by Chris Ould
“Yeh, give me five minutes.”
Katrina set off up the hill at an enthusiastic pace and Hentze turned to Sophie with a questioning look.
“What?” Sophie said.
“I was just thinking that you know how to show your girlfriend a good time.”
Sophie drew a sigh. “To be honest, I wish she’d stayed in Tórshavn to look at the shops or something.”
“Oh? I thought this was a new and exciting romance. Isn’t that what you said the other day?”
“Yeh, well, that was then and this is now,” Sophie said gloomily. “I barely get to go for a piss on my own. It’s claustrophobic.”
“Ah, well, there’s no one as enthusiastic as a new convert,” Hentze said drily. “Didn’t you say that, too?”
“Okay, go ahead and make fun,” Sophie said. “I probably deserve it.”
“Yeh, I think so,” Hentze said. “For five minutes, at least.”
Sophie gave him a look, then lifted her camera to take some photographs of the site. “So what’s the story behind all this?” she asked, changing the subject. “There was a fire and a guy was found dead, is that right?”
“Yeh, his name was Justesen,” Hentze told her. “He owned this land. He was also an alcoholic and terminally ill, so it looks like he hanged himself and his final cigarette burned the place down.”
“And this?” Sophie asked, gesturing at the hole in the partly dismantled wall.
“We’re only guessing, but at the moment I think Justesen uncovered the body – well, the skull anyway – before he died. Maybe it was some sort of act of contrition; not wanting to kill himself and leave her in an unknown grave. We don’t know.”
“Well he might have had the decency to do the job properly and take down the whole wall,” Sophie said, snapping a last photo of the hole. “Some people have no consideration.”
“No, no, that’s true,” Hentze said seriously. “But still, I expect if you give her the chance, Katrina will be only too glad to lend you a hand. Shall I ask her?”
“Don’t you bloody dare,” Sophie said. “Otherwise you might find yourself under your own pile of rocks.”
* * *
An hour later Hentze drove without hurry along Yviri við Strond, past the heliport and a new care home for the elderly that was nearing completion. The traffic wasn’t heavy and over the waters of Nólsoyarfjørður it was a flat, grey afternoon.
Remi Syderbø’s car was in the parking lot at the back of the police station and as he pulled in beside it Hentze was glad to see that the extra vans – shipped in from Denmark to deal with the anti-whaling protests – had gone. Good.
Inside, the ground floor and stairwell were quiet. It would be busier later for the night shift, but Hentze’s days of policing Tórshavn on a Saturday night were long gone. It wasn’t something he missed.
Reaching the third floor he found the CID corridor practically deserted; a subdued stillness that reminded him of the atmosphere after last year’s big storm had finally passed. Thirty-six hours of almost hurricane-force winds and heavy rain had stretched everyone to the limit, responding to emergencies as they arose, never certain what was going to happen next. It wasn’t until the winds slackened and the phones gradually stopped ringing that they had finally started to believe that the worst might be over.
Hentze hoped that they were experiencing a similar, slow return to normality now. It was almost two days since the explosion at the harbour and the arrests across the islands, and one day since the Danish security service had finally confirmed that the emergency was over and there was no further threat. Although there was still some dispute about jurisdiction in the case, the terrorists – a term Hentze disliked – had been transported to Denmark to be held on remand in a high-security facility. The Danes were citing national security as a reason to indict the suspects in Copenhagen, while the Faroe Islands’ Prosecutor argued that the group should face a judge in Tórshavn.
It came down to politics, really, and unless he missed his guess, Hentze believed that having stood on principle for a while, the Faroese Prosecutor would “reluctantly” cede jurisdiction to Denmark. Better that than have the brouhaha of a large and complex prosecution eating up resources, followed by a trial dragging on for weeks or months. None of the accused were Faroese, so what did it matter where they were tried?
The one exception would be Lukas Drescher, who would undoubtedly be returned to stand trial for the murder of Erla Sivertsen. That was as it should be, but it wouldn’t be for six months at least, and more likely closer to a year.
Hentze didn’t bother to go to his own office but instead went along to Remi Syderbø’s door where he knocked perfunctorily before going in. He was expected.
The only light in the room was from the reading lamp on Remi’s desk. He was casually dressed and had his head on his hand as he read through a sheaf of papers, but he put them aside when Hentze walked in and waved him to a chair.
“So what does Sophie think?” Remi asked, standing up to come round the desk and take the second leather armchair.
“She agrees that it isn’t a recent death,” Hentze told him. “Which we could tell, so…”
“So there’s no rush to find answers.”
Hentze shook his head. “I don’t think so. Sophie reckons it’ll take a day to extract the remains so I’ll talk to Hans and get a couple of his people to help shift the stones, starting tomorrow. Then it’ll just be a matter of waiting for forensic results and going from there.”
“You still think there’s a link between the body being disturbed and the man – what was his name? Justesen? – who hanged himself in the house?”
“It’s only a theory,” Hentze said. “But it seems very coincidental if there isn’t some link. It was Justesen’s land after all.”
“So you’re still happy to oversee the case?”
“Sure, of course. At least until Ári comes back.”
“Yes, well, I need to talk to you about that,” Remi said. He took a moment, seemingly to try to formulate a diplomatic way to frame what he wanted to say next. In the end, though, the task seemed either too difficult, or perhaps just unnecessary. He pushed his glasses back on his nose. “This is strictly between us,” he said.
“If you say so,” Hentze agreed.
“Okay. Then you should know I’ve extended Ári’s sick leave. He was signed off for a week because of his injury but I’ve added another week’s leave. It hasn’t been fully worked out yet because there needs to be some reshuffling, but when he does come back he’ll be moving to the Prosecutor’s office with responsibility for liaison with Denmark over the terrorism cases. To fill the gap, I’d like you to move up a grade.”
Hentze made to speak, but Remi held up a hand. “Yeh, yeh, I know. Temporarily. I know you don’t want the job, but someone has to step in or I can’t do this. And you’d be doing Ári a favour as much as anything else. If he comes back here, I think— Well, let’s just say things might be difficult. But the move to the Prosecutor’s office allows him to save face.”
“I suppose so,” Hentze said: acknowledgement and acceptance. It was possibly the worst kept secret in CID that Ári Niclasen had lost the confidence and support of most of those working under him. To be fair, the events of the last few weeks could hardly have been anticipated, but even so Ári hadn’t reacted well when the tensions around the whaling protests had been exacerbated by Erla Sivertsen’s murder and the subsequent bombing conspiracy. After responding in the way that Ári had to all that, it was hard to see how he could simply return to his job as if nothing had happened.
“Would I have to change offices?” Hentze asked.
“Would you want to?”
“Probably not, given that it’s only a temporary move.”
“Okay, stay in your broom cupboard then,” Remi said. “I don’t care as long as we get back to some kind of normality as quickly as possible. So, you’ll step up?”
“If that’s what you want.”
Remi shifted then, as if he’d finally put something distasteful aside. “So, as acting inspector you should also know that I’ve been in discussion with Petra Langley from the Alliance. It’s been agreed that there will be no more anti-whaling protests.”
“She agreed or was told?”
Remi blurred the distinction with a gesture. “The Prosecutor is willing to acknowledge that the people being held on terrorism charges were not representative of the Atlantic Wildlife Conservation Alliance. In exchange, Petra Langley accepts that any further protest action by AWCA could be unnecessarily provocative. They planned to leave in a couple of weeks anyway so they’ll wind up their operation early, leaving a few observers for any grinds that take place.”
Another way to save face, Hentze thought. Still, it was all for the best. Perhaps now they could get back to normality, as Remi wanted.
“Okay then,” Hentze said. “So, if that’s all sorted out, do you have any objection if I bring Annika Mortensen on to the CID team?”
“Annika? Isn’t she on sick leave because of her injuries from the explosion?”
“Yes, but I’d like to give her the opportunity to come back if she wants to. And since we seem to be playing musical chairs at the moment anyway…”
“Okay, whatever you think,” Remi said with an air of finality. “I’ll leave it to you.” He stood up and went back to his desk.
“Are you staying?” Hentze asked, getting to his feet.
Remi nodded and glanced at his watch. “Rosa invited the grandkids over for the afternoon.”
“But unfortunately Grandpa got called in to work?”
“Just for another hour or so, until they’ve worn themselves out.”
“No wonder we have a bad name with our wives,” Hentze said. “Even the weekends aren’t safe any more.”
2
Monday/mánadagur
I AWOKE, TENSED UNTIL I KNEW WHERE I WAS AND THEN LAY still for a while, until my pulse slowed. When I looked at the time on my phone it was 4:50 but I knew I was too awake to sleep again now.
Downstairs my packed bag was on the floor of the sitting room. I went to make coffee and some toast from the last of the bread. Outside it was still very dark and there was the faint noise of rain on the windows. Beyond that – perhaps – I thought I could pick out the sound of the waves on Leynar’s black beach. It was high tide, I knew without thinking.
I’d grown very used to this place and thought I might miss it, although maybe what I’d miss most was the fact that living in Fríða’s guesthouse gave me the feeling of being detached from real life; from the need for decisions or action. It couldn’t last, but maybe that was as it should be. We might be cousins, but I couldn’t live off Fríða’s hospitality forever. She’d done enough over the last few weeks; it was time to go back.
After eating I had a shower and dressed. By the time I’d done that I noticed that there were lights on in Fríða’s place. She was a naturally early riser – usually coming back from a run just as I raised the blinds – but today I’d beaten her to it, albeit not out of choice.
At the table I sipped another coffee and opened my iPad to a magazine article Tove Hald had translated from Danish. I’d read a couple of paragraphs when there was a knock on the door and when I called out Fríða came in. She was in running gear, her blonde hair tied up and back to accommodate a head torch on a sweatband.
“I saw the light was on,” she said, with a touch of concern. “You know we don’t need to leave for more than an hour?”
“Yeah, I know, but I was awake so…” I shrugged and then, to deflect the subject, I gestured to the iPad. “I was just catching up on my reading. Tove sent me an article from a Danish magazine called Provokation. It’s about Rasmus Matzen and the commune movement. He talks a bit about the Colony commune at Múli and why it didn’t succeed. Apparently it was hard to grow food there and the weather wasn’t what they expected.”
“It never is,” Fríða said drily. “But you have to come here to know that. Are you still thinking you’ll go to Denmark to see him, to ask if he remembers your mother?”
I put the iPad aside. “I think so. Maybe at the end of the week. And Hjalti Hentze has asked a colleague in Copenhagen if she’ll let me look at the police report on Lýdia’s suicide.”
“So you’ve talked to Hjalti about Lýdia?”
“A little.”
“Good,” she said with a nod.
“Why good?”
“Because he reads people well,” Fríða said matter-of-factly. Then, “And it won’t be a problem for you to go?”
“Not for me, no.”
From her expression I could tell that she thought I’d dodged the question – which I had – but my interview with the Directorate of Professional Standards was set for tomorrow and once it was done the cards could fall as they liked. I wasn’t sure how much I cared about the outcome any more – not enough to talk about it, anyway – so I picked up my mug and stood up.
“Coffee?” I asked.
Fríða shook her head and straightened up. “Nej, takk. I still want to run – just a short one,” she added. “Twenty minutes, then a shower and we can go.”
“It’s still dark,” I pointed out. “Listen, why don’t you run later? I’ll call a taxi instead. I don’t want to mess up your day.”
“The dark doesn’t matter,” she said, as pragmatic as ever. “I have my torch and the road’s very smooth. No, I’ll go now and we can leave for Vágar in an hour, okay?”
I knew better than to argue, so I didn’t and later we drove to the airport as the sky started to pink up and the rain slackened off to a drizzle.
In the car park Fríða hugged me and kissed my cheek before getting back in her car, pulling away as I towed my bag across the wet tarmac to the terminal building. From then on whatever mixed feelings I had about leaving this place were gradually subsumed by the practicalities of travel, and then by the slow widening of distance – both real and imagined.
3
UNDER THE STARK MORTUARY LIGHTS ELISABET HOVGAARD surveyed the bones from the sheepfold at Múli, now laid out in skeletal order. They had been cleaned and the accreted dirt had been collected, filtered and sampled for lab analysis in Denmark. What was left was only human, and all the more naked for that, Hentze thought.
“It’s a long time since I had to do this,” Elisabet said, assessing the layout of the bones as if Hentze was responsible for setting her an unwelcome test of anatomical knowledge. “But for our purposes I don’t suppose it matters so much whether I’ve got metacarpals and metatarsals in the wrong place. What’s most to the point is that we seem to have everything accounted for.” She looked towards Sophie. “You did a good job.”
At the end of the stainless-steel table Sophie Krogh took a final photograph of the skeleton’s clavicle, then lowered the camera to look at its screen.
“It was easier because she hadn’t been buried,” Sophie said. “At least not by much; the ground’s pretty stony. My guess is they tried to dig a grave but then thought it would be easier – maybe quicker – just to dump rocks on top.”
“And then build a sheep shelter?” Hentze asked, with only the slightest hint of scepticism.
“Well, it would be one way to make it less obvious that it was a grave site,” Sophie said. “Also less chance of it being disturbed later on.”
“True,” Hentze agreed. “So, what do we know?”
Elisabet peeled off her gloves and crossed to a worktop where she picked up an iPad and an e-cigarette. She tapped the first and sucked on the other, making the light in the end of it glow.
“I’m trying to quit,” she said when she saw Hentze’s vaguely quizzical look. She exhaled vapour. “Don’t say anything, all right?”
“Not a word,” Hentze agreed.
“Good.” Elisabet glanced at the iPad. “What I can tell you is that she was female, as we already thought. Approximately
170 centimetres tall, aged between thirty and forty. As far as it’s possible to tell I’d say she was in good general health – no signs of osteoporosis, arthritis or disease, although she had an ante mortem break to the right-hand side of her clavicle: her collarbone. It was healing, though,” she added, anticipating Hentze’s question. “I’d say it happened between a month and six weeks before she died.”
“Is it suspicious?” Hentze asked.
“No, not in my book,” Elisabet said. “It could easily have been caused by a fall. Most are, unless you count contact sports. She’d probably have been wearing a sling, but maybe not.”
“Could it help to identify her?”
“It’s possible. If it happened here and if she was treated in the hospital there might be a record. The problem is, we don’t know how far back to go.”
“Between 1973 and 1975 might be a good starting point,” Hentze said. “That’s when the commune was active.”
“I’ll get someone to take a look,” Elisabet said. “We have a new intern who shouldn’t be let loose on the living or the dead yet.”
“Thanks.” Hentze looked back at the skeleton. “So is there anything to say how she might have died?”
Elisabet took another pull on her e-cigarette. “There’s nothing as obvious as a fractured skull or multiple unhealed breaks, if that’s what you mean. But Sophie thinks she may have found something else.”
“It was only because I was cleaning the bones,” Sophie said, as if she didn’t want to accept any credit for extraordinary perception. She picked up one of the higher vertebrae and Hentze followed her across to an illuminated magnifier on the worktop. Holding the bone under the lens, Sophie turned it and then used the end of a wooden spatula to point out a thin mark about a centimetre long.
“Can you see it?” she asked.
Hentze squinted and leaned in closer to the lens. “I think so. The straight line?”
“Yeh. Nothing in nature is straight. I think it may be some kind of tool mark.”
“What kind of tool?”
