Blood Floe

by Christoffer Petersen

  “I think we’ll go shopping,” Sisse said. “Perhaps we can meet in the café before going home?”

  Maratse nodded. “I’ll be at the hospital.”

  “Why? Are you going to find that horrible man?”

  “No, I’m going to talk to the police.” He pointed at the blue Toyota as it parked in front of the hospital.

  “Does that mean you are going to take the job?”

  “We’ll see,” he said, and waved as he walked along the road, crushing the stiff snowy tracks of the snowmobile beneath the soles of his boots.

  Chapter 7

  Constable Aqqa Danielsen stopped Maratse with a flat palm against his chest the moment he walked through the main entrance of Uummannaq hospital. He turned Maratse around and guided him back outside. Maratse lit a cigarette as Danielsen tugged a thin fleece hat from his pocket and smoothed it onto his head.

  “Simonsen will kill you if he sees you in there,” Danielsen said, as he took a cigarette from the packet in Maratse’s hand.

  “I doubt that.”

  “I don’t.” Danielsen took a long drag on the cigarette. “You weren’t in the car with him. When we drove back from the yacht, I had to remind him we had people in the back. He ranted all the way to the hospital.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Naamik,” Danielsen said and raised his hands. “Forget it. I can’t tell you anything.”

  “You just told me that Simonsen was ranting all the way home.”

  “About you. I can’t tell you anything about the investigation.” He frowned at Maratse. “You’re not working this case, are you? Privately?”

  Maratse wrinkled his nose, no.

  “Okay,” Danielsen said. “One thing I can tell you is that one of the crew is missing, unaccounted for.”

  “There were patches of blood on the ice. Perhaps they were his?”

  “How do you know it was a male?”

  “A guess.”

  Danielsen squinted at Maratse though a cloud of smoke. He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the snow. “A male, mid-thirties, some kind of Alfred Wegener expert.”

  “Wegener?”

  “Dead polar explorer. A German.”

  “The one who visited Svartenhuk?”

  “Aap.”

  “There’s a cabin up there,” Maratse said. “Why are you laughing?”

  “It’s the cabin they wanted to find.”

  “They?”

  “The crew. They said no-one would tell them where it was. Who told you?”

  “Karl.”

  Danielsen smiled. “He would know.”

  “So, they sailed here to find a cabin in Svartenhuk.” Maratse finished his cigarette. “People don’t kill each other because of a cabin. What were they really looking for?”

  “They won’t say. Simonsen has interviewed all of them, but no-one is talking.”

  “They were drugged, weren’t they?”

  “Aap.”

  “By the missing man?”

  Danielsen scuffed at the snow with the heel of his boot, and Maratse waited.

  “Dieter Müller. That’s his name. It’s the only thing they do agree on.”

  “You need to find him.”

  “We’re waiting for backup, they’re sending a detective and couple of extra officers up from Nuuk. They’re arriving on the flight to Qaarsut around lunchtime. We’ll pick them up and drive to Svartenhuk.”

  “And the yacht?”

  “We’ll drop the detective off there, pick him up on the way back.”

  “But if the crew are at the station…”

  “Being interviewed again by Simonsen.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Danielsen nodded at the window of the room closest to the nurses office, three metres from where they stood. He pointed at a man sitting on the hospital bed. “Do you know who that is?”

  Maratse recognised him as the man with the bloody hand on the snowmobile who he met earlier. “I just met him. I don’t know his name.”

  “That’s Axel Stein. He frightens the nurses, scares the children. He moved to Greenland before I was born. Drank his way through a job as a carpenter, beat more than one wife, and had his kids taken from him by the council, twice.”

  “The same kids?”

  “Two lots. Two girls and one boy.” Danielsen adjusted his belt. “He lives alone in a hunter’s cabin with nothing but a bad smell and a bad temper. He hasn’t hit anyone since he stopped drinking, but he hasn’t been nice to anyone either. Never, as far as I can recall. He comes into town once a month for supplies, and to draw some cash from the bank. Most of the year, no-one sees him, and they forget how nasty he can be. He reminds them every chance he gets. I think he does it so he can keep living in the cabin. No-one will go there as long as he lives there.”

  “But he hasn’t done anything criminal, recently?”

  “Nothing on record since he beat his last wife, and that was fifteen years ago, maybe more.”

  “But he has a temper?”

  “Wicked, according to Simonsen.” Danielsen held out his hand and Maratse shook it. “I like you, Maratse. No matter what Simonsen says, you’re all right. You helped in the search for Nivi Winther, and you pulled one of our own out of the water. You might not be a cop anymore, but you haven’t stopped acting like one.”

  “That’s what gets me into trouble.”

  “Aap,” Danielsen said, and laughed. He nodded at the window. “I have to go. Stay out of Simonsen’s way, and you’ll be fine.”

  “What did I do wrong?” Maratse asked, as Danielsen reached the entrance.

  “He thinks you were working with Fenna Brongaard, when she came through here. He thinks there are too many secrets in your past.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I try not to,” Danielsen said. He smiled, and Maratse wondered if his smile was the real reason the nurses liked to have him around. “Look after yourself.”

  Maratse waited until Danielsen was inside the hospital. He looked through the window as the young police constable entered the examination room, saw the way the nurse touched his arm, and then watched as Danielsen gripped the front of his belt and weathered a string of abuses from her patient. He could hear the curses out on the street. Axel Stein, it seemed, was working on his reputation. The thought occurred to Maratse that the cut on the old man’s arm could have come from a knife, either by accident or during a scuffle. He shook the thought from his mind, finding it difficult to imagine a reclusive Danish hunter travelling across the ice to rendezvous with a yacht and guide them into the mountains.

  Of course, that actually did make sense.

  Maratse tilted his head to one side and watched as Axel stood up and faced off with the young constable. To his credit, Danielsen didn’t back down, and Maratse nodded. He was all right. He made up for his boss.

  Maratse walked from the hospital to the café, ordered a coffee and a plate of twice-fried chips that had the consistency of greasy cardboard. They were just about edible with a generous sprinkling of salt. He had finished eating when Sisse walked in with Nanna. The little girl had a track of tears on each cheek and a stubborn twist to her lips.

  “I’m sorry,” Sisse said, “but do you think we could just go home? If you want to stay, I can maybe find a taxi. I heard they drive across the ice.”

  “We can go home,” Maratse said.

  “Thank you.” Sisse frowned. “But you haven’t bought anything.”

  “There’s nothing I need. The shop in Inussuk has more than enough for me.”

  “No treats? Chocolate? Beer?”

  “Buuti spoils me with her cooking,” Maratse said, as he followed Sisse and Nanna out of the café, “and I smoke too much. They have run out of cigarettes in Inussuk and if I buy more in town I’ll only smoke them.” Maratse shrugged and pointed in the direction of the sledge. “That way.”

  “Are you trying to quit?”

  “Maybe.”

  �
��That doesn’t sound very convincing,” Sisse said. She helped Nanna onto the sledge, and then sat down behind her. Maratse unhooked the dogs from the loop in the rock, attached them to the sledge, and led the team down the ice ramp. He jumped on when the dogs were on the sea ice and Tinka tugged the team into motion.

  “I’m not convinced, but a friend thinks I should quit.”

  “The policewoman? Petra.”

  “Iiji.”

  “She’s very nice. Very pretty.” Maratse glanced at Sisse. “Don’t look at me like that. Klara and I are very happy together. Besides, Petra is only interested in men. That’s easy to see.”

  Maratse pulled up his collar and shrank inside his overalls.

  “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  “Hm,” he said, and adjusted the hat on his head.

  Sisse laughed. “I’m sorry, David. I let my mouth run away with my thoughts. I think your friend is very nice, and I like the way she looks at you.”

  “She’s twenty-six.”

  “So?”

  “I’m thirteen years older than she is.”

  “Why should that matter?”

  “Hm.”

  Sisse leaned forwards to squeeze Maratse’s shoulder. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

  “Eeqqi.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, and let go. “You’ll get better. We women like to think we are mysterious, but we’re still human, most of the time.” Sisse laughed and kissed Nanna on the top of her hat. “What about you? Are you happy again?” Nanna curled to one side and hid her face inside the crook of her mother’s arm. “She wanted a doll, and I said she had too many already, and now she is pouting.”

  Maratse looked at Nanna, tried to catch her eye, but she buried her face even deeper beneath her mother’s arm. He looked up at the sound of a plane landing in Qaarsut, the icy landing strip south of Inussuk. It would be gone by the time they had passed the remote airport, but the helicopters would be shuttling all day between the mainland to the island. He remembered what Danielsen had said about backup arriving from down south, and replayed the conversation in his mind as Tinka led the team home. He chose not to tell Sisse anything more about Axel Stein, but thoughts of the man, and what he was capable of, nagged at Maratse until it was time to leap off the sledge and guide the team up the beach to the rest of the dogs. Nanna ran across the snow and up the stairs to her house. As soon as the dogs were tethered, watered, and fed, Sisse hugged Maratse.

  “Thank you, David. It was very generous of you.”

  “Will she be all right?” Maratse said, as Nanna curled her tiny mittened hands around the handle and slammed the door.

  “She’ll be fine. It’s my own fault. I’ve dragged her halfway around the world to satisfy my passion for art and nature. At some point, before she starts school, we’ll settle somewhere, find a routine.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Hell no,” Sisse said, and laughed. “But, it will be good for her.”

  Maratse smiled as Sisse waved and followed her daughter’s footsteps to the house. It was only when she had gone inside that he noticed the lights of his own house were lit, and a slim shadow passed the window.

  Maratse coiled the whip and tucked it inside the wooden box with the rest of his sledging gear. He pulled the thermos flask from the sledge bag and poured a cold cup of coffee into the lid. He sipped at it as he stared at the shadow passing back and forth across the window. Maratse dumped the coffee onto the snow, lifted the sledge onto the box, and carried the thermos under his arm to his house. He paused at the top of the stairs, banged the snow from his boots, and opened the door.

  The smell of perfumed soap pricked at his cold nose, as Maratse took off his boots, and shrugged out of his overalls. He left his thermos by the door and walked into the living room. The shadows had been cast by a young woman, her red hair twisted into a wet knot at the top of her head, with damp strands plastered to her pale and freckled shoulders. Maratse stared at her, as she danced around his living room, his towel knotted above her breasts; it barely covered her thighs. She hummed as she danced, and Maratse noticed the tiny buds pressed inside her ears, and the white cord leading to the iPhone in her left hand, the cord whipped up and down as she danced.

  Maratse coughed, and the woman danced. He raised his voice, shouted hello, and waited as she stopped, opened her eyes, and pulled the buds from her ears. Maratse could hear the beat pumping out of the buds until the woman dialled down the volume with a swipe of her thumb.

  “You’re out of water,” she said in English. “I think I drained the tank.”

  Maratse stared at her.

  “Hello?” she said, and waved her hand in front of his face. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “About the water?”

  “Yes, about the water. Honestly, daddy said you were smart.”

  “Your daddy?”

  “My father, yes.”

  “And who is he?”

  “Aleksander Berndt. He owns Ophelia.”

  “Is he here?”

  “No,” she said, and snorted, “obviously.”

  Maratse tapped his top pocket and walked to the door. He heard the woman say something. He ignored her. Maratse found his cigarettes in the pocket of his overalls, tugged on his boots and walked onto the deck.

  He smoked as he wrestled with his thoughts. He flicked the cigarette into the snow, and lit a new one, turning his head as the woman appeared at the door. He half expected her to walk onto the deck in her towel, but her practical and slightly worn outdoor gear surprised and impressed him, fitting her like a glove. The way she wore her clothes suggested the cuts, tears, and repairs, were all her own. She plucked the cigarette from Maratse’s mouth and held out her hand.

  “My name is Therese,” she said, and took a long drag on Maratse’s cigarette.

  “Therese Berndt?”

  She shook her head. “Kleinschmidt. My family – my ancestors – probably spawned a whole bunch of Greenlanders. Mostly up north.”

  “Upernavik?”

  “Right,” she said, and blew smoke in Maratse’s face. “But you’re from the east.”

  “Iiji.”

  “See,” she said, and held out Maratse’s cigarette. He took it from her fingers. “I know these things. I’ve seen a lot of Greenland, and I studied you and your people. I have a PhD in Arctic Anthropology.”

  Maratse let the cigarette burn in his fingers as he listened, she took it back and leaned against the railing, making a show of studying him.

  “Your skin is darker than most of the Greenlanders I have met. You’re a little shorter than the average male, and,” she said, and pointed the tip of the cigarette at Maratse, “your moustache is wispier than the men in Nuuk. No,” she said, as she pressed her fingers to the hairs above his top lip, “you should keep it. It gives you that oriental look. Makes you look hot.”

  Maratse felt the colour rise to his cheeks, and he wondered if that was sweat beading on his brow.

  “Why are you here?” he asked. His tongue was dry, and he had a sudden urge to get drunk on Edvard’s home-brewed spirits.

  Therese frowned. “I really thought you would be smarter than this.” She stubbed the cigarette on the wooden railing and dropped it onto the deck. “Daddy hired you, and he sent me to boss you about.” Therese ran the tip of her tongue around her teeth.

  “What?”

  “I’m kidding,” she said. “I’m here to give you instructions, to help you investigate.”

  “But I haven’t agreed to anything.”

  “Oh,” she said, and took Maratse’s arm, “I wouldn’t worry about that. Come on inside, and I’ll tell you what you need to know. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  Chapter 8

  Alfred Wegener was a genius. With each turn of the mildew-tinged thick pages of the journal, Dieter knew he had struck gold. What he had found was academic collateral, a currency that could change his fortunes and move Marlene and hi
m from the slums of Berlin, to a more upmarket location, with, perhaps, room for a baby. These thoughts occupied Dieter as he read the journal in the breath-fogged light from his headlamp. He curled the tattered blankets around his shoulders, blew on the tips of his fingers, and drank lukewarm water straight from the pan. He had already sacrificed the book crate for heat, and, if he looked through the smoky glass window of the stove door, he would see the iron nails glowing bright between the flames.

  Dieter pored over Wegener’s field notes, nodding at the descriptions of the lichen, tapping the page when Wegener’s itinerary fit with what he knew to be true. There was just one thing that eluded Dieter, something that made him read and reread the journal, tracing Wegener’s words with the frost-nipped tips of his fingers. The late polar researcher seemed to have invented some kind of code, something about archaeology. But Wegener was a meteorologist, climatologist, and geologist by default, and Dieter could not recall an archaeologist being present on this particular expedition

  “Unless I missed something,” he said, his breath like dry ice, obscuring the pages of the journal in his lap.

  Dieter put the book down and assembled the satellite phone. Once the antenna was set up, and the battery warmed and installed, Dieter punched in his home number. He stifled a yawn, ignored the fact that he couldn’t remember having slept, and waited for Marlene to answer.

  “Dieter?” she said. “I’ve been trying to call you. Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

  “I turned it off to save power,” he said, and picked up the journal. “Marlene, I need you to find my notes. They should be in a box, by the side of my desk.”

  “We need to talk, Dieter. There was something posted online…”

  “This is important.”

  “So is this.” She paused. “A man came to the house. He asked all kinds of questions. He wanted to know if you had contacted me.”

  Dieter rested the journal in his lap and rubbed his face with his hand. He blinked sleep from his eyes – or perhaps it was ice crusting his eyelashes, his own breath sticking to the hairs on his skin.