Chapter 16

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Saturday night chaos swirled around Malik Uutaaq, but he didn’t notice. He was at home, sat in the armchair by the window, a large glass of gin in one hand, his smartphone in the other. Aarni’s debate notes were on a small table to one side. Malik glanced at them once or twice as he dialled his communications chief for the fourth time, or was it the fifth? Malik couldn’t remember. Nor could he remember when it was that Pipaluk started shouting, or why Naala had to shout back, something about her daughter acting as if they were rich, and that winter jackets, especially the Canada Goose label were not cheap. Malik heard the argument, he heard all the words, but he didn’t listen. The debate was tomorrow, and his communications chief, the man he hired to be his shield and to tell him what to say and when to say it, had gone missing. Malik took another gulp of gin. The girl was dead. What did it matter that Pipaluk had lost her winter jacket?

“Malik,” Naala said, and Malik realised she was standing in front of him.

“What?”

“Your son is in his room. You need to go and talk to him.”

“I’m preparing for the debate. I haven’t got time to talk to Sipu.”

“No,” she said and stabbed her finger towards his chest, “you’re getting drunk.” She snatched the bottle of gin from beneath his arm and held it up to the light, sloshing what little alcohol was left around the bottom of the bottle.

“Give me that.” Malik dropped the smartphone in his lap and reached for the bottle.

“Go and talk to your son.”

“You mean our son.”

“Right now? He’s yours,” Naala said and marched into the kitchen. She tipped the bottle over the sink and glared at her husband, daring him to say a single word.

Malik drank the last mouthful of gin from his glass and slapped it down on the coffee table as he walked out of the lounge, through the kitchen, and into the hall. He started to climb the stairs, stopping halfway to control his momentum, took a breath and continued onto the landing. Pipaluk looked out of her room and started to complain about her mother.

“Not now, princess,” Malik said, as he walked past her room.

“But, dad,” she called after him. “It’s not fair. I didn’t lose my jacket, or the other stuff, I left it hanging on the hook. It was my hook, dad. You should call the police or something.”

Malik paused outside the door to Sipu’s bedroom. He thought about the police, and wondered how he could explain to his daughter why that really wasn’t a good idea. He opened the door and instantly wished that he had knocked first.

Sipu’s room was dark but for the vivid pink and blue light emanating from the computer screen on his desk. He turned and fumbled for the mouse with one hand, as he tried to cover his crotch with the other. Malik stepped inside the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

“Sipu?”

“I’m sorry, dad,” Sipu said. He closed one window on the screen with a click of the mouse, only to reveal another window, and a second and third cascading behind the first. All of them lurid. All of them graphic. Malik walked over to his son’s desk, and turned the screen off.

“Pull your pyjamas up,” Malik said.

He walked over to Sipu’s bed and patted the mattress beside him. Sipu tugged his pyjama bottoms to his waist and crawled onto the bed. Malik curled his arm around his son, as Sipu buried his head in his father’s armpit, his body jerking with small sobs.

“I’m not mad at you. You haven’t done anything wrong. We just need to talk about it.”

Malik felt the room spin around him, and he blinked to focus on the video game posters on the walls. None of them seemed willing to stop moving, so Malik closed his eyes. The room was warm. Malik lowered his head until his chin settled on his chest. He pictured the studio they were preparing for the debate at the cultural centre, the lights, the seats for the live audience, and the position of each of the three cameras. He had visited the studio with Aarni on the day of Tinka Winther’s funeral. He had nodded with approval when the studio technicians had explained what they were doing, said yes to make-up and no to glasses. They showed him how the cordless microphone worked, and he remembered the light touch of the young woman who slipped the clasp of the microphone between his belt and the hem of his jeans. She was pretty. Not his type, but then his type seemed to get him into all kinds of trouble. Perhaps it was time to rethink his life?

Malik heard a snore and blinked his eyes open. Sipu had fallen asleep on his chest. He lifted his left hand to look at his watch, but it was too dark to see the hands. He didn’t know if he had slept, or if his son’s snoring had woken him, or was it the knock at the door. He squinted as a shaft of light from the landing lit Sipu’s room as Naala opened the door and crept into the room. She looked at the window, and seemed to relax when she realised the curtains were drawn.

“Malik,” she whispered.

“Naala? What is it?”

“Outside,” she said. “There’s a police car parked outside our house.”

“What?” Malik sat up, peeled his son from his chest, and laid him down on the mattress, tugging the duvet over him as he stood up, walked to the window and reached for the curtain.

“Don’t,” Naala said. “They’ll see you.”

Malik stepped to one side of the window, and plucked at the edge of the curtain, just enough to see the police Toyota. The streetlights were on, but he couldn’t see if anyone was inside the car. He let go of the curtain, and looked at his wife.

“I don’t know,” he said, but the twist of his guts suggested that he had an idea.

“Are you going to find out?”

“You want me to go and talk to them?”

“Yes,” she said. “The police are outside our house, Malik. Yes, I want you to talk to them. What will the neighbours think?”

“Perhaps they are here for one of them?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Naala said, and sighed.

They both turned as Pipaluk entered the room. She looked at her mother and then walked over to the window.

“Pipaluk, stop,” Naala said.

“I want to see.”

“It’s nothing, princess,” Malik said. “Go back to your room.”

“If it’s nothing,” she said, “why are you whispering?”

“Your brother is asleep.”

Pipaluk laughed, and said, “No, he’s not, dad.” She pointed at Sipu and he pulled the duvet over his head. “Faker,” she said, and left the room.

Malik looked at his wife, as Pipaluk shut the door to her room and turned on her stereo. The music was loud enough to be heard, but not quite loud enough for them to tell her to turn it down. Naala beckoned for Malik to come with her, and they went down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

“This is because of you,” she said, as Malik shut the kitchen door.

“How is this anything to do with me?”

“Because of who you are.”

“The party leader of Seqinnersoq? Okay, maybe.”

“And what you do,” she said, and folded her arms across her chest.

“Politics?”

“Hah,” she snorted, “is that what you call it?”

“Naala,” Malik said, and pressed his palm to his forehead, “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“No?”

“I’m tired. This last week has been…” He paused. “It’s been difficult.”

He looked at his wife, watched as the expression on her face softened, and her arms relaxed to her sides. She opened her mouth, as if she wanted to say something, and he wondered if he deserved to hear it, to hear soft words of encouragement, sympathy, and support, from the woman whose love he had betrayed time and time again. And then he saw her lips twitch, and any sympathy he might have received at his remorse was gone.

“You’ve had a difficult week? Oh, you poor love. How awful it must be to be you.”

“Don’t, Naala.”

“Don’t what, you bastard?” Naala jabbed her finger at the living room window, the one that faced out onto the street. “Go out there, and find out what the police are doing outside our house. Do that and I might just let you back in. Otherwise…” She paused to laugh. “Aarni Aviki.”

Malik frowned. “What about him?”

“He told me to put up with you. That it was better to be the neglected wife of the First Minister of Greenland, than it was to be a divorced nobody. Can you believe that? He practically said that I should let you screw around, and that everything would be fine because we would have more money. He said that.”

“He told me,” Malik said, and glanced at the armchair where he had left his smartphone. Malik looked at his wife, and said, “Naala, do you want a divorce?”

The words didn’t even surprise him. They just seemed to happen, pouring out together with the energy that was leaving his body, draining him on the eve of the most important day of his political campaign. If it was going to happen, he reasoned, why not make it now. What else could possibly go wrong?

Naala leaned back against the kitchen counter. She stared at her husband, as if he had started speaking a new language, as if he finally wanted to communicate. This second layer of vulnerability within the space of just a few minutes, actually stunned her, and she turned her back on Malik, not wanting to suggest one thing or another. Not yet. She gathered her thoughts, channelled them into words, and said, “Go outside. We’ll talk after you’ve spoken to the police.”

Malik waited for her to turn around. When he realised she wasn’t going to, he walked out of the kitchen, shut the door quietly behind him, and put on a pair of shoes. He chose a jacket from the rack and left the house. The walk across the street was twice as long as he remembered, and he wondered how much gin he had drunk before Naala tipped the remains of the bottle down the sink. He stopped within half a metre of the police car, wiped a mist of rain from his face, and peered in through the driver’s window. Malik waited.

Petra pressed the button in the door to lower the window, and looked at Malik. She nodded and waited for him to speak.

“You look familiar,” he said.

“Sergeant Jensen. I’m working on the Tinka Winther case.”

“Is that why you’re here, outside my house?” He waited as Petra turned to look at the man sitting next to her. Malik took a step closer and peered into the interior. “I don’t know you.”

“My name is Maratse.”

“And you’re working the case too?” Malik shook his head. “Two police officers, outside my house, on a Saturday night. Is that really the best use of police resources? I’m sure there are plenty of drunks you could pick up in town.”

Petra sighed. “My shift finished an hour ago.”

“Really?”

“And I’m not a police officer,” Maratse said, and opened the passenger door.

Malik watched him as he took a long time to walk around the front of the car. “Then what are you doing here? Is this some form of harassment?”

“I really wish it was,” Petra said. She shot a sharp look at Maratse as he leaned against the side of the car.

“Then one of you had better explain, before I call the Commissioner.”

“You don’t need to do that, Malik,” Maratse said. “I just want to talk.”

Petra stifled a laugh, as Malik looked at them both. “My friend has recently developed a chatty streak,” she said.

“Piitalaat,” Maratse said. “Please…”

“No, David,” Petra said. She gripped the wheel. “I don’t agree with you on this, and,” she said, and looked at Malik, “I don’t even want to be here.”

Malik wiped the rain from his face. He blinked, as he tried to make sense of the conversation. He glanced over his shoulder at his house, almost wishing he was back in the kitchen, arguing with Naala. “What is this? It’s like the good cop, bad cop scenario, except neither of you seems to know who is playing who. Why don’t I leave you to it? I mean, if you want to figure out your problems, that’s fine. I have plenty of my own.”

“My friend is angry with me for making her come here tonight,” Maratse said.

“I can see that. Why is that my problem?”

“You are a problem, and you have problems.” Maratse lit a cigarette, and rolled it into the gap between his teeth. “You are a problem because your politics suggest my friend is not a true Greenlander.” Maratse considered switching to Greenlandic, but continued in Danish. “She thinks you are splitting the country, and I agree with her. But that’s not why we are here tonight.”

“No? Good, because that would be harassment.”

“We’re here,” Petra said, “because my friend is worried about you. He thinks you might do something stupid, or that someone might do something to you.”

“Like what? What are we talking about? Why would I do anything stupid?”

“When did you last speak with Aarni Aviki?” Maratse asked.

“Early this morning. Why?”

“He has had a difficult day.”

“Has something happened to Aarni?” Malik looked at Petra. “Tell me.”

Petra bit her lip, as she thought about what to say. “He committed suicide.”

“What?” Malik looked at Maratse. “What did she say?”

“We found his body a few hours ago,” Petra said, and glanced at the house. “Is your wife home?”

“Yes,” Malik said. He jerked his hands; palms open, and said, “My wife, my kids, everyone’s home. Why?”

“That’s good,” Maratse said. “We’re going to stay out here tonight. Perhaps you should get a good night’s sleep, prepare for your debate.”

“We’re sorry about Mr Aviki,” Petra said. “Get some rest.”

Malik took a step backwards, staring at Maratse and Petra, confused by what they said. Naala met him at the front door, peering around his shoulder at the police car.

“What do they want?”

“They want to make sure I am okay.”

“Are they going to stay there all night?”

“Yes.” Malik reached out for Naala’s hand. “Aarni’s dead, Naala.”

“What?”

“Suicide. They just told me.”

“And that’s why they are here?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I think they are protecting me.”

“Malik,” Naala said, “do you need protection?”

“I don’t know.”