Blood Floe

by Christoffer Petersen

  “I think our friend, the Constable, is always involved. One way or the other.” Gaba tapped the table. “Don’t worry about him. Get something to eat.” He waited as she bit at her lip. “Petra?” he said. “Breakfast?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Petra slipped her phone into her pocket, picked up her plate, and walked to the buffet. Gaba filled both mugs of coffee while she filled her plate. She smiled as she returned to the table – he had even remembered the juice.

  “So,” she said, as she pushed the thought of Maratse out of her mind, “what was this meeting about?”

  “The one where they talked about you?”

  “Yes,” she said, and slapped the back of Gaba’s hand with her fork.

  “Sergeant?”

  “I’ll behave as soon as you stop teasing me.”

  “Deal,” he said. Gaba took a sip of coffee, followed by a forkful of pancake. He grinned when Petra started tapping the table with the bottom of her knife. “Sergeant Jensen, you have been placed on a very short list of suitable applicants for a new policing initiative.”

  Petra made a face. “I don’t want to babysit any more politicians, or visiting VIPs, show them around Nuuk, or…” She stopped when Gaba picked leaned back in his seat. She studied his face. “It’s not that, is it?”

  “Naamik.”

  “What is it then?” Petra put her knife down. She reached for her coffee, but barely tickled the handle with her fingers before Gaba started to speak, and she forgot about breakfast.

  “It’s like an Arctic task force, in fact, they might even call it that: ATF. Although,” he said, and frowned, “I’m sure the Americans have something called that already.”

  “They have a lot of things.” Petra smoothed a pile of crumbs from the tablecloth onto the floor. “Tell me.”

  Gaba leaned forwards. “Multidisciplinary, with officers from each and every Arctic nation. Yes,” he said, as Petra opened her mouth, “even Russia.”

  “And they want me?”

  “Your name is on the list.”

  “How long is the list?”

  “Ah, Sergeant, that would be telling.”

  Petra thumped her glass on the table, spilling juice, and rattling the cutlery. She turned and apologized to the people eating at the tables nearby. “Are you on the list?”

  “I’m not,” Gaba said. “You look surprised?”

  “Maybe I am,” Petra said. She shook her head. “They’ll want a Dane. Greenland is still Danish.”

  “No,” Gaba said, “they want you.”

  Petra brushed long strands of her hair behind her ears and then cut a generous square of pancake. Her hair slipped loose again as she turned the pancake around the plate, idly chasing the maple syrup as her cheeks dimpled in a smile.

  “You’re a talented officer, Petra,” Gaba said. “You speak three languages. You’re single, no ties, and…”

  “And?” Petra said.

  “You’re pretty good in bed too.” Gaba ducked as Petra lifted the pancake on her fork. “Lower your weapon, Sergeant,” he said. “I was joking, I didn’t tell them that.”

  “But you told them the other things?”

  “Yes,” he said, and pushed back his chair. “And, if you’re wondering, the Commissioner told me to tell you. He thought I might see you over the weekend.” Gaba picked up his mug. “I’m getting a refill.”

  As Gaba moved away from the table to join the line of people waiting for fresh coffee, a Dane showed an American to the table beside Petra.

  Petra took small bites of her breakfast as she thought about what Gaba had said. The thought might have lingered had it not been for the conversation between the two new arrivals. While Petra sipped at her juice she heard the American mention mining in Uummannaq fjord.

  “What’s the current status of the operation?” the Dane asked.

  “Precarious,” the American said, “and damned difficult to trace. There’s a rumour of mining rights for the Svartenhuk area – legal documents, mind you, signed and stamped with official approval from the Danish and Greenlandic governments.”

  “And where are these documents? Who has them?”

  “Arbroath Mining Co.”

  “They took over the mine in Marmoralik, Uummannaq?”

  “Because of the extended rights,” the American said, “I’m sure of it. Of course, these murders will slow things down.”

  Petra risked a glance and a smile when the American caught her eye. He said hello in English, and Petra answered with the little Greenlandic she knew. The American nodded and continued with his conversation. Petra turned back to her food, but continued to listen.

  “So what has this got to do with the murders on some rich German’s yacht?” the Dane asked.

  “That depends on the purpose of his expedition. Berndt gave a statement to Die Welt when the story broke. He said the expedition had an environmental focus – something about microplastics…”

  “Just following the current trend, eh?”

  “Exactly, but he did let slip that his expedition team were also interested in exploring Svartenhuk to find the cabin built by Alfred Wegener.”

  “They want to find the cabin?”

  “Perhaps,” the American said, and lowered his voice. Petra stopped chewing. “But maybe they are looking for something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “A journal, perhaps.”

  “Wegener’s journal?”

  “Yes.” The American reached for his plate, and pushed back his chair. “You know what’s in the journal?” He gave the table a theatrical rap with his knuckle. “Only Wegener’s expedition notes, including a detailed geological survey and analysis of the Svartenhuk mountain range.”

  “Thorium?” the Dane whispered. “That’s incredible.”

  “Who knows?” The American stood up. “Arbroath Mining is a very small company, just waiting for someone to buy them out.”

  “But if Svartenhuk has Thorium…”

  “Yep,” the American said. “Wegener’s journal is quite the item of interest all of a sudden.”

  “I’ll say,” the Dane said. He stood up and walked with the American to the buffet table as Gaba sat down with a fresh mug of coffee.

  “You’ve barely touched your food,” he said. “Too excited to eat?”

  “Something like that,” Petra said. She turned and looked at the American as he took a selection of food from the buffet. The metal lid of pan with scrambled eggs clanged as he put it down. “Do you know who that is?” Petra asked. “The American?”

  “No,” said Gaba, “but the Dane next to him works for GEUS. You know? The Geological Survey of Denmark and Greenland.”

  “Yes, I know what GEUS is.”

  “Anyway, he’s new. Arrived last month. Why?”

  “I don’t know, but maybe I just found the motive for murder in Uummannaq.”

  Chapter 11

  The winter was unseasonable. The thought pricked at Dieter’s mind with every metre he drove on the sea ice in the stolen police patrol vehicle. It was the thought of driving on ice, not the act, which made him slow to a stop. He lowered his hands from the wheel and stared at the knife protruding from his stomach. Somehow, in the scuffle below decks, when the policeman had surprised him, Dieter had fallen, and the knife that had been in his hand was now in his stomach. His blood soaked through his thermal layers of clothing and into his waxed jacket, the cotton kind that needed to be waxed to be waterproof. The jacket was old, uncared for and now, without its protective wax, it was dark, saturated with his own blood.

  He turned off the engine, and pushed his head back until he could feel the headrest pressing through his fleece hat. Dieter stared through the windscreen as snow swirled within the beam of the Toyota’s headlights. He switched off the lights, and closed his eyes. He could still see the snow, floating in his vision, white flecks on a dark background, black like the sea, the death water beneath the ice.

  The policeman had told him to
stop, several times. Stop, Dieter mused, is the same word in a lot of the Anglo Saxon languages, but rarely had he heard it spoken in so many different ways as he did inside the yacht. The policeman had commanded him to stop, ordered him, pleaded with him, and then begged him when Dieter’s knife was pressing against the man’s windpipe. But when Dieter had slipped, and the knife had burst through the lining of his own stomach, the policeman’s tone had changed, softened, he had told him to stop as if there really wasn’t an alternative, suggesting that if he didn’t stop fighting and resisting, the knife in his stomach would cause more damage, it would not stop, and neither would the flow of blood.

  It didn’t.

  Dieter didn’t know if it was going to stop.

  He gritted his teeth and fumbled the battery and the satellite phone out of the different pockets in his jacket as the air inside the Toyota cooled. Each time he moved the knife snagged on his jacket. Dieter fought back the nausea and grimaced through the pain as he assembled the satellite phone, turned it on, pointed the arial towards the window, and dialled Marlene’s number. His breath escaped his lungs in ragged bursts of frost, the choke of an ice dragon. Marlene answered on the third ring and Dieter’s breath settled on the screen, as tears crackled into desiccated orbs in the corners of his eyes.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Dieter.”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound so far away.”

  “I am.”

  “I know, but more than that.”

  “I think I’m dying, Marlene.”

  “No,” she said. “Don’t you say that. It’s not fair. That’s not fair, Dieter.”

  “It’s so peaceful here.” Dieter turned his head. He looked at the iceberg on his left, brushed the knuckles of his left hand against the glass. He sighed as his breath froze upon the glass in a fractured steam of crystals, each breath adding another layer to the first. The steam obscured his view and he felt the stretch of cold skin as he wrinkled his brow and concentrated. Someone was saying something to him. “Marlene,” he said.

  “I need you to come home, Dieter. I need you home with me.”

  “So far.”

  “No, Dieter. It’s not. You have to move. You have to stay warm.”

  Dieter dipped his chin and stared through his breath at the knife in his stomach. “Can’t,” he said.

  “You can. Dieter,” Marlene shouted. “You have to live.”

  Dieter felt something slide down his ear. Smooth, cold at the edges. His hand dropped to his side, and the satellite phone slipped between the handbrake and the seat.

  “Marlene.” Dieter tried to lift his hand. It slid it off his lap and he let it dangle beside the seat cushion. He moved the tips of his fingers, tried to grasp the phone’s stubby arial. He wondered at the blue hue of the Northern Lights. “It’s usually green,” he said. “Flowing. Doesn’t flash.”

  He didn’t hear the command to get out of the car, didn’t react at the sudden flash of white light that pinned him to the seat. Dieter closed his eyes, touched the tip of the phone. His head lolled to one side when the door opened, and there were voices, voices he could barely hear. Not German.

  “We’ll have to pack it,” said Inuk. “We’re not pulling it out here.”

  “Iiji,” Maratse said. He opened the boot of the Toyota and pulled out the first aid kit. Maratse tore the paper wrappings and passed the bandages to Inuk. Simonsen opened the passenger door, shining the powerful beam of his torch around the interior of the Toyota as Inuk and Maratse dressed Dieter’s wound.

  “There’s no gun,” said Simonsen. “What about his pockets?”

  “Nothing,” said Inuk.

  “Wait.” Simonsen reached over the handbrake and slipped his hand under the driver’s seat. He pulled out the satellite phone, pressed it to his ear, and then placed it on the dashboard. “Dead battery,” he said.

  “We need to move him now,” Inuk said.

  “I’ll bring the car.”

  The beam of Simonsen’s torch lit the ice as he jogged to the police car. He backed up, stopped, and opened the boot. Simonsen fiddled with the cross-hatched guard and the backseat. When he had lowered it, Maratse and Inuk lifted Dieter out of one police car and into the other. Dieter groaned as they slid him across the carpeted interior. Maratse climbed in after him, cupped his hands under Dieter’s knees, bending them as Inuk closed the door.

  “I’ll let the hospital know you are coming,” Simonsen said, leaning through the driver’s door. Then he stepped back to allow Inuk to climb behind the wheel. “I’ll go back to the yacht.” He slapped Inuk on the arm. “Keep me updated.”

  Inuk nodded, waited until Simonsen closed the door, and then shifted into first. Maratse searched for a comfortable position as Inuk accelerated across the ice towards Uummannaq.

  “You sure he hasn’t got a gun somewhere?”

  Maratse checked Dieter’s body, and said, “Eeqqi. No gun.”

  “Okay,” Inuk said. “It’s been a while since I drove on the ice so…”

  Maratse was about to say something, but the sudden tilt of the front end of the Toyota thrust his body against the back of the driver’s seat. The Toyota bobbed once, and then started to sink. Black water pooled at Inuk’s feet, ballooning under the mat beneath the pedals.

  “Shit,” Inuk said. “Shit, shit, shit…”

  “Inuk,” Maratse said, as he worked back towards the rear door. “This way. Crawl over the seat.” Maratse grabbed Inuk’s arm and tugged him as the young policeman crawled between the seats. Black water swelled over the leading edge of the bonnet.

  “Open the door,” Inuk said.

  Maratse fumbled with the handle. It moved like a hinge with no spring. The door did not open.

  “It’s child-locked.”

  The headlights of the second police car lit the boot with a triangle of white light, cut with Simonsen’s black shadow as he raced to the back door of the Toyota and yanked it open.

  “Out,” he yelled, coughing in the Toyota’s exhaust fumes as he gripped Maratse by the shoulder. Once Maratse was on the ice, Simonsen reached in and grabbed Inuk as he clambered over the bumper. The three of them dragged Dieter out of the boot and onto the ice as the Toyota dipped and the engine started to stutter. They ignored Dieter’s groans and dragged him into the light of the headlights. The Toyota righted itself as the back wheels broke through the ice and the front end lifted. It bobbed in a square of black water. They watched as the sea rushed in through the open door at the rear and the fumes were stifled as the Toyota sank.

  “Shit,” Inuk said.

  Maratse pointed at the ice, and said, “I’ll walk in front. Check it’s safe.”

  Simonsen nodded. “Let’s get him on the back seat.”

  Inuk opened the rear passenger door, and then helped the others lift Dieter onto the back seat. They laid him flat and shut the door.

  “I’ll drive,” Simonsen said. He waited until Inuk was in the passenger seat, lit a cigarette and gave it to Maratse. “For the nerves,” he said, and grinned.

  Maratse raised his eyebrows, stuck the cigarette in the gap between his teeth, and picked a route around the thin ice. Simonsen climbed behind the steering wheel and shifted into first gear. He turned off the lights when Maratse turned and made a cutting movement with his hand across his throat.

  Simonsen rolled down the window, and shouted, “Better with the emergency lights?”

  “Eeqqi,” Maratse said. “I can see better now.” He walked on, the cigarette clamped in his mouth as he guided Simonsen to the left and right with his hands.

  Ophelia’s navigation lights were visible in the distance when Maratse waved Simonsen to a stop and walked to the passenger side of the vehicle.

  “We’ve reached the older ice. We should be fine all the way back to the yacht.”

  “All right,” Simonsen said. “Get in. I’ll call Danielsen.”

  Inuk started to apologise as soon as Maratse closed the passenger door.

&
nbsp; “No apologies needed,” Simonsen said, once Danielsen was briefed. “It’s paperwork and time, that’s all. It could have been me who drove through the ice.” He shifted into third gear. “This is my jurisdiction. I’m responsible. I’m just pleased we’re all alive.” He glanced in the rear-view mirror and caught Maratse’s eye. “Even you, Constable.”

  Maratse nodded.

  “There is just one thing,” Simonsen said, as they approached the yacht.

  “What’s that?” Inuk asked.

  “You owe me a car.”

  Simonsen stopped a short while later, as Danielsen climbed down the ladder onto the ice and jogged across to the car. “Everyone okay?” he asked.

  “We’re okay,” Simonsen said. “A bit shook up.”

  Danielsen nodded at Inuk. “The ambulance will be here in a few minutes,” he said, and pointed at a pair of headlights jerking across the ice towards them.

  Maratse reached around Simonsen and handed Danielsen his pistol. “Thanks for the loan.”

  Danielsen nodded, and holstered the pistol. He pointed at the yacht. “The detective is okay. We found his gun in the cabin. It had slipped under the bed.”

  “And we found the knife,” Simonsen said with a glance at Dieter on the back seat.

  “What about Therese?” Maratse asked.

  “She’s been a little weird, emptying drawers onto the floor, going through all the lockers and crew kit bags. I had to stop her three times. I told her she was polluting the crime scene. She told me it was her boat. We went back and forth like that for a bit, and then I locked her in the bathroom.” Maratse laughed as Simonsen ordered Danielsen to let her out. “You really want me to let her out?”

  “Yes,” Simonsen said. He took a long breath, and looked over his shoulder. “Stop laughing, Constable.”

  “Iiji,” Maratse said, and opened the door. The ambulance pulled up alongside the police car. Inuk and Maratse helped the hospital orderly and nurse carry Dieter to the back of the ambulance, securing the stretcher between the wheel arches. Just before he turned away from the patient Maratse noticed something square pushing out of one of the cargo pockets of Dieter’s trousers. He unzipped the pocket and pulled out a small leather-bound diary. It was fastened with a thin sealskin cord. Maratse slipped it into his pocket as he crawled out of the ambulance.