Blood Floe_Conspiracy, Intrigue, and Multiple Homicide in the Arctic

by Christoffer Petersen

  “I could go with him,” he said, as he walked across the ice to Simonsen.

  “Inuk will go with him,” Simonsen said. “He needs to be in police custody. We have plenty of questions for him, as soon as he is able to answer them. Besides,” he said, and smiled, “I need you to deal with the crazy German girl.”

  “On the yacht?”

  “I’ll send Danielsen back to get you, once we get everyone back to Uummannaq.”

  “That’s okay,” Maratse said. He looked at the teams of dogs tethered to the ice. “I’ll borrow Karl’s dogs.”

  “You’re sure?” Simonsen said.

  “Karl won’t need them for another day. They’ll butcher the whales they catch here, on the ice. I’ll take Therese back to Inussuk, bring the dogs back tomorrow.”

  They turned their heads at a shout from the yacht. Maratse grinned as Danielsen took a step back from Therese as she climbed from the deck onto the ice.

  “Maratse,” she shouted, as she approached the police car. “We need to go.”

  “Iiji,” he said, and gestured at the closest team of dogs. He waved at Danielsen as the young police constable got into the passenger seat. Inuk’s colleague from Ilulissat helped the detective into the rear of the police car, and, a few moments later, Simonsen pulled away, following the ambulance along the trusted ice route to Uummannaq.

  “There goes our ride,” Therese said. She slapped her hands against her thighs, and said, “Wonderful. Now how do we get back?”

  Maratse coiled a dog whip into his hand, and said, “You’re sure you don’t want to stay on the yacht?”

  “It’s not there.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “The digital log. Katharina Fischer, the captain, made a back-up of the ship’s log each night, and saved it to a thumb drive. They couldn’t always establish a link with the satellite, so she didn’t send the last few updates. Her laptop is missing too.” Therese jabbed a finger at the rear lights of the vehicles. “I should have gone with them. I bet one of the crew has it.”

  “The laptop?”

  “Yes, or the thumb drive. I really need to talk to them.”

  “What would the log tell you?”

  “The basics, coordinates, position. That kind of thing.” Therese took a step closer to Maratse. She tilted her head, and said, “What happened out there? Why did you only come back in one vehicle? What about the man, Dieter?”

  “Is that his name?”

  “Yes.”

  Maratse pulled Karl’s sledge off the wooden box and onto the ice. He explained what had happened, and pointed at the vehicles disappearing into the polar night. “There was no room for us. I said we would go home by dog sledge.”

  “Great,” she said. “The slow way home.”

  “Are you in a hurry?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  Maratse turned his back on her and Therese snorted. She pointed at the dogs.

  “Fine, which ones do we take?”

  “You can handle dogs?”

  “Sure.” She took a step towards the team. “Which ones?”

  “That one.” Maratse pointed at a large, black male, with two cream spots of fur above its eyes. “And those three.” He watched as Therese marched towards the dogs, clamped them one at a time between her knees, unclipped them, and brought them to Maratse.

  Ten dogs later, and Maratse nodded that he had enough. Therese sat at the rear of the sledge, and Maratse gave the order for the dogs to run. The sledge creaked across the ice, bumped over the ridged tyre tracks, and settled onto the smoother, thinner ice close to the shore. Instead of sledging around the open leads of water, Maratse used the whip to guide the team to the narrowest part, encouraging the dogs over the crack in the ice with clicks of his tongue and short, repetitive commands. He let the whip trail behind the sledge after the lead, and tucked the handle beneath a length of cord. The edge of the journal dug into Maratse’s thigh as he stretched his legs.

  “Tell me about Dieter,” Therese said. “Do you think he is the killer?”

  “Maybe?” Maratse said. “I don’t know. But now all the crew are accounted for, maybe you can sail the boat back to Germany?”

  “I still need that log.”

  Maratse reached for the cigarettes in his pocket, and then let his hand slip to his lap. The journal in his pocket weighed heavier on his mind than the need for a cigarette. The thought occurred to him that he was withholding evidence, but something suggested it was the right thing to do. He thought about that as the dogs increased speed, encouraged by the scent of home.

  Chapter 12

  Petra parked outside the police station, shrugged her backpack over her shoulders and locked the car. The snow crunched beneath her boots as she walked across the car park. She stopped to wave as the police Commissioner Lars Andersen pulled up alongside her. He wound down his window and beckoned for her to come over.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said.

  “Sergeant,” he said, and nodded at the passenger seat. “Get in.”

  Petra walked around the front of the car, kicked the snow from her boots and then opened the door. “Where are we going?” she asked as she sat down on the passenger seat.

  “I have decided to buy you breakfast.” The Commissioner reversed into an empty spot and pulled out of the car park. He stopped to make a quick phone call to his assistant. “Have someone clear Sergeant Jensen’s schedule too,” he said, and ended the call.

  “You officially have my interest now, sir.” Petra buckled her seatbelt and dumped her backpack in the foot well.

  “You mean I don’t always?” The Commissioner attempted a glare, before his face relaxed and he laughed. “Relax, Sergeant, that was a joke.”

  “I knew that,” Petra said. They stopped at a T junction and Petra waved to a group of young Greenlanders crossing the road.

  “Actually,” the Commissioner said, “I talked to Simonsen in Uummannaq early this morning. One of their cars went through the ice last night.”

  “What? I didn’t hear about that. Was anyone hurt?”

  “Everyone is fine. One young constable from Ilulissat is a bit shook up, but everyone got out in time.” The Commissioner put the car in gear and pulled out into a space in the stream of early morning traffic. “Maratse was in the car.”

  “What?”

  “It’s okay, Petra, he is fine.”

  “What was he doing in the car?”

  “It seems that Simonsen deputised him, if you can believe that.” The Commissioner chuckled. “It must be my fault. I was the first to bring Maratse out of retirement. Remind me never to do that again.”

  “That was an extreme situation, sir.”

  “So was this, apparently. Maratse got caught up in the search for the missing crew member.”

  “I did read about that.”

  “Dieter Müller is his name. He is now in custody. To be more precise, he is in hospital with a constable outside the door.”

  “They caught him?”

  “He had a knife in his belly.” The Commissioner drove to the harbour and along the quay. He parked beside the steps leading to the deck of a United States Coast Guard Legend-class cutter. Petra read the name stencilled on the bow: Logan. The Commissioner pointed at the bow of the ship. “This is where we are having breakfast, but, before we go onboard, I need us both to be clear, once again, that we don’t talk about Maratse.”

  “Sir?”

  “There’s a lot of fallout still surrounding the activities of the ex-Sirius Konstable Fenna Brongaard. She seems to have a hard time doing anything quietly. You’ll find that the Americans are just as interested in her as the Canadians, the Chinese…” He sighed. “Everybody, really. I think they would all like an intimate chat with our favourite, and retired Constable Maratse, and I’m doing everything I can to keep his whereabouts and availability as vague and unconfirmed as possible.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Of course, if he could just stay out of troub
le, for a year or more, it would make things a lot easier. You understand?”

  “More than you know,” Petra said.

  “Right, now about this meeting.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did Gaba talk to you?”

  “He did.”

  “Good. He might not always show it, but he thinks very highly of you, Petra, as do I.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me before you know what you are getting into. Now, before we go onboard, I want you to be aware of something.” Petra waited as the Commissioner checked a text message on his mobile. He tapped a quick reply and slipped the phone back into his pocket. “They’re ready for us.”

  “You were saying something, sir. Before the text.”

  “Right, there is an American onboard, a civilian, and I honestly don’t know what his role is, or why he is here, but I want you to be on your guard, and not just because of Maratse.”

  “Sir, Gaba said I was being recommended for a joint task force covering the Arctic. He talked about police, not spies.”

  “When it comes down to issues of sovereignty and borders,” the Commissioner said, “the differences between the two tend to get a little blurred. I have a feeling this particular American is interested in the Ophelia.”

  “The yacht in Uummannaq?”

  “Exactly. Which is why I’m putting you on the case. You’re going to liaise with Simonsen, but you will report directly to me. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Petra slipped her hand around the door handle. “It’s an American ship, sir, how will I know which American is the one to be wary of.”

  “I have confidence in you,” the Commissioner said, “but as a general rule of thumb, I would suggest being wary of them all.”

  “All Americans?”

  “It couldn’t hurt.” The Commissioner laughed, as he opened the door. “I was joking, Sergeant.”

  “That’s two bad jokes in one day, sir.”

  “I’m doing well, aren’t I?”

  Petra got out and closed her door. She followed the Commissioner up the steps leading to the deck of the Logan. They handed in their sidearms to a security detail waiting for them at the top of the stairs, signed a form, and took turns to be searched before being escorted inside the ship. Petra worked hard to dampen her excitement, to control it, but the smile she wore was as stubborn as Maratse. She thought about him as she followed the Coast Guard officer to the wardroom below decks. She couldn’t quite imagine how Maratse had become involved in the manhunt, and she was having difficulty believing that it was Simonsen who suggested it. Petra decided Simonsen must have been under a lot of pressure, but stopped thinking about it when the officer in front of her stopped outside a door and knocked. She took a breath, smoothed the front of her jacket, and straightened her back.

  “See,” the Commissioner whispered with a nod at their escort, “you’re already infected.”

  “What?” Petra frowned, and then studied the ramrod position of attention the officer held before the door was opened and they were invited inside.

  The wardroom was cramped but well-equipped. One of the bulkheads doubled as a flatscreen, displaying the desktop of a Windows computer. There were two printers and a shelf of laptops fixed at the opposite end of the room, together with a coffee machine, and what looked like an old photocopier and a fax.

  “Sergeant Jensen?” said the man who opened the door. He shook her hand, and said, “My name is Inspector Etienne Gagnon. I’m with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.” He gestured at the table filling the room and introduced, “Evelyn Odell with the Alaska State Troopers, Vitaly Kuznetsov from the Russian Militsiya.” Petra waved hello, as Gagnon continued by pointing at a tall man in a wool sweater standing to one side of the screen. “This is Hákon Sigurdsson from the Icelandic State Police. The task force is still in the early stages of development. We’re waiting on confirmation of the representatives from Finland, Norway, Sweden, and Denmark.”

  “Denmark?” Petra asked.

  The Commissioner coughed as he sat down. “We’re lucky enough to have two representatives on the task force.” He unzipped his jacket and accepted the offer of a coffee from the Icelander. Petra sat down beside him.

  “The Logan,” Gagnon said, as Sigurdsson placed a tray of mugs on the table, “will function as the mobile base of operations. The idea is that each country will take turns providing the task force with a ship, and a helicopter. The US has the first watch.”

  “Okay,” Petra said. She sipped her coffee and tried not to stare too hard at the different members of the team. This wasn’t how she had imagined her Monday was going to start.

  Sigurdsson walked around the table and pulled out the chair opposite Petra. She noted that all of the team members were in good physical shape, all under thirty. Odell shared the same long black hair and coffee-coloured skin as Petra, and she wondered if she was a Native Alaskan. She wondered too who would lead the task force.

  “If you’re wondering who the boss is,” Gagnon said, with a smirk, “it’s a bit of an inside joke.”

  “I don’t understand,” Petra said.

  “He means you don’t have one, yet,” the Commissioner said. “Nor do you have a name.”

  “Polarpol has my vote.”

  Petra turned just as a new face entered the room. He looked American, and, when he stopped to shake her hand, she realised she had seen him before.

  “You speak English,” the man said.

  “Yes,” Petra said.

  The man let go of her hand, and said, “You must be a quick learner, as I don’t recall you could yesterday.”

  Petra felt a sudden heat in her cheeks. She glanced at the Commissioner, and then looked up at the man. “I apologise.”

  “Don’t do that,” he said. “But don’t imagine you fooled me either.” He placed his gnarled hands on the back of the chair beside Petra, and looked at each of the team members in the room. “How about you guys take a break? Take a ride into Nuuk, I can recommend the Katuaq café,” he said, with a glance at Petra.

  “We were just getting started,” Gagnon said.

  “I’m sure you were, Inspector. Now, take a break.”

  The man waited until the room had emptied but for Petra and the Commissioner. The Icelander paused to say something in Danish to Petra, but the American ushered him out of the room with a firm hand on his arm. He closed and locked the door once the Icelander stepped into the corridor.

  “Didn’t Iceland used to be a Danish colony?” he said, as he poured himself a mug of coffee.

  “They became independent shortly after World War Two,” the Commissioner said.

  “So they can speak Danish?”

  “Yes.”

  “As do the Greenlanders?”

  “We do,” Petra said.

  “So this Polarpol,” the man said, “could just as easily be called Danpol, seeing as the Swedes and the Norwegians speak a similar language.” He took a sip of coffee, and then smiled. “I’m joking,” he said.

  “Save me,” Petra whispered. The Commissioner kicked her leg and she hid her smile behind her mug.

  “Sergeant Jensen,” the man said, “my name is Samuel Johnson. For the purpose of this briefing you will assume that I’m with the United States Geological Survey. You can call me Sam.”

  Petra said nothing.

  “Furthermore, you will not repeat anything said inside this room to anybody, unless the Commissioner or I tell you to do so. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Good.” Sam reached for the remote in the centre of the table and used it to control the mouse on the screen. He clicked to open a folder. “Do you have any questions about your briefing?”

  “What briefing, sir?”

  “I told you everything you needed to know over brunch, yesterday. Unless, you believe that was purely coincidental?”

  Petra looked at the Commissioner. He shrugged and turned his attention to the screen as S
am opened a PDF document with a photo of a man stapled to the top right corner.

  “Let’s assume you remember everything I said,” Sam said. He pointed at the photo of the bearded man in the document. “Do you know who that is?”

  Petra pointed at the text below the photo. “It says his name is Berndt, but I have never seen or heard of him before today.”

  “Berndt is a person of interest to us,” Sam said, “as is his so-called daughter: Therese Kleinschmidt.” Sam clicked on a second document. “She is currently in Uummannaq. It seems the Berndts have hired a local to help them. I believe you both know this man.” Sam clicked a new document onto the screen. Petra bit her lower lip as she looked at a recent picture of Maratse. “Tell me, Sergeant Jensen, just how well do you know David Maratse?”

  “I have worked with him.”

  “More than that?” Sam asked. “Any personal entanglements you think I should be aware of?”

  “No,” Petra said. “None.”

  “You said Maratse had been hired to help Berndt,” the Commissioner said. “With what, exactly?”

  “As I told the Sergeant yesterday, it is our belief that Berndt is looking for evidence to prove that the Svartenhuk area is rich in Thorium. If it is correct, then that would make this particular range a very wealthy piece of real estate, especially for the company who owns the rights to mine in that area.”

  “Arbroath Mining,” said Petra.

  “I’m impressed, Sergeant, you were listening after all.”

  “What proof do they need?” she asked.

  “This is the fun bit,” Sam said. “Do you like treasure hunts?” He moved the cursor to a new folder and clicked another document onto the screen. “This is Alfred Wegener,” he said, “a renowned polar researcher, who, as you probably know, died in Greenland, on the inland ice sheet, in November 1930. He was German, which, if you will allow me to digress,” Sam clicked on a fifth document, “makes your secondment to the Arctic Task Force, quite interesting all of a sudden. Do you agree, Sergeant?”