by Chris Ould
“He says he doesn’t remember. Maybe there was someone called Matzen but it’s too long ago.”
“Is there anyone else I could ask?”
But even as I was saying it Justesen cut in. “He says he’s ill – sick,” Aron said. “He doesn’t know anything. He wants to be left alone.”
I knew there was no point and no way to pursue it, especially not when hampered by the language. “Okay, will you say thanks and if he remembers anything I’d appreciate it if he called me?”
While Aron translated that I dug out a card with my mobile number on it and held it up for Boas Justesen to see, then placed it on the counter in a relatively clean spot. He didn’t bother to acknowledge it.
Outside in the fresh air I thanked Aron for his time and apologised again for interrupting his day.
“It was no problem,” he said. “It’s good to practise my English again. I hope you get the information you need. Boas isn’t very – er – fond of the cops at this time. They put him under arrest a few days ago.”
“Oh? For what, do you know?”
“For drunk driving. I know because he asks me to bring his car back afterwards.”
“That might explain it, then,” I said. “But thanks again for your help.”
“Any time.”
“And good luck with the baby.”
“Takk. It’ll be fantastic, I know.”
30
HØGNI JOENSEN WASN’T UNDER ARREST, ALTHOUGH DÁNJAL Michelsen doubted that he had recognised the distinction. When Dánjal and Ári had found him on Sandoy and “requested” that he go with them it probably hadn’t even occurred to Høgni that he had the right to say no.
Dánjal knew that Ári had chosen him as second officer because he’d wanted to take someone who looked like he meant business. Ári’s tall, gangly frame wasn’t the sort to cut an imposing figure in the macho world of fishing and boats, whereas Dánjal looked as if he’d square off for a fight at the drop of a hat. It was a misconception, but useful if – like Ári – you wanted to bring in a man who was built like a bulldozer.
That bulldozer of a man was crying now. That’s what Ári had brought him to in the last hour. Ári might not be imposing on a quayside, but in an interview room he could be brutal and Dánjal felt genuinely sorry for Høgni Joensen. The man just wasn’t bright or fast enough to match or counter the scenarios Ári was putting to him, one after the other: drumming away and inserting a knife blade in any small crack he found.
Hadn’t Høgni lied in an attempt to give Finn Sólsker an alibi?
Well, yes – no – not really, he just thought—
So why had he lied? Was he trying to help Finn to cover up the murder, or had Høgni participated in that as well?
No! N-n-no of course not. He liked Erla.
Really? Liked her how – in what way? Was he attracted to her? She was a good-looking woman. How could he not have been attracted to that?
B-b-because!
Because what? Because she rejected him – was that it? She rejected him and he killed her, wasn’t that more like the truth?
The more Ári pressed, the more Høgni stammered and now he could hardly even get a single word out, even to deny what Ári was saying. He just shook his head and tried to sniff back the tears.
Then Ári gave it a moment, as if reassessing or reaching the end of his tether.
“All right then,” he said. “I tell you what: if you were in Tórshavn on Saturday night as you say, just give us the name of someone you saw. Anyone. Then we can check. Who were you with? You must remember that.”
“I-I…” Høgni began, then shook his head.
“Anyone,” Ári repeated. “Or are you making it up?”
“No!” Then Høgni let out one sobbing breath. “I-I was with Sal.”
“Sal? Who’s that then?”
“S-Sal M-Moretti. He, he’s a friend.”
“Okay, at last we’re getting somewhere,” Ári said. “Where can we find him?”
“A-at, at the pizza takeaway; on, on N-Niels Finsens gøta.”
Høgni hung his head, as if he’d just condemned himself out of his own mouth. It was enough, Dánjal decided. Too much.
“Maybe we should take a break,” Dánjal said without looking at Ári. “Would you like a drink, Høgni? Coffee or tea, or something cold?”
Høgni sniffed, nodded, but didn’t look up. “C-cold, please,” he said.
“Okay, just wait there for us, eh? I’ll sort something out.”
They left Høgni wiping his face and went out into the corridor. As he closed the door behind them Dánjal knew Ári was pissed off. Ári didn’t say so, but his manner was peremptory, as if he suspected there was some implicit criticism behind Dánjal’s unilateral move.
“You’d better check out this Sal Moretti then,” Ári told him. “It shouldn’t take long if he’s at work. If he can’t or won’t verify Joensen’s alibi I want to get back to interviewing as soon as possible, okay?”
“I’ll go now,” Dánjal said, although in his head he reckoned he could make sure it took the best part of an hour. Enough time to let Høgni Joensen recover.
* * *
The pizza and sandwich shop on Niels Finsens gøta was at the bottom of three concrete steps, hidden away from the other shop fronts, as if it didn’t fit in with the image the street wished to give of itself. This was the slow period of the day – after the lunch trade – and there were no customers waiting when Dánjal went in and asked if Salvatore Moretti was there.
A minute or so later Sal Moretti came out of the kitchen. He looked to be in his late twenties, with a thick quiff of black hair and a high-cheekboned face. He was slightly built, snake-hipped, and wore a chef’s smock over a pair of baggy jeans.
Yes, sure, he knew Høgni, he told Dánjal as he came around the counter and into the shop. “Why, what’s the matter?” His Faroese was rough and he dropped into Danish when necessary, though it was scarcely any better. Even so, his concern about Høgni came through.
“Can you tell me if you saw Høgni over the weekend?” Dánjal asked.
“Sure. Yes, I did,” Salvatore said without hesitation.
“From when until when?”
Salvatore frowned as he deciphered the question. “The last time I see him is Sunday – the morning. About ten o’clock.”
“Okay. What time did he arrive?”
Salvatore frowned. “No, he didn’t. Not Sunday. He came Saturday evening.”
“You mean he was with you from Saturday night until Sunday morning?”
“Yeh, yeh, that’s right.”
“Okay. What time did you meet him on Saturday?”
“I don’t know,” Salvatore shrugged. “Maybe seven o’clock. He comes here, we go for… to eat, yeh? A few drinks. Later to my place.”
“So you were with him all the time?”
“Sure. Of course. I’m saying that. Listen, what’s happened? Is Høgni okay? Please. Is there trouble?”
“No, no, he’s fine,” Dánjal told him. “We just had to ask him some questions.”
“What about?” And then he realised. “About the woman who was dead?”
“It’s related to that,” Dánjal allowed. “Do you know any reason why Høgni wouldn’t want to tell us what he was doing on Saturday night?”
Salvatore frowned for a moment and glanced at the back of the shop, then he turned a little so that the conversation was more private.
“He was with me,” he said. “Together, yeh? You know what I mean? Høgni and me.”
“You’re gay?” Dánjal asked, hearing the surprise in his own voice.
“Sure, of course,” Salvatore said, as if it should be as obvious as a tattoo on his forehead. “But Høgni doesn’t feel good to tell anyone. I say, ‘For Christ sake, Høgni. It’s the twenty-first century.’ But it doesn’t matter. He is afraid of what people say, you know? Other men to work with. He thinks they give a hard time.”
Dánjal nodded. It was easy enough to
imagine the attitude amongst the fishermen. Gay pride in the islands had been around and accepted by most for several years, but the old conservative values still held sway behind some closed doors.
“So Høgni was with you all the time?” Dánjal asked, to be clear. “From Saturday evening until Sunday morning.”
“Yeh. All the time.”
“Is there anyone else who could back that up?”
“Sure. Plenty when we were out.”
“Okay,” Dánjal said. “That’s all I needed to know. Thank you.”
“So he’s okay now?” Sal asked, still concerned. “No trouble?”
“Not now, no,” Dánjal said.
“I can call him?”
“I’d leave it for half an hour, but yeh, after that. Thanks for your help.”
Dánjal left the shop and climbed the steps back to street level as he took out his phone and called Ári Niclasen. “It’s Dánjal,” he said when Ári answered. “Høgni’s alibi stands up. He was out on the town from seven on Saturday night. Sounds like he had quite a bit to drink and slept on Sal Moretti’s couch. Anyway, he can’t have been on Sandoy.”
“Are there other witnesses to that?”
“Quite a few, yeh. I can try and track them down if you like, but I think it’ll be a waste of time. His mate’s solid.”
“So why was he so reluctant to tell us if he was simply out on the town?”
“Well, you know what the Plymouth Brethren are like about drinking,” Dánjal said. “He probably didn’t want word getting back.”
He had no idea whether Høgni was Plymouth Brethren, but it seemed to satisfy Ári.
“All right then, you’d better come back,” Ári said. “There’s a grind out at Norðragøta and things are getting hectic, but I’ll tell Joensen he’s free to go.”
And an apology would be nice too, Dánjal thought, but he didn’t say it.
31
THE ALLIANCE HOUSE ON MARKNAGILSVEGUR WAS ALIVE WITH activity. As Hentze arrived three people hurried out through the front door and jumped into a pickup truck, which then sped away.
“I’m sorry, we’re a little busy right now,” Petra Langley said as she led Hentze inside. “Some whales have been seen, but you probably know about that, right?”
As a matter of fact Hentze didn’t know. The news must have come in while he was on his way there. If he had known he might not have come, although he knew that if he didn’t follow up on Oddur’s theory now he would probably have talked himself out of it by the time things calmed down. After all, it was Oddur.
“If it’s a bad time to talk now I can come back later,” Hentze offered. In the AWCA office people were on phones or speaking into radios, and at the back of the room a group of four men and women were gathered at a map of the islands, tracing routes, pointing out features, as if preparing for battle. Which was, Hentze supposed, exactly how they saw it.
“No, it’s fine,” Petra said. She gestured to a man in a sweater holding two phones, one lowered, the other to his ear. “Charlie’s our action coordinator. At times like this I take a back seat. Shall we go somewhere quieter?”
She led Hentze to a room at the back of the house: a sort of communal area with two large sofas and a view of the sea through its large window. There was no one else there and once they were inside Petra closed the door and invited Hentze to a seat.
“So, how can I help?” she asked, sitting opposite him. “On the phone you said it was about Erla? Have you found out any more yet?”
“We’re making some progress,” Hentze said. “But you’ll understand it takes time.”
“Of course. I don’t suppose it’s ever as easy as you see on the TV.”
“Not so much, no.”
He assessed her for a moment. She seemed like a level-headed person; or at least, not one to be thrown into a fluster by the activity of the moment. And she was clearly waiting for him to get to the point.
“I’d like to find out some more information about Erla’s background,” Hentze told her. “For example, I wondered why you – the AWCA organisation – chose her for the job.”
Petra Langley considered the question. “We hired her because she was a good photographer and because she fit in well with everyone else.”
“Had she been involved with other campaigns like yours before she joined AWCA?”
“No, not as a campaigner, but she had done a lot of wildlife and documentary work.”
“Oh? I thought you would look for someone with experience of protests.”
“We’re not short of activists,” Petra said. “What we needed was someone who could take great pictures. That was the brief. Of course, she had to support the issues we campaign on, but that wasn’t the reason she got the job.”
“Okay, I see,” Hentze said. “And when you hired her did you already have plans to come here?”
“To protest the grind? No. That only came later.”
“And how did she feel about that?”
“You mean because she was Faroese?”
“Yes. Did she think it might be difficult for her?”
“No.” Petra was definite. “Just the opposite. I remember we talked about it – while the campaign was still under discussion – and she said it could be an advantage because she knew the language.”
“So she was enthusiastic to come?”
“Sure. Like the rest of us, she thought the grind was unnecessary in this day and age. I don’t see what this has to do with her being killed, though. How is it relevant?”
Before Hentze could answer, the door behind them opened and someone looked in, then withdrew again quickly. The interruption reminded Hentze that he still hadn’t got to the point – if he had one.
“It’s just for background information,” he said. “I’m sorry to take up your time, but there is just one thing more I would ask.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“In your time here, or maybe before, do you ever find surveillance of what you are doing? Does anyone think that they are being watched, for example?”
Petra gave a dry laugh. “Surveillance? I’d have thought you’d know about that better than us. Don’t the police have a stake in all that?”
“Perhaps in other countries,” Hentze allowed, already regretting going this far. “But if it happens here I don’t know. That’s why I ask.”
“Well, no one’s told me that they think they’re under surveillance,” Petra said. “Besides, we’ve got nothing to hide. The whole point of our being here is to raise awareness. That’s why we have a website and why Erla’s pictures were important: we want people to know what we’re doing and why.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Hentze said. He stood up. “Well, thank you for your time. It’s been very helpful.”
He walked back to his car, chiding himself. It had been an unprofessional interview; badly thought out. Of course there was no reason why the AWCA people would be under surveillance. What would it achieve?
He cast a look back at the house and wished Oddur hadn’t started him thinking about codes and secret agendas. Not because he thought Oddur was wrong – quite the opposite. But if coded messages and rendezvous times really had nothing to do with AWCA’s activities, then they could only indicate that something else must have been going on in Erla Sivertsen’s life.
And in her death?
Yes, well, that too, Hentze concluded as he turned the key in the ignition. What else was there to think?
* * *
The road out of Fuglafjørður passed through a valley between two mountain ridges before turning south at Gøtuvík bay. By the time I got to Norðragøta there was a light rain and I’d noticed an increase in the number of vehicles ahead of me, slowing down to form a tailback. Any kind of traffic hold-up was unusual in the Faroes, but here it was compounded by the fact that many of the cars ahead of me were pulling in by the side of the road and parking.
I stayed in the line of traffic, moving at little more than walking pace until I reached a
spot where I caught a glimpse of the bay and then saw what all the activity was about. A mile or so from the shore a flotilla of fishing boats was progressing into the bay and ahead of it a pod of pilot whales was breaking the surface.
Before I could see much more than that my attention was called back to the road. Ahead of me a people carrier pulled in on a margin of flat ground beside the tarmac and, on the spur of the moment, I did the same.
Outside the car the wind was cold and blustery off the sea. People from other vehicles were pulling on coats and fleeces as they headed briskly back down the road towards Norðragøta. I didn’t follow them. By this bend in the road there was a good enough view and below in the bay the drama had already started.
The line of fishing boats was still moving shoreward, but now I could see two rigid-hulled inflatables buzzing across the water, kicking up spray. Both flew the blue AWCA flag; one boat chasing back and forth in front of the whales in an obvious attempt to frighten them off; the other being pursued by a patrol craft: larger, grey and flying a Danish Navy flag.
Then, overhead, there was the sound of a helicopter engine and as I glanced up a naval Lynx swooped in, nose down until it came over the water, then swung round and hovered above half a dozen kayaks, which were being paddled frantically out towards the approaching whales. I saw several of the kayakers look upwards, but they kept going, strung out in a line of Alliance blue, which made them easily visible against the dark water.
All this played out in an almost stage-managed way; as if it was part of a choreographed spectacle laid on for the entertainment of tourists, perhaps. But when a second naval pursuit craft appeared around the headland things seemed to take a more serious turn. The first naval craft broke off its chase of the outermost AWCA boat and instead sped around the fishing boats to go after the Alliance boat closest to shore.
Then the helicopter turned on its axis and I thought I heard some kind of loudspeaker warning or command to the kayakers below. It was too broken up by the wind and the sound of engines to be sure, but whatever the case, the kayaks kept on going and for a few seconds there was no change, until the Lynx suddenly tilted and dropped half its altitude so that it was only about fifty feet above the sea. Then it moved, in that oddly articulated manner of helicopters, to position itself a little to one side of the lead kayak so the downdraught of the rotor blades buffeted the occupant, before tipping him sideways into the water.