‘Seventy-three feet, Martha,’ he replied, grinning like a kid.
‘Seventy-three.’ She gave a gurgle of delight. ‘Look! This is the frock I have from the last whale that was over seventy feet.’ It was a flame-coloured silk and as she twirled round the skirt flared out. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘We drink to your health.’ She raised her glass. ‘Skaal,’ she said.
We all drank. And then the door opened and a little man with dark hair and sharp, creased features came in. ‘Ah, here is Mr Sunde,’ said Mrs Kielland. ‘Come in and have a drink, Mr Sunde. I wish you to meet some nice English people.’
I couldn’t quite place him as he was introduced to us. He was quite a tough-looking man and he seemed a little embarrassed at drinking with us, as though he felt out of place. I put him down as an artisan. Yet he, too, seemed to understand English.
‘What do you do on the station?’ I asked as he stood beside me.
‘Oh, Mr Sunde is not on the station,’ Mrs Kielland said. ‘He’s another little venture of Albert’s.’
‘What do you do then?’ I asked him.
‘Gor’ blimey, Oi’m a diver,’ he said.
The sudden outburst of pure Cockney took me by surprise. ‘A diver?’ I said.
‘That’s roight.’
I caught Dick’s eye and then said, ‘Are you diving for the station?’
‘That’s roight,’ he repeated and concentrated on his drink.
‘What are you diving for?’
‘Aerer engines,’ he answered. ‘A Jerry plyne was shot da’n just off the stytion. Oi’m gettin’ the engines up.’
‘Then yours were the boats we saw this morning, just off the outer islands,’ I said. ‘A diving boat and a little fishing boat?’
‘That’s roight.’
‘Where are your boats now?’
‘The divin’ boat’s lyin’ just ra’nd the ’eadland.’
‘And the other – the fishing boat?’ I asked.
His grey eyes looked up furtively at me over his drink. ‘Me mate’s gorn inter Bovaagen for somefink,’ he muttered and gulped down his glass of cognac.
CHAPTER FIVE
DON’T FORGET THE DIVER
I watched the little Cockney diver as he sipped a second glass of cognac and I was certain he was hiding something. The others had the same idea. They were watching him, too. He glanced quickly in our direction and edged away towards the station manager. Jill gripped my arm. ‘Bill!’ she whispered, ‘do you think he could have picked Schreuder up this morning?’ Her voice was tense and strained.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘It’s possible. What do you think?
‘I felt—’ She hesitated and then looked up at me. ‘Bill, I felt close to him this morning – terribly, strangely close. It was as though—’ She stopped and then said, ‘I don’t know. I just felt as though I were close to him, that’s all.’
‘To Farnell?’
She nodded.
I looked across at the dark-haired little diver. He was talking to Kielland. He was talking fast, as though he had to keep on talking. I caught snatches of his conversation. It was about depth of water and oxyacetylene cutting. ‘He’s nervous,’ I told Jill quietly. ‘I’ll get him alone as soon as I can and see what I can find out.’
But I didn’t get him alone before lunch and at lunch something happened that made me even more anxious to talk to the man privately. The meal was laid in a long, low room branching off from the steward’s big kitchen. Windows looked out across ridges of bare rock to a black cutting where the sea lay still in the hot sunshine like a piece of glass. The meal – middag they called it – was a colossal affair. It began with big steaks of whale meat served with tomatoes and potatoes. This was followed by koltbord – there were innumerable tins of fish treated in different ways, smoked salmon, pickled hake, pressed whalebeef and a whole assortment of different meats, salad and several types of cheese. There was milk and a light Norwegian Pilsner to wash it down.
Lovaas was there and Captain Nordahl of Hval To. The talk was mainly of whale. Sunde kept his eyes on his plate and when he spoke it was only to ask for something to be passed to him. If Dick had let him be, I might have found out what I wanted and Lovaas might never have come into the picture again. But Dick asked him how it was he spoke such good English, and with a Cockney accent.
The little diver looked up. ‘Me muvver was Cockney,’ he answered, tucking his food into his cheek. ‘She never could get on wiv the Norwegian language, so roight from the time Oi first opened me ma’f she talked ter me in English.’
‘Who were the men working with you this morning?’ Dick asked.
‘Me partner an’ a fisherman.’
There was a lull in the general conversation and Lovaas looked across at him. ‘What are you fishing for?’ he asked.
The Cockney Norwegian grinned. ‘Fer aerer engines, Kaptein Lovaas,’ he answered. ‘Oi’m a diver. Started yesterday.’
‘He is getting up the engines of that old Junkers 88 that was shot down off Skarv Island,’ Kielland explained.
‘Off Skarv Island?’ The sudden interest in Lovaas’s voice hit me like a punch. I could see it coming and I couldn’t stop it. I began to talk about salvage operations in British harbours. But only the Kiellands were interested. Lovaas had stopped eating and was watching the diver. ‘Were you out there this morning, Mr Sunde?’ he asked.
I kept on talking. But all around me was a heavy silence. Sunde gave Lovaas a quick, scared glance and then his eyes fell to his plate. He toyed nervously with his knife and fork. But he didn’t eat. ‘That’s roight,’ he said. And then hurriedly: ‘Oi went da’n ter examine the engines. When Oi sees they’re okay Oi sends me mate inter Bovaagen fer an acetylene cutter.’
Lovaas was on him like a hawk. ‘To Bovaagen, eh?’
‘That’s roight,’ Sunde replied. But the way he said it lacked conviction and he fumbled with his knife as he spread thin layers of cheese on top of meat.
‘Who are you working with?’ Lovaas went on.
‘Peer Storjohann,’ Sunde replied. ‘He and Oi is partners. We own the boat an’ the equipment.’
‘And the fisherman?’
‘Oh, he’s a local man,’ put in Kielland. ‘Old Einar Sandven from Nordhanger.’
‘From Nordhanger, eh?’ Lovaas seemed chewing this infomation over in his mind. Then he said, ‘What time was it you ceased work this morning?’
Sunde looked across at me and then at Lovaas. He seized his glass and took a gulp of beer. I leaned forward across the table and said, ‘Can you tell me more about these engines? Presumably the plane was shot down several years ago. Surely the engines will be rusted beyond use?’
Sunde seized on to my new line of conversation with evident relief. ‘Lor’ bless me soul, no,’ he answered. ‘They’ll be all roight. Metal don’t rust right under the water, see. It’s air and water what rusts metal. You see ships rusted ’cos you see ’em after the air’s bin at ’em. But you sink a ship right under the sea an’ then go da’n an’ take a look at ’er – well she’s all roight, see.’
He paused, and in that pause, Lovaas said, ‘How long were you out off Skarv Island this morning, Mr Sunde?’
‘Oh, Oi dunno,’ Sunde replied quickly. ‘An hour – maybe two. Why?’ He looked across at Lovaas, but somehow he wasn’t able to hold the other’s gaze. His eyes dropped to his plate again.
‘What time did you start work?’ Lovaas persisted.
‘Oh, Oi dunno. ’Ba’t eight.’
‘Then you would still be out there about ten this morning?’
‘Couldn’t say what time we was a’t there till. Ask me partner. ’E’s got a watch.’
‘When will he be returned, eh?’
‘’Ow should Oi know? Depends ’ow long ’e takes ter get the oxy-acetylene plant. Mebbe ’e’ll ’ave ter go inter Bergen fer it.’
Lovaas leaned towards Sunde. There was something almost menacing in the solid, squat bulk of him. ‘Were you out off
Skarv Island when we were searching for Schreuder?’ he asked.
‘Was that the name of the man wot fell overboard from Hval Ti?’ Sunde asked, trying hard to cover up his nervousness.
‘Yes,’ Lovaas answered abruptly.
‘Well, we weren’t there, see. We didn’t ’ear nuffink.’
Mrs Kielland patted Lovaas’s arm. ‘I’m sure Mr Sunde would have said at once if he’d been there, Kaptein Lovaas.’
Lovaas said nothing. He sat watching Sunde. The silence at the table became uncomfortable. Mrs Kielland said, ‘It is so terrible. It is the first man we have lost at Bovaagen Hval. And so close to the station – it does not seem possible.’
‘This is the first man you’ve ever lost?’ I asked Kielland.
He nodded. ‘We have accidents, you know. Men cut themselves on flensing knives. And then we had a man’s leg badly torn by the winches. But that is all at the factory. Never have we any accidents on the ships. This is the first.’
I looked across at Lovaas. ‘But it’s not your first, is it, Captain Lovaas?’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’ His eyes flared with sudden anger.
‘I seem to remember hearing that you killed a man once.’
‘Who tell you that, eh?’
‘A Mr Dahler.’
‘Dahler.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What did he say about me?’
‘Only that you were sacked from the command of a catcher for killing a man.’
‘It’s a lie.’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But how will you explain this man Schreuder’s death to the police?’
‘Explain? Schreuder jumped overboard.’
Lovaas was crumbling a piece of bread and suddenly I felt on top of him. ‘What about my evidence?’ I said.
‘But the man jumped over the ship,’ Mrs Kielland said. ‘Surely that is right? All the men say he jump straight over. You and Kaptein Lovaas search for him together.’
‘The man was desperate,’ I said. ‘That’s why he jumped. I wonder what you had done to make him so desperate, Captain Lovaas? Had you threatened him as you did that other man?’
Lovaas thrust back his chair and got to his feet. He was red with anger. ‘I am not to stay here to be insult,’ he cried, losing his English in his excitement. ‘You are a guest here. If you were not you would get hurt for that. Now I go back to my ship. But be careful, Mr Gansert. Be careful. This is dangerous talk.’ He turned to Mrs Kielland and said, ‘Takk for maten.’ Then, with a quick glance at me, he left the room.
I had overplayed my hand. I should have kept quiet. But I’d wanted to get his mind away from Sunde and those two diving boats. I glanced round the silent table. Kielland was watching me. His eyes had lost their good-humoured twinkle. ‘Will you please tell me what happened on board Hval Ti?’ he asked.
I told him. And when I had finished, he said, ‘You were interested in this man Schreuder for the same reason that Jorgensen was interested, eh?’
I nodded.
He didn’t say anything, but sat slumped in his chair as though lost in thought. ‘Will there be an inquiry into the man’s death?’ I asked him.
He looked up. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. I do not think so.’
‘But surely—’ I began.
He held up his hand. ‘You forget,’ he said, ‘Herr Jorgensen is a very powerful man. We are like you people. We are hardworking, honest and law-abiding. But when a thing is a matter of high politics and big business – then—’ He hesitated. ‘Then it is best left in the hands of those who understand it. Come. We will go and have a little drink with our coffee, and we will forget all about this, eh?’
We had our coffee and drinks in the Kiellands’ sitting-room. Sunde sat himself next to Mr Kielland. I had no opportunity of getting him alone, and after our coffee, Kielland insisted on taking the four of us round the station. He took us through the boiler-rooms where the steam for the oil vats was generated and on into a roofed-in space piled high with the rotten-smelling remains of whalebone. There were great sections of backbone steamed out so that they were like huge loaves of aerated bread, as light as a feather. This refuse scraped from the bottom of the oil vats was being crushed and packed in sacks as guano for agriculture. Then we went down into the main part of the factory where the vats stood like huge blast furnaces, six a side in two long lines. We walked down the narrow space between them. The heat was terrific. On each side of us a scalding hot gutter carried a thin, yellow stream of whale oil to big, open tanks. ‘From these tanks it goes to be cooled,’ Kielland said. ‘Then it is packed in oil drums. It goes all over the world – for soap, candles, cosmetics, margarine.’
I tried to show interest, but I was impatient to get back to Sunde before Lovaas had a chance to talk to him alone. But Kielland’s life was the whaling station and he was determined to show us everything. He took us to a vat that was being cleared of slag, all the oil having been extracted. Two men, stripped to the waist, were hauling out the filth with iron scrapers from an open door at the base of the vat. It piled up on the floor, a mass of decayed-looking rubbish that might have been the sweepings of an incinerator. ‘More guano,’ Kielland said. ‘It is all money. Every little bit of whale is money. Nothing is waste. Even the finners are used. They go to England to be made into brushes. Come. I show you how we cut and pack the meat.’
We went out on to the flensing deck. The sun was hot and bright. The steam saws hummed. The men slid along the slippery deck with great, star-shaped sections of bone; all that was left of the great monster we had seen being dragged up the slipway that morning was a long, ragged, bleeding backbone. The meat had all been cleared. They were hosing down the deck. Kielland noticed our surprise and said, ‘We do not waste time, eh? I have forty men here and we can handle three whales a day if necessary.’
‘Three whales a day!’ Curtis said. ‘But that never happens, surely. You’ve only three catchers.’
‘Oh, not early in the season,’ Kielland answered. ‘But later the whale comes south. In September we may be catching them just off the islands. Then quite often we have all three catchers in day after day. It is hard work. But we do not mind. It is good money for everyone then.’
We crossed the deck and went into the packing sheds. Whilst Kielland was talking to the others, I strolled through on to the quay. And then I stopped. Captain Nordahl’s Hval To was lying there, but there was no sign of Hval Ti. I turned back. ‘Kielland,’ I called. ‘Where’s Lovaas’s boat?’
He turned, a large hunk of whalebeef in his hand. ‘Hval Ti? He should be there.’
‘It’s not there,’ I told him. ‘Has Lovaas gone back to the whaling grounds, do you think?’
But he shook his head. ‘No. He has to have water and fuel. Perhaps he has gone to Bovaagen.’ His eyes creased to a twinkle. ‘He has a girl at Bovaagen. And the mate has his wife staying at the Skjaergaardshotelet. Most of his men have a woman of some sort there. I think you will find he has gone to Bovaagen. He has more whale than the other boats. He is in no hurry. Also it is no good out in the Norskehavet now – Hval Fem reports bad fog. Now look at this, Mr Gansert. What do you think of this for meat, eh?’ He held the slab of red meat out to me. It looked like real beef. ‘Not all of the whale is like this, you know,’ he went on. ‘The meat is all graded. This is the best. This will go to Bergen or Newcastle for the restaurants. Then there is other meat which goes to make sausages. The worst meat goes for the foxes. We have big fox farms here in Norway.’ He tossed the piece of beef back on to one of the packing shed shelves and glanced at his watch. ‘Now we go up to the house, eh? There is the radio at four and then, after, we have tea – just a cup, but it is very good because my wife always insists on a little drink with it.’ He chuckled and patted my arm as he led the way back across the flensing deck.
I was in a hurry to get back. I wanted to see Sunde. Mrs Kielland was alone in the sitting-room. She put her knitting down as she rose to greet us. ‘Well, has Albert shown you everything?’ She took hold of Jill’s
hand. ‘You poor dear. I think you are very brave. The smell is something you have to get used to. But did you see the meat?’ Jill nodded. I think she was quite exhausted with whale. ‘What did you think? Is it good? Is it like your ox beef, eh?’
‘Yes. Very.’ Jill folded up quietly into a chair.
‘Where’s the diver?’ I asked.
Mrs Kielland turned. ‘Mr Sunde? That is very strange. I have not seen him since middag.’
‘Probably he has gone to Bovaagen to help his partner with that equipment,’ Kielland said.
‘Ah yes,’ his wife agreed. ‘That is it. I’m sure that is what he will have done. Why? Did you wish to speak with him?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I – I wanted to know more about his diving methods. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just take a stroll round and see if he’s about.’ I nodded to Curtis and he followed me out.
‘He wouldn’t have gone to Bovaagen surely,’ he said as we closed the door. ‘Not with Lovaas there.’
‘He might have gone first and Lovaas followed,’ I answered. ‘We’ll just see if he’s on the station.’
Curtis, who knew quite a bit of Norwegian from his service in the country, questioned everyone we met. But the only person who seemed to have seen anything of Sunde since the midday meal was the steward. He’d seen him going down behind the station towards the cutting where the sea swept in. We walked down to it across the bare rock. The sun was slanting behind the iron chimneys of the station and the rock was a warm, golden colour. We reached the cutting. It was narrow and the sea ran out through it fast as the tide fell. We crossed a bridge and continued on. Men’s boots had blazed a trail through the years that led like a white path to the crest of a jagged shoulder of rock. From the top we could see the white spire of Bovaagen church standing like a bright spearhead against the pale, burnished blue of the sky. And in a little backwater to our left a rowing boat lay tied to a rock. It was the sort of boat you find everywhere in Norway – a development of the coracle pinched out to a point at bow and stern, a miniature Viking’s craft that had survived down the ages even to its fixed wooden rowlocks. From a neighbouring rock, a length of rope trailed in the greasy water.
The Blue Ice Page 11