by Chris Ould
So then Hentze lived with and revisited the last question that arose from all that, which was whether Jan Reyná himself had known this truth about Lýdia’s death. Had Reyná worked it out before he went to the house at Strandvej, or had Juhl himself confessed it in that foetid spa room before he was shot dead?
There had been three shots; Hentze knew that because he’d heard them over the phone. One-two, and then three. But how long had the gap been before the last shot? How long was enough to make one interpretation of events more likely than the other?
He didn’t know, and part way through the darkest month of December he made up his mind and finally chose to give Reyná the benefit of the doubt. After what he’d seen and what he now knew about Oscar Juhl, Hentze didn’t want Juhl’s black, corrosive evil to eat away at anyone else any more. Enough, he decided; let there be an end to it all now. Just let it end.
IV
There was snow on the mountains half circling Tjørnuvík, and on the slopes of Eiðiskollur across Sundini sound. From the bedroom window I could see both over and between the roofs of the houses on the flat crescent of land behind the black beach. It was a good view but it wouldn’t last much longer in the January afternoon. I turned away from the window and went downstairs.
The house Signar had left me in his will had turned out to be on the old side of Tjørnuvík, to the west of the church: not overly large, but recently remodelled. Finishing it off had given me something to do for the last few months and the sense of camping in the space had maintained the feeling that my occupancy was only a temporary arrangement. Inevitably I’d accumulated some things, just to make life slightly more pleasant, but since the start of the week I’d been divesting myself of the surplus and now I was back to what would fit in a couple of bags. They sat on the living-room floor, almost ready to go.
I’d been waiting for the knock on the door and when it came I let Fríða in. We hadn’t seen each other for more than a month, although we had spoken on the phone. I was glad she’d come.
It was cold and damp outside and she came in wearing a parka, which she immediately ditched in the warmth of the heating. That was one thing I didn’t skimp on. My left leg was a lot better than it had been and I was only using a stick about half of the time but the bone still ached in the cold.
“Hjalti’s here too,” Fríða told me after we’d exchanged kisses. “He’s gone for a walk.”
“He thought you needed an escort?”
“Nei. No, of course not.”
“I didn’t mean—” I shook my head. “Bad joke.”
She nodded because she’d already figured that out.
In the kitchen I set the kettle to boil.
“Have you spoken to Tove?” Fríða asked, spotting the single postcard stuck to the fridge: a view of the Tivoli Gardens.
“Yeah, about a week ago. It wasn’t for long: she was busy. You know what she’s like. But I’ll see her in Copenhagen if she’s got time.”
“When you see her will you give her my love? Tell her to come and see us.”
“Sure, of course.”
Despite what she’d been through – none of which she remembered – Tove had recovered in a couple of days, although she complained of headaches and sleeping too much for a while. She’d even come to see me in hospital and thanked me, which I said missed the point.
“What point?” she’d said with a frown. “If you hadn’t come I would be dead. Everyone says so.”
“Yeah, but if I hadn’t got you involved in the first place…”
“No, that logic is faulty,” she’d said with her usual frown at stupidity. “It implies that any event has only one causal effect, which is never true.”
“Okay, if you say so,” I’d told her, just so she’d be quiet. I thought of this approach as Tove-management now.
When the kettle boiled I made coffee, then gave Fríða a tour of the house, pointing out the things she might need to know when it came to letting the place. I’d intended to sell it, but Fríða held the opinion that it was still too hasty a decision to sever all my ties to the islands. She knew better than to fully rely on that argument, though, and added the pragmatic truth that a small but regular income might also be useful, given my lack of employment.
I wasn’t convinced on either front but in the end it made no real difference to me so I’d gone along with it, on the understanding that Fríða had charge of the place, took an agent’s fee and kept me out of it. I don’t know why she agreed, but she did; a day after the Danish Prosecutor’s office had officially accepted that I’d shot Oscar Juhl in self-defence and to protect Tove.
I suspected the Prosecutor’s decision had finally been as much a matter of politics as of legal distinctions. The more information that surfaced about Oscar Juhl’s past, the harder it would be to convince anyone that it hadn’t been a justifiable killing, so why drag it out? There’s a Faroese saying: galnir hundar fáa rivið skinn – mad dogs get their skin torn – and there was no doubt that Juhl had been a mad dog.
So now I was formally, officially blameless; free to leave Danish jurisdiction, and that’s what I was going to do.
“You still have no definite plan?” Fríða asked when we’d finished the tour and I’d given her a set of keys.
“Just to drive on a straight road for more than two or three miles,” I said. “I’ve been cooped up too long.”
She wasn’t the sort who approved of aimlessness but she also knew the futility of arguing the point.
I collected my stick and a coat and we left the house and walked towards the sea. When we emerged on to Teigagøta I saw Hentze opening the gate to the churchyard and started that way until I realised Fríða hadn’t moved to go with me. I stopped and turned back.
“Tell Hjalti I’ll wait in the car,” she said. She gave me a wan smile. “Travel safely, okay?”
“Ja, I will. Takk,” I said.
Inside the church I found Hentze sitting straight-backed in a pew. The seats weren’t designed for comfort but they could certainly focus your mind, which was undoubtedly the intention.
“Have you taken up praying?” I asked. I didn’t sit down but leaned on a rail.
“No, not so much.”
“Good.”
He frowned. “Why do you say that?”
I shrugged. “I never saw you as the praying type, that’s all. It would upset my view of the world if I found out you were.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want that,” Hentze said and I thought I heard a slight edge in his voice, as if I’d come close to a line. But maybe not.
“Thomas Friis called me a couple of days ago,” I told him. “He has a book deal. They want to publish as soon as the official investigation’s concluded.”
“Yeh, I heard that,” he said. I knew he didn’t approve. “I’m not so sure he will get official consent, though.”
“He seems to think he can get round that one way or the other.”
Hentze still didn’t look convinced. “Has he reached his own conclusion, then?” he asked.
I shrugged. “His theory is that when Juhl realised an investigation into Inge-Lise’s murder would eventually get round to him, he decided to take one more victim while he still could. He’d already met Tove so he knew what she was like, and it wasn’t hard to come up with a ploy to abduct her.”
Hentze wrinkled his nose.
“You don’t like it?” I said.
“Not very much. I don’t say that it’s wrong, but if it is true it means Juhl is easily dismissed. We just say he was evil and then we don’t have to think about it any more: to look for a better explanation; to know why. That’s the thing I don’t like.” He considered that for a brief moment longer, then shifted focus. “So why did Friis call you?” he asked. “For more information?”
“Partly,” I said. “He was trying to reel me in. He wants me to tell my side for the book. It’ll be a bestseller, he reckons. It’s got all the right elements: Ulrik Juhl locking up his son on the family estat
e; the private psychiatric treatment; the escapes and then Oscar taking over the company when Ulrik died.”
“So, did you agree?”
I shook my head. “I don’t like the idea, and Friis is a bit too pleased with himself. Anyway, he’s only really interested in getting a description of what happened at the Strandvej house.”
“Well, I suppose some people would like to read about that.”
“Yeah, and life’s full of disappointments,” I said.
“Yes, yes, that’s true,” he said with a nod, then glanced at my stick. “How is your leg now?”
“Doesn’t like the cold and the damp, which is a good excuse to go somewhere warmer for a while.”
“And then what will you do? Do you know yet?”
I shrugged. “Maybe some consultancy work. I don’t know. I’m not good at networking.”
“No, I’ve noticed that,” he said drily. “Maybe you should try harder.”
I gave him a look. “Yeah, well, the truth is – with very few exceptions – I don’t like most people that much.”
“You are hard work, do you know that?”
“Sorry.”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t think you are.”
I drew a breath and looked up at the roof of the church, smelling the wood-resin smell. “No, you’re right,” I said in the end. “But like I say, there are a few exceptions.”
“Well, I suppose that’s something,” he said, and I could tell that was an end to it now. He stood up. “I should find Fríða.”
Outside we walked the short gravel path, and Hentze closed the black iron gate behind us. “Will you come back?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so.”
He nodded and then we shook hands.
“Farvæl og takk, ja?”
“Ja. Somuleiðes,” I said.
V
There was bright sunshine, made sharper and more dazzling by the recent rain and the cold wind across the car park at the back of the station on Yviri við Strond. Annika Mortensen was coming down the grey fire-escape steps with a box in her arms as Hentze approached from his car.
“So, your things are all gone now?” he asked with a nod at the box.
“Yeh. And I’ve stolen six pencils and a packet of envelopes.”
“That’s a coincidence: that’s exactly what we were going to give you as a leaving present.”
“Yeh, yeh.” Annika grinned and then put the box aside on the step to give him a hug, which Hentze stiffly accepted, a little embarrassed.
“Listen, I know you won’t come,” Annika said when she stood back. “But all the same there’s a small party at my place tomorrow night to say goodbye.”
Hentze frowned. “Why do you think I won’t come? What time shall I be there?”
“It’s from eight, but you can be late. We won’t go out to the town until midnight.”
“That’s okay; midnight’s my bed time. Will Heri be there?”
“Sure, of course. You heard his attachment came through as well?”
“No, I didn’t know that. No one tells me anything.”
She gave him a look. “Maybe you don’t listen. Anyway, he has six months at the station in Indre By so by the end of that we should be able to decide what to do next.”
“Good,” Hentze said, and meant it. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”
“Okay.” She picked up her box and started away. “And bring Sóleyg,” she called back over her shoulder.
“Of course.”
Although he knew there was no of course about it.
But as Hentze climbed the steps he decided he would ask Sóleyg if she wanted to go. Why not? Things were different all round after the last two or three months. And as he unlocked the door to Ári Niclasen’s old office he wondered if he should finally buy a coffee machine to replace the one Ári had reclaimed. He knew how Remi would interpret that move, though: give it a few hours and there would be no more acting inspector about it.
For helviti, he thought, shaking his head at the idea of selling his soul for a morning espresso. What had he come to? Still, a new coffee machine would be nice.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
BY AND LARGE THE GEOGRAPHY OF THE FAROES IS AS IT’S described in the book. However, I have used some licence with the descriptions of individual buildings and locations, some of which are transposed from other places. I should also point out that, as far as I know, there has never been a commune at Múli or a clinic known as Vesborggård House. I would also like to emphasise that this is a work of fiction and that none of the characters or incidents portrayed here are based on real people or events.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I CONTINUE TO BE INDEBTED TO THE OFFICERS AND STAFF OF the Faroe Islands Police Department for their hospitality and invaluable assistance with the Faroes trilogy – I hope they know who they are by now. I must also thank their Danish counterparts, Kristian Bruun Jensen on Samsø and Kim Bolø in Copenhagen. I’m especially grateful to Henning Munk Plum for his insights into Danish police work.
In civilian life I’d like to thank Dr Nick Leather for his continued medical advice; Jasmine Kilby for her knowledge of pharmaceuticals; and Anne Birgitte Beyer for her help on Samsø. As always, any mistakes are mine alone.
Finally, to my long-suffering editors, Miranda Jewess and Sam Matthews, gott er at svimja, tá ið annar heldur høvdinum uppi. Takk.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHRIS OULD IS A BAFTA AWARD-WINNING SCREENWRITER WHO has worked on many TV shows including The Bill, Soldier Soldier, Casualty and Hornblower. Chris has previously published two adult novels, and two Young Adult crime novels. He lives in Dorset.
