Glacier Beat

Contents Glacier Beat Dedication Introduction Map: Greenland Glossary Glacier Beat North of Uummannaq Prologue Nuuk 1 Uummannaq 2 London 3 Uummannaq 4 Nuuk 5 6 London 7 Nuuk 8 Uummannaq 9 10 11 12 London 13 Uummannaq 14 15 London 16 17 Uummannaq 18 19 20 London 21 Uummannaq 22 23 24 London Epilogue If you enjoyed this book Get more Scandinavian Crime stories About the Author Copyright Information Glacier Beat A Greenland Missing Persons stand-alone novel #2 Christoffer Petersen for Jane Always and Forever Introduction Glacier Beat is a stand-alone novel set in the Greenland Missing Persons series. While it’s not necessary to read the other novels, novellas, and short stories in this series to enjoy Glacier Beat, there are several references to previous adventures, and of course, many familiar faces. There are more stand-alone novels planned for the future. Chris May 2023 Denmark Glossary of West Greenlandic words aap – yes ana – grandmother anaana – mother angakkoq – shaman aqisseq – ptarmigan ata – grandfather ataata – father eeqqi – no (East Greenland) iiji – yes (East Greenland) imaqa – maybe naamik – no kaffemik – celebration/party kamikker/kamiks – sealskin boots mattak – whale skin and blubber delicacy qajaq – kayak qujanaq – thank you suna? – what? tuttu – reindeer ukaleq – Arctic hare Glacier Beat North of Uummannaq Greenland Prologue The snatch and tug of a loose guy in the wind teased Derek Evans out of a guilt-ridden sleep. He scratched the sleep from his eyes and blinked in the spring light burning through the thin red walls of his geodesic tent. He rolled to one side, wiped a patch of drool from his beard and snorted at the thought of the loving, if a little scathing, comment that July, his Welsh wife, would attach to what she called a vision of loveliness. “It’s a good job I kept my name,” she would say, smoothing the flecks of grey in the fringe of Derek’s brown hair to one side as she kissed him awake. “When I grow tired of you, I can slip back into the single life without changing a single thing.” “Expect the marriage certificate, Ms Evans,” he would say, kissing her back. Maiden name or married, the Evanses shared the same sarcastic humour, too, to which they attributed twelve relatively calm years of marriage. Derek blinked again, then rubbed his nose as he caught the faint smell of his wife’s perfume from the baffle of his sleeping bag. The oily spot where she had sprayed it left a permanent ring on the material. He unzipped his sleeping bag and sat up, stifling a groan as the crick in his back complained at yet another night on a thin mattress. Willa Portree – if she had been up – would have reminded him that he could have spent the night in relative comfort on the cot in the canvas wall tent reserved for the camp boss. But the heavy flaps of a canvas tent could be opened almost without a sound, and since their last encounter, Derek preferred the noisy zip of the pup tent as a deterrent to jog his conscience and send the camp carpenter back to her own cot. The crick in his back was his penance, and it would take three strong coffees and most of the morning before it was gone. Dressing inside the pup tent only made his back worse. But the pain was good. The pain was necessary. Derek intended to suffer for all four of the remaining weeks at GEUS Camp #01B328, the northernmost location of the Geological Survey of Denmark and Greenland’s seasonal field camps. Dubbed Camp Derek, the team of seven geologists, one carpenter, and Derek christened the camp with the boss’ name when a memo from head office on Oester Voldgade in Copenhagen, reminded all employees in the field that the silly season was almost upon them, and that they should keep all camps in good order in case a member of the Danish royal family, or a visiting dignitary, chose to make a spontaneous visit. “Camp Derek,” Jørgen Johansen had said, squeezing Willa’s biceps in a meaty grip. “Where the world’s wrongs are righted, and whatever feels right is probably wrong.” Willa had looked at Derek at that point, fixing him with her brown eyes, and tilting her head in such a way that the sun lingered over her generous, impossibly red, and ultimately chewable lips, the flecks of dirt on her sun-baked white skin, and the stubble of what the men called her G.I. Jane crewcut. Camp Derek. Where what feels right is probably, and most definitely, wrong. “Bloody Johansen,” Derek muttered as he struggled into a pair of heavy cargo trousers. As he searched for his socks, if he listened past the wind and the snap of the tent guy, Derek could hear Johansen’s thunderous snores reverberating around the camp. The image of Johansen’s scraggly beard tickling the great Dane’s chest, together with his wide nose and buck teeth drifted through Derek’s mind and he grabbed it, used it, and, together with the pain in his back, managed to push Willa deeper into the back of his mind. He found his socks, pulled them on. Derek grabbed his duvet jacket, checked his beanie and gloves were still in the pockets, and let out a little groan as he reached forward to unzip the inner and then the outer fly of the tent. He crawled out, zipped the tent, and straightened his back. Camp Derek couldn’t be more different from the Camp David the geologists thought of when they christened it. Three rectangular canvas wall tents – a luxury not afforded the camps accessible only by helicopter when weight was an issue – filled the centre of the camp in a line. Smoke wisped out of the mess tent, which suggested at least one person was already awake. “Clem,” Derek whispered, putting a name to the most likely candidate. Personal