I took a last look at the photo, smiled at the light in Venus’ eye, then grabbed my coffee and followed Tuukula onto the balcony.
“My second today,” he said as he puffed a cloud of smoke above his head.
“Because you’re travelling.”
“Aap.” His eyes sparkled in the glow of his cigarette. “What do you know about sheep farming?”
“Nothing.”
Tuukula nodded. “I don’t know much, only that it is hard work. Sheep are hardy animals, but the farmer must be even tougher. He…”
“Or she,” I said.
“Imaqa – she… They must be tough, but they are also smart. Farmers are better with money than hunters.”
“Why? Because they earn more?”
“I don’t know what they earn, but it’s not that. Farmers have to think ahead.” Tuukula finished his cigarette and pointed out at the fjord. “A hunter waits. He is very patient. He can wait for days – maybe longer – for a seal.”
I smiled, and said, “You’re getting all romantic, again.”
“Am I? Imaqa. Maybe you’re right. Times change with technology. But a hunter waits. He is also spontaneous. He will do nothing for days…”
“Weeks.”
“Aap. And then whales are spotted. He gets a call, drops everything, and runs for his boat. Perhaps he has remembered to buy more bullets, or perhaps he stops to buy them on the way, cursing himself because other hunters are also running to their boats. He will be late. He might still catch a narwhal, but he might also be unlucky. He doesn’t know. It’s a chance he takes.”
I watched the hunt play out in Tuukula’s eyes, his face – animated in the light from the kitchen and lounge area, the drama punctuated by shadows.
“Maybe he also fishes,” I said.
“A longline? Aap. He could do that. And he could have a good spot, lots of fish, but even fishing is a game of chance. A pod of whales comes in and eats the fish from the lines. Niisarnaq, the pilot whale – they do it all the time.”
“But the farmer…”
“He plans,” Tuukula said, tapping the stub of his missing finger against his head. “Field rotation, planning three maybe four years ahead, storing feed, anticipating bad weather, moving the flock, leaving nothing to chance.”
“How does that make him more money?”
“It doesn’t make more money, but he must budget. Do you know any hunter who has a budget?”
“No.”
“Savings? Insurance?”
I thought of all the uninsured boats in Greenland and shook my head.
“A farmer can hunt, but it takes a special kind of hunter to be a farmer.”
“What are you saying, Tuukula?”
“I’m saying that you are going south.”
“Yes.”
“That you will meet a different kind of man.”
“Tuukula,” I said, conscious of my deepening frown. “I’m looking for a missing woman.”
“Aap,” he said. “And I’m telling you to be careful.”
Part 10
I took the scrapbook with me, sliding it into the sleeve at the back of my backpack. I had a backup of all the photos and articles on my phone, but there was something about physically taking Kiiki’s book with me, as if I were taking her with me. It felt right, somehow, even if I couldn’t explain it.
I shuffled forward in the line of passengers, a faint smile on my lips as I thought of Luui tossing and turning in her sleep, thumping soft fists against my back as she moved, filling the sheets with small pockets of five-year-old turbulence.
“You can stay as long as you want,” I said, pressing my keys into Tuukula’s hand before I left.
“Qujanaq. And…”
“I’ll be careful.”
“I know, but look at all the details, and your surroundings, not just the names.”
It took a shaman to tell a police constable to do her job. But I appreciated the thought, the concern, and the love, as Luui slipped her hand into mine.
I promised to stay sharp, and not to dwell on the name Tuukula found in the article –Pannapa Imaakka. According to the article, he was an amateur photographer the newspapers used to accompany local journalists on a story. Without knowing it for sure, I assumed he was the man who had taken the photos of Venus, giving her copies to send to Kiiki in Nuuk. Venus was on an adventure, embraced by the board of a young wool association, convinced she was their ticket to growth and success. And, when it came to modelling, Venus must have thought Pannapa was her ticket into the limelight, and she had fallen for him.
It was a theory, at least, hashed out in the early hours over more coffee and two more cigarettes for Tuukula – it was a new day, after all.
But any further theorising would have to wait. I had a lecture to deliver and just a few hours aboard one of Air Greenland’s fancy new Dash 8s in which to prepare it.
The captain announced our approach to Narsarsuaq, one of only two airports in Greenland capable of receiving large airliners. Like the airport in Kangerlussuaq, it was built during the Second World War by the Americans. But Narsarsuaq itself was a settlement, just like Kangerlussuaq. To get to southern Greenland’s main town of Qaqortoq required a helicopter. And I wondered why the conference was being held in the settlement, not the town.
“Mould,” Nikkuliit Kunnak said, as she greeted me inside the airport. She wore a bright red fleece over her jeans with the hotel logo embroidered on the right, together with a conference ID badge hanging on a soft, flat cord around her neck. “The conference was supposed to be held in the gymnasium – the college. But they found mould and we moved it here. Most of the guests and speakers are flying here anyway, so it saves on helicopter flights. I’ve put you in a room at the youth hostel. You’ve got the room to yourself, but there was nothing left at the hotel. I hope that’s all right?”
“It’s fine,” I said, shouldering my backpack as I followed Nikkuliit out of the airport.
“The conference started last night with welcome drinks and an introduction to the current status of digital Greenland.” Nikkuliit pulled a set of keys from her pocket as we walked. “You haven’t missed much.”
“And when am I on?”
“In the evening, the first speaker after dinner.”
“So I have a few hours.”
“Aap,” Nikkuliit said. She stopped beside a large American SUV. “Get in and I’ll give you a lift to the hostel.”
It wasn’t fancy, but the hostel provided everything a guest could need, including amazing views, the tang of wet grass drying in the late spring sun, and most importantly, no rain. I couldn’t know what Venus thought of it, if she had stayed here, but I imagined that she would have been excited about taking her first steps on the road to a modelling career, and that everything she saw and everyone she met would have been bathed in a warm glow of enthusiasm. The slow setting sun lit up the red walls of the wooden hostel, licking at the taller grasses as its rays filtered down the mountainside. Nikkuliit parked in the dust and gravel outside the hostel and waved at the police officer as he smoked, leaning against the side of his patrol car.
“See the tall policeman with the 70s moustache over there? That’s Innaaq Paniula.”
“Yes,” I said, although I had forgotten to ask who was stationed in Narsarsuaq.
“Are you married?”
“Excuse me?”
Nikkuliit nodded at Innaaq, and said, “Just tell him you are. It’ll make things easier.”
“Okay.”
Nikkuliit promised to pick me up in time for dinner, and I got out of the car. Innaaq met me halfway to the hostel.
“I thought the commissioner was coming,” he said, once he had introduced himself.
“He was, but he sent me instead.” I blinked in the dust pillowing up from the ground as Nikkuliit drove back to the hotel.
“And you’re going to give his talk?”
“My talk,” I said, curling a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I look forward to it.”
Innaaq’s lips curled in a lazy smile as he ran his eyes over me.
“What’s that?” he said, as I thought of what Nikkuliit had told me. “I thought you said something.”
“Married,” I said, before excusing myself.
I left Innaaq in the dusty parking area and checked into the hostel. I shivered at the desk as the receptionist found my key.
“Are you cold?” she asked.
“No, it’s just…”
I couldn’t explain it. It felt like I wasn’t alone, that Venus was here beside me, commenting on everything around her, as if it was exactly as she had experienced when she arrived in Narsarsuaq over forty years earlier.
“I’m just tired,” I said. “From the flight.”
“Then let’s get you settled in. Just remember the hostel is unmanned from eleven at night until six in the morning. You’ll have to call if there’s a problem.”
I followed the receptionist to my room, waited for her to close the door behind her, and then crawled onto the bottom mattress in one of two bunk beds.
“Okay, Venus. One step at a time.”
Part 11
There were two desks in my room. I spread out my notes for the talk on one of them and put Kiiki’s scrapbook on the other. I arranged the loose contents from the envelope at the back of the book around the edges of the desk, rearranging them in order of priority – things to check out first, including the notes I had made in my notebook while Tuukula translated. I took a brochure from the rack by the door and opened it to the map of the area in the centre pages. All the sheep farms were conveniently marked, and I ran my fingertip from one to the other, searching for the farm Tuukula had said Venus had visited: Ilua, close to the river of the same name. I found it, south of Narsarsuaq, on the western shore of Tunulliarfik Fjord.
“You’ll need a boat,” Tuukula had said.
He was right.
The alarm on my phone beeped, reminding me to focus, and I took a reluctant step away from Kiiki’s table, to go through my lecture notes. The commissioner had assured me it was more of a Q&A session, and that I could get away with talking about stuff in general, explaining that more detail was available from the IT consultants contracted to work for the Greenland Police.
“If that fails,” he said. “Tell them it’s classified.”
Classified. Right. Only I wasn’t good at classified. But with little time to prepare, and a whole lot of distraction, I fell back on a paper I had written at the academy, in English, when trying to impress my English teacher. Top marks and a lengthy evaluation full of praise from the teacher had turned my cheeks red at the time, while Atii stuck her fingers down her throat in exasperation.
She could shoot, but I could write.
Together we made a team, helping each other through the academy.
“Atii,” I whispered with a quick glance at my phone. It was too late to call. There was barely enough time to change.
I decided on Greenland casual, twisting outdoor practicality with a touch of feminine guile. I brushed the dust from my jeans, and tied my bootlaces, then peeling off my uniform shirt, I switched my sports bra for a fancier one in black, before pulling on one of Atii’s shapely short-sleeved shirts I had forgotten to return. I had another just like it – also Atii’s – at home in my wardrobe. I sniffed under my arms and checked the time again, deciding that slightly sweaty was chic, and that if I really wanted a shower, I could skip dinner.
My stomach rumbled, and I fastened all the buttons on Atii’s shirt, leaving the top two open.
“It’s not like I’m going out,” I said, avoiding my eyes in the mirror as I checked the overall look.
Atii would no doubt roll her eyes, but she wasn’t here. And the mission – as I thought of it – wasn’t the talk. That was just a means to an end. What I really needed was a boat.
“Focus, Petra.”
I shuffled my notes into a pile, checked the charge on my phone and stuffed it into my back pocket. I grabbed my jacket, taking a last glance at Kiiki’s desk, before I left the room and locked the door.
“All set?” Nikkuliit asked as I climbed into the passenger seat.
“I’m ready.”
I fixed my hair as she drove, nodding when she pointed out leftovers from the war. Apparently, just outside of the settlement, one could see the ruins of a hospital from the time of the Korean War. I made a few appreciative comments without revealing how little I knew about Greenland’s history.
“There’s a museum, if you’re interested,” Nikkuliit said. “Although, I think they are closed until the summer.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “What I really need is a boat.”
“A boat?”
“I’d like to visit a sheep farm while I’m here.”
Nikkuliit slowed to a stop outside the hotel. She switched off the engine, and said, “I have a friend with a boat. She also has a farm. I’ll call her.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it, but I also need to visit a specific farm.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“Ilua.”
Nikkuliit paused for a second and then turned to look at me. “Why would you want to go there?”
“I’m looking into something.”
“Like a case?”
“Yes.” I waited for Nikkuliit to say something, prompting her when she didn’t. “Can you still help me?”
“I can, and I will, but I’m not sure I should.”
Nikkuliit got out of the car and I hurried to join her as she walked to the hotel entrance.
“Nikkuliit?”
“It’s okay,” she said, pausing at the door. “I’ll help you. But don’t say anything more, to anyone. Not until tomorrow morning.”
“What happens tomorrow morning?”
“Tornginnguaq will take you to Ilua.”
“You’re sure?”
“She won’t like it, but she will take you.”
I followed Nikkuliit inside, forcing myself to switch gears and focus on the talk as she introduced me to a group of guests in the lobby. Another shiver reminded me that Venus was nearby, in one form or another, but I ignored her, hoping she wouldn’t be offended, but that for the next few hours I had a job to do.
Part 12
“Yes, Michael,” I said, pointing to the man I sat next to during dinner.
Michael shifted in his seat, pressing the bridge of his glasses to his nose before speaking. “First, I want to thank you for an illuminating presentation.”
“Thank you.”
“As you say, the technical details are available, but classified, although I’m sure you could tell us a little more about your systems?”
“Well,” I said, trying to smile as I drew a deep breath. “I could…”
“But then you’d have to kill us. Right?” Michael waved his hand in a just kidding gesture as waves of laughter erupted around the room. “But, on a more serious note, what’s the one take away you could give us, that we can think about on our flights back to the States, the UK, Europe… What one thing would you want us to think about as regards policing in a digital age in Greenland?” He leaned back in his seat. “Just one thing,” he said, handing the floor back to me.
“Just one thing?” I smiled, curling a strand of hair behind my ear as I thought about it. “I guess it would be to remind the world, present company excepted, that Greenland is digital, that we have Internet. We are not restricted in our use – beyond the price of Internet access which is…”
“Astronomical,” said a woman sitting in the front row.
“Yes,” I said. “But considering how many users there are, maybe that’s one reason, plus the cost of the sea cable to North America. I mean, I don’t like it, but I understand it. But more than that, just realising that even in the most remote places, even the poorest people have access to the Internet – free access in schools and libraries, for example. They might not own a computer. They might not be able to afford a mobile phone
subscription, but they can access the Internet.” I paused as a few people nodded their heads. “Even today, there’s this image of Greenlanders wearing skins and furs, living in igloos and trading for beads. Well, that’s not my Greenland.” I pulled my smartphone from my pocket. “I have a smartphone. I spend way too much time on it.” More laughs. “But I have also travelled by dog sledge, worn thick furs that are still the best answer to cold, Arctic weather. But my Greenland is both these things. And, if Internet is available to everyone, then I mean everyone – no matter their intentions. The criminal element in Greenland is just as online as the same element in Europe, or America. We can access the Dark Web. There are no restrictions, no blocked sites. It’s a sad fact that our school computers are loaded with virus, have to be cleaned of porn, and they should be monitored better than they are. But we’re online, for better and worse. We’re connected.” I paused for breath and nodded at Michael, just as Constable Innaaq Paniula waved to me from the door. “That’s what I’d want you to take away from this talk.”
“Perfect,” Michael said. He started a round of applause, and I blushed my way from the front of the room to the back, pausing to shake some of the delegates’ hands, promising to be available for follow-up questions in the bar later. Innaaq beckoned, and I made my excuses, just as the next speaker was introduced, together with apologies for running late, following a lengthy but interesting Q&A session with Constable Jensen. A flutter of approval followed me out of the door and into the lobby.
“Yes?” I said, arranging my papers as Innaaq gestured for me to follow him to a quiet corner.
“You’ve hired a boat,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Tornginnguaq’s boat.”
“Is there a problem?”
“She said you want to go to Ilua.” Innaaq stared at me for a minute, before adding, “There’s nothing there, Constable.”
“I just want to look.”
“There are other farms.”
“But I want to go to that one.”
“Why?”
I took a second to think things through. Regardless of Nikkuliit’s warning about Innaaq’s more amorous intentions, I struggled to see a reason not to share information with him. He seemed capable of finding things out without any help from me. And yet, there was something about his manner, the way he lowered his voice, and his stare, that made me wonder.
The Winter Trap Page 4
