by Chris Ould
* * *
The first thing that struck me as I walked in to the Værtshuset bar was the smell of cigarettes and beer. It was a combination I hadn’t come across for a long time, and hadn’t expected here, either. As far as I knew the Danes had the same no-smoking policy as the British and Faroese, but here it was.
The place was fairly quiet: a dozen or fifteen people in total, sitting around in a cosy atmosphere that was more like a café than a pub; checked upholstery, retro posters and knick-knacks on the walls. None of the stripped-pine tables or chairs matched their neighbours and the green-painted wood panelling on the walls made it attractively gloomy. I already liked it before I was three steps inside.
The bar was halfway back and I didn’t see Hentze until I reached it. He was sitting in a corner beside a glass screen into the rear of the place, just outside the pool of yellow light from a lamp on the wall. He was still wearing his coat and looked uncharacteristically sombre, I thought. Not that he was ever effervescent, but perhaps because I recognised a comparable thread to my own preoccupations I found myself sounding cheerful when I approached his table.
“You missed me so much you had to come to Copenhagen?” I asked. “Or is this the start of the invasion?”
Hentze made a dry “huh” then appeared to shake himself out of it. “We would make a poor army, I think: two Faroese guys to take on all Copenhagen.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, taking it as a compliment to be counted as his countryman. “Give it a couple of beers and anything’s possible.” I picked up his near-empty bottle. “Same again?”
“Yeh, I think so,” he said, as if he’d given the matter some thought. “It’s not bad for Danish.”
I returned his bottle to the bar, asking the woman behind it for two more of the same. They came out of a tall refrigerator, satisfyingly cold, and I took them to the table and sat down on a chair that looked like it might have come from a school room.
In my short absence Hentze seemed to have come out of himself. He’d taken off his coat, as if he was sure he would stay now, and he picked up the new beer.
“Skál.”
“Skál.”
We clinked bottles and drank. He was right about the beer, it was pretty good.
“So what happened?” I said as an opening gambit. “You’re here to see Rasmus Matzen, right?”
“As a beginning, yes.” Hentze glanced away for a second then he said, “Sophie Krogh found what we think is Astrid Dam’s daughter this morning; in the fields at Múli. So what I hope is that Rasmus Matzen will tell me more than he told you.”
“About Boas Justesen? He’s still your main suspect?”
“Well, yes and no.” He took a sip of beer then looked at his watch. “Do you have anywhere better to be?”
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“No, of course not.”
“Okay, so I’ve nowhere better to be,” I told him, taking my cigarettes from my jacket. “But before you start telling me anything official, there’s something you ought to know. Before I came out here I quit the job.”
He frowned. “Are you joking?”
“Not really, no.”
“Was it because of the allegation against you?” he asked.
“You mean was I forced out?” I shook my head. “No, it was my choice. The allegation was dropped, but by then I’d just had enough of the bullshit around it. So I told Kirkland what he could do and walked out.”
“The big gesture?” Hentze asked.
“Yeah, something like that.”
I tapped my cigarette on the ashtray, knowing he wouldn’t ask any more because that wasn’t his way. He did deserve more, though, because he’d been forbearing in the past, and because I didn’t want him to have the wrong opinion of me – at least, not simply because of an absence of fact. So I told him about Donna Scott and the Paul Carney case in broad brushstrokes and I didn’t put any veneer on my own actions either. I knew whatever conclusion Hentze came to would be based only on his personal standards and not anyone else’s measure. It was one of the things I liked about him.
“So you knew what she’d done, this Officer Scott,” he said when I’d told him everything of consequence.
I nodded. “I had a good idea at the time, yeah. And afterwards she told me. But I knew what Carney had done, too – and what he would do if he walked away.”
Hentze considered, then made a small acknowledging gesture. “Then I think it was a small crime to prevent something worse,” he said. “I don’t say it’s right, but I wouldn’t say it was wrong either, so we’ll leave it at that.”
He took a drink, then looked at me again as he put it down. “So, you’re unemployed now. That’s a shame.”
I had my verdict so I sat back. “I did hear that there was a vacancy in your office,” I said.
He made a dubious face. “I’m not sure we could employ someone else who breaks the rules,” he said drily. “And besides, you would need to speak more Faroese.”
“You mean skrapa isn’t enough?”
He chuckled. “Nei, not so much. All the same, if you want to apply maybe I should see how you do on a test: to see how you assess another case, eh?”
“Múli?” I asked.
He nodded, becoming serious again. “And Boas Justesen.”
“Okay, go ahead,” I told him.
The way he described it, Boas Justesen was still the pivotal element to the killings at Múli; not just as a suspect, but now as a victim as well. As far as Hentze was concerned, Justesen’s blood alcohol count ruled out his death being a suicide, which inevitably meant that his murder could only be explained by someone having a motive to silence him. Logically, that brought the motive back to the bodies at Múli and meant that Justesen hadn’t been alone in the killings; a theory Hentze supported by citing the differences in the locations and the ways in which the bodies of Astrid and Else Dam had been buried.
“As Sophie says, the earth burial of the child is much more considered,” he told me. “As if they had time – even to think of burning a bonfire above it to hide the disturbed earth. There isn’t so much wood on the islands, so it makes me wonder if they had prepared it, you know?”
“Or it could’ve been done later, as an afterthought,” I said. “But you’re right that two different types of burial is odd. So do you think Astrid was killed after Else, without as much time to dispose of her body?”
“It’s only my theory, but yes.”
“Is that why you were asking about sexual offences this afternoon? You think Else was their intended victim and Astrid was just collateral damage.”
“Yeh, I think so, if you want to put it like that. I think there could be a paedophile part to all this. Six months before Astrid and Else were killed a young girl called Sunnvør was attacked and violently raped near Norðdepil. She and Else were similar – living in the same area and approximately the same age. Of course, we can’t know what was done to Else before she was killed, but I think the two things together are enough to think that the same man or men could have attacked them both. The police at the time thought Sunnvør might have been drugged. She had no memory of what had happened to her for more than twelve hours, so my theory is that the same method was used on Else, but this time they went further, with the result that she died.”
“Well, if it did happen that way, and if Astrid knew who the attackers were, it would certainly give them a motive for killing her too,” I said. “But from everything you’ve told me it sounds as if you should be looking for someone local as Justesen’s accomplice. Why come over here to see Rasmus Matzen?”
“Because I still have no suspect,” Hentze said flatly. “Unless I suspect everyone in the islands who is more than sixty years old there is nowhere to start. But if Matzen or someone else from the commune can tell me that Boas used to go there with Bárður or Jákup, for example, maybe then I have a lead.”
I recognised the sound of a long shot. “You haven’t found anyone from the Faroes
who spent time at the Colony?”
“Only one person who’s said so; a cousin of Boas. They went there together one time but he doesn’t remember when, or who else was there.”
“So he’s not a suspect?”
“No, I’ve no reason to think it. So, as I said, all I can hope is that Rasmus Matzen will give me a lead to someone who was with Boas in 1974 and on the islands to kill him last week.”
“Well, Rasmus did remember Astrid,” I said. “So maybe he can tell you something. I’m sorry I couldn’t get more out of him when I was there.”
Hentze waved it away. “No, I understand why. But from what I’ve just said you can’t think of any other way to move forward?”
I thought about it, then shook my head. “On the face of it, no. I think all you can do is put in the legwork.”
“Yeh, I think so, too.” It wasn’t a happy conclusion, but then he put it aside and drained the last of his beer.
I did the same, then pushed my chair back. “Another?” I asked.
Hentze considered and looked at his watch. “I still have to find my hotel, and in the morning I want to start early, but I don’t think one more will hurt. It’s my turn, however.”
When he came back from the bar a couple of minutes later he had his wallet in his hand as well as new bottles. Once he’d sat down he looked through the wallet to find a slip of folded paper, which he handed to me.
“The address of Thea Malene Rask,” he said. “There are two women of the same name in the CPR database, but the other one is only thirty years old, so I think this is the correct person. She lives at a place called Snestrup, part of Odense.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” I scanned the paper briefly, then put it away.
“Are you looking for spiritual advice?” Hentze asked.
“Come again?”
“Thea Rask is a pastor,” he said. “You didn’t know?”
“No, all I knew was her name.”
He frowned slightly. “I probably should have asked you before, but why do you want to find her?”
“I think she was sharing the flat in Christiania with Lýdia and me when Lýdia died,” I told him. “And before that she’d been at a place called Vesborggård House where Lýdia worked. It was a sort of rehabilitation centre for teenage offenders and Thea Rask is listed as absconding from the place at about the same time that we also left.”
“So you think Thea Rask left with your mother?” he asked.
I gave a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t know for sure, that’s what I want to ask her: to find out.”
“But you have a reason to think it.”
I nodded in confirmation. “I think there’s a chance that Thea was being abused there. And if she was, then I think Lýdia helped her get out of that situation.”
“I see,” Hentze said. He drew a breath then glanced away briefly. “Do you ever have the feeling that wherever we look as policemen we only find more people who have been victims? Sometimes I wonder if there is anyone left who is not.”
“I know what you mean,” I told him. “It’s not something I’m going to miss.”
“No, I wouldn’t either,” he said. For a moment he had the look of a man considering his own situation and finding it wanting, but it didn’t last long. “So the reason you want to speak to Thea Rask is just for completeness – to have the whole picture – or do you suspect something else?”
I knew what he was asking: did I still have an objective perspective, or had I invented a narrative because that was what suited me better? It was something I’d asked myself, too, and my answer sounded more certain than I felt.
“I’m not trying to rewrite history,” I told him. “Just understand it. I’d just like to find out what was going on in Lýdia’s head before she died.”
“Ja, I see.” Hentze nodded slowly. “But have you also thought that if things are as you say, you might be asking Thea Rask to remember things that she would rather not think of?”
I sensed his concern, not just for Thea Rask, I suspected, but also for me. “It’s okay,” I told him. “If she doesn’t want to see me I’ll leave it alone. She’s the last lead I have anyway, so whatever she says I’ll have gone as far as I can.”
“And then you can rest?”
He might have meant “put it to rest”, but that was another question. “I guess so,” I said.
“Good. In that case, I hope you get what you need. Both of us, eh?”
* * *
Outside on the street about twenty minutes later the fresh air made me realise that Hentze had probably been right to decline my offer of another round. Either the beer was stronger than I’d thought or I’d smoked too much, just because I could. Either way, the damp breeze was cool and slightly heady and we stood for a moment as Hentze pulled out the handle from his case, then started along the street towards Vesterbrogade.
For several steps we walked in silence until Hentze appeared to have reached a decision about something and made a gesture at the world in general. “You know, I think there are two kinds of policeman,” he said, in a way that sounded as if he’d given the matter some thought. “Some are the kind who think too little before making a conclusion; the others are the ones who believe they can never think enough, even after they know all the facts. Unfortunately for us, I think we are both in that second category.”
I knew what he meant but I shook my head. “No, that’s where you’re wrong,” I told him. “I’m not a policeman at all any more – remember?”
“Ah, yes, you’re right,” he said with a small bow to that fact. “How does that feel?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.”
“Yes, please, do that,” he said seriously.
At the large junction at the corner of Vesterbrogade we halted again and waited for the lights to change.
“How long will you be here?” I asked him.
He pursed his lips. “I think if I’m not back by Monday I will have trouble.”
“Í skrapa?”
“Yeh, that’s close enough,” he said with a laugh. We shook hands, and then he went his way with a wave and a “Goða nátt” and I headed in mine.
27
Friday/fríggjadagur
AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE CITY’S MAIN POLICE STATION ON Halmtorvet the next morning Hentze showed his ID and was allowed in. He was taken through to the back of the building and then up in the lift by a young uniformed constable, although now he came to think of it, all the politibetjente they had passed seemed to be under thirty. It had probably been the same in his day, Hentze thought. You just didn’t notice when you were that age as well.
On the fifth floor there was another maze of corridors before they arrived at Christine Lynge’s open door. The young betjent knocked – perhaps in case Hentze was too superannuated to do it himself – and waited just long enough to be sure that the chief inspector was there before making off.
“Hjalti, come in,” Christine said with obvious pleasure, crossing to embrace Hentze. “You’re looking—”
“Old,” Hentze said.
“No. I was going to say good,” Christine corrected. “You don’t change at all, eh? What is it, five years since I heard from you? Then you’re on the phone and a few days later you’re here in person.”
“Yeh, well…” Hentze said, failing to find any other ready response. “I thought I should pay my respects.”
“Pay your respects? You make it sound like I’m dead.”
“Sorry. Bad choice of words. I meant—”
“Yeh, yeh, I know what you meant. Your Danish is as rusty as everything else out there in the Atlantic. Come and sit down.”
Hentze took a seat in one of the armchairs beside a potted plant under the window. “So you finally moved up,” Christine said when they were settled. “It’s about time.”
“Up?”
“To inspector. Don’t be dense. I saw it on your station report.”
“Oh, that. It’s only temporary,” Hentze
said, shrugging it off. “You don’t need to worry, I’m not catching up with you.”
“Pah. Why would I worry about that?” Christine said with a smile. “I reckon you’ve left it too late for a sprint finish.”
There had been a pretence of rivalry between the two of them when they’d worked their first two years from the same station in Nørrebro and they had supposedly vied to be included in the most interesting cases. Although now he came to think of it again, Hentze wasn’t entirely sure that his own pretence at rivalry had been equally mirrored by Christine’s. Even then she’d had a drive for advancement that Hentze had never shared, so he’d always taken it as a foregone conclusion that one day she would be sitting in a vicekriminalkommissær’s office like this.
“So tell me why you’re here and what I can do to help,” Christine said. “Is it more to do with the anti-whaling protesters?”
“No, with any luck that’s all over,” Hentze said. “This is something different altogether.”
He outlined the case of the burials at Múli and his intention to find and interview as many people from the commune as he could.
“Only you would chase a forty-year-old case, Hjalti,” Christine said with a helpless shake of her head. “You always did have a weakness for lost causes.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s lost yet,” Hentze said, uncertain where this characterisation of him had come from. Perhaps it was just one of those things that happened when people didn’t see each other for a long time; you were remembered or thought about in ways you couldn’t correct or ameliorate in your absence.
“You’re looking for a virgin in a brothel, but you know that, right?” Christine said. “And yet you’ve still come all this way. So what else do you know that you haven’t said? Is it something to do with the English homicide officer, Reyná?”
“No, not at all,” Hentze said, mildly surprised that she’d chosen to interpret what he’d told her as only part of the truth. “That’s a personal matter for him, and I just tried to help. This case… Well, I’m not expecting any easy answers – if I get any at all – but I have to try. And who knows, after all this time someone might want to admit to the burden of guilt they’ve been carrying around for forty years.”
