Matthew looked at Tupaarnaq. ‘Can we gothere? To Færingehavn?’
Tupaarnaq nodded. ‘I don’t know where it is, but yes, I guess we can.’
‘Are you going to look for the shipping container?’ Jakob asked.
‘Yes,’ Matthew said, turning his attention back to the older man. ‘It’s probably a long shot, but if everything really was left behind, it might still be there. And if we can identify it, we might find traces of the girls and connect them to Abelsen.’
Jakob straightened up. ‘It’s worth a try. And there’s no statute of limitations for murder. You have a boat?’
Matthew shook his head.
‘We’ll get one,’ Tupaarnaq said. ‘It’s not a problem. I just need the coordinates so I can find the location.’
‘Shouldn’t we contact the police?’ Paneeraq said. ‘So you don’t go out there alone?’
‘We can’t.’ Tupaarnaq looked at Matthew. ‘No police—they… that’ll have to wait.’
‘That will have to wait,’ Jakob echoed. ‘But you should leave now if you want to get there before dark.’ He turned to Tupaarnaq. ‘Take a rifle. Just to be on the safe side.’
She smiled briefly. ‘I never go anywhere without one.’
61
FÆRINGEHAVN, 14 AUGUST 2014
The bottom of the boat hit the waves hard as it ploughed its way across the water, bump by bump. Tupaarnaq was pushing hard—their speed had been around thirty-five knots most of the way.
The sun had broken through the clouds, but had also crawled closer to the horizon during the final stretch of their voyage, and when they turned into Buksefjorden, they only had a few hours of proper daylight left. The mountains soon enclosed the sea, and less than fifteen minutes into the fjord, the first big Polaroil silos came into view. Shortly after that, on the opposite shore, they saw Færingehavn’s long timber quay.
‘It really does look trashed,’ Matthew said as his eyes scanned the quay and the warehouses. ‘It’s amazing that such places exist.’
The boat keeled slightly as it turned. Tupaarnaq peered at the shore. ‘I don’t think we can dock here. The quay is too high, and I can’t risk ripping a hole in the boat by sailing too close to the rocks.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘You drop the anchor, and I’ll release the rubber dinghy.’
The anchor sank into the sea with a hollow plop and quickly hit the bottom. Matthew looked at the shore again. Most of the houses were medium-sized, made from wood and one or two storeys high, painted grey, red or green. They looked like old Swedish farmhouses. At first glance they seemed in good shape, but all the windows were smashed, the glass having been broken by bad weather or vandals. The wooden walls were peeling and dry. The metal roofing sheets were rusty and cracked in several places. Some sheets were missing altogether; Matthew could see the naked, pale wooden skeleton of one house whose rafters were exposed like a rib cage.
‘Grab this!’
Matthew took the rope Tupaarnaq was holding out to him. She freed the dinghy and turned it over in the air so that it hit the sea the right way up. ‘After you?’
He looked down at the water and nodded, then climbed into the small, grey rubber dinghy. It gave under his weight, and he could sense the sea through its soft bottom. He shifted to make way for Tupaarnaq.
‘I’ll row,’ she said, placing her rifle on the floor of the dinghy. ‘I want to get to that rusty ramp at the end of the quay.’
Matthew looked in the same direction as her. The end of the quay was thirty metres wide. Above it was a large, pale-grey building, partly constructed on huge iron posts immersed in the sea close to the shore. The metal roofing sheets were reddish-brown from rust. Several rusting oil barrels were stacked against the end of the building, and down by the rocks in the corner of the quay lay a torn green trawler net.
The iron ramp Tupaarnaq was aiming for wasn’t far away, and the moment the rubber dinghy touched it Matthew jumped up on the ramp. Tupaarnaq followed him and pulled up the dinghy high enough to stop it being taken by the tide, which could come in swiftly.
‘Do you think she’s here?’ she asked, as she pushed the boat under a rusty iron girder.
Matthew rubbed his chin, where his stubble felt increasingly dense, simultaneously soft and coarse. ‘I don’t know—it seems unlikely…Wow, this place really is a dump.’ He shrugged. ‘My friend Leiff told me it’s not unusual to turn a shipping container into a house, or build one around the container.’
She nodded and slipped the strap of the rifle over one shoulder. ‘I know about that from Tasiilaq. So are we checking every single house—is that your plan?’
‘Yes, I think it’s the only way.’ Matthew looked around. They could see about thirty big buildings, quite a few of them several storeys high. Most were residential houses of one sort or another, while those along the harbour were mainly warehouses. He pointed to a grey house right in front of them. ‘Let’s start here.’
The house was as damaged on the inside as it was on the outside, possibly more. The ceilings were discoloured and bulging ominously in places. Most of the doors had come off their hinges. Toilet basins and sinks had cracked from frost. Cupboards and furniture were wrecked, as the broken windows had given storms, rain and snow free rein for decades. Old bits of paper were scattered about everywhere. Matthew picked up a 1962 Yellow Pages.
Behind him something heavy was pushed across the floor. ‘This pile of crap is close to collapsing,’ Tupaarnaq panted. ‘Besides, these rooms are too small. I think they must have been offices.’
Matthew nodded. ‘It looks like it.’
‘Let’s try the red house further up,’ she said, and left through the front door.
Matthew followed her down the steps and across the tall, half-withered grass.
The next building was low, but fairly wide, and had an extension in the centre that looked like the main entrance. Every window had been smashed, and the only pieces of glass left in the frame were small, sharp teeth in a black mouth. The roofing felt was sun-bleached and weatherworn. The paint was peeling badly, but still identifiably red. The front door had been kicked in, and it had been a long time since it could shut properly.
‘God almighty,’ Matthew exclaimed. ‘Any idea what this place used to be?’
‘Maybe a club or something?’ Tupaarnaq said, bending over a green velvet sofa whose cushions and upholstery had been ripped up. She nudged a pile of what looked like trash on the floor. ‘Take a look. Someone’s been knitting.’ She looked up at Matthew.
‘This is so weird.’ He saw an old record-player on the floor, along with other broken things. ‘They really did just walk out one day without taking anything.’
Tupaarnaq continued across the room and pressed a few keys on a collapsed piano. ‘This place looks like it could have been a community hall. There’s a stage and everything.’ She turned to Matthew. ‘I don’t think we’ll find your shipping container here.’
He shook his head.
Outside, the sun was approaching the mountains behind the furthest house. They could see approximately two hundred metres across the flat plain.
‘I can see tracks,’ Matthew exclaimed, looking down along a set of rusty metal rail tracks running inland. The tracks ended near some low, rusty wagons that stood close to a long concrete wall, similar to the kind of dam that generates electricity in Norwegian rivers. ‘They have to be the only railway tracks in Greenland, surely?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Tupaarnaq said. ‘There are definitely no tracks on the east coast.’ She looked towards the most built-up area. ‘I don’t think we’re going to get back to Nuuk today.’
Matthew followed her gaze.
She looked back at him. ‘It’ll be dark before we’re done searching, and sailing along a coast we don’t know in the dark would be madness.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Sleep here or on the boat, I guess.’
‘Are there any sleeping bags on the boat, do you think?’
/>
‘No, but we can improvise.’
‘Okay.’ He looked around the abandoned town. Then he took a deep breath and shrugged. ‘Let’s walk down to the harbour and check out the big warehouses before it gets completely dark.’
They zigzagged through the scattered houses across the town on their way back to the harbour. A dozen buildings, all different, lay along the wooden quay, which stretched for over a hundred metres. Some were several storeys high and had windows, while others were entirely enclosed except for large gates at the ends.
While they searched the warehouses one after the other, Matthew’s mind was working overtime. The hours had rushed by so fast that he hadn’t had time to think about consequences or repercussions. He looked at the back of Tupaarnaq’s neck. At the top of her rollneck jumper he could just make out the edge of the dark wilderness underneath her clothes. She had pushed down her hood and her head was exposed. ‘If we find her,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Najak, I mean…Is that when we call the police?’
She turned around and glared so harshly at him that he could practically feel her fingers digging into the sinews along his collarbone.
‘You’re not going to be an idiot again, are you?’
‘No, but I—’
‘What? No matter what we find, you and I are both going straight to jail…Or at least I am.’ She looked down. ‘Join the dots, for fuck’s sake.’
Matthew followed her gaze. In the dirt between them lay a faded green magazine. Indre Missions Tidende, Sunday, 25 September 1983. Issue 130: ‘God is the Power and the Glory’.
‘Besides, there’s no mobile coverage here.’ She kicked the magazine with her boot. ‘Let’s move on.’
Matthew bent down and picked up a sturdy copper hammer from the floor. It was heavy, probably weighing several kilos. He tried to imagine how strong the arms of the man who once wielded it must have been.
The next building they reached was windowless. It was a rectangular warehouse with an arched metal roof. The building was secured with a thick steel chain and a strong, rusty padlock, and they had to smash the door in order to get in. Each blow sounded like an explosion in the deserted town as the iron and corrugated metal slowly gave way and a gap opened up big enough for them to wriggle through.
Once inside, they could smell old oil and salt water. The floor was concrete to begin with, but about two-thirds of the way in it became worn wooden planks.
Matthew looked across the floor. ‘I’m not sure that section is safe to walk on.’
Tupaarnaq switched on the torch on her mobile and pointed it across the floor. ‘Look,’ she whispered.
Matthew had spotted it at the same time, and quickly took out his own mobile and found the torch. At the far end of the room, up against the end wall, was an old, rusty freight container. ‘That could be it.’
She nodded.
Matthew felt a chill go down his spine as he carefully stepped out onto the wooden floor.
When they reached the container, Tupaarnaq put her hand on one of the sturdy handles. She pulled it so hard that her entire body shook. ‘It’s completely rusted in place.’
Matthew put his mobile and the hammer on the floor and tried with both hands, but still the handle didn’t budge. ‘Could you light up the handle for me?’
Tupaarnaq nodded, and Matthew picked up the hammer. He took a step forwards and gave the handle a good whack. ‘My God, it’s heavy,’ he groaned. He swung the hammer again, this time holding it with both hands. The sound hurt their ears, and the echo bounced off the curved steel roof.
‘Do it again,’ Tupaarnaq said, kicking the cross member of the big metal gate. ‘It’ll shift in the end with a bit of luck.’
Matthew swung the hammer with all his strength a third time. When it collided with the handle, it felt like electric shocks were darting through his forearms. The handle of the hammer was two solid iron rods that were bent by the force with which it had been used back in the 1980s. The handle had been welded together with a bracket that ran around the copperhead itself. He struck the lock again. The recoil up through his arms was so severe that he dropped the hammer. He narrowed his eyes and rubbed his neck.
Tupaarnaq put her mobile on the floor and pushed the hammer away with her boot. Then she placed both hands on the handle and pushed it a couple of times. ‘Help me, will you? On three, okay?’
She counted and they both pulled outwards as hard as they could, and finally they felt the lock give and the handle follow suit. The door behind the lock and the iron handle surrendered in squealing complaint.
Tupaarnaq grabbed the door, which was several metres high, and pulled it. She had to press all of her weight against the iron to create a gap wide enough for her to slip through.
Matthew heard her sigh.
‘This is it,’ she whispered.
He held up his mobile, letting the light sweep the floor and the shiny walls. There was a dry, metallic smell inside. He closed his eyes and his heart skipped a beat. Up against the wall, in the far corner of the container, was a green blanket. He heard Tupaarnaq’s footsteps across the floor.
‘There can’t possibly be anything under that blanket,’ she said.
Her voice was trembling. It felt heavy in the empty metal box.
‘She was only eleven years old,’ Matthew whispered and opened his eyes again. ‘A little girl.’
Tupaarnaq bent over the blanket. Took hold of one of its folds.
Matthew heard her sigh again. He could see the white knuckles on her clenched hand on the fabric. She lifted it gently. It seemed dry. Stiff. Something crumbled. Scattered over the stiff folds. She stopped and let the blanket fall back. She turned around and walked towards Matthew, her eyes fixed on the narrow container exit. ‘Time to go.’ Her words were gusts of air.
‘Najak?’ He could barely hear his own voice.
‘Just come with me. We need to find somewhere to spend the night.’
62
Matthew was woken by someone tugging his arm. The room was in total darkness, which meant it must be between midnight and three o’clock in the morning. He could feel the old, battered mattress through his clothing, the springs digging into his back.
Someone pulled his arm again, and he turned over. The jacket under his head hadn’t been a good pillow and the stiff muscles in his neck complained.
‘There’s someone in the house,’ Tupaarnaq whispered.
They had found a couple of rusty beds with mattresses in one of the houses. It lay away from the rest of the ghost town; it appeared to have had a canteen on the ground floor, while the first floor consisted of a long corridor with small rooms leading off it.
The night air blew in through the broken windows. The floor was covered by detritus. Plaster. Wallpaper. Fraying fabric. Shards of glass. Most doors were damaged, either by age, weather or vandals. He heard a crunching sound coming from the corridor.
‘Did you hear that?’ Tupaarnaq tugged at his arm again.
He nodded. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he could see her sitting upright with the rifle in front of her.
‘There shouldn’t be anyone here,’ she said in a hushed voice, while she slowly loaded the weapon, letting something fall into place with a quiet click.
Matthew rose to his knees on the mattress. There was more than one pair of boots out in the corridor. Two, at least. He stood up and moved next to Tupaarnaq. ‘Could it be people who got stranded, like we did?’
She shook her head. ‘I think that’s highly unlikely.’
‘Maybe we can get out through the window?’ Matthew continued, and took a step backwards so he could look out the window and down at the ground. There were shards of glass all around the window frame.
The crunching of the boots grew louder. Matthew looked at the rocky ground five to six metres below them and shook his head. ‘We’ll have to leave through the door.’
Tupaarnaq nodded. Matthew turned around. As he did, he could sense the sound through his boots before he hea
rd it—a glass fragment breaking under his boot.
The corridor fell quiet.
‘Why have you stopped?’
The voice was Danish. Adult. Sharp.
‘I heard something.’
The other voice was deep and heavy.
Tupaarnaq looked towards Matthew’s boot. ‘Idiot.’
Matthew shrugged. ‘They would have found us sooner or later.’
‘Speak up,’ the sharp voice said out loud. ‘There’s no point whispering anymore.’
‘That sounds like Abelsen,’ Matthew whispered.
Tupaarnaq raised the rifle to her shoulder. The muzzle was pointed at the open door.
‘I bet you never thought you would run into me here, eh, Matthew? Did you really think this place was completely deserted? You’re so naive. My friend Bárdur here lives just across the road. At the bunker fuel point.’
Matthew looked at Tupaarnaq’s rifle. It was wedged in the hollow between her chin and neck. Her shoulders were calm. Her muscles tense.
‘He doesn’t care about the notebook, but I still want it. Did you bring it? You probably did—you’re such a fool.’
Matthew shook his head. Tupaarnaq nodded grimly.
‘Are you in there?’ Abelsen went on. ‘I’m getting bored out here.’
There was silence for a moment. Then the crunching resumed and grew closer. A few seconds later, a dark silhouette loomed at the doorway. He was enormous. He almost filled out the space completely.
The first shot sent a shock through the room, paralysing Matthew’s thoughts. The silhouette disappeared with a short, deep roar.
‘Run,’ Tupaarnaq hissed.
Matthew leapt towards the door. ‘Left?’ The giant had come from the right.
‘Yes—there are stairs going down at both ends.’
Matthew took a deep breath and ran out through the door. The corridor was dark. At one end, moonlight poured in through a broken door. Matthew didn’t have time to see whether there were two or three silhouettes outside before Tupaarnaq fired another shot, this time into the darkness of the corridor. He completed the short distance to the corner by the stairs in a couple of long strides, then felt himself slip on the steps, the wood bashing against his back. He grabbed hold of the banister and scrambled to his feet. He continued stumbling down the stairs. Behind him he could hear running footsteps everywhere.
The Girl without Skin Page 25
