The Shaman's Daughter by Christoffer Petersen

Author:Christoffer Petersen [Petersen, Christoffer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aarluuk Press for Arctic Noir, Action Thrillers and Greenland Crime
Published: 2021-02-17T16:00:00+00:00

Part 13

“Alma had the TV on,” Maratse said, as we parked beside the dogs he was looking after. He talked as he worked, pulling a short screwdriver from his pocket to open the clasp around the stripy dog’s collar, freeing him from the chain. The dog bounced on its hind legs as Maratse walked it back to the snowmobile. “Someone has a drone in Oqaatsut. They were filming the police as they chased Tuukula.”

“Gaba and the Special Response Unit,” I said, clutching my chest as I felt it tighten.

“Iiji.” Maratse gestured for me to move back on the seat as he lifted the dog onto the snowmobile. “Hold him tight,” he said.

“David?”

Maratse climbed onto the snowmobile. The dog fidgeted in my lap, casting wild looks at me as Maratse moved back in his seat, pinning the dog between us.

“Tuukula ran into a house. Gaba followed. They brought Tuukula out.”

“Unharmed?” I said, voice crackling as I fought back a wave of emotion.

“He’s fine. Unharmed, but in custody.” The dogs rattled their chains, whining as Maratse pulled away. “He’s distracting them. But now we have to hurry.”

“And the dog?” I said, raising my voice and ducking my head as Maratse sped along the icy path to the ice fjord.

“Is called Stripe.”

Of course, he is, I thought as Stripe trembled on the seat between us.

“Useless sledge dog,” Maratse said, slowing as he bumped the snowmobile up and over a frozen drift blocking the path. “But a good nose.”

“Which is why you…”

“Brought Luui’s t-shirt.” Maratse nodded.

The path twisted through a valley of low hills. Jagged peaks of ice loomed in the distance, and the crash and boom of iceberg artillery echoed along the path towards us, louder as we sped closer to the icy coastline. The wind bit my exposed cheeks and the tips of Maratse’s thick hair pearled with ice and crystals of windblown snow. Stripe wriggled as Maratse slowed to a stop. Maratse switched the motor off, and the last buzz of the snowmobile was absorbed by the deep snow on either side of the path.

“Caves,” Maratse said, as he clicked his tongue for Stripe to leap off the snowmobile.

Stripe’s claws clacked on the plastic sides of the snowmobile and scratched across my thighs as he leaped into the snow. I expected him to run away, but after a furious moment of scratching rocks and marking the snow with splashes and sprinkles of dark urine, Stripe stood still and looked at Maratse.

“Luui’s t-shirt,” Maratse said, as he climbed off the snowmobile. I handed it to him, and he clicked his tongue for Stripe to come.

I knew very little about sledge dogs, but I had never heard of them being used as tracker dogs. The police had hash dogs, and special permits allowing them to take the dogs into the sledge dog districts, under strict instructions that police dogs should not mix with the Greenlandic sledge dog. According to the rules devised to protect the breed, even if a pure-bred Greenlandic sledge dog was taken out of the sledge dog districts, it was by law not allowed to return.

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