“What did you see?” she asked. When a young woman began to answer in Greenlandic, Petra turned to Maratse for help.
“He fell from the balcony,” Maratse translated, pausing as the woman continued. “There was some shouting in the house, women’s voices, and then he came out onto the balcony. He might have been pushed. She can’t remember, but they did film the fall.” Maratse took the phone from the woman’s hand and showed it to Petra. The video – barely six seconds long – caught the man halfway into his fall and the sound of the wet crack of his head on the road.
“The fall killed him,” Petra said, and looked up at the balcony. “She thinks he might have been pushed?”
“Maybe. She’s not sure.”
Petra turned at the metallic clap of Simonsen’s door. His boots crunched through a shallow drift of snow as he joined them beside the body.
“There’s a video,” Maratse said, as he turned the screen towards Simonsen.
The Chief of Police nodded, looked at the young Greenlander, and said, “I’ll need a copy.”
“Aap,” she said, as Maratse returned her phone.
“You really are a crime magnet,” Simonsen whispered to Maratse. He nodded at the balcony surrounding the first floor of the hostel. “Go with Sergeant Jensen.” Simonsen caught Petra’s eye, and said, “You do the talking, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Each step on the way up to the first floor was caked with a layer of snow-turned-ice. Petra slipped on the deck of the balcony, caught the railing, and looked over the side to the body below.
“He could have just slipped?” she said. Petra waited for Maratse to join her and then knocked on the door.
Petra knocked another three times before a young woman opened the door, her eyes widened as she recognised Maratse.
“It’s you,” she said in English, “the hunter on the yacht.”
Petra glanced at Maratse, and then pushed gently at the door. “Can we come in?”
“Yes.”
Maratse banged the snow from his boots and followed Petra inside the hostel. There were four rooms spaced evenly around a central living area. Petra touched Maratse’s elbow and nodded at two empty bottles of wine on the kitchen counter. They followed the woman into the lounge area where another woman, was sprawled on the sofa.
“Katharina,” said the young German, shaking the woman gently. “It’s the police.”
Katharina took a long breath and turned on the sofa, clutching the cushioned arm with thin fingers as if it was a railing on the Ophelia, as if they were crashing through waves, and their guests were obstacles to be avoided. She leaned back and pointed at Maratse. “Who is he?”
“His name is Maratse, and I’m Sergeant Jensen. When did you start drinking?”
Katharina sighed, and said, “Early. What else is there to do?”
“Is it just the two of you?”
“No,” said the young woman. “Our friend, Abraham – he just went to the bathroom.”
“And what is your name?”
“Nele Schneider.”
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but your friend is dead,” Petra said. “He fell from the balcony.”
“What?” Nele started towards the door, but Maratse stepped in front of her.
“We need you to answer some questions,” Petra said, as Maratse helped Nele onto the sofa.
“More questions?” Katharina said. “All we do is answer questions.”
“Your friend just died. I’m sure you want to help us find out how, and why?”
“Not without a lawyer,” Katharina said. She took Nele’s hand. “Don’t say anything.”
Petra unzipped her jacket and pulled her notebook from the cargo pocket in her trousers. She sat down on a chair opposite the two women. Maratse retreated to the kitchen to wait.
“You’re the captain of the Ophelia,” Petra said, and looked at Katharina. “Surely you can answer that.”
The woman shrugged, and said, “Yes.”
“And you’re one of the crew?”
“Yes,” Nele said, “I’m the mountaineer.” She fidgeted on the sofa and glanced at the door.
“The mountaineer?”
“The one with the climbing and skiing skills. That’s why I’m on the expedition.” Nele started to stand up. “I want to see him.”
“A few more questions, first,” Petra said. She heard the captain whisper something in German, and Petra made a note, something about too many deaths.
“Abraham is our friend,” Nele said. “We really must see him.”
“His body will be taken to the hospital. I’ll arrange for you to see him soon, until then, I need to know when he was last with you?”
“Twenty minutes, maybe,” Nele said. She looked at the captain, and said, “You remember?”
“Not without a lawyer.”
Petra switched to Danish and asked Maratse to fetch Simonsen. She looked at her watch, turned back to the captain, and said, “The time is seventeen minutes past five, and I’m arresting you on suspicion of being party to the death of Abraham Baumann.”
“You can’t prove anything,” Katharina said, as Petra removed a pair of handcuffs from her belt.
“Not without a lawyer, apparently.” She tugged the woman to her feet, pulled her hands behind her back, and snapped the metal bracelets around her wrists. She pointed at the sofa and ordered the younger woman to sit and wait as she walked the captain to the door. Simonsen met her on the balcony and Petra let him take her down the stairs.
“Refusing to cooperate?” Simonsen said.
“Yes,” Petra said. “She wants a lawyer.”
“That’ll take some time.” He caught the woman as she slipped. “Careful now, I can’t have two dead bodies in one night; the doctor will never forgive me.”
Petra waited until Simonsen opened the rear passenger door of the police car, and helped the woman onto the seat. He waved just before driving off in the direction of the police station. Petra closed the door to the hostel and joined Maratse at the railing of the balcony.
“He’s letting you stick around,” she said, with a nod towards the police car.
“I think he feels guilty.”
“For being mean to you?”
“For nearly drowning me.”
“That’s right,” Petra said. “You need to tell me more about that sometime.”
“I’m okay, Piitalaat.”
“I’m glad,” she said, and curled her hand around his arm. Petra leaned her head against Maratse’s shoulder for a second, and then pulled free. She nodded at the door. “Are you coming?”
“Iiji.”
Nele hadn’t moved from the sofa. Her legs were tucked beneath her bottom. She had wrapped a blanket over her knees. Petra sat down opposite her, while Maratse stayed in the kitchen. The young woman looked at him for a moment, and then turned her attention to Petra.
“I’m happy to answer any questions,” she said.
“That’s good.” Petra opened her notebook.
“But not about Abraham. I don’t know how he fell. I just remember him going outside. That’s all.”
“Was he drunk?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t hear anything?”
“No,” Nele said. She looked at the floor. “We were shouting. We didn’t hear anything.”
“We?”
“The captain and me.”
“What were you shouting about?”
Nele lifted her head, slowly, as if she was pulling against something that was wrapped around her neck. When her eyes were level with Petra’s, she said, “It was about Therese. She was here earlier. She took something from the captain.”
Petra heard Maratse fidget in the kitchen. She lifted her pencil from the page of her notepad. “What did she take?”
“A thumb drive. You know, a mini hard drive?”
“I know what it is,” Petra said, “but why is it important?”
“The ship’s log,” Maratse s
aid, as he walked out of the kitchen to stand beside Petra.
Nele shook her head. “That’s not important. It was something else. I’m not sure, but I think it was files of some kind. Documents.”
“Did the thumb drive belong to the captain?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“I think it was Dieter’s.”
Petra reached over the arm of the chair and tapped Maratse’s leg. He found a chair in the kitchen and carried it into the living room area. The woman watched him as he sat down beside Petra.
“I have one more question,” Petra said.
“Okay.” Nele shifted position, and then smoothed the blanket over her legs. The sofa sighed as she moved.
“Were you having an affair with Dieter?”
Nele flicked her head towards Maratse, and then pressed the tip of her nail against her lip. “No,” she said, her eyes locked on Maratse’s.
“You told Simonsen that you were.”
“I was covering for the captain.” Nele gripped the arm of the sofa and looked at Petra.
“Okay, Nele. Just stay there.”
Petra closed her notebook and nodded for Maratse to join her in the kitchen. She filled the kettle with water and switched it on. She leaned on the counter and watched the girl from the kitchen as the kettle boiled. When the water started to bubble and spit, she switched to Danish and spoke quietly to Maratse.
“The thumb drive is Dieter’s. He said his notes include scans of documents that prove the crew of the Ophelia are not who they claim to be.”
Maratse leaned against the counter, crossed his arms across he chest, and said, “Therese has the journal and the USB drive. What will she do with them?”
Petra shrugged. “Destroy them. Toss them overboard. Dieter said that somebody collected a box of notes from his house, that the USB was a backup. He scanned the documents.”
Maratse turned his back on Nele. He leaned close to Petra’s ear. “You know I’m not good with computers, but I do know that he had to scan something onto the computer before copying it to a USB.”
“And if they didn’t take the computer…”
“There will be a copy on the hard drive.” Maratse grinned, and said, “I like it when you smile, Piitalaat.”
“I like it when you talk about computers.”
“Because it makes me sound smarter than I am?”
Flecks of light from the kitchen danced in Petra’s eyes. “No,” she said, and hid her mouth with her hand. “But I like the serious pinch of skin you have, right there.” Petra pressed her finger into the centre of Maratse’s forehead.
The lid of the kettle flapped as the water boiled. Petra brushed past Maratse and found clean mugs in the cupboard. She made coffee with instant granules from a jar on the counter. Maratse picked up two mugs, and took a step towards the living room area.
“Wait,” Petra whispered.
“Iiji?”
“How do you feel about going to Berlin?”
Maratse wrinkled his nose.
“Oh, come on, it will be fun.”
“Why, Piitalaat?”
“Because it might be the only way to prove who has done what in this case.” She paused. “You want to find the murderer, don’t you?”
“I’m retired,” he said, and shrugged.
“Not from where I’m standing.”
Chapter 17
Therese had never seen a blood floe, neither was she prepared for the thick stench of intestines that washed over the fleece tube around her neck, soaking into the soft fibres like oil. The skids at the front of the snowmobile rattled over globs of frozen blood as Therese slowed on her approach to the Ophelia. She turned off the engine, and the last rumble of the motor was lost in the vast black sky and even blacker sea beyond the ice. Therese slid the visor up and over the front of the helmet and clawed at the straps. If she thought she could escape the bloody, heady smell of dead whale, she was mistaken. She dumped the helmet on the ice, gagged her way to the ladder, and climbed onto the deck of her father’s yacht.
“Stepfather,” she said, as she looked down upon the bloody ice, and wondered what he would think of it. He would say quotas when she cried butchery, say subsistence to counter her slaughter, but either way he would be impressed, it was hard not to be.
Another thing that impressed Therese was the fact that Ophelia was untouched. Apart from traces of the police, she could see no sign that anyone else other than the expedition crew had been onboard. Therese opened the hatch and climbed down into the cockpit. She caught the same smell of blood, but the lack of bloody organs and the cool temperature presented her palate with a more tempered smell, something she intended to clean up as soon as she was underway. Therese checked the generator, switched on the battery, and started Ophelia’s engine. The lights flickered as the big, sturdy, diesel engine fired and sent the first rumbles of irritation through the hull.
“I know, baby,” Therese said. “Soon.”
Therese climbed on deck, checked the lines and shrouds, thumped the ice from the decks with the stubborn handle of a broom, and kicked the jagged clumps over the side. The ice was so thick it reminded her of toffee, hammered into assorted pieces to be boxed, sold, and sucked until the edges smoothed and the caramel slid down one’s throat. If she tried hard enough Therese could almost imagine the smell of warm toffee, could almost ignore the smell of whale intestines.
When she was done with the deck, and the lines were free of rime ice, Therese bashed the railings with a heavy rubber mallet, flicking her gaze once in a while to the sea ice, searching for headlights.
“If they use dogs, I won’t even hear them,” she said, her words misting in the light from Ophelia’s deck lights. “I have to get going.”
Therese worked her way around the deck, secured the mallet and the broom, and then climbed back onto the ice to free Ophelia from her wintry berth. The ice axes were buried deep and she decided to leave them. Therese returned to the deck, and released the yacht with a few swift saws of her knife through the stiff rope wound through the cleats. She knew Ophelia was well-equipped and tossed the ends of the rope onto the ice. Therese moved quickly across the deck, rolled the ladder into place and slipped the safety wires across the gap to complete the rail running around the deck.
She stopped for a second to listen to the sound of the engine, freeing her ears from her fleece hat, tilting and twisting her head for anomalies. It all sounded good, exactly as she had left it.
Therese dropped down through the hatch, wrinkled her nose and adjusted the thermostat as the temperature in the cabin rose. She didn’t have time to clean, not yet, but neither did she want the Ophelia’s interior to compete with the cloying cabbage smell of the ice. She jogged down to the forward cabins, tucked the journal and thumb drive into a small locker next to the toilet, and pulled her personal kit out of stowage below the starboard bunk. Therese pulled off her outdoor gear, added a second mid-layer of thermals, before pulling on her insulated sailing suit. She checked the pockets for extra gloves, hats, and fleece tubes, before securing the trouser cuffs over her boots and zipping the suit to her neck. She twisted her fiery hair beneath a thick fleece hat on her way through the cockpit and onto the deck. The moon flickered between grey clouds pregnant with snow as she pulled on a thin pair of gloves, before stabbing the GPS unit into life and plotting her waypoints. A quick glance at the ice suggested she had plenty of time, and she relaxed.
The course to Ilulissat was familiar, Therese couldn’t remember just how many times she had sailed it this past year, but the shifting bergs and the merciless winds and waves that toyed with craft of all sizes on the west coast of Greenland, made waypoints more like guidelines. She would have to be vigilant, again, and be patient, again, as the journey would take longer than expected.
It always did.
Therese finished plotting her course, checked the fuel levels, wind levels, pressure levels, and battery levels on screen, punching them with the stubby ti
ps of her gloved fingers, before taking a last look on the port and starboard side of the deck. The ice brushing against the front half of Ophelia, from the tip of the bow and another two metres towards the stern, was white, opaque in the glare of her head torch. She returned to the starboard wheel, clicked into reverse gear and throttled Ophelia into the black sea.
Once free of the ice, Therese turned the thirty-six metre-long expedition yacht in a slow arc until the bow was aligned with the first of the waypoints glowing green on the screen in front of her. Therese decided to run on diesel until she was free of the rocky tip of the Uummannaq peninsula, where she might find some favourable winds and save on fuel. The course set, and the autopilot engaged, Therese ducked into the cockpit, grabbed a handful of chocolate bars from the kitchen, the satellite phone from the wall mount, and then killed the cockpit lights on her way back onto deck. She switched off the navigation and running lights as soon as she was back at the wheel.
Therese’s green eyes reflected the GPS glare, and she blinked once, before dimming the screen. She unwrapped and stuffed a chocolate bar into her mouth, chewing as she pulled on a second pair of gloves and tightened the drawcord of her hood around her neck. Therese clipped a safety line from the belt at her waist into a D hook behind the wheel, sat down on the chair and switched on the satellite phone. She was still chewing when her stepfather answered her call.
“I’ve got it, daddy,” she said.
“The thumb drive?”
“Yes.” Therese giggled and waited for her father to react.
“You’re laughing?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got the journal too, haven’t you?”
“I have.”
Therese smiled at the sound of Aleksander Berndt thumping the desk in his Berlin office.
“But you haven’t read it?”
“Not yet, daddy, I’ve been busy.”
“And the crew?”
“I gave the captain her instructions. The police should have plenty to occupy them for the time being.”
“And Dieter?”
“I never saw him. But he is in hospital.”
“He’ll recover?”
Blood Floe: Conspiracy, Intrigue, and Multiple Homicide in the Arctic (Greenland Crime Book 2) Page 14
