges. It’s nothing so obvious. Most people would miss the slightly open door and the spoiling food. They’d ignore the sliced spring onions scattered on the ground: light green rings rolling around in the morning breeze like tiny car tyres. A Tupperware box lies upended. The serving hatch is open. It’s never open at this time. And the entrance to the van, the door with the two steps, is ajar. Tammy’s van, her place of work, her livelihood, has never looked more vulnerable. How the hell did I ever let her work here alone? At night? With cash in the till?

  ‘Did they take the cash?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ says Lena.

  Oh, God.

  They didn’t steal the money? What does that mean? I know it isn’t good. They want her, they want Tammy, not her kronor.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ I say.

  ‘Customers found the van abandoned,’ says Lena. ‘They came for their food and they stayed a while and then a group formed. Someone realised the door was open and that Tammy’s handbag was still in the van. He
r car was still here.’ She points to Tam’s Peugeot. ‘They checked the toilets in ICA, but nobody had seen her, they know her pretty well in there. So, eventually, they called the police. Lars found out. He called me.’

  I step closer to the food van. Tam’s ingredients are boxed and ready; long chef tweezers beside a stack of plastic boxes, prawn crackers bagged up. The six menu options are there. Wasting. Rotting.

  I squeeze Lena’s hand.

  ‘Thord says someone heard a scream.’

  She sighs and shakes her head. ‘I know. But that could have been someone else. Kids. Teenagers messing around. It’s that time of year.’

  ‘We need to find her,’ I say. ‘This isn’t Tam. She wouldn’t just leave all this. We need to track her down fast and help her. There are too many bad people in this town. Thord isn’t as worried as he should be. I’ll make him worried.’

  ‘She’ll turn up soon,’ says Lena, her words not as clearly enunciated as they usually are. Her voice betraying her fears. She’s seen too many things. In Lagos, in the States, in little old Gavrik.

  Tam left her handbag? Her cash? Her car? What happened here?

  ‘I’ll find her,’ I say, straightening my back. And then I worry that maybe I can’t. Maybe I’m not up to the task. Maybe I’ll fail my best friend. ‘Tam wouldn’t leave all this. I’ll search everywhere. Use all my old contacts.’ I feel feverish. Exhausted. The start of a migraine. I swallow hard. ‘I will find her.’

  3

  ‘Come to my place and freshen up,’ says Lena. ‘We’ll look for her together.’

  ‘I don’t need to freshen up.’

  Flies are buzzing around the spring onions scattered on the asphalt. There are wasps and ants and bluebottles picking over Tam’s food.

  ‘It’s not even breakfast time,’ says Lena. ‘You haven’t slept. Let’s go to my place, have a quick sandwich, strong coffee, and come up with a plan.’

  ‘A plan?’ I ask.

  ‘An aggressive plan,’ she says.

  We set off, her in her Saab and me in my truck. Then I change my mind and gesture to Lena and swerve and do a U-turn. I head in the direction of Tam’s apartment building. I have to check it. She could be there, injured or unconscious.