The Killing Bay Page 4

  “The Prosecutor’s office has agreed that all the Alliance people from Sandoy can be charged with disturbing the peace and failing to comply with the police,” Remi told Hentze.

  “Not with obstructing the whale drive?” Lassen asked. He’d just managed to organise the delivery of a dozen margherita pizzas.

  “No,” Remi said. “They thought it would be more difficult to prove – more open to arguments about what is and isn’t obstruction. The other charges are straightforward. We’ll put them through court in the morning and if they’re found guilty they’ll be served with notices of deportation, so they’ll be banned from returning for a year. With luck any fines will be kept small so there’ll be no problem with non-payment. It’s a token gesture. The main thing is to get them out of our hair.”

  It seemed like a typically political decision to Hentze. “Where are they now?” he asked.

  “As we’d planned, the navy helicopter is taking half of them straight to Klaksvík, the rest are being taken to Runavík by van. Which leaves us two cells before we’re at full capacity.”

  “I said the old holding cells shouldn’t have been closed,” Hans Lassen said. It was an old saw. “At least, not until we had something else in place.”

  “Okay, Hans,” Remi said. “Let’s not get into that again now.”

  “Yeh, well, we’ll just have to hope it keeps raining for the next few hours,” Lassen said. “That way we won’t have to make room for the Friday-night drunks as well. I’ll put out an advisory for the night shift to say that they should only make arrests if absolutely necessary.”

  “Fine,” Remi Syderbø said, clearly not wanting to rise to that debate. “Whatever you think.”

  Hentze accompanied Remi out into the corridor, taking the list of protesters with him. His allotted task in the contingency plan was checking that the arrestees’ details were correct and whether there were any outstanding warrants against them.

  “Don’t look too hard,” Remi advised as they walked. “European arrest warrants, sure, but anything minor in their own countries isn’t our problem.”

  “You want to get them gone as soon as possible?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “And are they happy – upstairs?” Hentze made a gesture to heaven.

  “Yeh, I think so,” Remi said. “There were no injuries, no damage to property and the drive was a success.”

  “How many whales?”

  “About sixty, I think.”

  “Not too bad,” Hentze said. “A shame it had to happen, all the same.”

  Remi tipped his head to look at Hentze through the upper part of his glasses. “Are you thinking of joining the Alliance, Hjalti?”

  Hentze shrugged. “I just mean that now that it’s happened the Alliance can say they were justified in being here – and keep coming back. Still, it’s done now, so I guess we just make the best of it. What do the security service people think?”

  “Security service?” Remi shot him a sharp look.

  “Well I assume that’s what they are, the Danes – security or intelligence. They’re not completely invisible, even if they do only visit the fifth floor.”

  Remi considered that, then said, “You’re too sharp for your own good, you know that?”

  Hentze cocked an eyebrow. “How is that possible?”

  “You know what I mean,” Remi said, but without any kind of edge. “Some things are better left alone, though, eh?”

  “Okay,” Hentze said with a shrug. “As long as everyone’s happy.”

  “They are.”

  “Good then. I’ll get this list sorted out.”

  He moved off along the corridor, satisfied that Remi Syderbø’s non-denial could be taken as a confirmation of his suspicion. A small victory, but Hentze always appreciated them the most.

  * * *

  It was less than a ten-minute drive to Skopun once we got back to Erla Sivertsen’s car and we made the ferry with time to spare, just as it started to rain. On board we went up to the cabin on the top deck and took a couple of seats near the snack bar. I got coffees from the machine and came back as Erla took off her coat. I noticed several of the other passengers cast looks our way and then comment between themselves when they saw Erla’s AWCA sweatshirt, but she seemed untroubled. She was probably used to it by now.

  “So, you haven’t asked if I’m pro or anti,” I said, tipping a sachet of sugar into my plastic cup. It seemed as good a time as any to point to the elephant.

  She shook her head. “I heard you talking to Finn. Anyway, it’s none of my business. Like your religion, or sexuality.”

  “Atheist and straight,” I said.

  “So we only differ on whales then.”

  “I expect we could find something more if we tried.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Not particularly.”

  She considered that for a moment, then changed the subject. “So, what do you do?” she asked. “I mean, your job.”

  “I’m a police officer. Homicide.” And when I saw a flicker of reaction I added: “See, I told you there’d be more differences.”

  “You think I don’t like the police?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t have thought the Alliance are their greatest fans, though.”

  “No, well, that’s true,” she acknowledged. “Even so, it’s not personal. The police do their job, we do ours.”

  “But you believe in the cause – I mean, it’s not just another job to you, is it?”

  She shook her head. “No, I think we need to make people aware of the issues. The whole Atlantic environment is under threat. It’s a serious problem.”

  “So AWCA doesn’t just do anti-whaling protests?”

  “No, we’re concerned for all Atlantic wildlife. Last year we ran campaigns about the effects of long-line fishing on the South Atlantic albatross, and about plastics in the environment. The Alliance gives smaller organisations the chance to be involved in campaigns that they couldn’t mount on their own.”

  “So how long have you been with them?”

  “About eighteen months. Before that I was living in Canada and Greenland for a few years, taking pictures for National Geographic, Sierra Club, people like that. Most of it had an environmental aspect, so when AWCA advertised for a staff photographer it seemed like a logical step, at least for a while.”

  “You don’t think you’ll stay with them?”

  “I might not have the choice,” she said, but as soon as she’d said it she waved it away, as if it was something she’d thought better of. “It’s not so good to do the same thing for too long. I like a change.”

  I took the hint and didn’t pursue it. Instead the conversation drifted into more generalised talk about the Faroes and family and coming back to your roots. It passed the time pleasantly enough until the Teistin docked at Gamlarætt and we returned to Erla’s car.

  After we’d clanked over the steel plates to the quay we followed the other cars on the road to Tórshavn and by the time we got there it was raining harder. Although it was only six thirty it was starting to get dark.

  Erla pulled up by the pavement outside the Hotel Streym where the manager had let me hire one of their cars.

  “Ger so væl,” Erla said.

  I unclipped my seat belt. “Takk. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” she said. “And in case you want to hear more about AWCA there is a debate on the whaling at the Nordic House on Monday evening. After today it should be an interesting meeting.”

  “Do you think you’ll get any new converts?”

  She shrugged. “Probably not, but even if it makes a few people consider the need for it to go on, that will be something. Anyway, come if you can. Ask Fríða too, if you like.”

  The afterthought could have been designed to remove any other implication I might have seen in the invitation. Or not, given that she’d left it to me.

  “Okay, I’ll tell her,” I said. “Thanks again.” />
  “Sjálv takk. It was good to meet you.”

  I got out of the car and fastened my coat against the rain as she drove away. I wasn’t sure what to make of her. There seemed to be more under the surface than showed above, but that was a horoscope statement: not so profound.

  As I walked round to the hotel entrance I glanced up at the grey-fronted police station next door. The ground-floor offices were in darkness but I wasn’t surprised to see lights on the other floors. I wondered how much of a headache the arrest of the Alliance protesters was proving to be. Half a dozen detainees at the same time would normally be a big deal in the islands, so having to process twice that or more was probably giving them some grief. I was glad it wasn’t my headache.

  5

  Sunday/sunnudagur

  “ARE YOU AWAKE?” HENTZE ASKED.

  Given that I’d answered the phone it seemed fairly self-evident that I was. It was six thirty.

  “Yeah, just.”

  “That’s a pity. We’re put off until ten o’clock so you can go back to sleep if you like.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “There is mjørki – mist – on the mountain so we can’t see the sheep. We’ll have to wait to see if it clears.”

  I cast a look out of the window. There was no mist over Leynar but that didn’t mean much. A few miles and a couple of mountains can make a big difference between one side of an island and the other. The weather had already been responsible for cancelling the sheep herding yesterday, so instead I’d spent the day fixing a wooden railing on the guest house veranda for Fríða, earning my keep.

  “Are you there now?” I asked Hentze.

  “Ja, to see how it looks, but there’s no need for you to hurry. By ten will be soon enough, I think, if you still want to come.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “I’ll see you then.”

  I still wasn’t entirely clear what connection Hjalti Hentze had to a flock of sheep on the mountain, but he was full of little puzzles like that – facets that only came to light by accident. The best I could work out was that the sheep were some sort of communal thing and the people from two or three villages pitched in to maintain the flock; shearing, cutting hay and rounding them up when necessary. It was all well outside my own experience, which was partly why I’d accepted Hentze’s invitation to help bring them in. Also, I was curious to get a better look at him away from police work.

  It was mildly tempting to go back to bed, but I was awake now so I made a cup of coffee and went to sit at the table with a view out over the beach. I switched on my iPad and then slid out the contents from the manila envelope: my mother Lýdia’s medical records. There wasn’t much left to translate but I knew the combination of the doctor’s handwriting and the Faroese – full of unfamiliar ðs, øs as well as sundry accents – would still take a while. Enough to fill the time before a drive to a mountain.

  * * *

  Just before ten I pulled in on the verge beside a single track road on the eastern side of Steymoy. Although Hentze had given me directions I probably wouldn’t have found the place if there hadn’t already been three or four cars and a pickup parked there. Beyond them, a hundred yards from the verge, there were a couple of dilapidated sheds of the sort that dot the Faroes landscape almost at random; built of concrete, with tin roofs and bare wooden doors. Most of them look as if they’ve been there for decades.

  I parked behind the other cars and followed a rough track to the buildings to find Hentze standing with a group of jovial men near the open door of a shed. In a flimsy-looking wire mesh pen nearby there were about fifty sheep, bleating disconsolately. With shaggy fleeces and horns they looked decidedly more feral than anything you’d see in England, but I assumed that was normal for here.

  “Morgun,” Hentze said cheerily when I approached. He had a plastic cup in his hand. Coffee for sure.

  “Morgun.” I gestured at the sheep. “You’ve done it already?”

  He shook his head. “Nei, there was a small break in the mist so we brought in these few. They were the closest, but the rest are still out there.”

  The mist hung heavy down to the lower slopes of the mountain so I had no idea how difficult it would be to locate the others, but it didn’t seem as if it would be that easy.

  I accepted the offer of coffee from a Thermos and Hentze introduced me to the other men, all dressed in work clothes and seemingly happy enough just to stand around and chat. Apparently we were waiting for someone to come down off the mountain with a decision about whether to press on or not, and no one seemed unduly perturbed by the delay. These things happen, especially on the Faroes: the weather changes, a mist drops or a storm blows in and you have to change your plans. In the old days they had a phrase for it: You never know in the morning where you may sleep at night. And even if modern tunnels and roads made it harder to be stranded by the weather, there were still times – like now – when it couldn’t be ignored.

  My arrival had prompted a new round of speculation and reassessment of the weather, but several of the men obviously found talking in English a strain, so when there was a natural break in the conversation Hentze suggested we took a look at the sheep in the pen. As we walked he cast a look at the mountain mist.

  “I think you may have come out for nothing after all,” he said. “Sorry about that.”

  I shrugged. “It’s fine. I wasn’t doing anything else.”

  “You still have no plans to go home yet?”

  His tone was conversational but it was still a leading question.

  “I’m getting to like it here,” I told him. But I knew he’d see the deflection, so I said, “Besides, there’s nothing at home that won’t wait. When they’ve had enough they’ll let me know, but I don’t feel like going back just so they can keep me hanging around.”

  “This is your superintendent Kirkland you’re talking about?” Hentze asked.

  I nodded. After our first and only direct conversation about the fact that I’d been suspended from duty, Hentze hadn’t asked any more about it. I knew that didn’t mean he’d forgotten, but I took it as an expression of faith or of friendship that he’d never tried to satisfy his curiosity any further. And I knew he was curious, even if his own abstruse ethics wouldn’t allow him to pursue it.

  “Kirkland likes to play power games,” I said, leaning on a wooden gate in the fence. “If I go back he’ll decide it wasn’t so urgent after all.”

  “So you push him to the last minute?”

  “If I can.”

  From Hentze’s look I could tell he thought that might be imprudent. “Is that a good strategy? If he knows what you’re doing – if there is no goodwill…”

  “There was no goodwill to start with,” I told him. “He wants to get rid of me, but the inquiry is independent – or should be – so in the end it’ll be up to them.”

  “So you’re confident?”

  I shook my head. “I’m a realist. Politics always wins one way or the other. Even if I’m cleared there are other ways for Kirkland to push me out. I just have to decide how much shit I’m prepared to take. I don’t know yet – listen, let’s change the subject. I met Martha and Finn the other day.”

  “Ja?” He seemed mildly surprised. “You went to Sandoy?”

  “Yeah, on Friday. Fríða took me to see the grind.”

  “Ah, okay.” He nodded, as if that new element needed to be assessed properly before making a reaction.

  I said, “So, given that your daughter’s married to my cousin, I was trying to work out if I should call you Uncle Hjalti.” I gave him a deadpan look. “I don’t think it suits you, though.”

  “Good, thank you,” he said, finally cracking a smile. “I feel old enough already when Martha’s children call me abbi – grandpa.”

  While we’d been talking a thin-faced man in a hat with earflaps had approached us and now spoke Faroese to Hentze. From his gestures at the invisible mountain I guessed what was coming. Hentze nodded a couple of times, then
turned to me as the other man went off towards the sheds.

  “We have to cancel again for today,” Hentze told me. “Heini says the mist will not break.”

  “What about these?” I gestured to the sheep already in the pen.

  “Oh, they can be kept nearby to wait for the others. They’ll encourage them closer.”

  “Then what happens?”

  He shrugged. “The old ones are taken out for slaughter, the rest go back on the hill.”

  “It’s a good job you’re with the shepherds and not with the sheep then, eh, Abbi?”

  He gave me a wry look and chuckled. “For both of us maybe, I think.”

  We strolled back to the shed, said a round of farvæls, then headed to the cars. While we were on the move I took the opportunity to ask Hentze a question I’d had in mind since I’d arrived.

  “Have you heard of a doctor called Lindberg?” I said. “He worked on Suðuroy in the 1970s so he’ll probably be retired by now, if he’s still alive.”

  Hentze thought. I could almost hear the Rolodex turning. “No, I don’t know him,” he said in the end. “Lindberg is a Danish name, although there are a few here. Why?”

  “He was my mother’s doctor,” I said. “Fríða gave me her medical records. You don’t know that, though,” I added. I wasn’t sure if Fríða had broken any rules by doing that for me.

  “No, of course.” Hentze nodded as if it went without saying. Then: “Are they useful?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said, because I wasn’t. “But if Lindberg’s still around I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Okay, I’ll see if I can find him.” He cast me a look. “You’re thinking that maybe you can find the reason for your mother’s suicide, is that it?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe,” I said. “From her records I think there may have been an underlying problem: something that started before she left here, so if I can find out…”

  “Yes, I see.”

  Apart from Fríða, he was the only one to whom I’d told more than the basic facts – what few there were. After forty years, give or take, all it really came down to was the fact that Lýdia had killed herself and I didn’t know why. I didn’t know why she’d taken me away from the Faroes, or how we’d come to be in a Copenhagen flat when she took her own life.