by Chris Ould
“Hey.” Heri nodded.
“If you’re here at nine you’re welcome,” Annika told Hentze as he dropped down on to the worn leather sofa beside the table.
Seeing that Hentze didn’t seem to have anywhere else to be, Heri put the Post aside and stood up. “I suppose I’d better do some work,” he said with no real enthusiasm. “See you later.”
“Okay, see you,” Annika said.
“Did I interrupt something?” Hentze enquired mildly once Heri was out of earshot.
Annika shook her head and rinsed her hands under the tap. “No, not really. He was just pointing out how expensive it is to live in Copenhagen.”
“Oh. Right,” Hentze said, understanding.
Annika reached for a towel. “There’s no need for him to take it that way. He’s known for ages that that’s what I wanted to do – CID, I mean.”
“But he thought you’d do it here?”
Annika nodded. “And I might. Probably. Afterwards. But first I want to see what else is out there, you know? I want to be in plain clothes with some good experience on my record before I get married and need time off for kids.”
“Married and kids? With Heri?”
“I mean in general. I haven’t discussed it with Heri. I’m not even sure that’s what he’d want. And if he doesn’t…” She shook her head. “It’s all right for you men, but it’s not like I’ve got so long to do it all, so I need to get on with things. Here, taste this.”
She brought a spoon across from the pan and he duly tasted the stew.
“More salt?”
“A little,” Hentze said. “It’s good, though. You’ll make someone a great wife.”
“Yeh, I will,” she said, ignoring the wisecrack. “But not till I’m ready. Do you want a coffee before I go back to the desk?”
“No, thanks. Will you do something else for me when you’re there, though? I need a check on this car: owner, address…” He held up a slip of paper with a registration number on it.
“Sure, of course.”
“Wait, don’t be so quick. If anyone asks about why you’re interested in it tell them straight away that you’re doing it for me. I’m hoping no one will ask, but if they do, that’s what you say. Don’t make something up.”
“Why would I?” Then she got it. “Oh. Because you don’t want to look it up yourself.”
Hentze nodded. “I’m trying to stay off the radar. But I don’t want you to get into trouble if anyone takes an interest.”
“Why? What’s it about?”
He debated for a second, but he knew Annika was reliable. He said, “There are some national security service people here, on the islands. This is one of their cars.”
She frowned. “If it’s national security is it wise to be… I don’t know – poking into their business?”
“If they poke into ours, yeh, I think so.”
“What are they doing?”
“Interfering in the Erla Sivertsen case.”
Her frown deepened. “How?”
He shook his head. “It’s too complicated. You don’t know anything about that, okay? I’m serious: don’t put your head above the wall. If anyone asks, all you know is that I asked you to check the car and there was no reason you wouldn’t.”
She gave him a vaguely dubious look but then nodded. “Okay, if you say so. But if they’re security services won’t the car details be false?”
“I’d expect so, but even that might say something.” He wasn’t sure what, but it was the only thing he’d been able to come up with that didn’t involve doing nothing.
“Okay,” Annika said. “Let me just finish this and I’ll check it out. No email, right?”
“Right.”
“Where will you be – incident room?”
“No, I’m not on the case any more.”
“What? Hjalti…”
He shook his head to fend it off. “I told you, it’s too complicated. I’ll be in my office. Probably not long enough for stew, though.”
39
FRÍÐA AND I MADE THE ROUND OF THE PAINTINGS AND sculptures displayed on temporary panels and plinths around the lobby area and café of the Nordic House: a very Scandinavian place, naturally. Lots of stone, pine and glass.
There was a jazz quartet playing off to one side, not making much of an impression on the noise of the two hundred or more people milling around. The charity art auction may have been the stated reason for coming, but clearly it was as much an excuse for the professional classes to mix and mingle. I didn’t get the impression that there were many fishermen or shepherds amongst us, but if there were they’d scrubbed up well, just like me.
It was the sort of gathering where I might have expected to see Magnus, but he wasn’t there. Instead, Fríða introduced me to several knots of people she knew; some professionally, others through various and convoluted paths of association that I didn’t try to untangle. The Faroes are a small place and even three degrees of separation is a lot.
I hadn’t watched the news that day but I quickly gathered that yesterday’s grindadráp, on top of Erla Sivertsen’s death, had made the subject of the Alliance the default conversation starter for a lot of people. For the rest – often older – the subject was like religion, politics and sex: not one to be raised in polite company. For those who did bring it up, though, the fact that I was a foreigner made me a general barometer of the outside world. They wanted my opinion, and even when it was equivocal they still seemed gratified when I said that, as far as I was aware, no one outside the islands really knew about the grind or the protest. It seemed to satisfy them just to know that their reputation wasn’t being tarnished. I didn’t like to say that for the islands to be tarnished, the outside world would first have to know that the Faroes existed.
About an hour after we’d arrived I lost Fríða in the way that you can do accidentally in a large gathering. Freed up from more introductions I wandered a little, exchanged an empty beer bottle for a full one and wandered some more. I ended up a little way out of the main hub, just watching until I spotted Fríða about halfway across the space. I was about to head in her direction when a guy in a blue jacket and crisp shirt approached me. His tie was loosened and he had a couple of days’ worth of blond stubble.
“Hey,” he said when he saw he’d caught my attention. “You’re English, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought so. I saw you with Fríða a little while ago. I’m Jens Kjeld, by the way.”
“Jan Reyna.” It had become habit these days to pronounce it with the Y and not the hard J; I was getting used to it as much as saying takk and ja or nei in conversation.
“So, what do you think of all this – this art?” He made rabbit ears to show that he used the word loosely. “Will you buy any?”
I couldn’t decide if it was just clumsiness to ask if I’d buy something he’d just derided, or whether it was arrogance in assuming I’d naturally share his assessment. I said, “There are a couple of pictures I like, but I’m not sure I’d like the price.”
“So you’re not here with a cheque already signed?”
“No, just to look.”
“You might be wise. Most of this is just average – not bad, not outstanding.”
Again, the slightly superior tone, but then he shifted to cast a look in Fríða’s direction. “So, have you known Fríða long?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure whether I disliked him for the directness or found it refreshing for the same reason, but I had a feeling it was going to be one or the other quite soon.
“Sort of,” I said, just to show I wasn’t a pushover.
“Ah. Are you being cagey?”
“No, not really. It’s just a long story.”
“That makes it sound interesting.”
He was fixed on me now, with that focus that tells you you’re not going to get away unless you make a point of being brusque. It might also be a pretty good indicator of how much he’d drunk, I decided.
&nb
sp; “We’re cousins,” I said. “I knew her when we were kids but I hadn’t seen her again until recently.”
“Oh. Okay, now I’m confused. Your name is Jan – are you Faroese?”
“By birth, yes. Are you?”
He laughed. “Okay, tit for tat, yeh? Fair enough. Yes, I’m Faroese. I work for Faroil, I lived for ten years in the UK and I’m here because the company is a sponsor of the event, and because there is free food and drink. Cheers.”
“Skál.”
He clinked his glass with the neck of my beer bottle, but I wasn’t entirely misdirected.
“You missed out how you know Fríða,” I said.
“Oh, yeh,” he couldn’t help another swift glance in her direction. “It’s a small place, so… one tends to meet the same people. Especially at events like this.”
Which wasn’t an answer, but I’d decided I liked him well enough now, so I let it go for the moment.
“Listen,” he said then. “You want a tip? Come over here.” He gestured and moved, so I followed a few paces and he pointed out a landscape painting. “Buy that. It doesn’t matter if you don’t like it. I know for a fact that the artist – his name’s Djurhuus – will be selling for five times today’s price by the end of the year, maybe more.”
I must have looked dubious because he shook his head. “I’m serious,” he said. “There’s a collector in New York who is just getting into Djurhuus in a big way. She may not buy up the smaller stuff like that one, but where she leads…”
“You mean Djurhuus will become fashionable.”
“Sure. And he paints very slowly, so there is a limited stock, which means that when it starts to be sought after by others the price will go up more sharply. Supply and demand.”
“So why don’t you buy it?”
He shrugged. “I have four already – slightly bigger. It doesn’t do to be greedy, does it?” He flagged down a waitress who was passing with a tray of drinks, knocked back the one he already had and took a fresh one. “Do you smoke?” he asked, patting himself down to locate a pack of Prince. “I need to breathe some pollutants.”
“You go ahead,” I told him. “I’ll have a look at the Djurhuus.”
“Good.” He nodded. “Up to ten thousand krónur would be a bargain; up to fifteen would be a decent price. I wouldn’t go more, though – unless you like it, of course.”
With that he gave me a friendly smile and a wave of his cigarette pack and headed away towards the open fire doors. Nice enough guy, pissed as a newt.
I was still looking at the Djurhuus when Fríða found me again a few minutes later. By then I’d decided that, good investment or not, I didn’t care for it much.
“Hey,” she said, drifting in beside me. She had apple juice in her glass and she looped her free arm through mine, which was nice.
“Do you like this one?”
“It’s okay,” I said, aware that that was probably as damning as a no. “Do you?”
She considered it, then shook her head, unmoved. “Not so much.”
“Your friend Jens Kjeld says it would be a good investment. Apparently he has insider knowledge.”
“If he says so it’s probably true.”
“Even though he works for an oil company?”
“He looks after investments,” she said. “He’s very smart. Did he say anything else?”
I shook my head. “No, but the silence was deafening. And he knew where you were in the room most of the time.”
“So you were being detective?” I couldn’t sense how she felt about that.
“It was fairly obvious. Ex-boyfriend?”
“Why do you think ex?”
“I’m a detective.”
She gave a dry laugh then. “Yeh. We dated about three years ago.”
“And he’s still carrying a torch?”
She took a second to work that one out, then shook her head. “I hope not, but it was a good thing for a while and he’s a nice guy. So…”
She gave a matter-of-fact shrug, as if that laid it to rest. Sometimes she seemed very grown-up and comfortable with her choices. It was more than I felt most of the time, and I envied her.
* * *
The Djurhuus was late in the auction and went for 21,000 kr, maybe because someone knew what Jens Kjeld knew, or maybe just because by then there were only a few lots remaining for people to demonstrate the depths of their pockets.
I did bid, but not in person and not on the Djurhuus. I didn’t trust my Faroese anywhere near enough to follow an auction, or to keep track of the price in krónur against that in sterling. Instead I registered a commission bid on a paired lot of two canvases about eight inches square, one showing a boathouse and the other the rocky harbour beside it.
The bidding in the room ran out 200 kr short of my limit, so I got them but didn’t tell Fríða until I’d paid and collected them, now bubble-wrapped, and got them as far as the car. They were under my coat because it was raining and because I hadn’t wanted to give them to her publicly. Now I handed them over in the glow of the courtesy light.
“I bought you something.”
“Really?” she asked, as if she was genuinely puzzled either by the objects or the fact I was giving them to her; I couldn’t tell which. She unwrapped one then the other before she spoke again. “Are you sure?” she asked, still seeming perplexed.
“You won’t take any rent, so I’m hoping you weren’t just being polite when you said you liked them.”
“Well, they’re not the Djurhuus…” she said somewhat hesitantly, then laughed when she saw she’d nearly caught me. “I’m never polite about art,” she said then. “They’re great. Takk fyri.”
She leaned across and kissed my cheek warmly, then straightened up, handing the pictures to me so she could put the keys in the ignition.
“Of course, if they’re rent you know what this means?” she said then.
“You’ll have to declare them for tax?”
She chuckled and started the car. “No, but to be fair I’ll have to let you stay for at least another week.”
She cast me a sideways look, part grin, and pulled out of the parking space.
“Yeah, well about that…” I said. “I talked to my boss today.”
“And he wants you to go back?”
“‘Wants’ is the wrong word,” I said. “But I’ll have to go anyway. I’ve used up my excuses, so I can’t put it off any more. I have to be there next Tuesday.”
She knew I’d been suspended and had asked me a little about it while I was laid up on her sofa with concussion ten days ago. She’d left it alone when she realised that I didn’t want to go into details, though, and hadn’t raised it since, which I appreciated.
Now she pulled out of the car park on to the ring road and let the subject hang for a few seconds.
“You’ve never told me how serious it is,” she said.
I shrugged non-committally, but in the darkness I wasn’t sure whether she saw it. “Serious enough, I suppose.”
“But you don’t want to tell me.”
I almost did, but then I said, “No. It would only sound like I was justifying myself – or an apology. Which it wouldn’t be. I didn’t tell Hjalti Hentze for the same reason. Whatever I say, that’s just my version and it’s more complicated than that.”
“Is it a criminal offence?” she asked. “Could you go to prison?”
“No. They call it a breach of the standards of professional behaviour, but that’s just a catch-all. What it really means is that they think I did something I shouldn’t have, but because they don’t know for sure they have to do a dance to prove they’re taking it seriously.”
“So you didn’t do it – whatever it was?” she asked.
“No, I did it,” I said. “It just wasn’t wrong, that’s all.”
She cast me a look. “In your opinion.”
“Yeah, in my opinion,” I said. “But it’s the only one I care about – as far as that’s concerned, anyway.”
“Isn’t that a bit arrogant? To think you know better than anyone else?”
“Maybe, but it’s not meant to be,” I said. “I just don’t care what anyone else thinks – anyone else in the job – because I know the full circumstances and they don’t.”
I could tell she didn’t like my answer – or maybe it was just the fact that I was refusing to admit that there could be a doubt.
“So will you tell them these circumstances when you go back?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know yet. I’m still thinking about it because I’m not the only one involved – listen, let’s change the subject, okay?”
“Okay,” she said. Her tone was accepting, but it didn’t fully convince me that I hadn’t just put a damper on what should have been a better end to the evening.
40
Thursday/hósdagur
HENTZE WAS DEEPLY ASLEEP AND THE NOISE OF THE PHONE TOOK more than a minute to penetrate his consciousness. By then Sóleyg was also stirring. He felt her turn under the duvet and he muttered something soothing as he finally silenced the phone.
“Hold on,” he said into the illuminated screen, as softly as he could.
The bedroom had grown chill. He scooped up his sweater from the chair as he padded to the door, cursed silently at its squeak, then went down the hall to the bathroom.
“Yeh, okay, who’s this?” he said into the phone.
“Hjalti, it’s Karl Atli Árting. Sorry to wake you. Do you need a minute?”
“No, go on, what’s happened? What time is it?” His eyes were still blurred from sleep and without his reading glasses his watch hands were indecipherable.
“Ten after three. I’m out at Múli. There’s been a fire – well, actually, there still is a bit – but there’s also a body. It’s in the house.”
“Bloody hell.” Said with more irritation than he meant. Hentze rubbed one eye with the back of his hand.
“I wasn’t sure if I should call Ári Niclasen, but Hans said it’d be you.”
“Yeh, no, it is,” Hentze said. “Okay, listen, have the firefighters said anything – I mean they’re sure it is a body, not someone hurt?”
Even as he said it he knew his brain was still lagging a step behind his mouth.