by Chris Ould
“Goddag,” Hentze said in acknowledgement.
Munk’s only reaction was a slow blink.
“Could you explain to us what you were doing at Hoyvík just now?” Berg asked then.
“Yes. I was testing a theory,” Hentze said.
“Which was?”
“That Erla Sivertsen was working for or had some connection with the security services.”
He waited to see if Berg would ask why he would think that, but the Commander either knew already or didn’t care.
“Did you discuss this theory with anyone besides the British inspector, Jan Reyná?”
Hentze shook his head. “No. At least, I didn’t tell anyone else what I was doing, but the idea that Erla Sivertsen might have been involved in something clandestine wasn’t mine originally.”
Again, Berg gave the impression that he knew this already. “And why did you involve this Reyná? Why not one of your colleagues?”
“He volunteered,” Hentze said simply.
“For what reason?”
“I suppose because he’s a police officer and also a friend.”
“You didn’t think that was inappropriate if you suspected there might be security service involvement?”
“To be honest, I didn’t give it much thought. But if I can say—?” He paused and Berg nodded. “If Herre Munk hadn’t sent someone to Hoyvík I’d have been none the wiser about their involvement. All he had to do was do nothing.”
There was a faint twitch at the corner of Berg’s eye, but it was impossible to tell what it signified. He looked towards Munk.
“I think we can stop the silly games,” Munk said then, shifting his weight in the chair as if finally provoked into life. He had an unexpectedly light voice. “In the interests of national security you’re to make no further enquiries about Erla Sivertsen’s death with any members of the Atlantic Wildlife Conservation Alliance. Nor are you to direct, suggest or imply that others should do so, either police officers or civilians. In other words: leave them alone.”
Hentze absorbed that for a couple of seconds. He said, “So Erla Sivertsen was working for you.”
Munk shook his head. “I’m not able to say.”
Which meant that she was.
“And if evidence comes to light that shows someone from AWCA may have been involved in her murder?” Hentze asked.
This time Berg fielded the question. “If at any stage it becomes necessary to make more enquiries with the Alliance, Remi will oversee it,” he said. “But at the moment it isn’t necessary.”
Hentze looked back at Munk. “Do you know who killed Erla Sivertsen?”
Munk was unfazed. “If I knew I’d pass that information to the senior investigating officer. However, I can say that no members of AWCA were involved.”
“If you don’t know who killed her how can you be sure of that?”
“Because I know more than you do.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Hentze said flatly.
“All right,” Andrias Berg said with just a hint of a warning now. “We don’t need to prolong this. You understand you’ve been given a direct order not to have further contact with members of the Alliance?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then you can go back to work. Thank you.”
Hentze turned for the door.
Outside Remi Syderbø was loitering a few yards along the corridor, flicking through a magazine, which he immediately put aside when Hentze emerged. He fell in beside him but didn’t speak until they were in the stairwell.
“You’ve only yourself to blame,” he said to Hentze then, without any sympathy. “I told you to leave it alone.”
“When you said that, did it come from the Commander or Munk?”
Remi just shook his head, whether in hopelessness or denial wasn’t clear. “You’re to have no further part in the Sivertsen investigation,” he said. “And this time, for God’s sake, do as you’re told.”
37
I DIDN’T KNOW HOW LONG IT WOULD BE BEFORE HENTZE showed up; or if. He’d said he would, though, so I settled in to wait. I didn’t lack for company, however. Outside the Smyrjibreyðsbúðin café, about ten yards away through the window, I was under surveillance.
He’d followed me from the car park, his own car turning in at the entrance about fifteen seconds behind me. Any other day I probably wouldn’t have registered it, but Hentze’s little adventure had made me more aware. So when the man with angular Nordic features, leather jacket and jeans matched my pace and direction as I walked through the town, it was easy to recognise what he was doing.
Just for the sake of bloody-mindedness I went into Maria Poulsen – a department store for upmarket lighting, cookery equipment and gifts – and wandered around for ten minutes. He didn’t follow me in, but when I emerged he was waiting, and when I continued up the incline of the street he fell in a regulation twenty yards behind. There was no attempt at subtlety.
Now, while I stirred sugar into a cappuccino, he simply stood as impassive and lifeless as a lamppost across the road. He might have been waiting for a bus, except this part of the street was pedestrianised. He might have been waiting for a date, but he didn’t look at his watch or for anyone coming along the street. All he looked at was the window where I was sitting: a steadfast gaze, almost resigned.
It was a crude attempt at intimidation, if that was the intention. I doubted it was, though. More of a demonstration; just so I’d be in no doubt that they knew who I was, and that they didn’t mind wasting this time to let me know.
For about forty minutes I leafed through an out-of-date edition of the Times Herald from the magazine rack by the door, bought a second coffee and a pastry, used the facilities, thought about Kirkland’s phone call that morning. I wondered if Tove Hald was in the library down the road. I flicked through my notebook. I speculated about how close to my credit card limit I was getting after buying a Jack Jones jacket at the SMS mall. I debated when I should ring the airline and change my ticket. There are worse ways to spend your time on a Wednesday afternoon – like standing outside watching a man drink coffee, eat a pastry and think his thoughts.
* * *
I saw Hentze arrive when he opened the door. As he approached my table I glanced out of the window. The man across the street had gone.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Hentze said.
I shook my head. “Coffee?” He hadn’t sat down yet.
“Nei.” He cast a glance at the three other customers nearby. “Shall we walk?”
We left the café and turned right, then across Bøkjarabrekka at the constantly bleeping pedestrian crossing. There was still a light mist in the air, like a high ceiling, but not as dense as it had been by the sea. I glanced back a couple of times, but if we were being followed it was being done properly now. I didn’t think we were, though.
“So, I’m taken off the Erla Sivertsen investigation,” Hentze said in the end, as if it had taken him this long to frame the sentence.
“Because of this afternoon?”
“I would say so.”
We walked up Niels Finsens gøta at a stroll while he told me about his summons to the fifth floor. He related it matter-of-factly, so it was hard to tell how he felt about it. When he’d finished I described the man who’d followed me and Hentze looked thoughtful.
“He doesn’t sound like the same man I spoke to at Hoyvík,” he said. “And if he isn’t we can say there are at least three of them here, if we include Munk.”
“You’re sure they are spooks – security services – rather than from a branch of the Danish police?”
“That’s what Andrias Berg said: the national security service. And I’m to do as I’m told as a matter of national security.”
“National security trumps everything.”
“Even a murder, it seems,” he said flatly.
We walked on a couple of paces, then Hentze seemed to make up his mind.
“I’m going to say that Munk was Erla’s boss
: her contact,” he said. “That’s the only thing that makes sense. He was the one who went to meet her when she sent a message. Maybe others did too, but Munk is the one we’ve heard described. And when they meet she tells him things about what the Alliance is doing: what their plans are, how many people they have…”
Most of which you could find out just by watching them from a distance, I thought: no need for any kind of undercover operation. Still, I didn’t say so. I could tell Hentze needed to get this out of his system, so I just let him talk.
“Then someone in the Alliance finds out that Erla is an informant,” he went on. “And on Saturday night she is killed and the murderer leaves her body in a way that will make it look as if she was killed by a Faroese person. Maybe he knows we won’t believe this, maybe he doesn’t, but when we arrest Finn Sólsker he must be happy because he knows we are on the wrong path.” He looked at me. “Yes?”
“Okay.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Because it shows Finn didn’t do it, or at least, that Munk doesn’t think so. It must be the case, otherwise Munk wouldn’t care if I go to the Alliance asking more questions. No. Munk knows it is someone in the Alliance who killed Erla, but, whatever his reasons, he doesn’t want this person found: no interference.”
“He’d have a reason if his operation is still ongoing,” I said. “In fact, it must be. Otherwise, like you said, why would he care?”
“So, if Erla’s death hasn’t stopped Munk’s operation, he has a reason to keep us from looking at AWCA until he can do whatever it is he plans.”
“That makes sense,” I agreed. “And if Munk wanted to delay the murder investigation it might explain why your forensic samples went missing as well. Without test results Finn is still the prime suspect, which means that no one looks for alternatives. It’s all part of the smoke and mirrors routine.”
“Smoke and mirrors?” He frowned.
“Illusion, misdirection. What stage magicians use so you don’t see what they’re really up to.”
“Ah. Okay.” He seemed to chew the phrase over for a moment and I had the sense that he was storing it away.
“Okay,” he repeated. “But in that case, why did they not just destroy the samples? Why let them be found again?”
“Didn’t you say Sophie Krogh had duplicates? Maybe the delay was all they needed.”
“So their operation could be nearly over.”
“Maybe,” I said.
We came to a side street and Hentze turned down it. I noticed his pace had increased slightly, as if it was linked to his thought processes.
“So, we know that Munk’s operation is based on the Alliance, yes?” he said, as if he wanted to confirm where we stood. “And because Munk wants to keep us from investigating them he must think that someone from the group was Erla Sivertsen’s killer. He either thinks it or knows it. Yes?”
“Probably,” I allowed. “But it doesn’t mean Munk’s target and the killer have to be the same person. Munk could just be afraid that a police investigation of the Alliance will frighten his target, even if he’s not the killer.”
Hentze considered that, then shook his head. “Why would it do that? Unless Munk’s target, as you call him, is guilty of the murder then he has nothing to fear: he can carry on as normal. No, I think it must be the case that Munk’s target is also the one who killed Erla. He realises she is spying on him, so he kills her. Maybe not on purpose, we know that, but still…” He looked at me. “What? You don’t agree?”
“No, yeah, you could be right,” I said. “Trouble is, I can’t see what you can do about it. It’s not a case you can work from the outside. The Alliance are the obvious people to look at, but if you’re off the investigation you can’t go in and question them; not without ending up like me, anyway.”
“Yeh, well, I wouldn’t want that,” he said drily.
“So you’re dead-ended,” I said. “At least, until the forensic tests come back. But if you’re right about Finn, the forensics will put him in the clear and then Remi Syderbø won’t have any choice. He’ll have to look for alternative suspects and he won’t be able to ignore the Alliance then.”
I’d meant it as a degree of consolation, but Hentze didn’t seem encouraged. “You think?” he said. “What if Munk and his colleagues have a reason to want a – what did you call it the other day? A scapegoat? What if they can use ‘national security’ as a reason to interfere with the tests and make sure Finn remains as a suspect?”
“Now you’re being paranoid.”
He didn’t accept that. “Smoke and mirrors, you said. Why not?”
The best I could manage was a shrug. I couldn’t see the point in trading conspiracy theories. What he had was a situation he couldn’t get around, and knowing Hentze, that was what really bothered him. He smelled something rotten in the fridge, but he couldn’t find it to throw it out. Hentze was a man who liked his fridge clean and smelling good, and the fact that it didn’t was going to piss him off in that quiet, clamped-down way the Faroese have.
We came to Bøkjarabrekka again, still walking downhill, and he didn’t say any more until we’d crossed between the traffic, which was starting to get heavier in the build-up to what passes for Tórshavn’s rush hour.
“Finn is being stupid,” he said when we were on a quieter street and able to walk two abreast. “He won’t tell the truth because he thinks being innocent is enough. But for something like this it’s not enough to be innocent: you have to show it, even if that means being uncomfortable with the result.”
“You mean admitting he was having an affair with Erla?”
“If it’s the truth, ja.”
“Have you told him that?”
“Of course. No difference.”
I gave him a rueful look. “Well, if I was Finn I’m not sure it’s something I’d want to admit to you.”
“To me? Am I so frightening?” He shook his head. “No, it’s not that. Finn has always the idea that to do something because someone tells him to do it is to lessen himself. Even if it is to his advantage. Do you know what I mean?”
For a second I wondered if he was implying the description would fit me as well, but then I saw that he was simply venting his frustration. “Yeah, but sometimes there’s nothing you can do about it,” I said. “He’s made his bed, so now he’s got to lie in it.”
I looked to see if he knew the phrase. He nodded. “Sum tú reiðir, skalt tú liggja,” he said.
“How long till you get forensic results?”
“Now? By the morning – that’s what they promised.”
But I could tell that he had little faith in what they would show.
* * *
We walked back as far as the car park together. Hentze didn’t say much else because he was thinking, but as we came to my car he seemed to put his thoughts aside.
“Thank you for coming to Hoyvík,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
“Go and do something else,” I told him. “Forget this for a bit.”
“Yeh, maybe I will.”
I doubted he would. Then, for no reason I could think of, I said, “By the way, I spoke to Kirkland this morning – my superintendent. I have to be back in the UK next week.”
He frowned, as if I’d added something more to trouble him, which hadn’t been my intention. “Are you— Will you go this time?” he asked.
“I don’t think I’ve got a choice – not if I still want my job.”
“Do you?”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
Which was more or less true, if slightly glib. The longer I was away the more distant – irrelevant – it seemed. I opened the car door. “You know where I am if you want to annoy anyone else,” I said. “And let me know what the forensics say – if they’ll tell you.”
“If they don’t I can find out,” he said.
“Okay. See you later.”
“Yeh, I’ll see you.”
He started away t
owards the mist-laid stillness of the west harbour. I glanced around but there was no sign anyone was watching. Which didn’t mean they weren’t, but I wasn’t going to go there.
38
IT WAS HARD TO HAVE ANY PROLONGED PRIVACY IN THE staff kitchen. That was why Annika was making the most of the fact she was cooking. As long as she was there Heri couldn’t get into a long conversation about her going to Denmark without the chance that someone would wander in and overhear.
Cooking for the shift wasn’t something done every day – perhaps once a week – and when Jón Danielsen had suggested it yesterday Annika had volunteered because she was on the control desk tonight. The others brought in the ingredients and she started the stew soon after going on shift, so it would be ready to eat around nine.
For the moment, Annika and Heri Kalsø had the kitchen to themselves because Jóhanna Dam had gone off to look at a reported child endangerment. Heri had a copy of the Copenhagen Post spread out on the table in front of him.
“It says here that the rent for some flats in Frederiksberg is over thirty thousand krónur a month – a month. Can you imagine?”
“Yeh?” Annika said. “That’s not the sort of place you’d live unless you were really successful, though, is it?”
“No, maybe not,” Heri allowed. “Still, it’s city prices wherever you are.”
“I suppose. Some things are probably cheaper, though, without transportation costs.”
“Yeh, Lego, maybe.”
Over the past couple of days Heri had started to take an interest in all things Danish – particularly those relating to Copenhagen living. It wasn’t very subtle, although on the surface it was done in a supportive manner. But somehow the drawbacks always came to the fore. It was hard to miss, but Annika refused to be drawn. If they were going to talk about it – when they talked about it – she was going to do it properly.
She adjusted the heat under the large pan as Hentze entered the room, sniffing appreciatively.
“I think I might work late tonight after all,” he said. “Hey, Heri.”
