The Blood Strand Read online

  I knew I should accept the offer, not least because it would deal with everything at one time. The doctor could tell me the medical diagnosis, I could stand at the bedside and then I could leave. I’d have done what I came to do and there would be no need to cross paths with anyone else.

  “Maybe that would be better,” I said in the end. “If it’s not a problem for you.”

  “No, not at all. Let me see what I can arrange with Hans – Dr Heinason – and then I can call you. Do you have a mobile phone number?”

  “Sure.” I searched out my wallet and took a card from it: work issue, but the only sort I had. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  Fríða looked at the card, but then seemed to decide to leave closer scrutiny until later. She put it away.

  “So what else do you know?” I said then, leaving it open.

  “About you?” She made a self-deprecating shrug. “Not really so much. My mother talks to Ketty and they tell each other their news. Some of it she tells me, but I don’t always pay as much attention as she’d like.”

  She smiled as she said it and I nodded, letting myself relax a little. “I don’t pay any attention,” I said. “That’s why Ketty stopped bothering years ago.”

  “We must disappoint them.”

  “I know I do.”

  I sipped my coffee and used it as a way to change the subject. “Do you know Magnus well?” I asked. “Are you friends?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that,” Fríða said, considering it seriously. “Of course, we are cousins, but I know Kristian a little better. His younger brother?” She looked at me to gauge my reaction, as if realising she’d made an assumption about how familiar I was with the family tree.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said, then I let a trace of amusement show through. “You can’t help absorbing some information even if you’re not interested.”

  “You’re not interested in your family?”

  She handled it deftly, with just the right lightness of tone. But I spent too much of my life planting my own leading questions to walk into that one. Unwilling to sound pedantic again I left my reflex answer unspoken. Instead I just shrugged and said, “How much did you hear of what Magnus said in the corridor?”

  If she was disappointed that I’d dodged her question she didn’t show it. “A little.”

  “So do you know what he meant when he said, ‘There’s nothing for you here’?”

  “Perhaps.” She hesitated, for the first time seemingly less at ease. “Do you know of Four Fjords?”

  I shook my head. “No, what is it?”

  “It’s Signar’s business. Fishing, salmon farms, fish processing, that sort of thing.”

  “I never thought about what he does or did for a living,” I told her. “I knew it was something to do with fishing, but that’s all. Is it a big company?”

  “Ja, one of the biggest here. Signar is a wealthy man.”

  It was a new perspective on him – one that I hadn’t even considered before. “So you think Magnus is worried that I came here to try and – what? Get money from Signar? Grab an inheritance if he dies?”

  “No, I don’t know that,” Fríða said, quickly. “But as I said, this hasn’t been an easy time for him. I’m sure he was surprised to see you, and after the way that Signar was found…”

  “What way?”

  Her hand paused on its way to her cup. “Oh. I thought you knew. He was found unconscious in his car at a place called Tjørnuvík. The police think he was there all night after his stroke, but no one knows why.”

  “Why he’d gone there?”

  She nodded and because she didn’t speak I knew that wasn’t all of it.

  “What else?” I asked.

  She hesitated for a moment longer. “I was told there was a large amount of money in the car. Also a shotgun, and someone’s blood.”

  It wasn’t the answer I’d expected, although I didn’t know what I had been expecting. Just not that.

  Fríða watched me, as if she was concerned about what I might do with the information.

  “Are the police investigating?” I asked, sitting back in my chair.

  “Ja, I think so. Yesterday Magnus told me they had asked if anyone in the family knew why Signar was at Tjørnuvík, but I don’t know more than that.”

  I nodded, still thinking it through, but before I could take it any further Fríða shifted and looked at her watch.

  “I’m sorry, I have an appointment in a few minutes.”

  “No, of course,” I said. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”

  “It’s no problem.” She said it as if it was to be expected and I believed her. “I will call you when I’ve talked to Hans about Signar. It will probably be the morning. Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thank you.”

  We stood up together. I picked up my coat but as I made to step aside Fríða hung back for a second. “Can I ask why you didn’t tell Magnus how you knew Signar was ill?” she said.

  I shrugged. “I didn’t think it was any of his business.”

  “And you were annoyed with him.”

  “Yeah, that too.”

  She dipped her head, as if that much was cleared up. “I’ll show you the way out,” she said.

  3

  OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL I GOT LUCKY AND PICKED UP A TAXI that had just dropped off a pair of elderly women with fixed chins and woollen coats. They linked arms and clung to each other as they went towards the building’s entrance.

  Back at the Hotel Streym I reclaimed my bags from the office and the manager – a neatly bearded guy in his thirties – waved away any need for form filling: my online booking was enough. He gave me a room key. “And there is a message for you,” he said, handing me a slip of paper. “It was left by telephone about ten minutes ago.”

  I hadn’t told anyone where I was staying, so getting a message was odd and I frowned at the paper: Mr Reyna, please contact Kristian Ravnsfjall. Beneath that there was a phone number and the time of the call.

  News obviously travelled fast in the Ravnsfjall family – at least between my half-brothers – and I wondered if Kristian wanted to pick up where Magnus had left off with the warm welcome.

  I thanked the manager, shoving the note in my pocket, then I hauled my bag round the corner and up the tiled stairs.

  My room was on the second floor along a windowless corridor. Inside it was clean and neat, two single beds and an Ikea-style desk. I hadn’t wanted any more.

  I hefted my holdall on to the bed nearest the window and dropped my coat next to it. The travelling had left me tired and the instinct to give in to the weariness – to simply stop the progress of the day – was strong. But I knew I wouldn’t settle yet. Instead I sat down at the desk and used my mobile to dial the number on the message.

  “Ja? Kristian Ravnsfjall.” His voice sounded brisk.

  “This is Jan Reyna. You left a message for me at my hotel.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then Kristian Ravnsfjall’s voice shifted from neutral to more upbeat. “Jan, yes. Thank you for calling. When I knew you were here I thought I should make contact. I was hoping we could meet. Would that be all right?”

  “Sure, if you like,” I said.

  If he registered the ambivalence in my voice he didn’t let it show. Instead his tone seemed determinedly enthusiastic. After Magnus, it wasn’t what I expected. “Great,” he said. “Tonight? For a drink? Would that be okay?”

  For a second I debated whether I wanted to meet two Ravnsfjall half-brothers in the same day, but in the end I said, “Fine. When and where?”

  I jotted down the name of the place he told me and when he rang off I sat back, rubbed my eyes and looked out of the window. I ought to let Ketty know I’d arrived, but it would wait – an email, later; show I was a big boy, off on my own.

  Beyond the road and the thin margin of land directly in front of the hotel there was a light blue sky over the choppy waters of a sound. In the distance
a cluster of houses in the hollow back of a low island caught broken shreds of sunshine ahead of a more threatening sky. I had no idea what the island was called but I watched the light travel over the pretty-as-a-picture, make-believe little houses and wondered if the occupants knew that in reality they lived on a God-forsaken, rain-driven grey speck in the middle of the ocean that no one in the real world even knew existed, let alone gave a shit about…

  And then, like a vignette round the edge of my thoughts, I recognised the faint loss of colour and nuance in what I was thinking and seeing. Usually I was ready to catch it at the first signs and portents, but this time it had come out of nowhere, or else I’d just been too distracted to notice the deepening greyness closing in. It had found a crack or a crevice to seep in through and now it was already spreading like a stain.

  With a physical effort I made myself move then, standing and turning away from the window, knowing that if I didn’t do it now I’d lose my chance. I needed an anchor to pull myself out; something I could fix on. I needed movement, and even as I recognised that, I was taking up my coat again, leaving the room and quickening my pace to try to step ahead of the black dog.

  * * *

  Hjalti Hentze was the only detective in CID who didn’t have to share an office. His room was small – perhaps originally intended to be a store of some kind – but he’d been lucky enough to bag it when the station had transferred from the old building on Jónas Broncks gøta four years ago.

  The plan for the reorganisation had been to put two CID officers in each of the new departmental offices, which all led off the same corridor. But this neat doubling up had not taken account of the fact that when the move occurred there was an odd number of detectives, which meant someone would be left alone in an office designed for two.

  This mismatch had caused some upset to the plans of Inspector Remi Syderbø – who generally liked things as tidy as possible within his department – until Hentze had nobly volunteered to occupy the smaller space that no one else wanted. And wouldn’t that also leave the larger office to serve a better purpose – a conference room, say? Weren’t they a little short of those on the third floor?

  So Hentze ended up with a small office to himself, and because the space was restricted he knew no one could be put in there with him at some later date. What did they call it – future-proofing? Hentze was the odd man out and that was how he preferred it. All this modern sharing was fine as far as it went, but he always suspected that it led to a certain uniformity of thinking and a naturally conservative consensus. A good way to keep your organisation running smoothly, perhaps, but a crap way of doing police work.

  “Hjalti, are you busy?”

  Ári Niclasen stood in the doorway of Hentze’s office, a slightly harried expression on his face. The inspector was a tall man – a fishing rod – with a heavy lick of dark hair that always threatened to fall forward. Unlike Hentze, Ári Niclasen usually wore a suit – as he was doing today – or else something neatly casual but conservative. He was ten years younger than Hentze and occupied a spacious office with a view towards Nólsoy. He had also installed a new espresso machine, Hentze had noted somewhat enviously on his last visit there.

  “No, just the usual,” Hentze said, turning away from his keyboard. “Is there a problem?”

  “I’m not sure. Hendrik has a British detective inspector called Reyna downstairs. He showed Hendrik his ID – he’s on their homicide squad – and he’s asking to see the officer in charge of the Ravnsfjall case.”

  “Is it official business?” Hentze asked, though he couldn’t see how it would be.

  Niclasen shook his head. “No. He says he’s Signar Ravnsfjall’s son.”

  Hentze sensed the discomfort this caused Ári, but couldn’t tell whether it was because the man Reyna was a homicide detective or because he was related to Signar Ravnsfjall.

  “I thought there were only two sons,” Hentze said.

  “So did I,” Ári nodded. “And he doesn’t speak Faroese apparently, but that’s what he said.”

  He shifted uneasily, then made a vague gesture to Hentze’s computer. “How are we doing on that – the Signar Ravnsfjall case? Did you turn up anything more?”

  Hentze shook his head. “No one knows what he was doing out at Tjørnuvík and he’s still in no condition to tell us what happened. But with no direct evidence of a crime taking place – and certainly none of robbery – I don’t think there’s much more we can do.”

  “Anything from Technical?”

  “Not yet.”

  Still clearly uncomfortable, Niclasen pushed his hair lick back and made a decision. “Okay, will you do me a favour and talk to this guy Reyna? Give him the facts as you’ve just outlined them and see if there’s anything we should – consider? Is that okay?”

  Hentze nodded and stood up. “Sure,” he said. “I don’t mind that.”

  It might be an interesting insight on the Ravnsfjall family, too, he decided, but he didn’t say so to Ári. The man looked unsettled enough as it was.

  * * *

  A uniformed officer with a square jaw and equally square shoulders showed me into a conference room on the second floor of the anonymous, flat-faced office block and asked me to wait. I’d walked past the building twice before spotting the small Politi logo on a sign by the uninviting front door. From the outside the place looked more like a tax office in Doncaster.

  The conference room was furnished with two beech-effect tables pushed together in the centre, surrounded by half a dozen padded chairs. The partition walls were bare except for a poster-sized map of the islands and the place had the depersonalised feel of a space that didn’t belong to anyone. There was no indication that it even belonged to a police station except for the two marked patrol cars in the car park outside.

  I stood beside the window looking out at the cars for a while after the uniformed officer had left but there wasn’t much to keep my attention. I didn’t want to sit down, I didn’t even want to be standing still, so when I’d taken all the distraction the car park had to offer I moved to study the map instead.

  Set out brown-green against the sea’s blue, the islands looked somehow Palaeolithic, like a shattered flint arrowhead laid out on a cloth, partially reconstructed. The names were all unfamiliar, leaving me to guess how to pronounce them in some cases, but even so I examined them all, traced roads and coastline. Anything to distract myself. I could feel the greying vignette withdrawing a little, but it wasn’t gone yet.

  Just as I was starting to get restless again, the door opened and this time a man in a dark-blue sweater and jeans came in. My first impression was that he was nearing fifty – if he hadn’t already passed it – and although he came into the room with a casual familiarity, I also got the sense that it wasn’t an entirely natural environment for him.

  “Inspector Reyna? I’m Hjalti Hentze, CID.”

  I moved away from the map and shook the hand he offered: square and dry. “Thanks for seeing me,” I said. “Is it Inspector or Sergeant…?”

  Hentze waved the question away. “Here we don’t worry so much about the ranks. In Denmark, yes, but in the Faroes no one is concerned. You are ein politistur – a police officer – and it’s enough. Please.”

  He gestured me to sit, then moved to take the seat opposite, dropping heavily into the chair. His English wasn’t bad – not quite as fluent as Fríða Sólsker’s, but good enough that I knew he’d sidestepped the question about rank rather than just misunderstood it.

  “I am told you wish to ask about Signar Ravnsfjall. He’s your father?”

  I nodded, wondering how many more times I’d have to reaffirm the connection. “Yes.”

  “But your last name is Reyna?”

  “My mother’s maiden name, except she used to spell it with an accent,” I told him. “We left here when I was three.”

  “Ah. Okay,” Hentze said, as if that put it out of the way. “So, what can I tell you?”

  I made an effort to sound
relaxed rather than inquisitorial. “I was told there was an investigation into the way Signar was found, so I wanted to ask about that – why you thought it was necessary. Is that possible?”

  Hentze nodded. “Sure, I don’t see why not.”

  He looked away for a moment, as if to order the information in his head, then started in on a chronological account of the incident as he’d dealt with it. He told it concisely, occasionally slowing when he searched for a phrase in English, but as far as I could tell he didn’t seem to be withholding any salient details as he described the presence of the shotgun and cash – the equivalent of about a hundred thousand pounds sterling – and the possible bloodstains. “We have sent forensic samples to be examined in Copenhagen,” he said. “But there are no results yet. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “What about fingerprints? Were any found?”

  “Ja, but so far they are only your father’s.”

  Hentze sat back slightly, as if to signal that there was no more to say, and left me to absorb what I’d heard. He seemed in no hurry.

  “The place he was found – Tjørnuvík? – what’s it like?” I asked.

  “Chu-nu-wik,” he said, gently correcting my very poor pronunciation without making a big deal of doing so. “It’s about thirty kilometres from here, at the north of this island.” He cast round the room, then stood up and moved to the map. “Here.”

  I rose and followed him, looked at the place indicated by his finger.

  “The village is small,” Hentze told me. “But the car was in a— I don’t know the English word: a place to stop by the road.”

  “A lay-by?”

  “Ja. Here, on the headland. It isn’t close to the village.”

  “And no one knows what he was doing there?”

  As if the map had served its purpose Hentze stepped away and leaned on a table. “No. I’ve asked his sons – the other sons – but no one in the family can think of a reason.”

  The implication was obvious, even though Hentze had been careful not to state it, and I thought back to my encounter with Magnus Ravnsfjall at the hospital. I wondered how he’d reacted to that line of questioning. Not well, I suspected.