The Winter Trap Read online

  “Petra?”

  “Hm?”

  I turned, looking for whoever spoke, only to shriek as a cold pair of hands tickled my exposed legs.

  “Magic,” Luui said, as I toppled to the floor.

  “Luui,” Tuukula said. “Stop.”

  She stopped, and then tugged my sweater off my head, reaching for my toothbrush as I wiped a dribble of paste from my chin.

  “Funny lady.”

  “Yes,” I said, as Tuukula helped me to my feet. “You’ve just arrived?”

  “In a taxi,” he said. “You don’t mind?”

  “No. It’s fine. But I have to go.”

  “You have to change,” he said.

  “Working on it.”

  I reached for my jeans and hurried into my bedroom, ignoring a second blast from Atii’s horn.

  “There’s pasta in the cupboard,” I called out. “Some sauce – maybe, in a jar somewhere.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “I know,” I said, pulling on my light blue uniform shirt. “I wanted to be prepared. But I got distracted.”

  “By this?” Tuukula said. He opened the scrapbook as I finished dressing in the kitchen.

  “Yes.”

  “Venus Manumina.”

  “Is missing.”

  “Your missing person?” Tuukula looked up and smiled. “Your speciality.”

  “Ours, I think.” I bent down as Luui clung to my leg, kissing her on the head before she spun away. “She’s okay?” I tapped my ear. “Did they find anything?”

  “More tests needed.” Tuukula closed the scrapbook. “They said we should come back on Monday.”

  “Then you need to stay the weekend.”

  Tuukula raised his eyebrows in the classic Greenlandic silent yes.

  “It’s fine. I made up the spare bed.”

  “Luui said she wants to sleep in your bed.”

  “Also fine,” I said, dipping my head to smile at Luui. “Does she still…?”

  “Fart?” Tuukula nodded. “Aap.”

  “Okay then.”

  I pinched my hair into a ponytail, said something about keys and to call me if they needed anything, only to have Tuukula shoo me into the corridor, into my boots and out of the apartment.

  “Go to work,” he said.

  “I’m on my way.”

  I waved as I jogged to the stairs.

  “Oh, and Petra?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I look at the scrapbook?”

  “Yes,” I said, just as Atii blasted the horn for a third time.

  Part 8

  “He’ll never go for it,” Atii said, as she parked in the lot outside the police station. “He’s already mad at you, don’t give him any more ammunition.”

  “She’s missing, Atii.”

  “Right, over forty years ago. She went missing before we were born.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  Atii switched the engine off then turned her head, fixing me with a lazy but typically Atii stare that was part exasperation and part something else that I could never figure out, but just knew it verged on despair.

  “It is the point. It will be Duneq’s point. He barely acknowledges the missing persons desk as it is. And this time the phone isn’t ringing.” I started to speak, but she cut me off with a stiff finger pointed at my face. “And you can’t have Tuukula call it in like last time.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. It was just the one time, but I left him alone reading Kiiki’s scrapbook, and…

  “P?”

  “Yes?”

  “You were gone then.”

  “Thinking.”

  “Don’t.” She opened the door and let the wind and the rain into the cab. “Just let it go.”

  “I can’t,” I said as I followed her out of the car. “What about Kiiki Anguupisen? This is really important to her.”

  Atii stopped me at the door. “Is she rich?”

  “What?”

  “Is she going to pay you, like a private detective?”

  “Of course not.” I shook my head, staring at Atii. She wasn’t making any sense.

  “That’s a shame, because if you do this, you’re going to have to look for another job.”

  Atii yanked the door open, and I followed her inside.

  “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “Obviously.”

  “You’d think he’d…”

  “Definitely.” Atii snorted. “He’d probably fire me too.”

  “He likes you, Atii.”

  “Marginally more than you – imaqa. But,” she said, gripping my jacket, “let’s not put it to the test, eh? Promise?”

  “I…”

  Duneq’s deep voice interrupted us with a reminder that our shift started two minutes ago. “There’s no time for a cuddle at the door, Constables.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the briefing room. “Get in here.”

  I stood at the back, scribbling notes in my pad, nodding when the commissioner sneaked into the room, then added more notes about a spate of shoplifting. Uuko wasn’t alone, and the kiosks and gas stations felt targeted.

  “Their words, not mine,” Duneq said. “So, keep an eye out for youths anywhere from twelve to twenty years old, hanging around outside these locations.”

  “Er, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, Schmidt.”

  “That’s what they do, the youths. They hang out there all the time.”

  Duneq glowered at the assembled officers as a ripple of smirks and giggles erupted in the room. “Just keep an eye on them, Constable.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “And you, Jensen.”

  “Sergeant?” I looked up, biting my lip to hold back another giggle, as Duneq cleared the room.

  “A word.” He beckoned me forward.

  I glanced at the commissioner on my way to Duneq, caught the rolling of his eyes, but noticed that he didn’t leave, and I wondered if this was it. If it was, if my career was doomed, then I figured I had nothing to lose, especially as Duneq cut me off before I could make any promises to Atii.

  “About last night,” Duneq said.

  “Yes, Sergeant. I visited the home this morning to apologise.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, and there’s something else,” I said. Duneq narrowed his eyes as I took a breath. “I’d like a leave of absence.”

  “A what?”

  “A holiday.”

  “File it with personnel.”

  “Yes, I will, but I’d like to start this weekend.”

  Duneq laughed. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s all you want?”

  “If it’s no bother.”

  “Why?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “It’s just something’s come up.”

  “With that shaman and his daughter?”

  “No.” I could have kicked myself for not saying yes. “Not really.”

  Duneq reached for a sheaf of papers on the podium. “Compassionate leave is about the only thing you can take on short notice if you’re not sick. But, seeing as you don’t have any family…”

  “Sergeant,” the commissioner said.

  “She doesn’t, Sir. And all her friends are here. And if she’s not sick, then I see no reason to…”

  “There’s a missing person,” I said, blurting it out. Duneq’s face flushed, and I continued rapidly getting it all out before he exploded. “Forty years ago, a young woman… never found, and if I don’t find her, then someone is going to die.”

  “Constable!”

  “Take it easy, George,” the commissioner said. He walked the last part of the room to join us at the podium. “Again, Constable. Slower this time.”

  “From the other night,” I said. “Last night. One resident was distressed. She’s always distressed because she lost a friend forty years ago.”

  “It’s done, Jensen,” Duneq said. “There’s no case.”

  “Give her a minute, George.�
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  I nodded a quick thanks to the commissioner, and continued, “She has a scrapbook of all the articles about her missing friend. I thought I could start there. Now, I know it’s not a case, but there’s a time issue…”

  “She’s dead,” Duneq said. “Dead or in Denmark. Same thing. No case.”

  “Which is why I thought I would do this on my own time. Fly down to Narsarsuaq…”

  Duneq’s jowls wobbled as he laughed. “On your pay, Constable? Have you got any savings, or do you just happen to have 10.000,- kroner stuffed in a drawer somewhere?”

  “Let her finish, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” I said, taking another breath. “I haven’t thought about that, only that the woman – Kiiki – I could do this for her. Make up for what happened last night.”

  “Was it her room you trashed?”

  “No, Sergeant…”

  “Then I don’t understand.”

  “I went there this morning, and I gave her such a shock. She thought I was Venus…”

  “Venus?”

  “The missing woman, Commissioner. Anyway, Kiiki – the resident – she’s in her eighties. She has some kind of dementia. She’s suffering.”

  “And you want to put her out of her misery, Jensen? Is that it?”

  “Yes…”

  “We don’t do euthanasia, Constable.”

  “No,” I said, biting back another remark – one that could get me fired. “I don’t want to, you know, put her out of her misery…”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Sergeant.” The commissioner held up his hand, cutting us both off. “Give Constable Jensen the weekend.”

  “What?”

  “Give her from now until Monday morning. If she can’t solve the case, then at least she can tell…”

  “Kiiki, Sir,” I said.

  “Tell this woman that she tried.”

  “And who’s going to take her shift?” Duneq stabbed a pudgy finger at me. “This isn’t the first time. She’s…”

  “I’ll do it, Sergeant.”

  “What?” Duneq stared at the commissioner. We both did.

  “Haven’t I always been saying that I need to go out on patrol?”

  “Aap, but…”

  “It’s good for moral. I’m still new, Sergeant. I need to be seen. I’ll take the Constable’s shift. Yes, the whole weekend. And she will find Venus.” He smirked, probably holding back an astronomy joke, although I didn’t think Commissioner Lars Andersen was the type to stare at the stars. “And if you’ll give us the room, Sergeant, I just need a minute with Constable Jensen.”

  “Right.” Duneq left the room, pausing at the door to shake his head, as if he was confused as to what just happened.

  He wasn’t the only one.

  “Okay, Constable.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “What?”

  I struggled to find anything else to say, as confusion merged with odd and inappropriate.

  “A partner,” he said. “Do you have one?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, I suggest you find one, as there will be rumours after this. Duneq can’t help himself, and to be honest, who can blame him, especially when I organise your return flight to…”

  “Narsarsuaq,” I said.

  “Exactly.” He opened one of the folders he carried and gave me the top sheet from inside it. “It’s curious how things work out. I’ve been invited to give a talk on policing in a digital age at a conference in none other than…”

  “Narsarsuaq,” I said, reading the invitation.

  “Which is unfortunate, and late notice, as I have also been invited to meet with Nivi Winther. Do you know her?”

  “She’s a politician. We met on the plane to Qaanaaq, when I was…”

  “On your first missing persons case.” The commissioner smiled. “I remember. And I also remember being impressed by Ms Winther, and I rather think my time would be better spent meeting with her than giving a talk on digital policing. Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, although the commissioner was one step ahead of me.

  “And I can think of no one better qualified than a young constable fresh out of the academy who happens to be glued to her smartphone whenever her supervisors aren’t looking.”

  “Sir?”

  “I made that bit up, Constable.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He handed me the folder, and said, “Return tickets are included, as is accommodation and meals.”

  “You want me to give the talk?”

  “And once that’s done, you’re free to conduct your private investigation before the return flight, Monday morning. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds good,” I said.

  “Then it’s settled.”

  The commissioner left me with the folder in my hand and a puzzled look on my face. I called out as he reached the door.

  “About what you said, Sir.”

  “Which part?”

  “Finding a partner.”

  “Yes, well, if people think I’m showing you an unfair amount of favouritism, then they are going to talk. They won’t see a capable young constable; they will see a young woman sleeping with the boss.”

  “Sir…”

  “It’s a fact, Constable. You don’t have to like it, it’s just what people will say.”

  “But if I had a partner, wouldn’t that just make things complicated? I mean everything.”

  “Isn’t love supposed to be complicated?”

  “I don’t know, Sir.”

  I really didn’t.

  “Then I suggest you find out.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The commissioner left the room before I remembered to say thank you. I looked at the tickets in the folder and laughed. It was all falling into place. Just like Luui would say. Just like…

  Magic.

  Part 9

  Luui was in my bed when Atii dropped me off at my apartment. Too tired to comment on my trip to Narsarsuaq, Atii wished me luck, kissed me on the cheek, and drove home. I let myself in, slid my sweaty feet out of my boots, and padded into the kitchen. Tuukula, head down, shoulders hunched, waved me over to the table.

  “Look at this,” he said.

  “Coffee first.”

  “Sure, but look.”

  I leaned over Tuukula’s shoulder and followed his finger as he translated a clipping from a Greenlandic article in Atuagagdliutit – one of Greenland’s two newspapers before they merged. I teased my hair free of my ponytail as Tuukula talked.

  “Venus was well known,” he said. “Everybody thought she was going to be a model. The journalist – a local freelancer – wrote she had been approached by Vogue.”

  “I read that bit.”

  “Aap, but did you read she was to be the cover girl for the Greenlandic Wool Association?” Tuukula looked up as I walked around the table to the counter. He waited as I filled the jug from the coffee machine with water.

  “I didn’t even know there was a wool association.”

  “It was all very new, a hard life.”

  “Modelling?”

  “Sheep farming,” Tuukula said, adding, “In Greenland.”

  “Everything is hard in Greenland,” I whispered.

  Tuukula heard me.

  “You’re tired.”

  “Yes.”

  “Coffee…”

  “Working on it.”

  “Then more research.”

  “Research?” That made me smile, that and the sight of a seventy-year-old shaman – seventy-one, if I remembered correctly – so animated by old clippings from the past, before I was born.

  “Yes, for your trip.”

  “How do you know…”

  “That you have permission?” Tuukula gave me a look that brought another smile to my face. “You’re smiling.”

  “Because of the look on your face.”

  “Aap?”

&n
bsp; “Like you expect me to just accept that you know things.”

  “Of course.” Tuukula shrugged, then slid his empty coffee mug across the table, just as the coffee machine finished percolating half a jug of coffee. “I am a shaman.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “I don’t need to reveal my ways.”

  “Or your sources,” I said, filling two mugs.

  “Atii called. Her phone has a good battery.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my phone,” I said.

  “Never mind.” Tuukula reached for his coffee and said, “Sit beside me. Sip your coffee. Listen.”

  “I’m listening,” I said, as I slid onto the chair next to Tuukula.

  “Venus decided to go south.”

  “To Narsarsuaq?”

  “Aap. Narsarsuaq. She went to stay at a farm. They were going to take pictures of her. Look,” he said, turning to the back of the scrapbook and opening a large folder glued into the back of the book. “Photos.”

  “I didn’t see the envelope,” I said, reaching for the photos.

  The photos had that seventies summer filter that gave everything a hint of orange or sepia brown. I looked at a clumsy shot of Venus, leaning against a gate, as if the photographer had framed the shot from my memory. She wore big rubber boots, deep blue jeans, and a generous wool sweater – shades of white and grey – that set off her jet-black hair and coffee cream skin.

  “She’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Turn it over.”

  “What?”

  “The photograph.”

  I turned to the back side, then traced my finger beneath a faded note scrawled in Greenlandic on the back. The first and last part was easy enough to read.

  “To Kiiki,” I said. “All my love, Venus.”

  “Nearly.” Tuukula ran his finger over the middle section. “I’ve met someone. I think I’m in love, Venus.”

  “She met someone down south.”

  “Aap.”

  “In Narsarsuaq – a farmer, maybe.”

  “Imaqa.” Tuukula pushed back his chair and stood up. “There’s more,” he said, plucking a roll-up cigarette from behind his ear. “We can look at it later. But now I will have a smoke on your balcony.”