Out of the Ice (21 page)

G
eorgia hammered in the steel pegs with gusto, the sound echoing down the icy street as we set up camp near the purple house. I’d advised we stay as far away from the Adélie colony and harbour as possible, to have the least impact on the wildlife.

‘So, Rutger,’ said Georgia, ‘how do you know Professor Connaught?’

Rutger stopped hammering, and blinked. Kate and I, busy on our own tent, turned. The silence was deafening.

‘I, I . . .’ Rutger stuttered, cheeks flushing a strange shade of pink. ‘We worked together several years ago on a project.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Georgia. Rutger glanced my way, knowing he’d pretended only last night to meet Connaught for the first time.

‘I’d forgotten, you know,’ he said, smoothing over the cracks. ‘He looked familiar and then it came back to me. It was a minor project, we had very little to do with each other. But when I started talking, after a while I thought,
I’ve met you
.’ Rutger smiled, flashing his perfect teeth.

‘I get that all the time with other cops,’ said Georgia. ‘When I was young I had a memory like a steel trap. But since having kids,’ she rolled her eyes. ‘Mind you, I blame my little monsters for everything.’

Rutger laughed and seemed relieved. Kate and I went back to hammering the tent pegs, and I wondered if it was coincidence that Rutger had been chosen for this project or if Connaught had influenced the Council. Either way, we would have to be careful with him.

Once our tents were secure, we headed into the village in our two teams. In the first stage, we would be documenting and numbering the buildings in grids, and looking for signs of entry by unauthorised personnel. Later, in a second, much longer stage, Rutger and I would go through every structure in greater detail.

I’d assigned Kate and Rutger the end of Placid Bay furthest away from the Adélie rookery. Georgia and I were going to the orange house, where I’d found the T-shirt and photographed the man. Georgia carried her fingerprinting kit in its aluminium case as she walked beside me.

As soon as I was away from Rutger I felt more relaxed. His energy was depressing; he was tense, cold and aloof – everything I hated. And then I felt guilty because Kate had no choice but to be with him.

Arriving at the orange house I showed Georgia where we had crouched outside by the windows. The ice was so hard, there was no sign we’d been. I flicked up my photo and Georgia studied it closely. The beam of torchlight, the silhouetted figure behind.

Inside, the rooms were still and empty. Georgia looked curiously at the portraits of Ingerline and her family staring down at us, then methodically dusted for fingerprints. She found nothing. Kate, Travis and I had been wearing gloves when we’d been in the house; the intruders must have done the same. In the kitchen, there was no trace of candle wax on the table.

Georgia turned to dusting for footprints. One lot were clearly mine, the others looked like the size of Kate and Travis.

‘But the man was definitely in here,’ I said.

‘Did he walk on thin air?’

I led Georgia upstairs. In the room where we had found the T-shirt, she studied the timber floorboards. ‘There are smudge marks,’ she said. ‘They could have put disposables over their boots, or simply worn socks.’

‘Why do you think they’re here?’ I asked.

‘Well, it’s odd, isn’t it,’ she replied matter-of-factly. ‘Several theories. One, they’re from another base, and I agree that means Esperanza or Villa Las Estrellas, because they’re the ones with families. They could have just been looking around out of curiosity, and weren’t expecting to encounter anyone. It’s November, they can get in by Zodiac. Could have been dropped off here by a bigger ship and are waiting to be picked up. Of course hiding from you, so they know they’re not meant to be here. Two, they’re a family in a yacht – tourists, adventurers.’

‘But where’s the yacht?’

‘Exactly. So less likely. But only some of the family might have come ashore – say, Dad and his son. Mum could come back for them after sailing around with other family members.’

That hadn’t occurred to me – I
supposed
it was a possibility.

‘There are families who do that. Rip the kids out of school and take off,’ said Georgia, seeing my scepticism. ‘Or three,’ she continued, ‘the man and the boy are somehow connected to Alliance. And beyond that, it would be mere conjecture. We need to find more facts.’

‘The boy was upset. Really traumatised. Calling for help.’

‘Which could mean anything. My kids get upset all the time. And a young teenage boy, let me tell you.’

‘It was more than that,’ I said firmly.

‘And it seems likely he slept here after you saw him. With, perhaps, his father. I hope his father, in any case.’ Georgia turned away and continued to search for clues.

A chill ran through me at the way she said
hope his father.

After filming the house, we went back into the street, where Georgia turned her attention to hidden cameras. She looked around, dark eyes hawk-bright. ‘If the men at Alliance are up to something down here, they could have removed any cameras, of course,’ she said. ‘It was hardly a secret that I was coming.’ She strode down the street, calling back. ‘It’s a remarkable village, by the way. Highly suitable for opening up to tourists.’

My heart sank.

‘I hope you’ll put that in your report,’ she called.

‘Would you like to see the Adélie colony?’ I said, catching up with her. I needed to show her the importance of keeping tourists away.

‘Not yet. We’ll stick to this part today.’

We moved through house after house, methodically numbering, photographing and noting GPS coordinates. There was nothing different to what I’d seen before: some places were furnished; a few were empty. There were no trapdoors down into the ice.

I didn’t run into the ghost of Ingerline. Or anyone else.

We had dinner in the purple house: dehydrated meat and vegetables that we boiled up on a tiny paraffin camping stove, biscuits, no alcohol. That night we slept on the ice. Our tents of reinforced fabric would keep us warmer than if we were in a freezing house, and with four of us, I’d felt it less disruptive. Georgia and Rutger were in separate tents; Kate and I were together. I was glad for Kate’s body heat but she was in a foul mood.

‘It’s bullshit she won’t let me go back. And Rutger is the most boring handsome man I’ve ever met.’

‘So you find him good looking?’ I tried to make light, but I was in a bad mood myself.

‘Not any more,’ she said. ‘If you have a bland personality and bond with men like Connaught, you can’t expect women to find you appealing.’

‘Does he have a wife? Kids?’

‘You’ve got to be joking. Rutger Koch is married to his work. Which he takes very seriously, from what he’s bored me with all day. He loves Antarctica. That’s about the only good thing about him.’

‘Does he like penguins?’

‘No.’ Kate shook her head emphatically. ‘He finds them stupid.’ She hunched down into her sleeping bag and closed her eyes. ‘I hate my life.’

I leaned over and massaged her shoulders, which were rigid with tension. ‘I’m sorry. We’ll have you with your Adélies soon, I promise.’

•  •  •

The tent was flapping wildly in a vicious wind, pelted by powdered ice that, from the shadows inside, I could see was piling high. I hauled on my coat and trousers and peered out. It was a horrible day. Our skidoos were already encased in drifts of snow that had been hurled off the ground.

‘This is crap,’ said Kate. ‘I’m staying here.’

‘Suit yourself,’ I said, irritated and impatient. Of course the weather would turn just when we were camped down here.

‘Grub’s up,’ said Georgia, appearing through the flap of the tent. ‘Breakfast’s in the purple house.’ She disappeared.

I pulled on my boots. ‘Coming?’

Kate sighed deeply.

‘The sooner we’re through here, the sooner you can go home,’ I pointed out. She pulled herself out of her sleeping bag, emerging like a butterfly from a chrysalis, as I headed into the freezing air. Tiny pieces of ice pelted my face as I pushed against the ferocious wind into the house. I could smell oats cooking. When I entered the kitchen, Rutger looked up briefly from his bowl of porridge. He may have grunted hello but I didn’t hear it. He ate sloppily. No wonder he was single.

‘So how did you sleep?’ Georgia asked as she dished up my porridge and poured a cup of steaming tea from a huge blue and white teapot.

‘Did you bring that?’ I looked at the teapot.

‘Found it. Don’t worry, I’ll put it back just where it was.’

‘Make yourself right at home,’ I said disapprovingly.

‘Always do,’ Georgia replied cheerfully. ‘So, up to venturing out?’

Rutger put his bowl down with a thump. ‘I’ll catch up with my notes. I can’t go out in this, particularly after my operation.’

Kate clambered in. ‘Me neither.’ She rubbed her hands over the flame of the camping stove, and then moved to inspect the oven. ‘What does this run on, anyway? Can we get it going?’

‘No,’ said Rutger, ‘that would be dangerous, even if we had fuel. It runs on coal. The electricity at the station was saved for the whaling operations and lighting.’

‘It’s probably warmest in the tent,’ I said supportively.

‘Is it okay, Georgia, if I stay back with Rutger? I can’t go out alone,’ said Kate.

‘That’s fine,’ Georgia replied. ‘But Laura, you’ll come with me? I thought we might go up to the church?’

I paused, looking out the window at the weather. I hadn’t been to the church, and I wanted to see it and check for an entrance underground.

‘Okay,’ I said.

‘Good girl.’ Georgia’s face lit up as she poured me another cup of tea.

•  •  •

The wind was howling. We strapped on skis and headed along, bent forward, trying not to be blown backwards. I had a waterproof fleece hat with ear-muffs, my scarf was wrapped tightly around my mouth and I wore dark goggles, but still the needle-sharp ice found a way to pelt my face.

I led the way, Georgia behind me getting a little shelter from my body like the pageboy who followed in the warm footsteps of Good King Wenceslas. The thought of protecting Georgia spurred me on through the foul weather.

Visibility was poor in the streets between the houses, but once we reached the bay it was a complete whiteout. I couldn’t even see my hand in front of me; space was disoriented.

‘You sure we should be out in this?’ I screamed above the wind.

‘We don’t know how long it’ll go for and I don’t want to waste time,’ shouted Georgia. ‘Since when have you been soft?’ She belted me on the back and I headed off to the right. If I followed the bay and then went up the slope at the far end, I’d be to the left of the Adélie rookery, and heading straight for the church.

But it was hard to sense where the water was to get my bearings. Georgia was being impatient and foolish: it paid to wait when the weather turned. I suspected that being out in the blizzard made her feel like a true Antarctic explorer. I chuckled to myself and kept going, hoping it was the right direction.

The shriek of the wind was so loud I couldn’t even hear the penguins, who would be hunkered down on their nests. They knew what to do, even if we foolish humans didn’t.

I listened for the sea but it was drowned out. My lungs were burning. I wanted to turn back but I was so bitterly cold, it was probably closer now to get to the church and have shelter and rest before facing the elements again.

I felt the ground slowly incline upwards and I knew I needed to be careful with the skis – the hill was rocky. But snow seemed to cover everything now. As it became steeper I had to lift each ski up, dig in my poles, and step up slowly. By the time the church loomed close, my eyes were painfully dry and sore from the cold and the impenetrable white. I climbed up a snowdrift in front of the entrance, pressed myself against the door and fell in, dropping a couple of feet to the ground, and feeling it. Georgia almost landed on top of me.

‘That was great,’ she wheezed.

‘Crazy woman.’ My voice sounded harsher than I felt – it had been an exhilarating journey, like doing an extreme sport. The sensible part of me thought it was unnecessarily dangerous and we were lucky to have arrived in one piece.

I looked around. Windows high up illuminated everything in a white light. It felt heavenly, eerie. Timber pews lined both sides of the room, and we were close to a stand with a stack of neatly piled hymnbooks. I took off my skis, pulled out my camera and went to investigate.

The hymnbooks were in Norwegian, with beautiful gilt-edged, wafer-thin paper.

Georgia walked up the aisle to the font and I followed, filming. Sound was muffled, the wind now a dull throb. I scanned the floorboards, searching for an entrance underground but the boards were all smooth and consistent, with no unusual breaks.

It was a Lutheran church, simple and austere. There was a pulpit with a minimum of carving, on which was propped an immense, heavy leather-bound Bible the length of my arm. Had Ingerline organised to bring such a massive tome here? I looked back and visualised the congregation listening to the sermon. The church would fit about a hundred people. Whalers and their families, led by Ingerline. Who was the minister? Or ministers. Through the years, there would have been a number of them. It was frustrating how much about Fredelighavn I didn’t know. I longed for historians to be let in, to trigger research, to unearth records. It was as though Ingerline’s ghost were whispering for me to do it.
What are you waiting for
? She seemed to say.
Get them down here.

Georgia opened a door on the right that led to a tiny room, where the dark shadow of a minister’s robe hung on a hook, and a huge book lay open on a small wooden table. A registry. I peered over Georgia’s shoulder and took photographs. There were dates and names; details were in Norwegian. The last date entered was
15.3.57
. Was that when the place had closed? Or perhaps just when the last sermon had been given.

I leaned past Georgia and turned the pages to the front of the register. It began on
3.1.38
. It must be a second register, as the church had been built around 1910. I searched the bare timber walls looking for the first one but there was nothing. Georgia moved off and I heard the creaking of a door being opened. I followed to the back wall, where the door was swinging shut.