Blood Floe

by Christoffer Petersen

  Hannah Mayer called Petra’s name as they walked through customs. She shook their hands, and then said, “Shall we speak English?”

  “Iiji,” Maratse said.

  “That means, yes,” Petra said, and tapped Maratse’s arm. “Behave.”

  “You must be tired after the flight.”

  “Not yet,” Petra said.

  “All right then, that’s good, because I want to take you to see Marlene Müller.” Hannah gestured towards the exit, pulling her car keys from her pocket as she began to walk. “I spoke to her this morning. She is quite shaken, but very keen to meet you both, especially you, David. She heard that you pulled her husband out of a car that was sinking through the ice. Is that right?”

  “I helped,” Maratse said.

  “It’s true,” Petra said, “but there are also lots of questions, still unanswered, regarding Dieter’s whereabouts, and his involvement in the murders.”

  Hannah paused at the door to pull up the collar of her jacket. Maratse shivered as they stepped out of the airport and into the damp cold of Berlin. Hannah smiled at him as she held the door.

  “The murders of the Ophelia crew? Yes, I understand,” Hannah said, as they approached a black Mercedes Benz. “Lars briefed me over the phone.” She clicked the fob on her keyring. “This is us.”

  Maratse buckled up as Hannah pulled out of her parking spot and accelerated into the late afternoon Berlin traffic. She switched on the GPS unit, clicked on a preset button, and used the radio mounted to the dash to check-in with her department as the map of their route loaded onto the screen. Maratse watched their progress from the backseat.

  “Albertstraße, the street where Marlene lives, is not the nicest of areas, but it’s not a slum. We’ll be there shortly.” She glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Shall I turn up the heat?”

  “Please,” Maratse said.

  Hannah smiled. “I thought it was cold in Greenland?”

  “Not like this.”

  “It’s the damp,” Petra said. “Although David thinks Nuuk is cold too.”

  “It is,” Maratse said. He zipped his jacket and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

  “Is that a police jacket?” Hannah said. “It looks like Petra’s.”

  “Iiji.”

  “You used to be a policeman?”

  “David is retired,” Petra said. She turned in her seat to catch his eye, continuing when he nodded. “He was the first on the scene. The first to find the yacht.”

  “And you were also with Dieter in the car?”

  “Yes,” Petra said. “He was involved in the search for Dieter Müller.”

  “Is that what they call retirement in Greenland?” Hannah caught Maratse’s eye in the mirror.

  “I’m working on it.”

  Petra laughed. “He really is.”

  “Okay,” Hannah said, as she slowed for traffic. “We’re nearly there. Tell me what we’re looking for.”

  “Dieter received some information in the mail, CVs to be specific, for the crew of the Ophelia. He left the originals at his apartment, together with his notes, but scanned the documents onto a thumb drive.”

  “Which was stolen?”

  “So he says.”

  “And you want the originals?”

  “No, we want to see if he has a copy on his computer. We understand the originals were taken, together with his notes by a man supposedly working for Aleksander Berndt.”

  Hannah nodded as she turned onto Albertstraße and looked for a place to park.

  “You might be too late. When I called Marlene she told me that when the man took Dieter’s notes he took the computer as well. She gave him everything, so we can’t even accuse Berndt of stealing. Apparently, the man told her he needed to access to everything to be able to help Dieter. Dieter’s face has been all over the newspapers, Berndt’s included.” Hannah paused to park the car. She turned off the engine, and said, “Marlene is pretty keyed-up. I think her doctor wanted to prescribe Valium, but she refused. She just wants Dieter home. She is going to ask you when that might happen.”

  Hannah opened the door and waited on the street for Petra and Maratse to join her. She pointed at the door on the other side of the street; it was tagged with graffiti, as were the shutters protecting the windows of the local shops. Hannah’s car was the newest and brightest car in a long line of rusting European cars, sporting bruised panels and bald tyres. She led them to the door and stopped, one finger extended to push the button to Marlene’s apartment.

  “What is it?” Petra asked.

  Hannah nodded in the direction of a black Sprinter van, perhaps only a year older than her Mercedes. “It’s probably nothing.” She pushed the button, and opened the door as Marlene buzzed them into the building.

  Chapter 19

  Heat leaked out of the windows of Marlene Müller’s apartment, but it was still the first time Maratse had felt warm since arriving in Germany. She showed them to the living room, excused the mess and disappeared into the tiny kitchen to make tea. Maratse understood little of what was said in the beginning, but, as Petra started to translate, he noticed that Marlene would pause after everything she said. That and the way she looked at him suggested it was important for her that he could follow the conversation. Maratse sipped his tea, and nodded for her to continue.

  “She’s worried, naturally,” Petra whispered. “And the guy Berndt sent to pick up the notes and the computer – she doesn’t trust him.”

  “She has no reason to,” Hannah said, “not after Berndt released a statement to the press with a detailed description of Dieter’s battle with depression.”

  “He made him a Sündenbock,” Marlene said.

  “A scapegoat,” Petra said.

  “Ja, das ist korrekt.”

  Tea from Marlene’s mug splashed onto the table as she put it down. She hadn’t touched it, Maratse noticed. He watched her get up and walk to the bedroom, when she returned she had a plastic shopping bag in her hand. She placed it on the table. Hannah leaned over and opened it.

  “An external hard drive,” she said, and folded the sides of the bag to reveal a small hard drive with a USB cable attached.

  “A backup,” Petra said, once Marlene had finished speaking. Petra asked something in German, Marlene answered, and Maratse waited for Petra to confirm that everything was on the hard drive, including the scans of the documents he received in the mail. “We can use this,” Petra said.

  “Iiji.”

  “When will Dieter come home?”

  “That’s difficult, Marlene,” Hannah said. “We’re working on it. One, he has to be fit to travel, and two, he has to be allowed to travel.” She paused as Petra translated for Maratse. “There are still lots of unanswered questions.”

  Maratse placed his mug on the table and leaned back in the sofa. He found a tear in the cushions and resisted the urge to pick at it. The condition of the sofa, the tired wallpaper on the walls, and the faint smell of damp surprised him. He had seen worse conditions in Greenland, but, in comparison, there was not a great deal of difference. He allowed himself to feel some of Marlene’s despair, shelving his professional objectiveness for a moment. He was, after all, retired. A change in tempo, and Petra’s light tap on his knee suggested that they were leaving. Maratse stood up and thanked Marlene for the tea.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, her accent abrasive, like the tears stinging her cheeks.

  Maratse waited for Petra to pick up the plastic bag, and then followed Hannah out of the apartment and down the stairs. He heard the squeal of tyres as Hannah opened the door to the street.

  The first pop of bullets surprised them, the impact louder than the act of firing. Maratse wondered for a second if the shooter was using a silencer screwed onto the barrel of his weapon, but then Petra pulled him down the steps and Hannah returned fire, loosing two rounds, and then a third into the side of a dark Sprinter van, the same one she had spotted earlier.

  The side door rumbled open t
o reveal a man holding onto a length of rope looped into the roof with one hand, and a Heckler & Koch MP5 with the other. Hannah shot him twice in the chest as he pulled the trigger. The submachine gun spit an arc of bullets in a burst that chipped stone from the steps, chunks of masonry from the walls, and shattered the window of the downstairs apartment. Maratse shoved Petra over a low wall and into a sunken garden, a metre below street level. He stumbled down the steps as Petra disappeared from view and a second man leaped out of the van. The driver emptied the magazine of his Beretta at Hannah, forcing her behind two parked cars as Maratse tumbled onto the pavement.

  “David,” Petra shouted, as the passenger of the van hit Maratse on the back of the head and dragged him inside. The driver accelerated down the street and the last man dived inside the van. Hannah fired at the retreating vehicle as the man pulled the dead shooter inside and slammed the door shut.

  Maratse pressed his hand against the back of his head, his hair matted and tacky beneath his fingers. He squinted in the gloom of the van, saw his assailant fumble the MP5 from the dead man’s grip, change magazines, and turn to point the submachine gun at Maratse. He held up his hands, slipped to one side as the van squealed around a corner, and then settled onto his knees. The man holding the MP5 nodded, and banged on the tiny window between the cargo area and the cab, shouting something that made the driver slow down.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” the man said in English.

  “Okay,” Maratse said.

  They stared at each other for another ten minutes before the driver slowed to a stop, and the man with the gun opened the door. He snapped his fingers for Maratse to follow him. Once out of the van, Maratse blinked at in the harsh glare of the streetlights, as they walked past large rubbish bins, stacks of flat pizza boxes, and crates of empty bottles. The man reached out and grabbed Maratse by the arm, pulling him through an open door and into a kitchen as the driver closed the van and drove away.

  The kitchen was bright compared to the mood lighting of the restaurant. He bumped into the back of a chair as the man led him around the empty tables. Maratse glanced at the windows, but could see nothing of the street, the blinds were drawn. His head hurt when he turned at the sound of a chair being dragged out from beneath a table. The man pushed Maratse into it, tugged thin plastic strips from his pocket and tied Maratse’s wrists, lower arms, and ankles to the chair legs and arms. He looped another strip through Maratse’s belt, and tied him to the back of the chair. Maratse watched as the man checked the ties, pulled the sling of the MP5 over his head, and slid the weapon onto the red and white-checked tablecloth of a table against the wall. He pulled a second weapon, a pistol, from his pocket and tucked it into the waistband at the front of his jeans. The man rested against the table in front of Maratse and lit a cigarette.

  Maratse felt his body begin to charge itself in anticipation of the next stage in what he felt was an all too familiar situation. If he closed his eyes he would see the Chinaman, metal paddles in hand, standing in front of him in the cabin of a remote mining camp, deep in the fjord north of Nuuk. He might even hear him complain at the unreliable generator, spluttering to keep up with the demands of torture. But Maratse would not close his eyes. Even so, the American voice, when he heard it, surprised him.

  “Constable David Maratse,” the American said, as he walked around Maratse and stood next to the man with the gun. “Retired.”

  “Iiji.”

  “You look resigned to that chair, and your record – the little that is available – suggests that if I told you my name, you might fear the worst, knowing that I would have to make sure you couldn’t repeat it.”

  Maratse dug deep, and was surprised for a second time by his response. “You could give me a false name.”

  “And tell you it was false? To what end?”

  “To give me hope.”

  The American snorted, pulled the gun from the other man’s waistband, and said, “Stefan, get us a drink.” He tapped the barrel of the Beretta against the surface of the table and studied Maratse. “You’re funny, Constable. Not as pretty as your friend, but funny.”

  “My friend?”

  “Sergeant Jensen,” said the American. “Who should be here,” he said, with a look at Stefan as he returned with a bottle of whisky and shot glasses gripped between his fingers. “Three glasses, Stefan? You really think you have cause for celebration?”

  Stefan put the glasses on the table. He shrugged as he uncorked the whisky. “They had a German cop with them. She returned fire.”

  “Of course she did.” The American took a glass of whisky from Stefan’s hand. “That’s what she’s trained to do.”

  “All the same,” Stefan said, and downed a shot of whisky, “that’s why he’s alone.”

  “All right,” the American said. He took a slug of whisky and then slapped the Beretta into Stefan’s palm. “I guess we just have to do this the hard way.” He pointed at the third glass of whisky. “That’s for you, Constable, when we’re done. Just to keep you amiable.”

  The American pulled a mobile from his pocket and dragged the table so that Maratse’s knees were beneath the surface. He placed the mobile in the middle. Stefan took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Maratse stared at the snake tattoos twisting from the man’s wrists to his elbow. Stefan winked at him.

  “In German, if you please,” the American said, and pointed at the mobile. Stefan picked it up and dialled a number, as the American laid a heavy hand on Maratse’s shoulder. “You probably know how this works. Your friend has something I want, and I have you.”

  “You want the hard drive?”

  “Amongst other things.” He smiled, and raised a hand for Stefan to wait a second. “Can I be candid with you, Constable?”

  Maratse nodded.

  “I’m surprised to say this, but I find our friend incredibly attractive. You agree, of course?”

  Maratse said nothing, but the bitter taste in his mouth must have tightened the skin around his eyes, because the American laughed, and slapped him on the shoulder.

  “You see,” he said, “already we have something in common. A love of dark, attractive women.” He spun his finger and Stefan pressed the dial button and placed the mobile on the table.

  When a female voice answered, Stefan said, “Hannah Mayer?”

  “Ja?”

  Stefan spoke in German as he looked at Maratse, but Hannah answered in English.

  “I need proof that you have David Maratse, that he is well.”

  The American slapped the back of Maratse’s head, and said, “You’re on.”

  “Hannah, this is Maratse.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m tied up in…”

  A second blow from the American fused the words behind Maratse’s bloody lips. The chair tipped to one side, and the American helped it crash to the floor with a toe beneath one leg as Stefan grabbed the phone from the table.

  “I’m going to text you with an address. Bring the hard drive in one hour,” Stefan said. “Send the Eskimo.” He swiped the screen to end the call.

  “One hour?” the American said. “That’s cutting it a little fine.”

  Stefan shrugged. “It’s up to your asset now.”

  “Sure.”

  The American knelt down beside Maratse. He held out his hand, and Stefan pressed the glass of whisky into it. The American poured the whisky onto Maratse’s face, dribbling it into his eyes. Maratse blinked and tried to turn away.

  “This is a waste,” the American said, and gripped Maratse by the hair. “But I heard Greenlanders like their drink.”

  “Some Greenlanders,” Maratse said, and licked whisky and blood from his lips.

  “Only some?” The American tossed the glass at Stefan, and said, “Help me get him up.”

  The plastic straps dug into Maratse’s skin as the two men pulled the chair onto its legs. He let his head roll back and then forwards, wiping the blood from his chin on the collar o
f his jacket.

  “Your friend,” the American said, “thinks my name is Johnson, so that’s the name you can use. How about that, Constable?”

  “It’s a false name?”

  “It’s one of many. Why?”

  Maratse spat a clot of blood from his mouth, and said, “Just wondering if I’m going to live.”

  Johnson folded his arms and looked at Maratse. “You’re a curious one,” he said. “This really isn’t your first time, is it?”

  “This is better than my first time.”

  “Ha,” Johnson said, and pulled up a chair beside Maratse. He sat down, and said, “Do tell.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Because it’s confidential?” Johnson gestured for Stefan to give him the bottle of whisky. “But you’re among friends, Constable.” He uncorked the whisky and mashed the glass lip of the bottle into Maratse’s mouth. “Now,” he said, and tipped the bottle, “either your teeth rotted out or were pulled out, which is it?”

  Maratse spluttered on the whisky. He turned his head, but Stefan walked behind him, clamped bony hands around his ears and jaw, and tipped his head backwards. Maratse squinted in the light above, coughed and choked on the whisky.

  “Come on, Constable. This isn’t even about you. Just give us a few details from your life, and explain to me why that pretty young Petra finds you so attractive – a retired Constable with bad teeth and a wispy beard. Hell, Stefan,” he said, “I might even be in with a chance here. I mean I’m only ten years or so older than the Constable, and he’s practically twice her age.” He laughed, and then removed the bottle as Maratse spluttered to talk. “What’s that?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Your lucky number?” Johnson winked at Stefan.

  “Thirteen years older.”

  “Ah,” Johnson said, “I get it. You’ve done the math. And you know what that means, don’t you, Stefan?”

  “What does it mean?”

  Johnson lifted the bottle to the light, sloshing the contents in front of Maratse’s eyes; there was half a bottle left.

  “It means the Constable here is interested. He might even shave that ridiculous beard if the young Petra with those dark almond eyes, chocolate skin, and silky black hair, popped the question, or, you know, just grabbed him one night. I mean, if that’s not worth a drink, I don’t know what is.”