Maratse unclipped a pair of handcuffs from the leather pouch on his belt as he approached Fenna. He circled the metal around her wrists, pausing to examine the red marks on her skin, the blood on her face. Fenna sagged under his scrutiny as her body shivered from the memory of the Nepali’s backhand and Burwardsley’s interrogation technique. He nodded at Vestergaard and locked the handcuffs, tightening them with a click.
“Premierløjtnant,” Fenna said.
Vestergaard wagged his finger. “Don’t speak, Konstabel,” he said and nodded at Maratse. “Take her out to the car.”
Fenna stood firm as the policeman guided her towards the door. “What about my boots?” she said and pointed to the middle of the room with her foot.
“Get her boots, Maratse,” Vestergaard said with a sigh.
Fenna stumbled forward. Struggling with the handcuffs, she whispered to Maratse. “Can you help me?” The policeman nodded and crouched on one knee. He squeezed Fenna’s left foot into her worn boot. He fumbled with the right one. Fenna tried a smile, but the Greenlander ignored her.
“Don't leave town, Lieutenant,” Vestergaard said and shook hands with Burwardsley.
“I can’t,” he said. “Our ride flew out before just before the fog.”
“Yes, the helicopter. Is your pilot going back for the body?”
“Yes. Until your lot get back in the air, we’ll continue to help.”
“Good,” said Vestergaard. “And I’ll need a copy of your report.”
“I’ll have Bad bring it over later.”
Vestergaard gave a quick nod and followed Fenna as Maratse steered her out of the house. At the steps, Burwardsley waved to Fenna as the policeman helped her into the back seat of the Toyota. Dirty fumes from the exhaust mixed with the fog, staining the melting snow. The fog chilled the air, the peaks of unclimbed bergs of ice locked in the frozen surface of the sea poked through the gaps in the huge fjord below the village.
“See you soon, love,” Burwardsley called as Maratse closed the car door.
Fenna slumped onto the cushioned car seat. Her hands in her lap, she sank into the soft fabric and sighed. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the dog guard separating the back seat from the rear compartment. She tried to block Burwardsley from her thoughts.
“Konstabel Brongaard?” said the Sergent in the front passenger seat. “My name is Petersen. I’m with the naval legal bureau. I will be helping the Premierløjtnant with the investigation.”
Fenna squinted at the Sergent through dirty lashes, her eyes drifting to her Glock bundled in leather on the dash. “When do we go to Daneborg?” she said.
Petersen shook his head and tapped the window. “The fog is too thick. We were lucky to get in yesterday on the Air Greenland flight. There are no naval ships in the area,” he said with a shrug. “We are at the mercy of the Scoresbysund police.”
The low growl of the engine rocked the Toyota with a gentle vibration. Fenna stared past Petersen to look through the windscreen at Burwardsley joking with his Nepali Sergeant. He turned to look at her and she stiffened at Burwardsley’s predatory looks. Fenna looked away as the rear passenger door opposite her was opened.
“Stop talking to the prisoner, Sergent Petersen,” Vestergaard said as he ducked inside the car and sat next to Fenna. His shoulder pressed into hers as he struggled with the bulk of his parka, cursing as he closed the door. Maratse climbed in behind the steering wheel, slamming the driver door shut three times before it caught. Vestergaard leaned forward to tap the policeman on the shoulder. “Take us back to the station.”
The Toyota spat gravel from beneath its wheels as Maratse backed the car onto the dirt street and set off down the hill.
“Listen closely, Konstabel.” Fenna stared out of the window as Vestergaard talked. “You are to be detained here in Scoresbysund,” he said and raised his voice above the click of gravel missiles raking the underside of the Toyota. “What is the Greenlandic name?”
“Ittoqqortoormiit,” Maratse said as he braked to avoid a string of puppies crossing the road. The larger of the puppies, Fenna observed, its tail beginning to sag, would soon be put on a chain.
“This is a Danish military investigation,” Vestergaard continued. “Whereas the Greenlandic police are structurally Danish, Maratse will not be questioning you.”
Fenna stared out of the window as they passed a hunter pushing an outboard motor on a weathered wooden sledge behind a dog team. The runners grating up the dirt road reminded Fenna of training her team on the beaches near Daneborg - jagged mountains on the land, behemoths of ice dogging the shore. There was more flex in the hunter's sledge, she noted, watching the roll of the hunter's gait and the wobble of the uprights in his hands. She leaned forward to look at the bindings. The sledges preferred by the Sirius patrol were broader and longer, more like the sledges of the west coast than the raised runners designed to cope with the deep snow of Greenland's east coast.
“Konstabel, are you listening?”
Fenna turned in her seat as they passed the hunter. He stopped to adjust his trousers, sewn from the skin of the ice bear. He winked at Fenna.
“Konstabel?” Vestergaard said and tapped the policeman on the shoulder. Maratse glanced at the Dane's fingers. “Stop the car.” The Toyota slowed to a stop outside the bright red wooden walls of the Pilersuisoq supermarket and Vestergaard turned to look at Fenna. “I don’t wish for this to be a difficult investigation, Konstabel Brongaard.” He waved at the children playing on top of the RAL shipping containers outside the supermarket. “This is the first time since the Second World War that a Sirius Patrolman has been shot and killed on patrol. What’s more, this is the first time that a fellow patrolman has been accused of doing the shooting, and the very first time that a Sirius patrol has included a woman.” Vestergaard turned away from the window and looked at Fenna. “All these facts make for a very interesting and unique case.” He paused to clear his throat. “Am I making myself clear, Konstabel?”
Fenna turned to look at Vestergaard. “My partner was killed, Premierløjtnant,” she said and stabbed her fingers in the direction they had driven. “You should be talking to that British bastard and his Sergeant. They are the ones who...” Fenna fell back into the chair.
“Who what?” Vestergaard said. He waited for Fenna to look at him. He took a long breath before resuming. “Unfortunately for you, the British have a solid alibi with plenty of witnesses.”
“Witnesses?”
Vestergaard leaned forward between the driver and passenger seats. “Excuse us, gentlemen.” He waited until Petersen and Maratse were out of the car and the policeman had succeeded in closing his door. “Your mission was classified, Konstabel. You were tasked to retrieve a sensitive piece of hardware.”
“It was a satellite,” Fenna said. She looked out of the window as Petersen bummed a cigarette from Maratse. “Canadian. But then you must know that already.”
“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “Yes I do.” He paused. “Konstabel Brongaard, you must understand. We are cut off from the world. The fog has seen to that. If you want a shot at clearing your name, you have to tell me everything before the weather lifts, before the helicopters and ships start to arrive.” He paused once more. “Before any journalists get hold of the story.”
Fenna flinched at the mention of the press. “And Burwardsley? What about him?”
“You are in my custody now,” Vestergaard said. He pointed at Maratse. The Greenlander stood, hands in his pockets. His cigarette, tucked in the gap of a missing tooth, smouldered between his lips. “And his.”
Fenna watched the Greenlander. She noted the way he nodded to the people passing on the street, the way he kicked stones at the packs of sledge dog puppies, and the way he ignored the Dane.
“The weather report says we have two days before the fog lifts. Maratse says three.”
Fenna watched Maratse, holding his gaze as he turned and caught her eye. “Premierløjtnant?”
“Yes
?”
“Can I trust you?”
Vestergaard fluffed at the tails of his jacket. “This is Denmark,” he said. “Not America, Konstabel. We are very far from Hollywood, and happen to be on the same side.”
“Actually,” said Fenna as she bit at a flake of skin on her chapped lips. “It's Greenland,” she said and the corners of her mouth twitched with the faint suggestion of a smile.
Chapter 3
Maratse unlocked the door to the tiny police station. Vestergaard followed him inside, leaving Petersen and Fenna on the steps, sheltered from the breeze but exposed to the inquisitive nature of the children scrabbling toward them over the rusted pipes between the houses. Wearing little more than thin sweatshirts and an assortment of scruffy trousers, the children were impervious to the chill fog draped around the buildings.
“They’re curious,” Petersen said as a squirm of four children and a toddler approached them.
“They’re children,” Fenna said and waved at them. She looked at Petersen. Why did they leave me outside, she wondered.
“What about you? Any family plans?” Petersen glanced at Fenna. Behind the bruises, the matted fringe, the spots of dried blood and grime, Fenna’s hair framed a pretty face with steel blue eyes like ice.
“I’m with the Sirius Patrol,” she said and smiled at the children who were teasing them with cheeky faces. “That will have to do for now.”
She looked up as ravens scratched along the bitumen roof of the house opposite the police station. Dropping down to the rocky foundations, the birds assailed the rows of halibut heads, impaled on nails through the lower jaw and hanging from wooden racks on the balcony to dry. Fenna watched as two sledge dog puppies and three ravens tussled for possession of a fish head that had ripped from its nail and fallen to the ground. Too heavy to carry away, the ravens croaked and cowed the puppies away from their prize.
Maratse joined them on the steps. “Iserniaa,” he said and nodded at the door, turned and went back inside.
Petersen shrugged at Fenna before gesturing at the door. “After you.” They followed the policeman. The children swarmed after them, beating the door with small, grubby fists and poorly shod feet, before scrambling over the pipes to play in the street.
“I’ve put you in here,” Vestergaard said and guided Fenna into a small room with a cot and a washbasin the size of a football.
“It’s a cell,” Fenna said as she stopped at the heavy door. She spun the flap on the peephole. “Do you want my belt and laces?”
“That’s cute, Konstabel.” Vestergaard motioned to Maratse to remove Fenna’s cuffs. She rubbed her wrists where the cuffs had irritated the rusty lacerations from Burwardsley’s chain.
“We’ll start in here,” he said and led the way out of the cell and into the kitchenette next to Maratse’s office. Fenna glanced at the picture of the Danish Queen Margrethe hanging on the wall above the policeman’s desk. Vestergaard wrinkled his nose as he picked up the ashtray from the table squeezed between the wall and the refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen. He handed it Petersen. “Do something with this.” Maratse lit a cigarette, took the ashtray from Petersen's hands and retreated into his office. He smoked quietly in the corner beneath the queen.
“Cosy,” Fenna said as she squeezed past Vestergaard into the kitchen.
“Sit at the table, Konstabel. Petersen will stand over there,” Vestergaard pointed at the kitchen counters.
“What is he going to do?”
“He will record our conversation. When the Knud Rasmussen arrives, he will get to work on your service pistol aboard the ship.” Vestergaard paused, one eye on Fenna's face. “He'll do a ballistics check, to make sure it was your bullet. Once we retrieve the body.”
Fenna looked around the small kitchen, avoiding Vestergaard's scrutiny. She suppressed the image of Mikael’s body inside the burning cabin, and the smell of roasting flesh. She focused instead on the proximity of one of the Danish Navy’s two offshore patrol vessels patrolling fishing grounds and enforcing sovereignty in the Arctic. The Knud Rasmussen is close. More of my people. She looked up. “Okay,” she said.
Vestergaard steered Fenna into the chair by the wall, returning with a second chair from Maratse’s office. He pushed the chair up close to the table to give Petersen room to make coffee. Vestergaard removed his jacket. He draped it over the back of the chair and sat down.
“Is Maratse the only policeman?” Fenna asked.
“No, there is a Dane, a summer replacement, but he is stuck in one of the other settlements. The fog is notorious on the east coast.”
“It doesn’t get much better further north,” Fenna said and placed her hands on the table. “How far north have you been?”
“This is my first visit to Greenland.”
“Oh,” Fenna said.
“Greenland was never on my career map, Konstabel.” Vestergaard turned at the sound of fresh coffee percolating through the filter. “How long have you been with the navy?”
Fenna tapped the table with an idle rhythm. She stopped to study her hands. The fingernails were worn and chipped, the skin scratched and scabbed through the rigours of sledging, the pores were stained dark with the blood of her partner. “Can this wait? I could really use a shower.”
“We’ll see about that.” Vestergaard took two mugs of coffee from Petersen and placed one in front of Fenna. “You were telling me about your service?”
Fenna lifted the coffee to her mouth and winced as the hot liquid singed her dried lips. She put her mug on the table. “I was twenty-two when I tried out for Sirius. It was in the spring of 2014. I shipped out to Greenland in the summer and completed my first patrol as a fup, a first-year-man, last November.”
“So this patrol, with Oversergent Gregersen, was your second patrol?”
“My third. We had a training run in November, a short spring patrol early this year. And then another spring patrol - the mission - following that. Mikael,” Fenna swallowed. “Mikael was the second year man.”
“He is quite the Sirius legend, getting separated from his team during his first spring patrol.”
“Yes.”
“I read an article about his experience, how he survived. You were lucky to have him as a mentor.”
Fenna bit her lip. “He was a good man. He...”
“Yes?”
“He saved my life.”
“Really?” Vestergaard said. The chair creaked as he leaned back and sipped his coffee. “Tell me.”
“You wanted to hear about my service record?”
Vestergaard looked out of the window at the fog. “I need to understand your relationship to Gregersen, Konstabel. If it’s relevant then we have the time.”
“All right,” Fenna said. She took a breath. Mikael's death was still so close. “It was my first spring patrol, and I had just fallen through the ice.”
NORTHEAST GREENLAND NATIONAL PARK
Mikael kicked off his skis, his breath smoking in the glare of his headlamp. The light caught the icicles tugging at his full red beard. The black wind jacket merged with and was lost in the black polar night. He pulled the wrist-thick brake rope from his shoulders and slipped along the length of the patrol sledge to where Fenna struggled to keep her head above the black water. A sledge dog gripped in each hand by the wet ruff of its neck, Fenna felt as though her lungs were being hammered on an anvil. She kicked at the water, kicked to stay alive.
“Keep kicking,” Mikael shouted. He pushed past the sledge dogs closest to the hole, slipped onto his stomach and crawled forward, the loop of rope gripped in his right hand, the light from his lamp reflecting on the surface of the ice. “Let go of the dogs.”
“No,” Fenna said through trembling teeth.
“Let go of the dogs, Fenna.”
The two dogs behind the leaders clawed at the fractured ice. They whined as they slipped. Mikael gripped the gangline in his left hand. Tossing one end of the braided rope to Fenna, he held onto the other with his righ
t hand.
“Fenna. Let go of the dogs. Grab the loop,” Mikael shouted as Fenna floundered in the freezing water. The dogs in her grasp started to sink. “Forget the fucking dogs and grab the line.”
Fenna let go of the dogs. She struggled to circle her fingers around the thick braid.
“Put your arm through it,” said Mikael. “Get the loop in the crook of your arm. That’s it. Now hold on.” Mikael pulled Fenna towards the edge of the hole. He squinted in the beam from Fenna's headlamp as her body ploughed a wedge in the ice until it thickened. “That’s it. I’ve got you.” Mikael held the rope tight. He released the gangline with his left hand and grabbed Fenna’s jacket in his fist. He pulled her out of the water and onto the ice. “Kick you bastard. Kick.”
Fenna kicked, generating feeble splashes of frigid seawater with barely a ripple on the surface.
“I’ve got you. Fucking hell, I’ve got you.” Mikael slid onto his backside and dragged Fenna onto his legs. “Got you.” He slipped onto his feet. What little heat she had left steamed out of Fenna's body in the lamplight. Mikael dragged Fenna alongside the sledge towards the rear. “Take hold of the uprights. Pull yourself up. Stamp your feet.”
He left Fenna at the rear of the sledge and worked his way along the gangline. He pulled the dogs away from the hole. The line bit into the edge of the ice and stopped as the two lead dogs, sodden and near-drowned, anchored the team at the water’s edge. Mikael drew his pistol. With one hand on the line, holding the team in place, he shot the first and the second lead dog in the head. Mikael holstered his pistol and cut the line with his knife. He hurried along the length of the sledge to where Fenna shivered at the uprights.
“Come on Fenna. Strip for fuck’s sake.” Mikael pulled a grab bag from beneath the cord binding the equipment to the sledge. He opened the canvas bag, pulled out dry thermal underwear, socks, and a wool sweater. He looked at Fenna. “Come on. Keep moving.”
The Ice Star (Konstabel Fenna Brongaard Book 1) Page 2