Read Online Murder in a Cold Climate: An Inspector Matteesie Mystery by Scott Young - Free Book Online Page A

face that lit up like a beacon.
    â€œMatteesie!”
    â€œThomasee!”
    He came around the desk a little shyly because I’d been gone a long time and he wouldn’t be as sure as he once had been. He stopped a few feet from me. “I haven’t seen you since the time I picked you up with that old trapper away out on the Barrens south of Paulatuk! Him and his furs and that Loucheux woman he lived with, dead as a white girl’s ass.” Abruptly he looked stricken. “Jeez, I’m sorry, Matteesie. I forgot your wife is . . .”
    Then we hugged one another. Thomasee Nuniviak. About my age. Born around Letty Harbour on the Arctic shore and raised like I had been, more muktuk than caribou. We’d been at school here together. He’d gone to Yellowknife for the engine course and worked for others around aircraft and then got his pilot’s license. He ran water into a kettle and plugged it in. We caught up. It was a little while before I asked, “Heard anything about your aircraft?”
    He shook his head. “Not a damn thing. That what you’re here about? I heard you’re with Northern Affairs now. You hear anything?”
    â€œNo. But I’m interested.” I told him why, the Harold Johns connection. “I’m told he didn’t say where he was going.”
    â€œDamn right he didn’t. I’d like to ask him why.”
    He busied himself with mugs and teabags. The water boiled. He poured mine first and politely shoved over a can of condensed milk that had two holes punched in the top. I added some to the tea.
    â€œDid he, uh, goof off like this often?”
    â€œNever before. Good pilot. No problems with Harold at all.” He paused. “Policee been down, too, asking the same. The only thing I can think is he didn’t know exactly where he was going to end up. Like maybe this Albert Christian comes in and says he wants to go to Arctic Red and somewhere else from there, he’ll let Harold know at Arctic Red, so Harold would figure he could phone when he got there and tell me what was going on.”
    â€œBut he never called.”
    â€œNo, but hell, you know, where he got to, if it’s south of Fort Norman, there ain’t many goddamn phone booths! Anyway, all I can do is hope.”
    â€œYou know the guys he took, Batten and Christian?”
    He pursed his lips and let out a long hiss of air. “That’s what bothers me. I don’t know Batten except to see. But Christian had done one or two trips with us before, down to Wrigley once, another time to Old Crow. Don’t know exactly what for. But we don’t generally ask. A guy’s got money and wants a flight, we take him, maybe bring him back. You know how it is.” He grinned. “That girl whose car Christian left here, she was some mad. She would’ve killed him. Didn’t plug in her car, didn’t leave a note, nothing. They must have been in a hurry, is all I can figure.”
    â€œHow far could they get without refueling?”
    He didn’t have a useful answer. “You know, depends on flying conditions. But he knew where the gas caches are.”
    Obviously that was the least of his worries. It seemed he trusted Harold Johns.
    â€œThe police think Christian and Batten have been bringing in drugs. Maybe even on one of your flights.”
    He looked anxious. “The policee who was here asked questions that seemed to lead in that direction. All new to me. But it worries me. For sure.”
    â€œHow about survival gear?”
    He answered as I expected. It was in every plane. A guy could lose his license if it wasn’t. The standard pack was a two-layer tent, primus stove, axe, snow knife for making an igloo, one Arctic-grade sleeping bag per passenger and pilot, watertight match container, candles, dried food, extra parkas if passengers didn’t have their own, a rifle. If you’re not hurt when you go down, you can hang