by Chris Ould
“Unless they are blind they will see us soon,” she said. “And I don’t understand where they are going, unless to the harbour. There’s nowhere else.”
We passed the curve and for a moment there was no sign of the Skoda. We both craned forward.
“Can you see them?” I asked.
“Nei.” And then, “Yes. There,” Annika said, immediately slowing the car and suddenly taking a right into a side road. I saw the Skoda sideways on for a second as it entered the car park across from the harbour, then my view was obscured by other vehicles.
Annika bumped the car half up on a kerb and stopped the engine quickly to kill the lights.
“I’ll take a look,” I said opening my door. “Hang on.”
The rain was as hard as before – just as cold – but at least here there wasn’t much wind. I crossed the road quickly, as far as the closest cars in the car park, then used them for cover.
In the day time the Skálatrøð car park was usually pretty full, but now there were fewer than a dozen cars. Even so it took me a few seconds to locate the Skoda, because it had pulled in at the rear of the car park, close to a rock outcrop and as far back from the streetlights as possible. I saw its headlights dim as its engine was switched off, and then they went out altogether. Then nothing.
I gave it a couple of seconds, then jogged back to Annika. She was out of the car, standing by the open driver’s door. “They’ve parked,” I told her over the dinning rain on the roof. “Lights out. A hundred yards away at the back.”
“Okay. Let’s see, yeh?”
We crossed the road briskly together until we were back in the lee of the parked cars.
“Over there, by the wall.” I indicated, but it became redundant when the courtesy light inside the Skoda went on and the doors opened.
There were two figures, both dressed in dark clothes. It was impossible to see more than that because of the rain and the darkness, and when the interior light went out again there was even less detail. The figures appeared to go round to the boot of the car, though, disappearing when the lid went up. I thought I saw the faint glow of another interior light but couldn’t be sure.
“What now?” Annika said. “You think we have the right people?”
“They’re up to something,” I said. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have parked way over there.”
As I said it the boot of the Skoda was closed and the two figures started away from the car. No one walks slowly in the rain and neither did they. But this was more than just briskness: there was an urgency to it, and as they moved across the centre of the car park I could see that each of them was carrying a bag – a large holdall of some sort – obviously heavy. And they weren’t heading towards us or the town centre; instead they were taking a direct line towards the waterfront.
Annika and I both backed up a little way to stay behind cover. I could tell she was trying to decide on the best next move.
“I think we should stop them now,” she said. “Let’s see how they account for themselves. Yes?”
“Okay.”
We ran the short distance back to the car and before I had my door fully closed Annika had started the engine, banging the gears into reverse and backing up just far enough to turn on to the harbour-front road again. She didn’t floor it, but instead gauged the speed so that we approached the car park as the two bag-carrying figures were crossing the road.
The streetlamps gave enough light to see them better now: a man and a woman, both in their twenties, I thought. The only part of them visible was their faces, below knitted hats and above zipped-up fleeces. The holdalls they were carrying were heavy enough to make their movements awkward and lopsided.
The man glanced in our direction as they reached the top of the short flight of steps down to the waterfront path, then he moved a little faster, hurrying the young woman who was slightly ahead.
Annika didn’t do anything until the last moment, then pulled sharply across the road and braked hard enough for a short skid at the kerb. We were both moving as soon as the car stopped but Annika was closest and I heard her call out in Danish, voice raised over the rain; an instruction to halt in any language.
The couple from the car were now on a walkway next to the water, four or five feet below street level. They’d both stopped moving at Annika’s command, and as we went down the steps to their level she continued to give instructions in Danish.
The man and woman exchanged glances, but they both put their holdalls down on the ground. Then the man turned to Annika and from his tone I could tell he was asking what the problem was.
Annika wasn’t taken in by the forced innocence any more than I was, even in Danish. In response she gestured to the bag at his feet. The man shrugged and made to bend down and open the holdall, only to be brought up by Annika’s sharp instruction to stop and step back. She repeated it to the young woman, who seemed less willing to comply but said nothing as she moved back half a pace.
“He says his name is Lange and they are just taking supplies to their boat,” Annika told me. “Can you look?”
Her hand was resting on the grip of the pistol and I knew why she’d asked. If this was innocent enough she didn’t want to wave a gun in their faces, but if it wasn’t she wanted to keep them in sight.
“Okay. Hold on.”
I sidestepped around her and went the half dozen paces along the walkway to where the woman’s bag sat. I kept to the outer edge by the water so I didn’t block Annika’s view, then squatted and looked at the holdall. It was bulky and nylon, larger than carry-on size and beaded with rain. There was a zip down the centre which I tugged open along its full length, then I folded the sides back so I could see better in the light from the nearest streetlamp.
Inside the bag there were three plastic fuel cans in a row: gallon-sized. They were the sort you carry in the boot of your car for emergencies, except these all had black tape wrapped around them, securing some kind of plastic box at one end. I saw wires, too, and that’s when I left them alone.
As I started to straighten up I was looking towards Annika and she knew it wasn’t good. She might have seen what was inside the holdall, but whether she had or not she was already drawing her pistol and barking at the woman and the man called Lange to stay still.
I took a couple of steps back towards Annika as she reached for her radio with her free hand. But before she could use it I heard the sound of over-revved engines approaching at speed and then two sets of headlights swung in: a car and a van.
I think we all looked in their direction for a moment, except the young woman. As the two vehicles skidded to a halt on the road above us there was a quick movement off to my left and I saw her breaking away at a run. She’d snatched up one of the fuel cans from the holdall, and now it swung out like a pendulum weight as she rounded a post and sprinted on to a jetty five yards away.
With a shout Annika went after her before I could move, and out of instinct I looked back to check on the man who’d called himself Lange. He hadn’t been as quick off the mark as the woman, but now that Annika was off in pursuit he was tugging at the zip on the other holdall, clearly intent on making his own play.
Without thinking about it I ran towards him, making a lunge at the same time that I glimpsed half a dozen men in black combat gear and ski masks piling over the top of the embankment. They were yelling in Danish, but it was too late to stop and I struck Lange hard enough to knock him to the ground.
What followed had little finesse. Beneath me Lange was writhing and kicking, but my grip on his arm was suddenly pulled away by one on my own. There were at least two of them hauling me off, and seconds later I was flung down again and pinned to the tarmac by a knee in my back. There were orders being barked from all sides so I stayed very still. In any language it’s the best thing to do when automatic weapons are being pointed at you.
“Okay! It’s okay,” I said, loudly and clearly.
I spread my hands slowly to show they were empty but even as I
was doing that there was a small, sharp crack in the background, followed by an immediate exhaled whumph in the air. Even face down I saw an orange ball of flame rise over the harbour. I saw its reflection in the dark waters as it rose and balled upwards, and then there was running and shouting and I couldn’t see Annika Mortensen anywhere on the jetty.
49
IT WAS ONE THING TO CALL FOR BACKUP BUT ANOTHER THING to wait and do nothing. The nearest patrol car was five minutes away at Kerjabrekka, the second closest— Well, what did it matter? Even five minutes was long enough for things to change or go wrong.
From the shelter of the industrial unit Hentze looked again at Gregersen’s garage across the road. There was no sign of life, or alarm. Impossible to know, then, whether anyone remained inside. There had been two cars parked at the back, Annika had said. Now one. And if that one set off, too, then what would he be left with? Nothing. Again.
Hentze made up his mind and moved out of shelter, crossing the road briskly. Where were the spooks when you needed them? Nowhere, of course; or else off chasing their own hares.
He took the shortest route to the unpaved track that gave access to the back of the garage, ignoring the large roller door at the front. Even from here he could see that the Judas gate was fastened with a padlock.
Down the side of the dirty redbrick building he passed out of the reach of the streetlights and into shadow. He half stumbled when he trod in a hidden pothole of water, soaking his foot, but he didn’t stop until he reached the rear corner of the building, then took a moment before risking a look round the corner.
It was as Annika had described it: a rear door and, a little further along, a frosted window of what might have been an office. There was a light on behind the glass, casting a faint patch of yellow on a Skoda Octavia, which was parked on the rough gravel, rain bouncing on its roof.
Hentze withdrew again and for a few seconds he allowed himself to reconsider. He wasn’t carrying his pistol and without knowing who and how many might still be inside the building it would be a rash move to go in alone. But, if anything, coming this far had increased his resolve, so he moved round the corner and kept close to the wall as he made for the door.
He took the two concrete steps outside it, then paused to listen for any sounds from within. If there were any they were lost in the sound of the rain on the roof and in the drainpipes, so he put his hand to the doorknob and turned it gently, waiting to see if it stopped. It didn’t. He felt the catch give and the door jerked inwards a little, as if badly hung.
Now he was committed. He opened the door wider and stepped forward, into a short corridor lit by a striplight; a pair of swing doors at the far end and one just to his left. The nearest one stood halfway open with a light on inside, so Hentze pushed it the rest of the way and stepped in quickly, ready to speak if there was anyone there.
The room was unoccupied; a stripped-out office lit by a single bare bulb. On the floor were two mattresses with sleeping bags on them and various personal possessions scattered around, but Hentze didn’t pause to inspect anything. Instead he backed out into the corridor again and moved quietly to the doors at its end.
The swing doors would open into the old garage space itself, he knew, and although he’d never been in there he had an idea of the size it must be. How many people were inside? Doing what? He paused for a moment, then pushed the doors inwards and stepped boldly through.
Under twin rows of fluorescent lights the workshop echoed with the sound of the rain. Some of the equipment from its former use still remained: the posts of a car lift; an empty tyre rack along one wall; an oil-stained bench and a metalwork lathe. But what stood out most because of its incongruity was a white bedsheet fastened to the far wall in front of a tripod, a video camera and two mounted lights.
Not far from this a woman in her late twenties was sitting in a camping chair, engrossed in a laptop, which was balanced on her knees. She was dressed for the cold in a large parka coat and Hentze had taken two steps into the workshop before she sensed his presence. When she did she glanced up and then did a double take when she realised that he was a stranger. Quickly she snapped the laptop shut and started to rise.
“I’m a police officer,” Hentze called, raising his voice over the din of the rain. “Stay there please. Are you alone?”
He was already crossing the space towards the woman, who continued to rise, but was hampered by the computer. He reached her before she could fully stand up and because she was still off balance he was able to push her back into the seat. Ignoring his instinct for courtesy, he kept a hand on her shoulder, firm and controlling. In response the woman spoke quickly and belligerently in German, aggrieved and protesting. Hentze took no notice.
“Polizei,” he said, cutting her off. “Polizei, okay?”
He glanced quickly round again but there was no sign of anyone else in the workshop. Satisfied, he let his attention focus on a pair of flimsy wooden tables a couple of metres away. One of them was cluttered with used coffee mugs, some papers and general detritus, but the other was bare except for four mobile phones. Each one was laid out on a separate piece of paper, on which was a written a different six-figure phone number.
There was a significance to this, that was easy to see, but when the woman shifted and tried to free herself from his grip Hentze looked away.
“Sprechen sie Englisch?” he said. He took his hand from her shoulder and stood back a little.
“Nein. Deutsch.”
“Was ist das?” he asked, gesturing to the phones. It was about as much German as he knew.
In reply the woman launched into a diatribe of protest, gesturing angrily to go with the words. It was cut short, however, when the swing doors and the Judas gate in the building’s main entrance simultaneously crashed open, followed a split second later by a sudden influx of men in black tactical gear, submachine guns unslung.
“Armed officers! Armed officers! Stay where you are! Do not fucking move!”
* * *
In the time it had taken to manhandle Hentze to the back wall of the garage and check the ID from his pocket, the German woman had been spread-eagled face down on the floor and searched. Then her hands had been bound and she’d been hauled to a sitting position and told not to move. The instructions were all given in German, Hentze noted.
Beyond this activity two men in civilian clothes who had entered the building after the others were now at the wooden table. They carefully placed the mobile phones into a container much like a cooler box, with thick sides and a locking lid. When that was done one of the men took the container away while the other came over to Hentze.
The man spoke in Danish – was Danish; a rotund face, heavily freckled. “Kriminalassistent Hentze?”
“Yes,” Hentze confirmed. “Who are you?”
The man ignored the question. “You’re free to go. Please report directly to your superior officer at the police station.”
Hentze shook his head and indicated the woman. “I need to know by what authority that woman has been detained, where you intend to take her and what crime she’s accused of.”
“You’ll have to take it up with your superiors,” the freckled man said. “Leave now please. That is not a request.”
Outside Hentze had anticipated more of a circus. Instead when he stepped out of the garage there were only two cars – dark-coloured Volvo estates – and a windowless van. They blocked access to the garage building and two black-clad men with submachine guns stood by as sentries. They didn’t look round as Hentze emerged and went past them to where Karl Atli Árting was standing beside his patrol car on the approach road.
“Hjalti, are you okay?” Karl Atli asked, glancing uncertainly at the building. “What’s going on?”
“Security services,” Hentze told him. “Listen, has there been anything on the radio – any other incidents?”
“Yeh, five minutes ago,” Karl Atli nodded. “There was a report of an explosion at the west harbour just as I go
t here. I wasn’t sure where you were but when this lot arrived…”
“Okay. Try and get Annika on the radio, will you?” Then his phone rang. It was Remi Syderbø.
“You need to come back to the station,” Remi said as soon as Hentze answered.
“Listen, there’s been some sort of incident at the west harbour,” Hentze said. “And if—”
“I know,” Remi cut in. “This is serious, Hjalti. That’s why you need to come back here. Right now.”
Despite his personal inclination to do otherwise, Hentze recognised the grim tone in Remi’s voice. “Okay, I’ll come now,” he said.
He rang off and turned back to Karl Atli who was still listening for a response on his radio. “Annika’s not replying.”
“Okay, come on,” Hentze told him. “I need a lift to the station.”
Karl Atli drove quickly while Hentze tried Jan Reyná’s mobile number. It went straight to voicemail.
He thought for a moment, then turned to Karl Atli. “Listen,” he said. “I need you to do something for me. As soon as you’ve dropped me off go to the AWCA house at Fjalsgøta 82. Rosa’s there with a Dutch girl called Veerle. Take both of them to the Runavík station and wait there until you hear from me.”
“Runavík?” Karl Atli looked at him questioningly.
“Because there’ll be no one else there,” Hentze told him. “Veerle is a key witness in the Erla Sivertsen case and there’s a chance that someone will want to stop her telling us what she knows. We need to prevent that – to protect her – so when you get to Runavík, stay there until I tell you different, okay? Stay off the radio and don’t let anyone talk to Veerle or take her away, not even if the Chief Prosecutor turns up.”
“But if—”
“It’s my responsibility,” Hentze told him. “A direct order, okay?”
