‘We all hope that,’ Mortensen grunted, and looked up at him. ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’
‘There are some films where I think you can see her.’
‘Films? Here in Godthåb?’
Jakob nodded. ‘I think they were recorded at the location where she’s being held… by Abelsen or the Faroese.’
Mortensen shook his head and stood up with effort. ‘That’s the final straw, Pedersen. You bring me your films—if they really exist, that is—and then stay the hell away. You’re suspended no matter what, and it won’t help your case if you have evidence lying around at your house.’
Jakob stared at the floor.
‘Now get out of here,’ Mortensen shouted. ‘Get out of here before I tell your colleagues to walk you home and tear your house apart.’
50
The snow was several metres high along the roads, so few rocks managed to peek out from underneath the glittering carpet. The moonlight bounced back from it, making the earth look as if it were bathed in phosphorescence. The wind had suddenly died down so even the tiniest movement could be heard from afar. It was only six o’clock in the evening, but the sky over the city was already black and infinitely deep. Millions of stars sparkled over Jakob’s head, and even more crystals under his feet. The cold bit at his nostrils and throat; it felt like it was minus fifteen Celsius already. He inhaled deeply through his nose. It stung, and the hairs in his nostrils froze instantly.
The houses lay scattered along the road, and light shone from the small windows. Except for his own house, which was just as dark as the sky. The moment he had thrown his warrant card on Mortensen’s desk, he had known that his days in that house were numbered, but he didn’t mind. It was never his home. Two people had once lived there, and they had died together and left everything as it was. A mausoleum. He had merely borrowed it. Now it would be passed on to the next person. He was moving on.
From a distance of several houses, he had seen that his front door was ajar, and as he took the last few steps across the snow towards the building he realised that the door had been forced. It was ripped from its frame, and the wood around the lock was splintered.
He had known that the house would be empty. As the day had dragged him deeper and deeper into a bottomless void, he had realised that he wouldn’t be able to keep his promise to Paneeraq to come back and take care of her. She had been removed by force, and the thought of how that must have been for her was unbearable. He had no idea where the child was now, or if he would ever see her again.
Jakob pushed open the front door and entered the hall, where he picked up a small plastic bag from the floor—another reel of film. He closed the door as best he could, and continued into the living room.
The coffee table had been upended, and pretty much his whole rock collection lay scattered in a crescent shape on the grey rug beside it. He touched the table. There had never been a single scratch in its glossy wood, but now the veneer was crisscrossed with fine lines and dots. His hand continued across the rug and brushed a couple of rocks. Behind the coffee table a section of the rug pile had been squashed down, and in the middle of the flat area was a wet patch.
He hooked up the new film in the projector and fed it through the machine. The beam of light revealed dust motes dancing in the air. The square on the wall flickered. She was still in the container. Curled up in her corner. But even in the brief flashes of light, he soon realised that her condition had deteriorated. Her hair was unkempt. Dirtier. Matted. She wasn’t wearing any tights. No dress. No underwear. Only the jacket, which she had wrapped tightly around herself. Her body was trembling. Twitching. Light turned to darkness. Then it exploded again in life. Her bare legs were soiled. Filthy. The light and the dark no longer affected her closed eyelids. Her hands were pressed against her mouth and nose. There were trails of several layers of dried tears in the grime on her cheeks.
She sat like that, completely still. Jakob lost track of time. He just waited. There had been a new note with the film. Last warning, Jakob. Close the case. She dies tomorrow. Jakob stared at the girl in the darkness and the light. Suddenly a shadow appeared and slipped in front of everything. Without the camera moving. It was a tall, thin man. Black hair. Wearing a long, dark coat. He was pale and stern, although his face was seen only in profile for a brief moment. He threw a blanket over Najak, but she didn’t stir or open her eyes.
The film ran out. The camera hadn’t moved. Nor did it have to. The man who had appeared had answered all Jakob’s questions.
His temples were throbbing. ‘She’s only eleven years old,’ he screamed into the air. He stared at the projector and shook his head. Then he looked at the wall clock near the kitchen. It was just past eight o’clock. ‘Shit!’
He got up and put on his coat. There was no telephone in the house, so if he wanted anything done, he would have to go out. He picked up the projector and put it in the cardboard box in which it had arrived. He put the films down alongside it.
The cold bit his face hard. The wind had increased again; given the density of the darkness, a thick cloud cover must have crept over the headland. The frost and the whirling snow cut his face, so he struggled to see. His eyes were smarting and his cheeks hurt. He carried the box in both hands, and was constantly on the verge of stumbling because he couldn’t see the road.
Before he reached the police station, he tripped and fell to his knees three times, sinking into the snow. His fingers were numb even though he was wearing gloves. From time to time he carried the box with one hand only, so he could wiggle the fingers on his free hand and get his circulation going again. In summer the walk from his house to the police station took only a few minutes, but on this pitch-black winter’s night in a snowstorm, it took him more than a quarter of an hour.
The police station was just as dark as the night, but unlike the sky it stood out in clear contrast to the white snow, which covered everything around the long, dark-brown wooden building. Jakob took the last few steps up the stairs, set down the box and got his breath back. Then he tried the door. It didn’t even budge. He had hoped that someone would be there. Anyone. Even Mortensen. He tried a few more times, then started banging on the window frame.
He waited several minutes, but all he could hear was his own breathing. Then he picked up the box and walked down the steps. He waded through the deep snow and looked through some of the windows. The station was dark and empty.
His boots were filled with snow under his trousers. His gloves were covered in lumps of ice. He continued past Mortensen’s house, which lay close by, but it was just as dark as the police station. In the end he was forced to walk all the way back home. He would have to wait until tomorrow. Besides, they couldn’t start looking for the container until it got light.
Back in the house he took off his icy outdoor clothing and put the cardboard box away in the sideboard. Then he went to the kitchen and poured himself a brimming glass of Johnnie Walker Red Label. He opened a drawer and took out the big chef ’s knife. Another remnant from the days of the previous tenants. It was heavy and felt good in his hand. Its blade was almost as long as his forearm.
He picked up the glass with his left hand and sipped the cool whisky. He pulled a face and took another slug, then returned to the living room and the armchair, where he sank into the soft upholstery and placed the knife on the armrest. There was an icy draught from the damaged front door.
51