“Why?”
“You’re gonna go with why?”
“Yes.”
Johnson glanced at Hannah, frowning at the curl of her lips. “I’ll tell you why,” he said, and looked at Petra. “Because oil is running out, and Greenland has no viable oil. But what you do have is two handfuls of people on a frozen rock in the middle of the Atlantic, with no connecting roads, and a national desire for independence. You want to be free of Denmark, and I can make that happen.”
“One mine at a time?”
“Why not?”
“I’ll tell you why not,” Petra said, and took a step closer to Johnson. “Because while you win the hearts of one handful with your promise of money, you’ll be poisoning the minds of the other by dumping waste from the mines into the water. We’ve been down that road already. People like you promise jobs for Greenlanders, and then claim we don’t have the qualifications. You promise the government huge payouts once your overheads have been met, but neglect to tell them it will take thirty years or more for a tiny percentage of the profits. It’s been done before.”
“And it will be done again, Sergeant. Don’t you want to know why?”
“Because were a bunch of ignorant and uncultured Eskimos?”
“I was going to say natives, but I’ll go with Eskimos. Anyway,” Johnson said, as he held out his wrists, “I think I’ll be going now. This conversation is getting boring.”
Petra took a step back as the American with in the suit pulled a pair of metal handcuffs from his belt and slapped them around Johnson’s wrists.
“What the hell?”
“Sam Johnson?”
“Yes?”
“I have been authorised to detain you for questioning in regard to matters concerning espionage, conspiracy, and,” the man paused, “insider trading. It seems you own a mining company Mr Johnson, and they appear to have gone bust.”
“I don’t own a mining company.”
“We’ll let the lawyers deal with the specifics, but, as of eight o’clock this morning, you do. The Greenlandic part, anyway.”
“What the hell?” Johnson looked at his watch. “It’s four in the morning, for God’s sake.”
Petra leaned forwards, and said, “Not in Greenland. We’re four hours ahead. How’s that for ignorant?”
Petra smiled all the way to the ambulance, climbed up the steps and sat down on the seat beside Maratse. She took his hand and kissed him on the cheek as the paramedic adjusted the saline drip and the driver closed the doors.
“We’re going home,” she said.
Chapter 22
The Commissioner called it extended leave and the police union agreed, provided that Petra receive the proper psychological support following an extensive debrief. It should have happened in Greenland, but, given her German language skills, a generous licence was applied and the union accepted the assistance of the Bundespolizei, with a representative from the Danish police sitting in on the different meetings. The debrief took three days, and Maratse met Petra at the same café at the foot of the television tower in Alexanderplatz at the same time each day. Petra translated the articles in Die Welt and Berliner Zeitung while Maratse fiddled with the tubes of sugar, watched the crowds and looked at Petra. He lost interest in the story once Petra confirmed that Dieter was fit to fly, and he and the captain of the Ophelia were being escorted out of Greenland in the custody of the German Bundespolizei, after negotiations at the political level. Petra read about Berndt and a shadowy figure referred to as an American. She started to read the articles mentioning the two Greenlanders involved in the police operations in the city, only to stop, and look up when Maratse placed his finger on the paper.
“Don’t bother with that one,” he said, “I know what happened in the restaurant.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He tapped an article next to the account of the storming of the restaurant. “Read that one.”
Petra frowned, and said, “It’s about a political scandal. Unrelated.”
“Read it anyway,”
“You’re sure?”
“Iiji.”
Petra started to read, curling her hair behind her ear, and tracing her finger beneath the words in the article. She tapped the page each time a particular word challenged her, as she searched for the Danish translation of more specific terms. When she had to pause for a fourth time, she stopped, her gaze focussed on the paper, and said, “I know what you’re doing.” She bit at the smile quivering on her bottom lip.
“I’m listening.”
“Okay,” she said, and looked up. “What’s it about?”
“I’m not listening to the words, Piitalaat.”
“I know.”
Petra pressed her hand on top of Maratse’s, brushing her fingers across the tiny fishing scars, the nicks and cuts in his nails.
“I don’t know what this is,” she said.
“Neither do I.”
“Maybe it’s the trauma, shared experiences, something.” Petra looked up. “But I feel safe with you. I can be myself.”
“Thirteen years, Piitalaat.”
“I don’t care about that,” she said, and squeezed his hand. “You hear about it all the time.”
“Famous people, maybe.”
“Not just famous people. We both know lots of couples in Greenland, with a bigger age gap than ours.”
Maratse smiled, and said, “The man is usually better looking.”
“You worry about that?” Petra let go of Maratse’s hand, and placed it over her mouth, suppressing a giggle. Her eyes danced, the red and green Christmas lights flickering in her deep brown irises. Petra’s shoulders twitched, and she said, “Really?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Sometimes.”
Petra wiped a tear from her eye, folded the newspapers onto the table, and stood up. “Come on,” she said, and held out her hand.
The Berlin Christmas markets were crowded, and Maratse let Petra lead him by the hand between the stalls, through the maze of ornaments, past seasonal aromas – candied and curried spices. They ate currywurst from paper trays with wooden forks, shared a beer, and spent their last night in Berlin in the same hotel room, his arm curled around her slim, warm body, her hair tickling his nose.
“I still don’t know,” Petra whispered.
“Neither do I.”
It took a day to fly from Berlin to Copenhagen, to Kangerlussuaq, to Ilulissat, to Qaarsut. Karl met them outside the airport and they got a lift down to the ice in the yellow and red-striped airport Land Cruiser. He fiddled with the sledge as Petra changed into her salopettes, zipped her jacket to just below her chin, and tugged a thick fleece hat over her long black hair.
“We’re taking the dogs,” Karl said. “You can’t get three on a snowmobile.”
“Any peanuts?” Maratse asked, with a look at Petra.
“What?”
“Don’t mind him,” Petra said. “He just doesn’t understand the rules of flying.”
“There are rules?” Karl said.
“Yes. Petra gets the peanuts,” she said.
Karl looked at them and shook his head. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
The open leads of black water had stretched since they had last travelled across the ice, and Karl swung the team away from the coast before curving in a long arc to the beach of Inussuk. Petra leaned into Maratse’s arms as the frost coated the tips of her hair in brittle white sleeves. Maratse relaxed as Karl drove the team with soft claps of his hands, and the occasional snap of the whip on the ice.
Buuti met them on the ice, together with Edvard and his wife, Nukannguaq. Maratse smiled as the two women enveloped Petra with soft shrieks and warm hugs, tugging her away to the house as the men unsnapped the dogs from the team, secured them to the ice and fed them. Maratse shook Edvard’s hand, frowning as the women shrieked again on the deck of Buuti’s house.
“It’s Nukannguaq,” Edvard said. “She’s pregnant.”
“Congratula
tions,” Maratse said, and slapped Edvard on the back.
“We’re pleased,” he said, and nodded at Karl. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“You and Petra?”
Karl crunched through the snow and shook his head. “Don’t ask, Edvard. It has something to do with peanuts.”
“Peanuts?”
“Come on,” Karl said, and pointed at the house. “Let’s eat.”
The houses of Inussuk glittered with paper stars. They filled the windows, hanging from electrical cords, lit with soft bulbs. The lights were turned on on the first night of advent, and would stay lit until Christmas was past, and the sun had turned, creeping towards the horizon. There were two stars hanging in the windows of Maratse’s house, and he thanked Karl as they clumped up the stairs after the women.
“Thank Buuti,” he said.
The windows steamed as they ate into the night, laughing at stories shared around the table, tales of the hunt, the condition of the ice. Maratse caught Petra’s eye at the end of the table, watched as she teased at a strand of hair hanging over her cheek, smiling as Nukannguaq filled Petra’s glass with more wine. They didn’t talk, just looked, until the meal was over, the stories had been repeated twice, maybe three times, and it was time to leave.
“I’ll sleep on the sofa,” Maratse said, as they hung their jackets in the hall.
“No,” Petra whispered. She took his hand, bit at her bottom lip and then led him upstairs.
Maratse found a note beside the bed in the morning. He squinted as he read it, curling his head on the pillow, breathing in the last of Petra’s perfume, before he slipped out of bed, and clumped down the stairs. He ignored the familiar ache in his legs, made coffee, and smiled at the thought of Petra sledging into Uummannaq with Karl to do some shopping. She would stay for Christmas, the note said.
Maratse sipped his coffee by the window, his face lit in the soft glow of the paper star. He tugged at his t-shirt, and waved at Buuti as she climbed the steps to his house, kicked the snow from her boots, and opened the door.
“Hi,” Maratse said. “Coffee?”
“Naamik,” Buuti said. She waited by the door.
“You’re not coming in?”
She shook her head. “Karl called.”
“Iiji?”
“He said your mobile is off.”
Maratse nodded. “Battery needs charging. What is it?”
“He’s ready to leave Uummannaq, but he can’t find Petra. She’s not answering her mobile.”
“It’s here,” Maratse said, and pointed at the two phones charging on the windowsill.
“Okay, but Karl needs to come back. He told his sister to look out for Petra.”
“I can pick her up.”
“Sure.” Buuti nodded. She turned to leave, and then stopped. “We’re happy for you, David.”
“Qujanaq.” Maratse smiled as Buuti shut the door.
He tapped the screens of the phones in the windowsill, and then walked to the kitchen. Maratse boiled more water, made fresh coffee, opened the fridge only to shake his head and close it again. Karl had fed his dogs while he was away, but the cupboards were bare. If Petra had her phone, he realised, he could ask her to buy some food – potatoes, before the store ran out.
Maratse closed the fridge as the landline rang. Coffee dribbled out of the machine and spat on the hotplate warming the glass, as Maratse walked around the sofa to answer the phone. He picked it up, smiling at Petra’s scent locked into his t-shirt.
“Maratse?”
“Iiji.”
“It’s Aqqa Danielsen. Simonsen needs you to come into town.”
“Why?”
Danielsen waited a beat, and then said, “I can’t really say. It’s best you come.”
“What’s going on, Aqqa?”
“It’s Sergeant Jensen…”
“Iiji?”
“We think she’s been taken.”
Author’s Note
Greenland is the largest island in the world, but with roughly 56,000 inhabitants, its population is smaller than the city of Galveston, Texas. The capital of Nuuk has a population of roughly 15,000 people. Some settlements have fewer than one hundred residents. There are no roads connecting the towns, villages, and settlements. Transport to and from the inhabited areas is predominantly serviced by planes with short take off and landing capabilities, helicopters, and boats. In the areas where the sea ice is thick enough, Greenlanders can travel across the ice in cars, and by snow scooters and dog sledges.
Constable David Maratse’s fictive Greenland is affected by the same limitations of the real Greenland. His fictive stories are inspired by some events and many places that exist in Greenland. Most place names are the same, such as Nuuk, and Uummannaq, but used fictitiously. The settlement of Inussuk does not exist, although observant readers looking at a map will be able to take a good guess at where it might be found.
The storyline surrounding Alfred Wegener’s journal and his discovery in Svartenhuk, is also, purely fictitious.
Chris
May 2018
Denmark
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Isabel Dennis-Muir for her invaluable editing skills and feedback on the manuscript. While several people have contributed to Blood Floe, the mistakes and inaccuracies are all my own.
Chris
May 2018
Denmark
New Polarpol Series
In Blood Floe we are introduced to a new Arctic Task Force: Polarpol, charged with investigating crimes and responding to incidents that cross the different Arctic borders. The series will feature books set in each of the 8 Arctic countries including: Norway, Sweden, Finland, Russia, the United States of America, Canada, Iceland, and Greenland (Denmark).
The first book in the series introduces several of the main characters including Hákon Sigurdsson seconded to the Arctic Task Force from the Icelandic State Police. It is set in Iceland.
Northern Light is available for pre-order from Amazon: US, UK, Canada, and Australia.
About the Author
Christoffer Petersen is the pen name for an author living in Denmark. Chris started writing stories about Greenland while teaching in Qaanaaq, the largest village in the very north of Greenland – the population peaked at 600 during the two years he lived there. He spent a total of seven years in Greenland, and taught at the Police Academy in Nuuk during his last year.
Chris continues to be inspired by the vast icy wilderness of the Arctic and his books have a common setting in the region, with a Scandinavian influence. He has also watched enough Bourne movies to no longer be surprised by the plot, but not enough to get bored.
You can find Chris in Denmark or online here:
Christoffer Petersen
By the same Author
THE GREENLAND CRIME SERIES
featuring Constable David Maratse
Book 1
SEVEN GRAVES, ONE WINTER
Short Stories from the same series
KATABATIC
CONTAINER
TUPILAQ
THE LAST FLIGHT
and
THE GREENLAND TRILOGY
featuring Konstabel Fenna Brongaard
Book 1
THE ICE STAR
Book 2
IN THE SHADOW OF THE MOUNTAIN
Book 3
THE SHAMAN’S HOUSE
and
THE CANADIAN QUARTET
featuring Konstabel Fenna Brongaard
Book 1
BLOOD SPOOR
Coming soon!
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