The Killing Bay

by Chris Ould

  “Has he given an account of his movements on Saturday?”

  Finn had, Ári confirmed, then recounted the same information Finn had given to Hentze the previous night: a day working on the boat, collecting a fuel pump and working again through the evening. And again there was no one who could vouch for this last part, and nor could Finn be specific about the times.

  From his tone, Ári clearly saw the lack of any corroboration for Finn’s account as a damning flaw in the story. Which it was, Hentze would have agreed, if not for the fact that most people would struggle to provide continuous alibis for themselves over the course of a day. Nevertheless, he didn’t remark on that. Instead he said, “Did you ask him how many times he’s seen Erla recently?”

  “Well, he says” – Ári let the emphasis fall hard on the word – “only a couple of times in the last two or three weeks, including at the grind on Friday.”

  “So what’s your opinion on what we should do now?” Remi asked, looking to Ári.

  “I think we should hold him for now,” Ári said. “At least until we get a time of death from the post-mortem. Then we can reassess his alibi, or lack of one.”

  “Hjalti?”

  “I agree,” Hentze said. “Without knowing when she died we’re lacking a proper focus.”

  “Okay.” Remi stood up. “See what you can get from Anders Toft at the mortuary. He probably hasn’t finished yet but he might tell us something. Meanwhile, Ári and I will assess what we have from the collated statements of the AWCA people. I don’t want us to jump the gun and focus on one potential suspect before we’ve considered other possibilities.”

  This last was aimed at Ári Niclasen, who nodded in response and said, “Sure, of course.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Ári opened the door and stepped out, with obvious relief to leave the small space.

  “It might be a good idea to send someone to speak with Martha,” Hentze said before Remi could leave as well. “She may be able to be more specific about Finn’s movements on Saturday night. And I think she should be asked about his relationship with Erla as well.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer to do that yourself, rather than sending someone else?”

  Hentze shook his head. “I’d very much prefer not to do it,” he said. “I could ask Annika to go, though. She knows Martha a little, and woman to woman…”

  Remi saw the logic of that. “Yeh, okay,” he said. “If you’re sure.”

  * * *

  Annika Mortensen was just back from a patrol around Runavík when Hentze called her. They met up in the second-floor kitchen as Annika made one of her herbal teas.

  “Does Martha know that Finn’s been brought in for questioning?” she asked when Hentze explained what he needed.

  “I don’t think so. Martha would have been at work by the time Ári went to Sandoy and Finn hasn’t asked to make any calls since he was brought in. Høgni Joensen could have called her, but I doubt it.”

  “So I’ll have to break the news.” A hint of uncertainty.

  “Sorry.”

  Annika shifted, then shook her head. “It’s okay. Is there anything specific you want me to ask her?”

  “Times,” Hentze said. “Most specifically what time Finn went back to the boat on Saturday evening, and what time he came home afterwards.”

  “Anything else?” She glanced round to make sure they weren’t being overheard.

  Hentze nodded. “Yes. Ask her whether she thinks Finn was having an affair with Erla Sivertsen.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Well I suppose you could dress it up a little,” Hentze said, acknowledging her reservation. “But don’t treat it any differently than you would if it was anyone else, okay? It’s something we need to know, whether it’s fact or suspicion.”

  “Okay,” Annika said. “I’ll do my best. I’ll go now.” She fished the scented teabag out of the mug and dropped it in the bin. “Would you like this?” she asked, offering Hentze the cup.

  “I’d rather drink soap,” he said. “But thanks.”

  19

  HENTZE GENERALLY LIKED VISITS TO THE MORTUARY. HE LIKED Elisabet Hovgaard, the chief pathologist, and the fact that she always called a spade a spade with no concession to the police, or anyone else. Of course, she was as mad as a gannet, but Hentze liked mad people too. Perhaps because they fulfilled a role he himself couldn’t play.

  Unfortunately, because this was a murder, Elisabet Hovgaard could not conduct the post-mortem. Instead, a forensic pathologist from Denmark had been called in, and it was too much to hope that Anders Toft would have simply arrived at the mortuary, put on a gown and got on with the job.

  Instead Hentze knew that Toft would have insisted on a little ceremony and show first, to mark his presence. Coffee and gossip, even some flirting if there was anyone pretty and female around. All this would have to be done before he finally got down to business, which meant that when Hentze arrived at the mortuary the autopsy was still going on.

  The mortuary technician was a new guy and tried to insist that Hentze put on a mask and gown, which Hentze would have done if he’d had any intention of going close to the body. He did not, though, especially as Anders Toft was still working. Instead, after putting the technician in his place, Hentze pushed the door of the autopsy room open part way and remained on the threshold.

  Anders Toft was dictating his observations as he worked, raising his voice for the benefit of the recorder placed on a stainless steel trolley. Elisabet Hovgaard was assisting where necessary, but seemed to be there mostly to field Toft’s small talk. She had the look of someone who had been trapped in a corner.

  “Godmorgen,” Hentze said in Danish.

  Anders Toft looked up and then gestured broadly in pleased surprise. “Officer Hentze. How are you?”

  “Fine thanks, Anders. You?”

  “Good, good, good. Put on a gown and come in. I’ll give you the guided tour if you like. The more the merrier.”

  “Have you finished?”

  “The first part, yes. In a moment we’ll have a look at the brain.”

  “Well I don’t want to interrupt you, and I’m on a tight schedule, but if I could borrow Elisabet for a few minutes…”

  “Are you sure? Well all right, then.” He glanced at Elisabet Hovgaard. “It must be time for a cigarette, anyway, eh? Okay, go ahead.”

  “Oh, tak,” Elisabet said with a note of sarcasm that Toft appeared to miss but made Hentze smile.

  It was raining so Elisabet pushed the fire door open to its widest extent and stood on the threshold to blow smoke outside. She was only partly successful.

  “So, how’s it going?” Hentze asked.

  “Pah!” Elisabet said tersely. “I promise you, if he tells me about one more case and how it would all have fallen to pieces if he hadn’t found this thing or that… And if it’s not cases it’s how pretty a nurse was, or a flight attendant, or even a victim’s sister. A victim’s sister, for God’s sake. Jesus!” She shook her head, then took a hard pull on her cigarette.

  “Yeh, well, the guest is the master,” Hentze said drily, only half hiding his amusement.

  “Yeh, yeh, at home, maybe,” Elisabet said. “Not that I’d let him over my step.”

  She blew smoke again and appeared to have had enough of the subject. “You want to know when and how?” she asked.

  “Of course. Unless it’s too soon to say.”

  Elisabet shook her head. “He’ll tell you it is, before he’s made his report, but screw him.” She flicked ash. “There was no record made of the body temperature by the doctor at the scene, but Sophie Krogh took a reading when she arrived. That puts the time of death in a three-hour window between eight and eleven on Saturday – give or take. Her stomach contents may also give us some idea, if you can find out the last time she ate.”

  “But we’re definitely looking at Saturday night?” Hentze asked.

  Elisabet nodded. “For sure.”

  “And c
ause of death?”

  “A blow to the head.”

  “You’re that certain?”

  “If you mean because of the stab wound, then yes. It was made by a fairly slim blade, maybe 12mm wide, but definitely post-mortem – and I’d say not less than an hour after she died.” She shook her head. “No, the cause of death was blunt trauma to the back of her head from something roughly triangular and possibly associated with the earth. There are traces of grit and organic matter around the injury site.”

  “A rock then?”

  “Could be, yes.”

  “So was it a fall or a blow? Can you tell?”

  “No. The effect would be about the same. Although the skin was only abraded, the fracture was serious enough to cause immediate internal bleeding around her brain. We’ll see better when Anders extracts it but I’d guess she died in less than five minutes.”

  “What about rape?” Hentze asked.

  Elisabet looked a little more chary on this subject. “We’ve found what appears to be semen from unprotected sex,” she said. “There’s no evidence of injury or bruising that you might associate with rape, though, so I wouldn’t say it was proven.”

  “That’s what Sophie Krogh said, too.”

  Elisabet took a final drag on her cigarette and tossed the butt out into the rain. “You’re concerned because of the way she was found?”

  “I am if it seems that the killer was intending to mislead us.”

  “Yes, well, the knife wound and the way the body was presented could indicate that they were trying to make it look like a sexually motivated attack, I’d agree,” Elisabet conceded. “But luckily that’s something for you and not me.”

  * * *

  They were sitting in leather chairs in the small, glass-panelled office of the Eik Bank, which was normally reserved for private meetings with customers about loan applications and rates of interest. Martha Sólsker was dressed in a neat grey business suit with a skirt, which made Annika Mortensen feel slightly less well presented than she’d hoped. Perhaps she should have stayed in uniform, but in the circumstances she still felt it was better not to look too official, especially as her arrival and request to speak privately with Martha had already caused a little disruption in the bank.

  Annika was still hoping that Martha would feel able to speak freely in private, although the spartan office didn’t lend itself to intimacy. And nor did Martha look as if she was going to loosen up when Annika told her why she had come. Not surprising, perhaps.

  On the two or three occasions Annika had met Martha before she had formed the impression that Hjalti Hentze’s daughter was a rather chilly person. Perhaps “chilly” was the wrong word. “Reserved” might be better. Undemonstrative, certainly. Annika didn’t anticipate that Martha would collapse in floods of tears or panic when she heard about her husband, and nor did she. Instead Martha Sólsker stiffened and sat more upright in her seat.

  “Why didn’t my father call to tell me?” Martha asked. It was a question Annika had anticipated.

  “He would have done, but he’s been tied up with the investigation all day,” she said. “It’s been pretty full-on.”

  Whether or not the exaggeration – Annika didn’t want to class it as a lie – was accepted by Martha was hard to tell. “I suppose so,” she said. “Does Finn have a lawyer with him?”

  “As far as I know he hasn’t asked for one.”

  Martha considered that for a second. “So exactly what is it they want him to tell them?”

  Annika was pretty sure Martha already knew – had guessed – what it was about, so she kept the account to a minimum: Finn had known Erla Sivertsen and all Erla’s acquaintances were being interviewed, she said. However, the discovery in Finn’s shed of a coat and hat that may have belonged to Erla obviously needed some explanation. It was purely routine.

  Again, Annika found it impossible to tell whether this statement was accepted at face value because Martha said nothing and her expression remained fixed and distant.

  “It would help if we knew exactly what Finn was doing on Saturday afternoon and evening,” Annika said, trying to start a dialogue. “Can you remember what time he went back to work on the boat in the evening, for example?”

  “Just before seven: about five to,” Martha said flatly, still looking at the far wall. “He got back at just after ten.” Then she brought her gaze back to Annika. “She couldn’t just stay away, could she?” she said.

  “How do you mean?” Annika asked.

  “I mean stay away: go off and be glamorous and exciting somewhere else instead of here. Still, I suppose to be glamorous you have to be seen, and all the better if it’s by everyone else who isn’t as exciting as you are.”

  There was no doubt who Martha was referring to, but the obvious bitterness was not what Annika had expected and for a moment she had trouble shifting gears. “Had you seen Erla very much since she came back to the islands with the Alliance?” she asked.

  “Me?” Martha said, as if the answer was obvious. “No. The first time was at the grind on Friday.”

  “But you did know she was here?”

  “Yeh. Yes, of course. Finn had told me. And Høgni.”

  “Right, I see,” Annika said. It seemed pointless trying to be subtle any more. “And had Finn seen her very often?”

  Martha shook her head. “I don’t know. More than he wanted to tell me, though; I’m sure about that.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  Both women heard the faux-innocence of the question, but rather than react against it Martha seemed to take it as a signal that there was no need to avoid the truth.

  “You know Finn used to go out with Erla, don’t you?” she said. “Actually, they lived together for over two years before she broke it off and moved away. So…”

  Annika nodded, although Martha wasn’t looking at her. Her eyes were flitting round the room as she decided what to say next.

  “If you want to know the truth of it, it’s that Erla was one of those women who like to have men on a string,” Martha said. “Especially men she can’t – shouldn’t – have. You might think I’m just saying that because Finn was one of them, but it’s still true. That’s what she was like. Maybe it made her feel good about herself – more attractive or glamorous – I don’t know. I don’t care. But she knew she could have Finn if she crooked her finger, so that’s what she did and to hell with the consequences; to hell with his family, his kids or anyone else. So, if you want to know whether I think Erla Sivertsen was sleeping with Finn then the answer is yes. I can’t prove it. I never caught them together, but I know how things have been since she came back here.”

  “Martha, listen—” Annika started, a conciliatory tone in her voice. But before she got any further Martha stood up and smoothed down her jacket.

  “I have to get back to work,” she said, a flat termination of any further discussion. “And then I have to be home for the kids. Not very glamorous, but there it is. So, can I show you the way out?”

  20

  IN THE OFFICE ADJACENT TO THE INCIDENT ROOM HENTZE DREW a red zigzag on the timeline between the markers for Saturday 20:00 and 23:00. Alongside this he wrote, “Blunt trauma”, and then “No sign of rape. Recent sex.”

  He stood back to consider this, then let his gaze drift back from the probable time of death to the blank space before it; from 15:00 onwards when Erla had left the Fjalsgøta house. That was the unknown: the five to ten hours, during which Erla Sivertsen had done – what? Gone to a movie? Walked on the cliffs? Sat in a bar and picked up a man? Anything was possible and until they knew something – anything – about where she had been in this time they would get nowhere.

  He was still thinking about this when Oddur Arge knocked on the door. Hentze had locked it, although he wasn’t sure why, but now he went across and flicked the latch.

  “Am I interrupting?” Oddur asked. He had his laptop in his hand.

  “No, only thinking. What’s up?” He looked at the l
aptop. “Do you ever go anywhere without that?”

  “Sure, of course,” Oddur said, looking mildly hurt. “But I thought you’d be interested in this. I’ve been going through Erla’s photos from Friday and Saturday and comparing them with the statements from the Alliance people describing her movements over the same time. Because she was shooting digitally the date and time when each picture was taken is encoded in the metadata. But what’s more interesting – more useful to us – is that she was also geotagging her pictures.”

  “No, you’ve lost me,” Hentze said. “What does that mean?’

  With a slight air of explaining to his grandmother – or abbi, Hentze thought – Oddur put the laptop on a table. “Her camera had what is essentially a GPS tracker attached to it,” he said. “It means that whenever she took a photo the GPS – the geotagger – logged her location. For a professional the advantage is that you don’t have to keep a manual record of where you take each shot. Even months or years later you can just look at the image’s metadata and see exactly where it was taken and when.”

  “Okay, I get it,” Hentze said. “So what did you find?”

  “Well, overall the geotags confirm what we were told – except for Saturday afternoon. According to” – Oddur checked his notes – “a Veerle Koning, Erla said she was going to visit the Alliance lookout points when she left the house on Fjalsgøta. That’s not what she did, though. No one from the Alliance saw her that afternoon.”

  “But she took photos?” Hentze said.

  “Yeh, just one set: twenty-six in all, taken between 16:10 and 16:31 at Kaldbak.”

  “Can I see them?”

  Oddur opened his laptop, brought up a Photoshop window and started a slideshow of Erla Sivertsen’s photos. Each picture was on screen for four or five seconds and at first Hentze didn’t know what he was looking at. There were a dozen images of what appeared to be a concrete wall but surreally inlaid with plastic toys, kitsch sculptures and figurines. Then, abruptly, the location and subject changed to a minimalist view of a door in the side of a large building above a grass bank. And then to the harbour. Several shots of rusty chains and mooring rings. One of peeling paint on a wooden boat. And then a craggy, weatherbeaten face, looking up from a boat: a man in his seventies, Hentze knew.