“You first. Along the path, into the mountains.”
“Whatever you say.”
I gave Innaaq a five-metre lead, then flicked the safety back on, keeping the shotgun levelled at his back. I should have picked up his pistol, but didn’t want to bend down, or take my eyes off him. He kept walking, and I followed, along the same path Venus had taken forty years earlier.
Part 23
Innaaq slowed down as the grass thickened, placing his feet carefully, calling out that the ground was wet, that I should watch my step. I told him to keep going. The wind picked up, twisting through the grass and teasing strands of hair out of my elastic. The clouds had moved closer and a light rain started to fall. Innaaq raised his voice, competing with the elements for my attention.
“You think you know something, but you don’t.”
“I know your father chased Venus along this path. That he was the last person to see her alive.”
“That’s a lie,” Innaaq said, turning. I wondered if he inherited his looks from his father, if Sergeant Paniula’s grimace was equally fierce, if they shared more than looks, and had matching temperaments. “You know nothing about ataata.”
“I know he bullied people to get his way.”
“Don’t goad me, Constable.” Innaaq raised his hand, jabbing his finger towards my face.
“I think you loved him,” I said, raising my voice as the wind increased. “That’s not wrong. But what you’re doing is.”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“Protecting him.”
“He’s dead, Constable. He died eight years ago.”
“And you want to protect his memory, his reputation.”
“There’s nothing to protect. It’s solid.”
A flicker of something flashed in Innaaq’s eyes, and I felt closer than ever to discovering what had happened to Venus. I pushed my luck when I shouldn’t have. I took a chance – hoping for a confession, ignoring the fact that there was more than Sergeant Paniula’s reputation at stake. He was dead already. But his son stood right in front of me.
“I think he followed Venus into the mountains. I think she stopped – exhausted, maybe…”
“You don’t know…”
“This was your father’s beat. These people were his responsibility.”
“He loved his job.”
“And he wanted to be loved. People had to love him. They had to respect him.”
Innaaq shook his head. “You know nothing.”
“Pannapa and Joorsi…”
“Two old men,” Innaaq said.
“Younger then,” I said. “Half your father’s age. They didn’t show enough respect. They didn’t understand the rules. Did they, Innaaq? They took her from him, before he…”
Innaaq reached for his baton, pulling it from his belt, extending it, as I stepped back, suddenly aware that I had gone too far.
Stupid, I thought. Just like the men.
I didn’t want to shoot Innaaq, but I should have. He charged forward, and I raised the shotgun like a staff, fending off blow after blow from his baton. Innaaq beat me back one step, then another, until I slipped, rolled, dropped the shotgun, and slid down a shallow gully of grass.
Innaaq stooped to pick up the shotgun.
I picked myself up and ran.
I stumbled at the sound of the first shot, breathing hard, slipping in the wet grass, not caring where the shot went, only that Innaaq had missed and that the shotgun was empty. I pressed my hand to my trousers, catching my breath as I felt the shells inside my pocket. I cut to the right of the helicopter, away from the farmhouse, headed for the beach.
“Constable!”
Innaaq roared behind me, but I reached the granite lip before him, ducking down over the other side, out of sight, if only for a second, but long enough to duck inside the stone sheep pen, only to curse as I realised how stupid it was, that Innaaq would know I was inside.
Unless.
I held my breath as Innaaq pounded past the sheep pen, breathing hard, heading for the beach.
He thinks I’m going for Tornginnguaq’s boat.
I stifled a laugh. It was too soon to celebrate. But if I could get back to the helicopter, find Innaaq’s pistol, see if the pilot had a phone.
Or use the radio in the helicopter. Get help.
I got ready to move, then paused as the lowlight from the open doorway caught something in the opposite wall. The walls of the sheep pen were built of sturdy dark stone, but a lighter stone in the gap in the wall caught my eye. I reached for it, plucked it free and cried out before I could stop myself, dropping the skull in my hand and stumbling to the door.
Part 24
I clapped my hand to my mouth and sealed my lips, hardly daring to breathe as the wind carried the sound of footsteps from the path towards the sheep pen.
I’m trapped.
Another crunch of gravel, and the footsteps came closer.
I looked at the skull of the floor – small, perhaps female. My eyes widened at the thought, the fact that I was processing such thoughts as Innaaq drew closer, that I was capable of thinking. But thinking was silent. It was breathing that was going to get me in trouble, maybe even get me killed.
“Hello Constable.”
I turned my head, slowly, just as Innaaq’s shadow fell into the pen. He followed soon after, smoothing his moustache with one hand, brandishing the baton in the other.
“You should have gone for the beach,” he said.
I nodded. I thought the same thing.
“Should have taken the boat.” He let go of his moustache and pulled the dead man’s switch for the outboard motor out of his pocket. “Too late now.”
“The pilot,” I said.
“Can’t see us.” Innaaq shrugged. “Can’t hear us.”
He slipped the plastic starter key into his pocket, and leaned against the side of the pen, blocking the doorway, slapping the end of the baton into his free hand.
“Self-defence,” he said, “is like suicide. Both are easier to explain when the other party is dead.”
“The other party?”
“That’s you, Constable.” Innaaq raised his eyebrows. “You’re starting to get it, aren’t you?”
“You’re not your father,” I said.
Innaaq carried on as if he hadn’t heard me. “Some shoes are so big to fill. You know? He left a legacy I had to live up to it. It’s been hard. I never knew my mother. I only ever knew him, and the women he had look after me when he was at work. But just think, Constable, how much harder it would have been to live in his shadow – the darker side. If people thought he killed some girl…”
“Venus,” I breathed, glancing at the skull on the sheep pen floor.
“Right.” Innaaq nodded. “If they thought he killed her, or did anything to her…”
“He’s dead, Innaaq.”
Innaaq’s brow creased as he stared at me. “I know he’s dead. But he saved me. He kept things quiet, and everyone went along with it. Everything was fine.”
I wanted to tell him about the letters Venus had sent, the photographs.
“Everyone played their part, keeping things quiet for a bit. Even Pannapa.” Innaaq grinned. “You think it was Pannapa who went through your scrapbook?”
“You told me it was.”
“Of course, but he didn’t need to look. He already knew what he would find.”
“What?”
Innaaq laughed, and then adopted a feminine voice, “My dearest Kiiki, I’ve met someone. I think I’m in love. Your friend, Venus.”
“The letters…”
“And photos,” Innaaq said. “Pannapa was the only one with a fancy camera. Everyone knew that. Ataata gave him a choice – play along or become chief suspect in Venus’ disappearance.”
“The Greenland Wool Association.”
“The what?” Innaaq grinned. “Local journalist. Pannapa’s photos. Venus was just a stupid girl thinking she could make the big time.”
<
br /> “Vogue...”
“Really? Constable, the world barely knows Greenland exists.” Innaaq jabbed a finger in the direction of Narsarsuaq. “You had to tell a bunch of IT nerds that we have Internet in Greenland. It’s the 21st Century, and you think it’s important to tell people we don’t live in igloos and that we have broadband. If you think that was the most important take away at a conference celebrating Digital Greenland, what do you think it was like in the 70s?”
“I don’t know…”
“Because you weren’t born,” Innaaq said, spittle flecking his moustache. “Neither was I, Constable.”
I thought about what he said, and then it occurred to me that maybe even Innaaq didn’t have all the details, that some things, perhaps the most important and the most damning, had been kept from him, that he was as much in the dark as I was, blindly protecting his father’s reputation.
“Did he ever tell you what happened to Venus? What he did to her?”
Innaaq wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“He didn’t, did he?” I tried to catch Innaaq’s eye.
“It doesn’t matter. All this happened way before our time. So, let’s just let it go, eh?”
I looked at the skull on the floor and shook my head. “I can’t.”
Innaaq took a moment to compose himself and then nodded. “I didn’t think so.” He looked at the skull, and said, “Insurance. Bones in Joorsi’s sheep pen should raise a few questions. I bet you’re wondering who that is.”
“Not anymore,” I said, as I swung my fist at Innaaq’s jaw.
He took the blow, rolled with it along the wall as I scrabbled for the door. I burst out of the pen and into the wind, rain slapping at my face, people shouting. I turned to shout back, wanted to tell them to run, but my words hung in my mouth like lead, as Innaaq cracked his baton over my head. I crumpled to the ground, turning, raising my hands, taking a second blow across my fingers as Innaaq pulled back and hit me again. He jerked in front of me, then toppled off my body, out of sight, as my nose filled with blood and the grey sky above Tunulliarfik Fjord turned to black.
Part 25
A bright light burned through my eyelids and I opened my eyes, blinking at the white ceiling above me, and the shadow that passed in front of the window to my left.
“Good afternoon, Jensen.”
“Sergeant?”
“Aap.”
Duneq moved from the window and sat down heavily in the chair beside my bed. I blinked again, pressed the tips of my fingers to my cheek, wondering why my fingers were bound together, then wincing at the pain in my face.
“You have two black eyes, Jensen. Your fingers are broken. Your nose is broken too, but set. The doctor’s say it will heal, that you won’t notice a difference. You will still be the pretty girl you think you are.”
“What…”
“Happened?” Duneq grunted. “A good question. The commissioner sent me down here to clean up your mess, Constable. And yes, before you ask, he finished your weekend shift, and he eagerly awaits your return.”
I licked my lips, wondering why my mouth was so dry as Duneq checked his watch.
“It’s after four on Monday afternoon. You’re in the hospital in Qaqortoq, and you’re late for work, Jensen,” he said, as he handed me a glass of water with a straw. I sat up and took the glass, catching Duneq’s eye, but only for a second, as he looked away. “As for what happened, do you mean on Saturday or in 1975?”
“Saturday,” I said. “And Sunday.”
“Sunday you slept. That’s easy. Saturday, however, is another matter.”
“Innaaq?”
“Constable Innaaq Paniula?” Duneq took my glass and refilled it. “He has yet to say anything of interest. But we know he was prepared for something.”
“How?”
“He took two bullets to the chest, from his own pistol.”
“Joorsi?”
Duneq shook his head. “The young woman…”
“Tornginnguaq.”
“That’s the one. She, unlike Innaaq, is talking. As are many people in Narsarsuaq – the older generation, particularly so.”
“You said Innaaq was prepared.”
Duneq tapped his chest. “He wore a bulletproof vest under his jacket.”
“And Pannapa?”
“Death by hanging. But that doesn’t explain the swelling or the blood at the back of his head.”
“Innaaq?”
“Imaqa. We’ll find out. The commissioner has asked me to investigate, and I have questions for you, when you’re well enough to answer them. Until then, I have a whole list of people to talk to, and a forensic team, together with an archaeologist from Nuuk, to look at a skull found close to where Innaaq was shot.”
“In the sheep pen,” I said. “It’s Venus Manumina.”
Duneq’s jowls wobbled as he shook his head. “Too early for that.”
“But it’s a female skull.”
“Possibly.”
Duneq handed me the glass of water and then heaved himself out of the chair. “I’ve got you on a plane back to Nuuk tomorrow. Helicopter to Narsarsuaq first.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “I don’t appreciate being your secretary, Jensen. But here are your messages.”
I reached for the paper, but Duneq made no move to give it to me.
“English first,” he said, peering at the note. “Somebody called Brigham has invited you to London. Friend of yours?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s complicated.”
Duneq moved on to the next message. “Digital Greenland wants you to come back next year.” He looked up. “I said it was unlikely, but that I would pass the message along.”
I caught the briefest of smiles on Duneq’s lips and felt a sudden flush of relief in my chest. It wasn’t a dream. Everything was normal. Duneq was back to normal.
“And Atii,” he said. “Something about a phone battery.” Duneq crumpled the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. “She’s picking you up tomorrow. Until then, I suggest you get some rest.”
“No more questions, Sergeant?” I asked, as Duneq walked to the door.
“They can wait,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Duneq looked at me and I caught a sheen of something in his eye, glistening wetly in the light. He recovered quickly with his trademark, “Training is over, Jensen.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Part 26
I could say a lot of things about Sergeant Duneq, and I usually did, but one thing was sure – he was thorough. Staff at the airport in Narsarsuaq handed me my backpack as soon as the helicopter from Qaqortoq landed. They plied me with coffee before the flight, and even more during the return flight to Nuuk. The change in pressure added to the pain behind my eyes, in my nose, and even my fingers, but it was the coffee and the patchwork of thoughts of the weekend that made my head buzz.
I was still buzzing when we landed in Nuuk.
“Oh, P,” Atii said, as she took my backpack. She curled her arms around me.
“Gently,” I said, feeling pathetic – being pathetic.
“You’re a mess.”
“Yes.”
Atii let go of me and looked over her shoulder. “I’m not sure…”
“Too late,” I said, as Luui thundered towards me.
She slowed to a stop, then tilted her head, fixing me with her most curious five-year-old stare. “Pretty lady?” she said.
“Well, kind of.”
Luui looked at Atii, smiled when she nodded, and then leaped into my arms.
Pathetic obviously wasn’t in Luui’s vocabulary, and I bit back a fresh wave of pain as I carried her through the airport to Atii’s patrol car.
“Tuukula is at your apartment,” she said, opening the rear door and buckling Luui into the back seat. “He’s cooking. Real food, he said.”
Luui stuck out her tongue. “No more jars.”
“I heard that,” I said, as Atii clo
sed the back door.
I climbed into the passenger seat and dumped my backpack in the footwell. Atii started the car and pulled away from the kerb.
“Duneq came to the hospital,” I said, once we were on the road back into the city. “He said the commissioner sent him to clean up my mess.”
“He didn’t.”
“What?”
Atii slowed to a stop at the first junction, grinning as we waited for a line of traffic. She laughed, and said, “When we heard what happened, Duneq grabbed a phone and booked a flight.”
“He did what?”
“The commissioner tried to stop him. But he wouldn’t have it. He said, and I quote: Constable Jensen is in trouble. I’m her supervisor.”
“He said that?”
“And some other stuff, but I didn’t catch that. I don’t think anyone did. Then the commissioner just looks at Duneq and says carry on, Sergeant. And that was it. Duneq left the station.”
Atii pulled into a gap in the traffic and took the road into the city centre. Duneq was still on my mind when I realised we were going the wrong way.
“Atii…”
“It’s my fault,” she said. “I blindsided you with the stuff about Duneq.”
“Yes, but…”
“You want to go straight home?”
She slowed the car, looking for a spot in which to turn.
“No,” I said. “I want to go to the home. Not mine. Hers.”
Atii nodded, accelerated, and said, “I thought so. Although,” she gestured at my face. “This might be a problem.”
“No worse than last time,” I said.
I said nothing more for the rest of the drive. Luui filled the gap with stories told in a mix of three languages, mostly about her father, monsters, and friendly spirits. Atii kept her going, asking questions, feigning shock and disbelief, and then laughing as she parked outside the residential home.
“Go on,” she said. “We’ll wait.”
“You won’t get bored?”
Atii glanced at Luui, and said, “You’re kidding me? Luui’s got it covered. Take as long as you need.”
I shut the door, opening it again as Atii waved from the driver’s seat.
The Winter Trap Page 8
