‘Yes, I don’t think the officers mind, or they’d have said.’ Malik straightened up and raised his head. ‘That’ll be the boat now.’
Matthew fixed his gaze on the grey mass across the sea. He couldn’t hear anything, but a few minutes later the bow of a blue and white wooden boat ploughed its way through the fog in a long, smooth movement, cleaving it in two. The fog was so thick that they could see it peeling back against either side of the boat’s hull.
There was a hollow thud as the boat docked. The two officers approached it.
‘Let’s follow,’ Malik said, nodding towards the boat.
Three men were waiting on the deck. One of them called out to the officers, throwing his hands up in the air.
‘He says they want to get back out as quickly as possible,’ Malik translated. ‘He thinks the dead body’s spirit will curse their haul.’ He pointed to the older police officer. ‘Ottesen told him that was a load of rubbish, and they should just chuck the sack ashore, but they’re refusing to even touch it, so now Ottesen and Minik are having to board the boat to get it.’ Malik dropped his cigarette butt and squashed it under his boot. ‘Bertelsen, one of the guys on the boat, is shit-scared of spirits.’
Both officers jumped on board, and Malik waved Matthew even closer. ‘Come on—I want to see what’s going on.’
Bertelsen called out again to the two officers.
Malik stopped. ‘He says he doesn’t want them to open the sack on the boat, so they’re going to have to bring it ashore before they look inside.’
Ottesen bent down and picked up something they couldn’t see from the quay. Shortly afterwards he called to his colleague.
‘The sack doesn’t seem all that heavy,’ Malik said. ‘He says that if it contains a dead body, it’s likely to be a child.’
The sun had come out again and swathed the whole harbour in a blinding light. The fog kept to the sea for now.
The black plastic sack was wet and glossy in Ottesen’s arms as he stepped back onto the quay. Malik took out his camera.
‘Are you going to take pictures?’ Matthew asked.
‘Sure,’ Malik said, then he hesitated. ‘But not if it’s a kid, obviously.’
Matthew fell silent, his fingers twirling the invisible wedding band. ‘I’ll be in the car,’ he said, without looking at Malik.
‘Eh? I thought you wanted to—’
But Matt had slammed the car door shut behind him before Malik could finish his question.
A red Dash-7 aircraft swept across the sea not far from them. The planes were waiting for breaks in the fog. Malik went to join the policemen.
From the car, Matthew couldn’t see what was going on, but he saw the three men flinch as the bag was opened. An animated Malik ran back towards the car, beckoning insistently.
Matthew nodded, got out of the car and reluctantly went to join the others.
‘It’s insane,’ Malik called. ‘I’ve never seen a guy that rotten before. I nearly puked my guts out. You won’t believe it. He fucking stinks.’
‘Something doesn’t add up,’ Ottesen said when Matthew and Malik reached him. ‘The plastic sack looks new.’
Matthew pinched his nose and struggled to control his stomach. The body had been gutted and the man’s rotting organs stank, but he hadn’t been flayed. The decomposing organs were fresh—but the skin was like tanned yellow leather.
Matthew drew Malik aside. ‘I’m glad they’ve already called for a pathologist,’ he said quietly. ‘This is our mummy from the ice cap, only someone tried to get rid of him by throwing him in the sea.’
‘What?’ Malik leaned forward. ‘Yes, you’re right. That’s him. But then why—’ His eyes moved to the mass lying on the tarmac: a brown, greasy liver, two kidneys, a heart, lungs and intestines. Then he turned around and threw up. He slumped to his knees and kept retching in long spasms.
Matthew looked at Ottesen, struggling to put his suspicions into words. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know how to say it…but I think the organs belong to your colleague, Officer Aqqalu.’
13
The road behind the public swimming pool was made up largely of potholes and granite chips. Several old dinghies lay scattered between the road and the bay. Sport fishermen would dock here when they had been out at sea.
Matthew expelled the smoke hard between his lips, and watched it disperse in the fog. His gaze scanned the small bay and continued down the arm of the fjord separating Nuussuaq from Qinngorput. Qinngorput wasn’t far away, but the fog blocked his view of the buildings there.
He crossed a gravelled area where some boats had been pulled ashore. Two of them would definitely never go to sea again, while the other three looked in reasonable shape. A blue boilersuit on a coathanger was hanging from the gunwale of a boat, making it look as if an invisible man was standing next to the hull.
His mobile rang and he answered it. ‘Matt, it’s me,’ his editor said. ‘Have you reached the harbour yet?’
‘Yes, I’ve just got here.’ Matthew took another look around the small bay. ‘There’s no one here. Did you get my message about the sack that the police opened over at the Atlantic Port?’
‘Certainly did. What a story. I can’t make sense of it, but you just stick with it.’ His editor hesitated for a moment. ‘Don’t forget, though, we can’t write about it yet.’
‘It’ll leak out eventually,’ Matthew argued. ‘You can’t keep things secret for very long up here.’
‘Once it leaks, we’ll leak with it, Matt,’ his editor said. ‘You’ve got a couple of stories ready to go, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, we’re good to go.’
‘Great.’
‘This boat I’m supposed to be looking for,’ Matthew said. ‘Is it open or does it have a wheelhouse?’
‘A wheelhouse, I guess. Perhaps he’s not back yet? Are the police there?’
‘No. I reckon they’re still busy with the…black plastic sack.’
‘All right. You find that fisherman and get him to tell you what he saw. I’m told he didn’t see the killer’s face, but he did see the boat the bloodstained man came ashore in, and he’ll be able to identify it. You should be able to get something out of him. Keep at it, eh, Matt.’
There were only two boats with wheelhouses in the bay. One was about twenty metres out in the water, and the other very close to the shore. There was no way he could reach the one in the water without access to another boat.
The second boat lay near the low rocks. Matthew could hear it scrape against them, a grating, almost mournful sound. The waves were small, yet lively enough to cause the boat to bob up and down.
Matthew grabbed a rope hanging over the bow of the boat. He could see no signs that the boat was moored to the shore or that its anchor had been dropped. It was simply chafing against the rocks. When the tide turned, the boat would be carried out to sea in no time.
‘Hello?’ he called out, putting both hands on the gunwale. He tried calling out again, this time in Greenlandic. ‘Halu?’
Matthew looked about him. There wasn’t a soul to be seen who could help him. He managed to haul himself over the gunwale and roll onto the small deck.
‘Halu?’ he called out again tentatively. ‘Is anyone here?’
Slowly he edged his way past the small wheelhouse in the middle of the boat. There was barely enough room to squeeze past it, and he would never have dared try this manoeuvre on the open sea. The waters around Greenland were so cold all year round that you would go into shock and die within minutes of falling in.
‘Hello? Anyone here? I’m just visiting, all right? I’m looking for a witness who saw something this morning.’ He hesitated, then continued cautiously, ‘I’m working with the police. There’s nothing to worry about. Officer Ottesen will be here in a moment.’ That last bit was just a guess.
Carefully, he pressed down the handle to the small wheelhouse. The door opened with a click. He hesitated again before pushing it open. The room behind it was dark. Because the fog
was so dense today, the portholes didn’t let much light into the hull.
‘Halu? Anyone here?’
He could smell fish and engine oil in the dark cabin. He made out some tins to one side, and a couple of half-full fish crates on the other. That didn’t leave much floor space. He nudged the top crate. It was mostly cod and redfish, and none of it had been covered with ice, despite the fish being gutted and cleaned. There was a puddle of fish guts and blood on the floor by a tall cupboard jerry-built from masonite.
‘Why would you abandon your catch?’ Matthew mumbled to himself. ‘Fish need to be kept cold, don’t they?’ He looked dubiously at the puddle of fish guts at his feet. He was baffled as to why the fisherman hadn’t gutted his fish outside. Surely cleaning the wheelhouse floor would create much more work for him than simply hosing down the deck?
A big wave jolted the boat, which crashed against the rocks. At the same time Matthew heard a bump from inside the cupboard. He looked down at the pink fish blood at the toes of his shoes. Then another wave hit, the cupboard flew open, and a short, heavy-set man lunged at him. They both crashed to the floor, knocking over a crate and scattering fish everywhere.
Matthew shouted and lashed out, pushing the man off him, and he didn’t stop yelling until he had scrambled back to the door, where he collapsed. His hands, trousers and jumper were covered in blood. The man was lying on his back between the fish. He had been cut open from his groin to his chest. Just like the fish, he had been gutted.
14
There was a hiss as Malik flipped the cap off the bottle and handed the beer to Ottesen. By now there were quite a few empty bottles on the table in front of them. Malik had insisted that they needed sustenance so they had ended up getting a crate of beer and three large pizzas from Cafe Prego before returning to Matthew’s apartment.
They had spent most of the evening discussing Aqqalu and the fisherman. Both were dead—killed and mutilated.
‘This is my last one,’ Ottesen stated firmly as he took the bottle. ‘I’m not usually much of a drinker, but today I really needed a beer.’
Malik raised his own beer to his lips. ‘It’s just insane. The mummy, me being burgled, the murders…and Aqqalu.’
‘Promise me you’ll never board a boat on your own again,’ Ottesen told Matthew, closing the lid on his empty pizza box. ‘Anything could have happened.’
‘How was I to know a dead man would fall out of the cupboard?’ Matthew replied.
‘Well, that’s just it,’ Ottesen grunted. ‘Do you know who tipped off your editor?’
‘No,’ Matthew said. ‘I was just told to investigate, but believe me, I wish I’d never set foot on that boat.’
Ottesen took another swig of his beer. ‘Still, I’m glad you called me straightaway.’
‘I’m going outside for a cigarette,’ Malik said, getting up. ‘Are you coming, Matt?’
Matthew shook his head. ‘Not right now.’
Ottesen picked up the printouts of the post-mortem reports, the notes and the newspaper cuttings from the coffee table and looked across at Matthew. ‘May I?’
‘Knock yourself out. It’s an old case my editor suggested I look into.’
Ottesen skimmed the pages, nodding lightly. ‘I know about this case.’ He looked up. ‘Four men flayed and cut open from their groins to their chests.’
‘And now we have another two,’ Matthew said, ‘except that they weren’t flayed.’
‘True,’ Ottesen said. ‘But they’re very different cases. The murders in ’73 were of four very similar men with almost identical backgrounds. Our two victims are a police officer who was guarding a mummy and a fisherman who knew something about the murder of the police officer. Two very different men.’
‘Sounds like you know the ’73 case well?’
‘Of course I do. They were the most brutal murders Nuuk had ever seen, and the killer was never caught.’
‘Did the police have any idea who did it?’
‘They certainly had a suspect, who went missing the same night that the last murder took place, but whether he did it I’m not sure. Not everyone thought he was guilty—that much I do know.’ He put down the papers. ‘Listen, we need an investigative consultant at the police station. Are you interested?’
‘Isn’t that a job for a police officer?’
‘Normally, yes, but we’ve advertised the post for six months and haven’t had a single suitable applicant. It’s often like this up here, I’m afraid.’
‘Sorry,’ Matthew mumbled. ‘But I don’t think that’s a job for me.’
‘Never mind—it was just a suggestion. No harm in asking, is there? I think we could do with someone whose approach is different from ours.’
Matthew shook his head.
‘Well, think about it,’ Ottesen said, getting up from his chair. ‘And let me know if you find out anything about the ’73 murders. They baffled the police throughout all of Denmark at the time.’
‘I promise,’ Matthew said, looking at the papers on the coffee table. ‘But there’s not a lot to go on.’
‘No, I agree, there isn’t,’ Ottesen said, and waved goodbye through the glass door to Malik on the balcony. ‘I’d better be heading home,’ he called. ‘See you soon.’ He turned back to Matthew. ‘By the way, what’s your surname? I need it for my report about the man you found today, and I didn’t get all your details when we met down by the boat.’
Matthew hesitated. ‘Cave. My father was an American soldier based in Thule.’
Ottesen raised his eyebrows. ‘Matthew Cave. Right, catch you later. You take care, Matt Cave.’
The sun was in the sky above the sea and the mountains as he left, though twilight was falling. Nuuk still enjoyed many hours of daylight in August, but in just a few months the darkness would be so intense that the sun would come out only for a few hours each day.
‘So Ottesen’s headed home,’ Malik said when he came back inside.
Matthew nodded. ‘He wanted to hire me as a consultant.’
‘Hah, he’s always trying to hire people. Sounds like a boring job, doesn’t it?’
‘Probably.’ Matthew looked down at the bottle in his hand. ‘It’s seven per cent alcohol. This…Musk Ox beer.’
Malik had flopped onto the black recliner. ‘Did you know that the musk ox is a goat?’
‘A goat?’
‘Yes, it’s a big, fat goat hidden underneath the most incredible fur.’ He rolled onto his side. ‘What happened today in the Atlantic Port? When you hid in the car?’
‘Nothing. I just didn’t want to see the body.’ Matthew drained his beer and dropped his cigarette butt into the bottle. ‘I knew I wouldn’t be able to cope if it turned out to be a child.’
‘No, they say that’s the worst.’
The room fell silent.
‘How old was your child?’ Malik tried tentatively.
‘My wife was six months pregnant when the accident happened. They both died.’ Matthew slumped. ‘They asked me if I wanted to see my little girl, but she was dead, wasn’t she.’ It was as if the falling darkness had crawled inside the living room and was now enveloping him. ‘I had felt her moving in Tine’s belly. Her kicks. What use would it be to see her dead? That wouldn’t be the person I had been talking to and cared about.’ Matthew’s voice had grown weaker, until it was nothing but a whisper.
‘Do you know something?’ Malik said. ‘I think everything has a soul. I think we can be together both before and after life, if our bond is strong enough.’
Matthew pushed himself up off the sofa. ‘I’m going for a piss.’
THE WOMAN
15
NUUK, 11 AUGUST 2014
Matthew was deep into a complex and chaotic nightmare when his mobile started ringing. Without opening his eyes he found his phone and pressed the screen to take the call. ‘Hello?’ he grunted, hoarse and distant, as he pushed aside the sweaty bedclothes.
‘Matthew, can you hear me? When might we have the hon
our of your company?’
The words snatched him brutally from the last remnants of sleep. His editor. The newspaper. Malik and the beers. His mouth tasted of stale alcohol and smoke. ‘I’m on my way. I…I overslept. What time is it?’
‘It’s only just gone nine, but I want you to stop by the hospital because I’ve got news about your iceman. Turns out he’s not an ancient mummy after all. Lots of things didn’t add up once he’d been rehydrated, like a piece of dried fish. The preliminary analysis shows that he’s only been dead about forty years.’
‘Shit,’ Matthew muttered. ‘That’s that story down the toilet.’
‘I’m afraid so, but it could turn out to be another kind of news, so let’s wait and see. Besides, we have the two murders to cover.’ The editor was quiet for a moment. ‘Could you stop by the police station as well? They’ve arrested somebody for the murder of both men.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘A young woman. A loner. Shaved head and tattoos. She’s just been released from prison. She did twelve years for manslaughter.’
Matthew’s hand with the mobile flopped onto the mattress.
‘Are you still there?’ his editor said. ‘Can you check it out?’
‘Yeah, sure. I’m leaving now.’
16
Just after midday Matthew and Malik walked up the steps to the Nuuk police station. Matthew hoped they would leave with more information than they had when they’d called in at the hospital earlier that day.
Their visit had lasted a couple of hours, but they had little to show for it. They had learned that the iceman had been dead for only forty years, rather than six hundred, but apart from that there wasn’t much news. The precise year of the mummy’s death had yet to be established, as had his age and nationality, but he was Caucasian, probably Nordic.
The man had been cut open and his guts removed; Matthew had already observed this for himself down at the Atlantic Port, because the salt water had loosened the animal fur in which he had been wrapped. In contrast to the four murdered men from 1973, this man’s intestines were missing completely, and he still had his skin, so even if there was a connection to the other murders, there were things that didn’t add up. The mummified man was also the only one whose body had been moved and hidden soon after death; in 1973 the victims had been left in situ after their violent deaths, as if for some grisly display.
The Girl without Skin Page 6