The Girl without Skin

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The Girl without Skin Page 15

by Mads Peder Nordbo


  She didn’t say anything, but clutched the fossilised sea urchin.

  ‘It’s incredible, don’t you think, that these little creatures crawled around in the sea all those millions of years ago? And that they look and function in exactly the same way today as they did thirty or a hundred million years ago. On the beaches back home in Denmark, where I come from, you can bend down and pick up a living sea urchin with one hand and a fossilised one with the other.’

  Her hand enclosed the fossil. ‘Can I turn into a stone?’

  He rubbed one eye. ‘Yes, you can, as a matter of fact, but it would take many more years than there have been people on this earth, so no one would ever know.’

  She smiled contentedly and nodded softly, while she opened and closed her hand. ‘It feels warm.’

  ‘It’s your hand warming it up. Rocks love heat, and if they get plenty of it, they become liquid.’

  She looked at him in disbelief.

  ‘It’s the truth. Once, all of Greenland was liquid. It’s called lava and comes from the core of the earth.’ He could see that she recognised the word lava.

  He stopped speaking, and she let her head sink back on the pillow, but she continued to clench the fossilised sea urchin in her hand. ‘You can keep it, if you like,’ Jakob said.

  She looked at him without really daring to look.

  ‘It’s yours now,’ he added, and got up from the bed.

  Her clenched fist disappeared under the quilt, as did the rest of her face. Only a little tuft of hair continued to stick out. He wished he could stroke her hair, but he didn’t dare touch her.

  ‘Good night,’ he whispered, and turned off the light. ‘I’ll leave the door ajar.’

  The quilt said nothing. It didn’t even move.

  Jakob carefully pulled the door to, leaving a gap. He went over to the sideboard and got out the projector. When he had brought Paneeraq back to his house, another bag had been hanging on the doorhandle. Jakob had removed it and opened the door as if nothing had happened. Through the thin plastic he could feel the box with the reel between his fingers, and had known that the contents were important. But he had set the bag aside and concentrated on Paneeraq’s homework and dinner instead.

  Now he set up the small projector next to his armchair again, and mounted the new reel. He looked at the door to the bedroom for a long time before starting the projector. Light filled the room, as did the clicking sound from the motor, feeding the film from the reel through the heart of the projector.

  The camera was static. Mounted in the corner that was facing Najak. The light came and went. Jakob jumped every time. Not because the light and the darkness were frightening in and of themselves, but because every interruption came without rhythm or order, and so felt like a shock. Because the little girl was still curled up in the far corner of the shiny tinfoil hell, which would alternately scream in light and reflection and then be lost in total darkness. Her body was scrunched up. Wrapped around itself. Her hair was messier. Uncombed. Rat-tailed. It was several days since the last recording, it would appear. Her feet were bare now. Her tights were gone. Her legs bare and stained with dirt. The seconds stood still. Najak looked lifeless.

  Jakob tried to keep his gaze fixed on the glowing square with the girl in the corner. The room around him came and went in time with the light on Najak. He could see only a little of her face. She was chewing monotonously, sucking one hand. There was no other movement. Traces of tears on her cheek. Smeared. Dried.

  The film kept on playing. It was the longest one so far.

  Jakob got up and fetched himself a large whisky and four painkillers, before collapsing back into the armchair. The film continued playing, but there was no movement other than the light going on and off, and the child sucking her skin.

  He disappeared inside himself. The film carried on. As did everything else. Without noticing it, he slipped into an uneasy, shallow slumber.

  38

  Jakob shot up from his armchair so fast that he nearly blacked out, but he grabbed the back of the armchair for support and regained his balance. The spots stopped dancing in front of his eyes. He could tell from the clock on the wall near the kitchen that it was ten-thirty in the evening. The reel had run out. Someone was knocking on the door and, still dazed, he looked towards the hall. It was the knocking that had woken him up. No one ever visited him at night. Especially not on a winter’s night when the cold was this fierce.

  He looked about him, then quickly unplugged the projector and hid it in the sideboard. More knocking on the door. He took a few steps towards the hall.

  There was another knock. This time it was hard and insistent, and Jakob felt his terror pulling at the cut on his forehead. He swore softly under his breath, and grimaced before he took the last few steps towards the door, which he unlocked and opened. The cold air swept inside immediately and enveloped his upper body, like the breath of an icy demon.

  He recognised two of the three men outside, but the third, who was still standing with his fist raised to knock, he had never seen before. He was a broad, ruddy-faced man with messy red hair, a bushy red beard and two gruff, ice-blue eyes hidden under thick eyebrows. He wore an Icelandic sweater, jeans and black clog boots.

  ‘Jakob,’ one of the other two men said, putting his hand on the red-haired man’s shoulder to move him aside. ‘We’ll just come in for a moment.’

  Jakob wanted to protest, but the three men had already pushed their way past him.

  ‘I’m sorry that you’ve had a wasted journey in this cold,’ Jakob said, following the three men into his living room. ‘But can’t it wait until tomorrow?’ His heart was pounding.

  The two men stared at him, while the man with the red beard walked around, inspecting the furniture and the jigsaw puzzle on the table. Jakob knew one of the two men, a young Danish lawyer called Kjeld Abelsen. He was thin, bordering on gangly, and so light-skinned that the contrast between his black hair and his pale face made him look like a black-and-white photograph stripped of any softer shades. He was clenching his jaw so tightly that his lips almost disappeared, and his eyes were shiny and piercing. He had only been in Godthåb for a few years, but had already earned himself some status and respect. He had—in Jakob’s opinion—an uncanny ability to always know on which horse to bet.

  The other man he recognised was Jørgen Emil Lyberth, and his round body and head made him Abelsen’s physical opposite. He was an Inuit, and one of the members of the Greenlandic Provincial Council who made the most noise when debating secession from Denmark and leaving the European Economic Community.

  Jakob knew exactly what the two men represented, both individually and together, but he had no idea what they were doing in his house with a red-haired Icelander late one night with biting frost and wind. To the outside world, Lyberth and Abelsen were opposites in terms of politics and vision, but behind the scenes they were, as far as Jakob had worked out, a strangely secretive pair who might very well turn out not to sing the same songs in darkness as in daylight.

  ‘What do you want?’ Jakob demanded to know, unable to hide his irritation that the young men and their older, red-bearded attack dog had forced their way into his home.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down, Jakob,’ Abelsen said with a cold look.

  ‘I’m fine standing.’

  ‘I think you should, or I’ll have to ask our friend from the Faroe Islands to help you.’

  Jakob looked at the robust man, who had moved close to him. ‘I’m fine standing,’ he reiterated angrily.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Abelsen went on. ‘Then again, you’ve never seen him gut a pilot whale, but never mind, the fall will be the same wherever he drops you.’

  Lyberth had sat down on the sofa, but he got up again. Abelsen looked towards him and made a quick gesture with one hand. Lyberth nodded grimly.

  ‘You have a nice home.’ Abelsen picked up a rock from a shelf and tapped it against his forehead. ‘But I see that you keep injuring yourself. Then ag
ain, being a police officer is a dangerous job, isn’t it? And we’re up to our necks in murders right now.’

  Jakob thought frantically about the murders, the film reels and Najak. He did his best to keep an eye on the bedroom door and Paneeraq, while at the same time trying not to send even a fragment of his attention in that direction. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘We have a conflict of interests, Pedersen,’ Abelsen said, almost without moving his narrow lips. ‘And you would do well to keep your nose out of our business. Some investigations end up being shelved, as you well know. In the public interest.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Wind up your investigation.’ Abelsen had walked right up to Jakob so their faces were close. ‘Conclude that the murders were committed by a Greenlandic man, and people will lose interest.’

  ‘But we don’t know that they were,’ Jakob objected, looking to Lyberth. ‘We can’t just pin the blame for three murders on an innocent man.’

  ‘Thomas Olesen from Block 16,’ Abelsen went on, still eyeballing Jakob. ‘There’s your killer. Pick him up tomorrow after the morning briefing.’

  ‘Thomas Olesen,’ Jakob exclaimed. ‘But he’s just a lonely drunk.’

  ‘Charge him with the murders and close the investigation tomorrow morning. Thomas Olesen?’ Abelsen snorted with contempt. ‘Who is going to miss him? He drinks, he gets into fights all the time, he’s known for being the first to pull his knife, and he can gut a seal like no one else. Bring him in and close the case so the rest of us can get on with our lives.’

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ Jakob said, his gaze jumping between the two men. ‘I’m not a mercenary or an executioner. What on earth do you think you’re doing? I’m going to have to talk to Mortensen about this.’

  ‘You charge Olesen with the murders tomorrow morning or suffer the consequences.’ Abelsen turned his upper body slightly, and nodded towards the Faroese man. ‘Either we make you the next victim or we charge you with the murders.’

  ‘Well, you clearly can’t do that,’ Jakob said, aware that his voice was quivering. His gaze shifted from Kjeld Abelsen’s eyes to his narrow lips, which looked even whiter and deader than usual. If he was right in his suspicions, these men might kill Najak. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his skin while staring stiffly at the men, one after the other.

  ‘Jakob, he’s just an alcoholic hunter. He doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Everyone matters. We can’t just jail an innocent man so you can get political breathing space. I won’t be a part of it, and I’m not going to let it happen.’

  ‘Okay.’ Abelsen beckoned to the Faroese. ‘You’re finished, Jakob Pedersen. You’re a danger to Greenland.’

  The broad Faroese with the piercing blue eyes reached Jakob in seconds. He grabbed Jakob’s neck with one hand and his right wrist with the other. Jakob was so stunned by the man’s strength and speed that he did nothing to defend himself.

  The man released Jakob’s neck and ripped open his shirt, exposing his chest and stomach, while with his other hand he took out a knife. Before Jakob had time to think, the knife was pressing against his ribcage.

  He breathed in short, shallow gasps. It was too late to fight back. His thoughts were chaotic. Najak, who was being held a prisoner. Paneeraq, who, more than anything in the world, mustn’t make the slightest sound. Not one. This wasn’t about politics or breathing space.

  The room closed in on him. He could feel the three men. The knife against his skin. The furniture. Karlo sitting by the jigsaw puzzle. Karlo was missing from the living room now. The snow outside. The drumming dancer. The beat of the drum merged with the beating of his heart, only centimetres from the tip of the blade.

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ he croaked. ‘You can’t—’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ Abelsen cut him off. ‘You decide who lives and who dies.’

  TRACES OF BLOOD

  39

  NUUK, 13 AUGUST 2014

  During the night Matthew had checked his mobile repeatedly, but there was nothing from Tupaarnaq. His thoughts kept returning to Lyberth’s part in everything, though the blood-soaked images Tupaarnaq had planted in his mind were a distraction.

  It was light outside. He turned over in bed and reached for Jakob’s leather notebook, which was lying on the bedside table. Something in between the lines had got Lyberth killed, and now Tupaarnaq had been caught up in it, probably because she was an obvious scapegoat. She had nothing to do with the murder, Matthew was sure of it. The motive was to be found in Jakob’s notebook. Not directly, but because in it he had described something that someone had been prepared to kill to keep secret. Forty years ago as well as today.

  He looked at the list of the girls. The lost girls. Maybe he could find them? Go back in time and discover the fates of the people Jakob had written about. The four men were all dead, but what about the girls? Next to the first victim’s daughter, Najak Rossing Lynge, Jakob had drawn a small cross and a question mark, but Matthew couldn’t be sure that she was dead. And then there was a near blank page about some films Jakob hadn’t felt able to write about. The notebook’s unanswered questions had lingered on in time after Jakob’s disappearance, but it should be possible to track down the girls. Especially Paneeraq Poulsen, whom Jakob had brought to his house.

  Matthew didn’t have Ottesen’s mobile number, so he texted Malik asking him to ask Ottesen if any eight-millimetre films relating to the murders in 1973 had ever been found.

  He checked his watch. Leiff must be at work now.

  ‘Hi, Matthew—what are you up to?’ Leiff sounded cheerful, as always. ‘You missed the morning briefing…again.’

  ‘No, I…Leiff, I was wondering, could you help me find some people who lived in Nuuk in 1973?’

  ‘You’re thinking about the people from the case I told you about, the four murders?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  There was silence for a few seconds. ‘We’ll probably have to rummage through the Town Hall archives for that.’

  ‘Okay. Is that possible? I mean, right away.’

  Leiff cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he began tentatively. ‘In theory, yes, but their archives from the seventies are even more chaotic than the ones here at the paper.’ His voice brightened up. ‘But listen, my wife works at the Town Hall, and she looked up some of them last week when we first asked about the murders. I’ll check with her. I’m sure she knows her way around every nook and cranny.’

  40

  Leiff and Matthew walked the short stretch from Sermitsiaq’s offices to the Town Hall. The rectangular building grew rust-brown, green and concrete-grey from one of the city centre’s T-junctions.

  The sun shone warm and bright, as it had done yesterday, and there was nothing to suggest that autumn was coming. The arc of an almost cloudless firmament rested across the mountains except for a few flimsy, white tufts that stretched across the top of Mount Ukkusissat like snakeskins.

  Matthew was dreading the phone call he would inevitably get once Lyberth’s body was discovered. If it hadn’t been found by tonight, he would have to do something. Lyberth couldn’t just lie there, rotting. It was unacceptable. The man had a family waiting for him, and the fact that Lyberth was lying there hidden away, crucified and gutted, wouldn’t make it any easier for them. Matthew was also very worried about Tupaarnaq by now. Perhaps she had gone back to her apartment. Or maybe far away. He looked down at his feet and kicked a pebble out of the way.

  ‘We’ll take the door to the right,’ Leiff said. ‘The main door is closed until noon.’

  Matthew pressed his hand against his chest and breathed lightly a couple of times as he followed Leiff up towards the tall concrete building, whose height and pale colour were in stark contrast to the dark-brown and green extension.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Leiff said, looking at the hand Matthew was pressing against his chest. ‘You don’t seem yourself.’

  Above them, Greenland’s flag flapped alo
ngside Denmark’s, two red and white sails against the deep blue sky.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Matthew said, lowering his hand. ‘I think I got too much fresh air yesterday…I’m all right.’

  Leiff put his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. ‘I’ve lived here for sixty years,’ he said, his voice mild and warm. ‘Every year new Danes arrive, their heads full of themselves and their romantic dreams about Nuuk and nature. Six months later more than half of them are back in Denmark—for good.’ He patted Matthew’s shoulder. ‘Danes who actually care enough to dig up a cold case and attack deep-rooted problems are few and far between…I’m always here for you, if you want something.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Matthew said. The way things were going, he couldn’t even be sure if he would still be in Nuuk next week, let alone in six months. If Tupaarnaq went down for Lyberth’s murder, he would be dragged down with her and he would be finished here.

  The glass door opened inwards and took them into a narrow but tall corridor lined with glass and grey concrete. Leiff greeted a couple of women cheerfully and patted a young man on his shoulder. From the angular hall they continued into a low passage with glass walls that terminated in a new, bigger hall two floors high. In the middle of the hall was a shallow, rectangular turquoise basin containing clean water. An old leather kayak was suspended above the basin.

  ‘We’re going up those stairs over there,’ Leiff said, pointing to the far side of the basin.

  ‘Did she tell you what she has found?’ Matthew’s gaze lingered briefly on an oil painting of a mountainous area in a soft, arctic winter light.

  ‘No, but we’re about to find out. Have you made any progress since we last spoke?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Matthew looked down at the orange-brown tiles below them. ‘I think I’m going round in circles, so I’m hoping that we can track down someone from the seventies case—someone who’s still alive.’

 

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