by Chris Ould
Arne Haraldsen’s house was on the west side of Sandur village, standing in the centre of a plot of flat grassland, a modern two-storey building with grey cladding and black eaves. It was far neater than the battered pickup truck parked on a patch of gravel outside.
Hentze checked the names on the mailbox – Arne Haraldsen, Marjun Haraldsen – then climbed the steps to the first-floor door and pressed the bell. There was a wait of a minute or so before a figure appeared behind the frosted glass panel and opened the door.
Hentze recognised the man immediately from the photos Oddur had shown him, but in person Arne Haraldsen was broader in the shoulders and a little taller than Hentze had assumed. He wore clean jeans and a sweater and stood in grey woollen socks.
“Arne Haraldsen?” Hentze asked. “I’m Hjalti Hentze from the police.”
“Yeh, I know you,” Haraldsen said with a nod. “What’s up?”
“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about the grind on Friday. Is that all right?”
“Friday?” A brief look of puzzlement crossed his face, but then he shrugged. “Sure, if you like. Come in.”
Inside it was warm and Hentze took off his boots beside the door before following Haraldsen through to the kitchen. From the sitting room there was the sound of a TV showing some kind of sports event.
“You’re Finn Sólsker’s father-in-law, aren’t you?” Haraldsen said, moving to fill the kettle. “Martha’s father, right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Hentze said. “How do you know Finn?”
“Oh, my boat’s down there in the harbour with his,” Haraldsen said. “The North Light. Take a seat. Would you like coffee?”
“No, thanks, not for me,” Hentze said. Despite the old maxim he didn’t think this was the time. Instead he pulled a chair out from under the pine dining table and sat down.
Arne Haraldsen left the kettle to boil and took a seat opposite Hentze. “So, what’s this about?” he asked. “Someone complained about their share of the catch, is that it?”
“Not exactly. Did you have any trouble with the protesters during the grind?”
“Me? No. The police took care of them. They did a good job, I thought: got them out of the way pretty quick.”
“What about afterwards – any problems then?”
“How could there be? They were all under arrest.”
“Ah, okay,” Hentze said with a nod. Then: “Do you know a woman called Erla Sivertsen?”
Haraldsen frowned. “No, I don’t think so. I know Jógvan Sivertsen from Borðoy, but that’s all.”
Hentze took out his phone and swiped the screen a couple of times to bring up a photo.
“This is Ms Sivertsen,” Hentze said, holding the phone so Haraldsen could see it.
The man squinted, and then – when he realised that this was not a photograph taken in life – he shook his head and looked away quickly.
“I don’t understand. What’s this about?” he said defensively.
“You haven’t heard about the events in Húsavík today?”
“Húsavík? No, I’ve been here all day. Why, what’s happened?”
“A woman’s body was found there at around midday: this woman, Erla Sivertsen.” He gestured to the phone. “We’ve also been told that you argued with Ms Sivertsen at the harbour on Friday afternoon. Is that true?”
“What? No.” Haraldsen shook his head firmly. “Are you accusing me of something, is that it?”
“No,” Hentze said, but left it a little less than definite. He put his phone on the table and set it to record. “However, I do need to know what happened between you and Ms Sivertsen on Friday.”
On the other side of the room the kettle came to the boil and clicked off. For a moment Haraldsen looked as if he might stand and go to it, but then changed his mind.
“Listen, there was nothing between us, as you call it. She was taking photos while I cut up a whale and I told her to stop it, that’s all.”
“And then what happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Did she stop taking pictures?”
“Not straight away, no.”
“So you threatened her?”
“No. Nothing like that – like you’re suggesting.”
“Is that true?” Hentze asked reasonably. “Only I’ve seen the photographs she took and you had a knife in your hand.”
“Of course I had a knife in my hand,” Haraldsen said curtly. “I was cutting up a whale, I told you. What else would I use?”
“But you’re saying you didn’t threaten Ms Sivertsen with it.”
“No, of course not.” Arne Haraldsen pushed back his chair with a jerk and stood up. “Listen, it was nothing like that – how you describe it.”
“But you do look pretty angry in the photographs,” Hentze said.
“Yeh? Well, I had a right to be,” Haraldsen said. He paced the kitchen floor, then turned back. “Listen, I know what they’re like, those Alliance people. They take your picture and next thing you know they’ve put it up on the internet or something, calling you a barbarian and a butcher. That’s how they do things. Bloody foreigners. They should never have been allowed to come here in the first place.”
Hentze cocked his head. “So you don’t like the Alliance people?”
“Oh no,” Haraldsen said with a wag of his finger. “No, no, you’re not going to trick me like that. I’m just saying what most people think, that’s all. I’ve got nothing against them personally: just against them coming here and telling us all what we should and shouldn’t do.”
Hentze knew that Haraldsen was correct in his assessment of the way most of the Faroe islanders felt, but he didn’t want to start a debate. Instead he sat back in his chair.
“Have you ever used the phrase ‘fuck the whales’?” he asked, giving it in English as it had been written, and watching for Haraldsen’s reaction.
“What? No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“I just wondered,” Hentze said, passing it off. “So, as you’re telling it, Ms Sivertsen took some photographs and you asked her to stop? Is that accurate?”
“Yes.” Haraldsen gave an emphatic nod.
“And then what happened?”
“Nothing. She went away and I went back to the whales, like I’m entitled to do.”
“Were there any witnesses to this? Anyone who can verify your version of events?”
“Sure, ask Høgni Joensen, he’ll tell you,” Haraldsen said. “And there was an English guy, too: some relative of Finn’s.” Then a thought occurred to him. “Is it them who’ve put you up to this, is that it? Because if it is – if it’s Finn who’s accusing me of something, he wants to think again. ‘Let him who’s without sin…’ – right?”
“Sorry, I don’t follow,” Hentze said.
Haraldsen came back to stand with his hands on the back of his vacated chair, as if he had a better grasp of the situation now. “This Sivertsen woman,” he said. “I’d seen her a couple of times before Friday. Down there at the harbour, at the Kári Edith. More than once.”
“You’re saying she knew Finn?”
“Looked that way to me. Very friendly.”
He gave Hentze a knowing, significant look, clearly pleased to have thrown new light on the inquiry.
“Well we’ll be talking to everyone who knew her, of course,” Hentze said, deliberately keeping it officially neutral. “But for the moment I’d like to concentrate on your movements yesterday and last night. Could you sit down again so we can go through them?”
Arne Haraldsen resisted for a moment and then gave an elaborate shrug. “All right, please yourself, but you’re wasting your time. I didn’t even know she was dead till you told me. Still, maybe it’ll make the rest of them go away and leave us in peace now. That’d be something.”
12
IT WAS ALMOST DARK BY THE TIME HENTZE LEFT ARNE Haraldsen’s house and returned to his car.
Broadly speaking, Arne Haraldsen had had as much trouble recall
ing his recent movements as most people do. His memory had improved when his wife had returned home from visiting relatives in Skálavík, though, and after twenty minutes or so Hentze was prepared to believe that Haraldsen was a poor candidate for murder. Of course, without knowing exactly when Erla Sivertsen had been killed there was still room for doubt, but an argument over a few photographs seemed like a pretty thin motive, and any other – like rape – wouldn’t be established until they had the post-mortem results. For the time being, then, Hentze was inclined to discount Arne Haraldsen as a possible suspect: not impossible, but unlikely.
He looked at his watch, tilting the dial to catch the last of the light. The flight from Copenhagen would be landing about now, but the technical team would still have to collect their baggage and make the fifty-kilometre journey from Vágar to Gamlarætt for the ferry. At least an hour and a half, he reckoned, before they reached Skopun.
So he had time. The question was, did he want to use it to follow up Arne Haraldsen’s insinuation about Finn and Erla Sivertsen, or should he dismiss it as the muck-stirring it probably was?
Whatever the motive behind the innuendo, if Erla Sivertsen had known Finn Sólsker, Hentze knew he ought to follow it up. If it was anyone else that’s what he’d do, and the fact that Finn was his son-in-law shouldn’t get in the way. Besides, it had sparked a vague recollection in Hentze – so vague that he wasn’t sure even it was reliable – and after a moment’s more thought he reached for the ignition and started the car.
* * *
Just short of the ferry dock car park Hentze turned left, past the boats hauled on to land for repair, and drove on up the hill into Skopun. It wasn’t much of a place: not pretty or quaint, and the fact that it was on a north-facing hill meant that even in daylight it always seemed to be gloomy. Now the streetlights lit the way and near the top of the hill he turned into a small estate of relatively new houses.
His daughter’s house wasn’t large – especially for a family with two kids under eight – but it was as much as the couple could afford, even with both of them working. Fishing was a fickle occupation, particularly for a man who ran his own boat, and Hentze knew there were many things that could unexpectedly push outgoings past income and leave a big hole in the accounts.
He left his car on the street and walked up the steps to the back door. The handrail needed a coat of paint, he noticed, and one of the external lights was still broken.
“Hey babba,” Martha said, with a mixture of pleasure and surprise when she saw him on the porch. “What’re you doing here? Come in. Quiet though, the kids are only just in bed.”
The kids – Kári and Edith, aged seven and five – had school in the morning, and much as he loved his grandchildren, Hentze was glad not to have their distraction at the moment. Inside he let his daughter close the door quietly and took off his boots.
“Is it the body at Húsavík?” Martha asked then, meaning the reason he was on the island. “When I heard I couldn’t believe it.”
Hentze nodded. “The Technical team are on their way but I’ve got a little time yet, so I hoped you might make me some coffee.”
“Sure, of course.”
“You do know who it is?” Hentze asked, because so far he hadn’t mentioned Erla Sivertsen’s name.
“Yes.” Martha’s tight nod was enough of a signal that she not only knew but wouldn’t choose to discuss it.
“Finn used to go out with a girl called Erla, didn’t he?” Hentze said, because it was necessary. “Is it the same woman?”
“Yeh,” Martha said. “It was years ago, though. She went away.”
“So I understand.”
Martha fiddled with the coffee pot, taking it apart and concentrating for a moment as she put in the grounds.
“So do you know anything yet – about how it happened?” she asked in the end.
Hentze shook his head. “We won’t find out much till the technical people have had a chance to look at things. It will probably be a long night.”
Martha digested that, then clearly decided not to go further. “Finn’s in the sitting room with Høgni if you want to talk to him,” she said. “I’ll bring your coffee through when it’s made.”
“Are you feeding Høgni as well then these days?” Hentze asked with a nod at the dining table, which still showed signs of recent use.
“Only on Sundays. At least then he gets one proper meal in a week.”
Hentze hung his coat on the back of a chair and went through to the sitting room, with its leather suite and sheepskin rug in front of the TV. Above that there was a large framed photograph of Finn, Martha and their two children. It was a good picture, Hentze thought: happy and relaxed, taken a couple of years ago.
“Hey, Hjalti,” Finn said, raising a hand in greeting. “Martha didn’t say you were coming. Have a seat. Have you—” He broke off when he put two and two together. “Are you working?”
“Yeh, I’m waiting to meet a technical team off the ferry.”
“Right,” Finn said with a sombre nod.
On the sofa Høgni Joensen was frowning. He looked to Finn for explanation. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“About Erla,” Finn said flatly.
“Oh. Oh. Yeh.” Høgni looked away, as if he’d inadvertently said the wrong thing.
“When did you hear about it?” Hentze asked, sitting down in an armchair. He was speaking to Finn.
“This afternoon,” Finn said. “One of Martha’s friends from Húsavík called.” He shook his head and scowled for a moment. “What do you say, eh?”
“You used to go out with Erla, didn’t you?” Hentze asked, keeping it conversational.
Finn nodded, as if he’d anticipated the question. “A long time ago, while she was in college.”
Hentze couldn’t read the man’s reaction to her death, but that wasn’t so unusual. Everyone had had time to process the news and apply a filter to their feelings, whatever they were.
“Had you seen much of her recently?” he asked.
“No, not so much. She came to say hello not long after she got back.”
“Here?”
Finn shook his head. “At the boat. And she was at the harbour on Friday for the grind.”
“Yeh, I gather she had a set-to with Arne Haraldsen,” Hentze said.
“He’s an arsehole,” Finn said flatly. He gestured with his beer bottle. “She took a few photos and he got shirty about it. Starts threatening her. You know Jan Reyná, right? He and Høgni had to break it up.”
Hentze looked to Høgni Joensen. “What happened?”
Høgni shifted awkwardly. He was nervous around authority figures, and even if Hentze was part of Finn’s family, the authority of the police was still there. It had a tendency to make him stammer. “A-Arne told her to stop taking his picture,” Høgni said. “He told her to give him the camera.”
“Did she?”
“N-no. And then he called her a whore.” He uttered the last word without thinking and when he realised what he’d said he glanced quickly towards the kitchen door. Not a word to use in front of women.
“Then what happened?” Hentze asked.
“Nothing. I mean, I, I, I told him to leave her alone a-a-and he did. That was it.”
Hentze nodded. Høgni wasn’t nearly as tall as Arne Haraldsen, but he was built like a brick wall. There was also a direct simplicity about the man, which engendered the feeling that once he set his mind to something he’d push it through to the end.
Høgni shifted, uncomfortable at being the centre of attention. “Is it all right if I go for a smoke?” he asked Finn.
“Course it is, don’t be daft.”
Høgni looked grateful and headed for the kitchen like a condemned man who’s just spotted an open door.
Finn watched him go. “He’s only just stopped asking permission to take a leak when we’re on the boat,” he said with a hopeless shake of his head.
“How long’s he been working for you no
w?” Hentze asked.
“Five years. You couldn’t get a better baitman, though.”
“That’s what I hear – so when was the last time you saw Erla?”
The shift of topic stopped Finn for a second, then he said, “Friday, when she left the harbour. She gave Jan Reyná a lift to Tórshavn so Fríða could stay and see the kids.”
“Not since then?”
“No.” Finn drained his beer bottle, assessed it for a second, then shifted in his seat, ready to stand. “Sorry, Hjalti, I should’ve asked before. Do you want a beer?”
“No, thanks. Martha’s making coffee.” And then, before Finn could move, he added, “Finn, listen. We’re asking everyone who knew Erla, so I have to ask you too. Can you tell me where you were yesterday?”
“Are you serious?” Finn gave a disbelieving laugh.
“It’s just routine, like I said.”
Finn took a second, then sat back in his seat. “Yesterday? Okay, well, I was at the boat all day – except for a trip to Müller’s in Tórshavn for a fuel pump.”
“What time was that?”
“I got the two fifteen ferry there and the five fifteen back.”
“What then?”
“Jesus, Hjalti, listen—”
“I told you, it’s just routine.”
Finn seemed ready to challenge that, but in the end he said, “I came back here, we had dinner, put the kids to bed and I went back to the boat for a couple of hours to put the fuel pump in.”
“Was Høgni there – at the boat?”
“No, I was on my own.”
“Okay, then what?”
“I packed it in about ten, came home, had a shower and after that we went to bed.”
“Okay, thanks. That’s all I needed to know.”
Finn took a moment, then stood up. As he did so Martha came in with Hentze’s coffee and then from upstairs there was a mournful child’s call: Kári, the eldest.
“Oh, now what?” Martha said, looking weary. “They should be asleep.”
“I’ll go,” Finn said. “You talk to your dad.”
As Finn went upstairs Hentze gestured his daughter to the sofa. “Are you going to sit down?”
