Nine
The Kværnen, the Nielsen family’s seventy-five-foot luxury motor yacht, was moored on the south side of the southernmost dock in Stornoway’s eighty berth marina. She looked exactly like what she was, a sleek and very expensive trophy toy of the kind the obscenely wealthy like to play one-upmanship with. Shay clearly loathed her on sight, although he seemed to find her name amusing for some reason.
“You might as well just tell me what it means,” I prompted him as we walked along the harbourfront towards her dock, after Ewan had dropped us off. “Seeing as how you find it so funny.”
“Well, to be fair, I think Herre Nielsen Senior probably just wanted to make it clear that he’d earned himself his new toy when he named the boat. He did spend most of his adult life putting in sixty to eighty-hour weeks at the office, busily turning a large, inherited fortune into an enormous one. Only, with his son Mads currently on board, the choice of name does seem a bit unfortunate.”
I’d spent a few minutes reading up on Mads Nielsen, on our drive back to town. The youngest of four siblings, Mads had graduated with an MA from the University of the Arts in London at the age of twenty-five. In the eight years since then, he had been in charge of managing the Nielsens’ far from insignificant philanthropic endeavours; scholarships, arts and sports funding, and donations to worthy institutions. With an annual eight-figure budget to distribute, when converted into GBP, it was a job that required at least some of his attention, some of the time, although a team of staff at Nielsen International probably dealt with most of the research and all the paperwork for him. All he had to do was decide which proposals were getting the funding and how much they could have. Mads seemed to spend most of his time attending gala events, taking sporting holidays and giving the gossip rags something to talk about, with a succession of equally photogenic young men and women adorning his side.
I waited for Shay to spit out his punchline, and after a slight pause, he managed to say it with a straight face. “Herre Mads Nielsen is currently roaming the area on Grinder.” The little snicker that had been bursting to get out escaped.
Alright, that was pretty funny.
We reached the dock and walked along it towards the Nielsen family’s little floating palace. A pair of deck hands or guests, who knew, were sipping at tall, frosty glasses of something orange as they wiped desultory cloths over the gleaming railings and fittings, which were in no need of any further polishing. Neither of them would have looked out of place in a top tier fashion shoot.
“Good afternoon,” I said politely and exhibited my warrant card when they turned to look down at us as we reached the foot of the gangway. “I’m Inspector Keane. My colleague and I would like to speak with Herre Nielsen. Is he aboard?”
The tanned young man, who had the build of a serious tennis player, came down the gangway to look at the warrant card and then nodded.
“Moment, please. I get.” He returned to the deck, put his drink down and disappeared through a door to the main deck salon. His companion, a tall, willowy girl with a more ‘Scandinavian model’ look about her, stared at us curiously.
“Nice jacket,” she said in heavily accented English, staring at Shay interestedly.
“Thanks.” He turned to me. “I wonder if everyone on this thing looks like those two. What is this? His personal travelling seraglio?” He was careful to keep his voice low enough not to be overheard.
“Don’t assume,” I chided him with a grin. “It could all be perfectly innocent.”
Mads Nielsen appeared on deck then, garbed in spotless white trousers and a cream, cashmere sweater. Actually, I decided as I took in the sight of him, Shay was probably right. The photos I’d seen didn’t do him justice. He stared down at us curiously before walking over to stand by the head of the gangway, his short, golden hair artfully rumpled, unlike my black mop, which was all over the place, as usual.
“May I help you, gentlemen?” he asked pleasantly, allowing us a brief glimpse of white, perfect teeth as he favoured us with his luminous blue-eyed stare.
“Herre Nielsen? Inspector Keane, Sir. We’d like to speak to one of your employees.” I opened up my folder and held up a copy of our CCTV shot for him. He frowned, as if trying to place the face. “He was sent to pick up a whisky order for you, when you were docked here last Friday,” I said helpfully, nudging his memory for him. His tanned, handsome face cleared.
“Oh, him. Please do come aboard, Inspector, and your colleague too, of course.” We walked up the ramp, and he inspected my warrant card carefully, sparing a brief, curious glance for the hunched figure of my cousin. Clearly, Shay’s jacket was making more of an impression here than my off the peg suit. Mads led us into the main deck salon, whose design and furnishings would have put most five-star hotels to shame. “Take a seat, please.”
He leaned back on a pristine, cream coloured sofa and Shay and I took the opposite one.
“May I?” He extended a hand, and I passed the photo over. “Yes, I think that is him,” he decided. “Min, call the engineers up here, please.” I heard a familiar-sounding electronic bleep of acknowledgement as a speaker built into the low, clear-topped wooden table between us came to life.
“Calling the engineers to your current location,” an artificial female voice assured him. It didn’t surprise either of us. You only had to look at this boat to guess what kind of tech she’d be kitted out with. I’m not sure, but I think our mutually disinterested failure to react to his fancy smart table intrigued him a little.
“I could not help noticing that your identification says that you work with the Inverness police, Inspector Keane. May I ask what brings you to Stornoway?” Accented or not, his English was both cultured and excellent.
“You may, Sir. I was sent over to take charge of the investigation of the murder that occurred yesterday,” I told him coolly.
“Murder?” He sat up at that. “I was not aware, I’m afraid. That is an extremely rare occurrence here, is it not?” He glanced over at Shay. “And your colleague, Chief Inspector? He also has experience with serious crimes?” As my cousin wasn’t wearing either a uniform or a suit, that was a reasonable question for him to ask.
“One of our support team of civilian specialists, yes. I am delighted to have his assistance.” That aroused his curiosity, of course, but he was too polite to enquire further.
“And the man in the photograph? You have reason to think he can assist your investigation?”
I nodded. “Currently, he is the last person to have been seen with the victim before the body was discovered. So yes, it is vital that I speak with him as quickly as possible.”
A tap on the inner door interrupted our little conversation there.
“Enter.” Mads raised his voice a little to make sure he was heard. “Ah, Inspector Keane, may I introduce Mr Daniels and Mr Verity, my father’s permanent maintenance engineers on Kværnen? Please, do sit down, gentlemen.” He gestured to the third couch, the one forming the base of the U-shaped arrangement we were seated at, and handed the photograph over. “Our visitors from the Scottish police force wish to speak to the gentleman in the picture. Is that the man we took on in Cadiz last month, Mr Daniels?”
“Yes, it is, Herre Nielsen,” Daniels informed him after a quick look. He was a reassuringly unattractive man in his mid-forties, with a receding hairline and a perfectly unremarkable face. Verity, short and plump and perhaps slightly older, was no candidate for a beauty prize either. They both had the air of confident, competent men, the kind who are good at their jobs and know their worth. “That’s Mr Brian Jordan, Sir. He was taken on after our previous assistant abandoned us in Cadiz. Mr Jordan had been serving as third engineer on the cargo ship Thyborøn II until a couple of weeks before joining us. He was happy to work his passage back to Scotland, for the usual salary.” Daniels was an Englishman, from somewhere on the south coast, judging by the accent. He looked over at me. “We generally keep to the lower decks unless we’re needed up here to fix an
ything, Inspector. Herre Nielsen can’t have seen Mr Jordan in passing more than a couple of times.”
“I’m afraid my father insists on the division,” Mads put in. “His crew are expected to keep to their own areas at all times, unless their duties require them to come up here. He can be a little old fashioned about such things.” God forbid the great man’s family and guests would be asked to rub shoulders with their less aesthetically pleasing underlings. No doubt the wages were good enough to keep them happy, whatever cramped little holes they were housed in down below.
“Three engineering staff seems like a lot for a boat this size?” Shay put in then.
“It certainly is.” Daniels nodded. “But we’re not just here to keep the motors running properly. Kværnen has some very complex equipment aboard her, and someone has to keep an eye on everything at all times, around the clock. John and I can manage well enough by ourselves, for short periods, but there’s a limit to how long we can keep up properly without a third man.”
“And Mr Jordan?” I asked, before Shay could become too interested in that subject. “Can either of you tell me where he is?” They both shook their heads at that.
“He left us when we sailed down to Portree on Saturday. That’s when he’d arranged to leave us again. As far as we both knew, he was heading straight for Aberdeen to visit his family, before joining his next ship at the beginning of June.”
“He spoke of family in Aberdeen?”
“Yes, he did, Inspector. That’s where he’s originally from. He has a mother and two sisters there. Or so he told us. He was a good worker, very experienced and reliable, and he kept to himself too, which suited us all nicely. To tell you the truth, we were quite sorry to see him go.”
I asked them a few more questions, but they clearly didn’t know any more than they’d already told us about our man. I switched my attention back to Mads.
“Herre Nielsen, may I trouble you for copies of Mr Jordan’s documentation?”
“Of course, Inspector. Thank you, Mr Daniels, Mr Verity. Could I trouble you to send those to my printer for me?”
“Sir.” Dismissed, the two of them were quick to get up and leave again. The swanky main deck salon was clearly a foreign and uncomfortable territory for them both. I waited until they’d gone before asking my next question.
“How many people do you have onboard just now, Herre Nielsen, apart from those two gentlemen and yourself?”
“Only four. I believe you’ve already met Alejandro and Signe. Then there are Jules and Gioia. They’re all student volunteers from our scholarship programmes around Europe. I like to offer a carefully selected few an invitation to spend a month travelling with me, if they choose to. An enjoyable little working holiday, if you like. They each work for only four hours a day, dealing with a little catering and cleaning, but the rest of the time, they are treated like any other guest of the family.” Funnily enough, I believed that was all actually as above board as it sounded, although, if the ‘selected few’ all happened to be exceptionally good-looking young people in great shape, then the selection process itself might be a bit dubious.
“Would it be possible to speak to each of them and take a look at their passports?” I asked.
“Of course, if you think it may be helpful.” He looked a bit doubtful about what possible use it would be.
“Thank you.” I stood, and Shay rose with me. “Well, we don’t need to take up any more of your valuable time Herre Nielsen. I’m sure you must be busy. Perhaps they could come down to the dock to speak with us? And bring those papers with them?”
“As you wish.” I got the impression he’d rather have had us stay where we were to complete our business where he could oversee the process himself, but he certainly wasn’t prepared to argue about it.
“Ugh!” Shay sneered, straightening up as we walked down the dock a short way to wait. “Herre Nielsen senior sounds like a charming man to work for. Just like feudal times.”
I shrugged. “He probably pays high enough wages to make it worthwhile.” Plenty of people can tolerate snotty employers well enough, given the right incentive. “Brian Jordan, though? If he’s an Aberdonian, how is he managing to get around without a British passport?”
“Best guess?” Shay shrugged. “Dual nationality. It’s not as simple or easy to falsify international travel documents as it used to be, with the new electronic systems up and running in so many countries now. It can still be done, though.” I had no doubt my cousin could certainly manage the records hack and information substitution without any trouble.
Our four students trooped off the boat and dutifully presented their passports for Shay to photograph as I held them up in turn. Our Swede and our Spaniard, an Italian girl and a French lad. Well, he could have a bit of fun talking to a mixed bunch like that. I walked a little further off to read through Jordan’s employee file. Shay had been right. The father was an American citizen, and our man was travelling on a U.S. passport. I wasn’t paying much attention as my cousin jabbered away happily with each of them in turn. They all seemed to be enjoying the little linguistic gymnastics demonstration, anyway. Doubtless, he was amusing.
Brian Jordan was thirty-seven and had gone straight to sea after leaving school, following in his father’s footsteps and steadily working his way up from lowly deckhand to third engineer, or second assistant engineer, as some ships preferred to title the position. He’d been working for Nielsen International, on various ships, for the past nine years. I looked up as I heard Mads Nielsen call something down in Danish. He was leaning on the rail, staring fixedly at my cousin, a fascinated expression on his face. Shay glanced up and said something back before coming over to join me. I handed him the folder, and he scanned through it as we walked away.
“Anything useful from any of the kids?” I asked him.
“Not really. The girls hadn’t so much as said good morning to Mr Jordan, but the lads had chatted with him a few times. Apparently, he used to sneak up on deck in the middle of the night to get some air, once Herre Nielsen was safely asleep. They all know some basic English, and he knew quite a bit of Spanish. They mentioned the American dad too. Apparently, ‘Brian’ was full of interesting travel yarns. They both said he seemed like a nice guy. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? I don’t think Damien Price would agree.”
No, nor did I. Shay handed me the folder back and picked up the pace a bit.
“What about Mads Nielsen?” I asked. “Did they have anything interesting to say about him?”
“Not really. He’s not the sort to pay any attention to someone like Brian Jordan. I’m pretty sure he’s screwing the lot of them, but it’s all consensual if he is. They weren’t pressured into it or anything.” He was clearly amused. “I got the impression they’re having the time of their lives. That ‘selection process’ must be pretty interesting!”
Just because Shay rarely felt inclined to engage in such activities himself, that didn’t mean he wasn’t the most open-minded and least judgmental person I knew. He was certainly a lot more comfortable with da’s endless tomcatting around than I was. His point of view was that none of us had a choice about which annoying biological system we were stuck with, and he certainly didn’t expect the rest of us to reduce the distractions that those could cause to the extent that he managed to.
Any form of abuse, of course, was another matter entirely. I knew how much unpaid time my cousin spent on human trafficking cases, a weakness of his that the Ids were only too happy to exploit. To paraphrase John Stuart Mill in Shay’s preferred type of terminology- “Malware riddled destructive intelligences need nothing more to compass their ends, than that uninfected intelligences should look on and do nothing.” Yeah, that sounded like his style of putting things alright.
We headed up Church street and back into the station, and I unlocked our door again. Our little office was still just as we’d left it; no leaks or fires or any other equally improbable disasters. Shay shucked his jacket off and slid into his chair
, and I dropped my new paperwork into the scanner’s feed tray before waking my own laptop up.
“Our CCTV photo has gone out to the airport, and all three ferry ports, and nobody fitting the description given out yesterday has boarded any public craft leaving Lewis or Harris,” I told him as I read through the updates added to the case file while we’d been out. “The boat charter outfits have all been alerted too.” So unless Brian Jordan had managed to get off on a private boat, he was still here. “All the hotels, guest houses and letting agencies have been sent the photo too. No reported sightings from any of them yet.”
“Which just leaves all the private homes and a few hundred privately owned boats to worry about,” Shay said, glancing up. “If Mr Jordan does have an accomplice here, he could be holed up anywhere. There’s no way of knowing where or when he might pop up again.”
“The Port Authorities are checking in with all departing vessels.” I dropped the new paperwork into the case file. “And at least we have a copy of his passport now. I’ll see about getting that sent out to every port and airport in Scotland, for starters.”
“Might as well make it the whole of Britain. We’d kick ourselves if we found out in a week or two that he’d gone out through Newcastle or somewhere. Send me the scan, and I’ll add it into the ‘Most Wanted’ list if you like.”
“Seriously? No thanks! If you want it for something else, it’s in the shared folder. I know you’re in a hurry to wrap this one up, but try to restrain yourself, will you? That’s not how things are supposed to work. I’m sending it to Trish Morrison to deal with through the proper channels.” He just shrugged.
“Suit yourself. If we can’t find him, I can’t see us hanging around here for more than a few more days, anyway. If we haven’t found him soon, we might as well pack up and go back to Inverness. I can just as easily keep an eye on things from there.” I was rather hoping we’d manage to find him ourselves before it came to that, but I knew he was right.
Blood in the Water: A DCI Keane Scottish Crime Thriller Page 8