The Killing Bay

by Chris Ould

  “This is Peter Jessen of the security services,” Remi said to Hentze, using Danish. He closed the door.

  “Actually, I’m a police officer,” Jessen corrected, but without any real feeling on the matter. He looked round the room with the same lack of interest, then moved to a chair and sat down heavily, as if he’d been on his feet for some time.

  “Ah, okay. Sorry.” Remi acknowledged the distinction, then looked to Hentze. “We only have a few minutes, so you’d better go ahead.”

  Remi backed off a little to lean on the pool table while Hentze drew a plastic chair closer to Jessen and sat down.

  “What can you tell us about Erla Sivertsen?” Hentze said. “Was she also national security?”

  Jessen freed a couple of paracetamol from the blister pack and opened his water bottle. “No. She was only approached when it became clear that Defend ’86 were going to infiltrate AWCA. She agreed to help because she thought it was the right thing to do.”

  “So what was her role?”

  Jessen swallowed the tablets. “She was my link back to command,” he said. “Lukas Drescher was paranoid about security – checking our phones and computers – so if there was information I needed to pass I gave it to Erla and she handed it on. Drescher didn’t pay any attention to her, only those in the group.”

  “And Lukas Drescher is the leader of Defend ’86?”

  “This branch of it, yeh.” Jessen nodded, then checked his watch. “Listen, what you really need to know is about Saturday, right? When Erla died.”

  “Yes,” Hentze said.

  “Okay. Well, I don’t know all the story so you’ll have to fill in the gaps, but the first thing I knew was a phone call from Lukas at just after ten thirty that night. He tells me I’ve got to come now to the house on Fjalsgøta: it’s urgent, he says. I get there ten minutes later and Lukas lets me in. He’s shaking – like he’s wired – and he says there’s been an accident and Erla is dead. When I ask where he takes me out on the back terrace and Erla is there, lying on the ground. Lukas has covered her with a piece of plastic sheet but I go and look and check that she’s not still alive and then I ask him what happened.”

  Jessen paused to take another short sip from his water bottle, then refocused again. “What he tells me is that he came back to the house and found Erla looking in his room – the room he shares with Veerle. No one else is there and there was an argument, he says. They shouted at each other, some names were called, then Erla goes outside for a smoke. He told me then that he thought Erla could be an informer – a spy – but when he went to ask her about that there was another argument and she fell – tripped – and hit her head. Next thing she is dead.”

  “Did you believe him?” Hentze asked.

  Jessen shook his head. “Some of it, maybe, but I know he’s not telling the truth about Erla searching his room. She wouldn’t have done that; there was no reason to. And I’ve seen how he looks at her, too – when he thinks she won’t notice.”

  “You mean he might have had a sexual interest in her?”

  “Sure, why not?” But as soon as he said it Jessen waved it away as if it was beside the point. “Listen, whatever had happened, Lukas knew he was deep in the shit. He says if he’s questioned – if the others are questioned – the plans for direct action will be gone. So what can we do, he asks me. How do we fix it so the plan won’t be ruined?”

  “And what did you do?” Hentze asked.

  “I helped him of course. I said I’d take her body away and make it look as if someone else has done it. So we put her in the boot of her car and then I told Lukas to give me his coat and his jeans so there couldn’t be any evidence of contact. After that I told him to go into town to find the others and make an alibi. He’s to have some drinks, stay out late, and by the time he gets back it will all be fixed. Then I took the car and drove it away.”

  Hentze considered that for a moment. He knew what had happened then – or at least, he could guess – but for the sake of clarity, he said, “Did you take her body to Húsavík or did someone else arrange that?”

  Jessen shook his head. “No, that wasn’t me. I called my control for an emergency meeting. That was the procedure – do you know a lake beside route 12 to Gamlarætt?”

  “Yes, Stóratjørn.”

  “Right. Well, there’s a small shed there – a wooden hut. It was a prearranged place to go if something went wrong.”

  “Who did you meet? Was Munk your control?”

  Jessen shook his head, to indicate that he wasn’t going to give any names. He looked at his watch and then he stood up. “I have to go. Is there anything else?”

  Hentze stayed seated. “Did you use Erla Sivertsen’s murder to get closer to Lukas Drescher?” he asked.

  “Sure, of course,” Jessen said, as if it was self-evident. “He hadn’t let me get very close until then, but that got me right in. That’s why there was only one explosion tonight.”

  When Hentze made no response to that Jessen looked away. He gave Remi a nod, then made for the door. He had it partly open before he turned back to Hentze. “What was the name of that lake again, with the hut?”

  “Stóratjørn.”

  “Okay,” Jessen said with a nod. “And just so you know – it wasn’t my idea, the way her body was left. I’m still a police officer and I liked her.”

  Then Jessen went out and Hentze caught a glimpse of someone waiting beyond the door before it closed. There was a brief sound of footsteps, then nothing else.

  By the pool table Remi Syderbø shifted and frowned. “What was all that about the lake?”

  “I don’t know,” Hentze said dispiritedly. “But if we believe what he says then there’s no question about who killed Erla.”

  “Should we believe him, do you think?”

  “What difference does it make?” Hentze said, standing up. “Even if it’s true, we can’t use him as a witness. So unless Drescher admits to the murder we’re no better off.”

  Remi tried to remain positive. “The forensics may help, now that we know who to look at. And Drescher’s going to be facing terrorism charges as well, so…”

  “So the murder doesn’t matter?” Hentze said bitterly, but immediately cancelled it with a gesture. “Sorry. You know what I mean.”

  “Yeh.” Remi assessed him for a moment. “Listen, go home,” he said. “You were out half of last night and there’s nothing we can do till all the detainees have been processed and Munk’s people have decided who’s going to deal with them. We’ll interview Drescher tomorrow and go from there. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Hentze acceded. He rubbed his eyes for a moment. “Do you know if they’ve lifted the cordon at Skálatrøð yet?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “My car’s still there. It doesn’t matter. I’ll get a lift from someone.”

  52

  “WHERE’S YOUR CAR?” HENTZE ASKED.

  I’d told him before, but that had been a while ago. “By the east harbour,” I said. “Why – need a lift?”

  “Ja. If I drive myself I might fall asleep.”

  “The adrenalin’s worn off.”

  “Yeh, or the coffee,” he said. He held the door of the incident room open so we could leave.

  Outside in the chilly, after-rain air Hentze struck up a brisk pace, as if exercise would revive him. “The security services or counter-terrorism have nine people in detention,” he told me. “Five from the Alliance and four others who came to the islands in the last few days. They call themselves Defend ’86. They’re some sort of radical group using the Alliance as a disguise to plan direct action or… I don’t know what. They all seem mad.”

  He shook his head, as if the whole thing was beyond his comprehension, which I knew wasn’t the case, but he needed to get it out of his system. That’s what I was for.

  “Anyway,” he went on after a moment, “they had arranged for detonators or timers to be smuggled here and then they planned to destroy fishing boats used in
the grind. Here and in Runavík and other places.”

  “And they’re sure they’ve got everyone involved now?” I asked. “There aren’t some they could have missed?”

  “No, they seem sure. They have an undercover police officer with the group: he would know.”

  “So it wasn’t Erla,” I said.

  “No, she was his messenger back to the controller for the security operation – a Dane called Munk.”

  “So why did they leave it so late before moving in? If they had someone on the inside they could have arrested everyone together before they split up.”

  “Yeh, you would think so,” Hentze nodded. “But I think the Danes were afraid that the ’86 group had real explosives hidden somewhere, not just homemade devices of petrol. I think they waited until the last moment so they could be sure that they’d get it all. It’s hard to know the truth because they don’t tell us everything, and what they do say I don’t trust.”

  We reached my car and I unlocked it.

  “So how does all that affect the murder investigation?” I said. “I can see why the Danes didn’t want anyone asking questions around the Alliance if they had an operation in place, but now that’s over does it open anything up?”

  “You looked at the boards in the incident room?” Hentze asked.

  “Yeah. Wasn’t that why you put me in there?”

  “Ja. I’m not so clever today,” he said wearily. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “A place called Stóratjørn.”

  * * *

  It should have been clear-cut. The way Hentze laid it out, whether Lukas Drescher had killed Erla Sivertsen because she’d told him to stop beating his girlfriend, or because she’d refused his sexual advances wasn’t important. What mattered was that Hentze now had a witness who could link Erla’s death directly to Drescher.

  And then it fell down. His witness – Jessen – had already disappeared back into his murky covert role and couldn’t or wouldn’t stand up in court. Without him all Hentze had left was a circumstantial case against Drescher, open to argument and denial. If you wanted to look at it in the worst possible light it might not even put Finn Sólsker in the clear.

  “So why are we going to this lake?” I asked when Hentze lapsed into silence. By now we were out of town on the road to Gamlarætt. A few cars had passed us, going the other way, but now there was nothing but darkness and wet tarmac.

  “Because Jessen mentioned it twice, very specifically. He also wanted us to know he was ein politistur, not a spook.”

  “You think he was dropping you a hint?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m just getting too old for all this. Here, this turn on the right. Do you see it?”

  The turn was on to a track of loose gravel, but that gave out after twenty yards and then it was just overgrown cinders. Beyond the beams of the headlights there was a complete absence of light: the sort of darkness you only get when you’re miles from the nearest streetlamp or building. After a couple of minutes, however, the headlights caught the side of a hut surrounded by long, coarse grass. “That’s it,” Hentze said.

  I turned the car on a patch of flat, muddy ground so that its headlights shone on the hut. It was a roughly made thing, its wood greyed with age. Sheets of now-tatty plywood had been nailed on its sides, covering what might have been windows, and the tin roof was more rust than metal.

  I left the headlights on when we got out of the car. Hentze had a small torch, which he used as we moved round the hut, looking for a door. We found it on the far side but it was blocked by a stack of wooden pallets, waist high. It was also padlocked. Clearly no one was intended to enter, at least not easily.

  Hentze assessed this for a moment, then shifted the light of his torch to the base of the hut where the floor beams were slightly elevated on pillars of breezeblock.

  “Do you know what you’re looking for?” I asked.

  “Nei,” he said, concentrating on what he was doing. “But something.”

  It was pointless to follow him as he went round the hut, so I used the light on my phone and searched back in the direction we’d come, squatting periodically to shine the light under the building. Apart from a couple of beer bottles and a soggy newspaper there was nothing until I heard Hentze’s call from the far end of the hut.

  When I got there he was down on his hands and knees, reaching as far as he could under the floorboards. He grunted and muttered a curse in Faroese, then shifted position a little and finally withdrew. From underneath he brought out a white bin liner, tied at the neck. He was wearing surgical gloves, I noticed.

  “You think that’s your something?” I asked.

  “Maybe. Let’s look at the car.”

  When we got there Hentze put the bag on the bonnet, then handed me the torch while he undid the knot of plastic. He folded the bag back far enough that I could shine the light on its contents and from what I could see it was a coat of some sort: rough cotton and military green; army surplus, perhaps. It was folded or rolled, but the collar was visible, and the upper part of a zip.

  “Okay,” Hentze said flatly. “I think this is it.” He made no attempt to take the coat out to examine it, just looked for a moment longer then started to re-tie the bag. “Jessen told us that he took Drescher’s coat and jeans away after the murder, so – if we’re lucky – this belongs to Lukas Drescher and it will have Erla Sivertsen’s DNA on it – maybe even her blood.”

  “And Jessen left it here why?” I asked, half guessing the answer but waiting to see.

  “I think it was his insurance, for us,” Hentze said. “As a police officer he knows that if he can’t go to court as a witness then our case against Drescher is weak. But if we have something else in his place then maybe we have what we need to prove that Drescher killed Erla.”

  “So you’re banking on Jessen being a good police officer,” I said.

  Hentze pulled the knot tight on the bin bag. “There are some,” he said flatly. “Even in Denmark.”

  53

  Friday/fríggjadagur

  THE TURF-ROOFED PRISON BUILDINGS AT MJØRKADALUR merged with the hillside on which they were set. Beyond them, where the land fell away, there was a dramatic view down the valley to the mountain-framed waters of Kaldbaksfjørður; steel-grey and sullen in the overcast morning light.

  It was a view that would be well suited to the paying guests of an hotel, Remi Syderbø judged as he and Dánjal Michelsen crossed the car park. It seemed slightly inappropriate, therefore, that it was bestowed only on the handful of Faroese prisoners who were confined at the expense of the state. Remi could think of far worse views to look at for a few months.

  Of course, things would be different for the nine suspects arrested last night. For them the increased levels of security would mean segregation and special attention, and Remi doubted that they’d get much of a view. There was already talk that they would soon be transferred to a high-security unit in Denmark. The Faroese weren’t equipped to deal with terrorism suspects, nor did they want to. In fact, as far as Remi was concerned, the sooner they were gone – terrorists, protesters, security services, the whole bloody lot – the better he’d like it. There was no place for any of them here.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, in a clean, cream-painted room in the eastern wing, Remi and Dánjal sat at an immovable table across from Lukas Drescher. The disposable white forensic suit Drescher was wearing made him look even more pallid, except for the sulky dark circles under his eyes.

  “We have been told that you have refused to have a lawyer here,” Remi said, speaking in English; the only language they had in common. “Also a translator. Do you wish to change your mind?”

  Drescher shook his head. “No.” He glanced at Dánjal’s phone on the table, set to record the interview. “I do not deny anything,” he said then. “This was a morally justified action we made. You kill the whales, therefore we destroy your boats.”
r />   “Except that you didn’t,” Dánjal said flatly. “You didn’t succeed.”

  “Maybe not this time,” Drescher said, matching his tone. “But when it is known what has happened here, there will be others. The world sees your barbarism, your murder of innocent animals. There will be others who come to stop you.”

  He sat back on the plastic chair and folded his arms resolutely. “You may bring charges however you like now. Terrorism or whatever: it makes no difference to me. I have nothing to say until I am in the court. Then I will make my statement. We all will.”

  Remi considered that for a moment. “I think you have not understood,” he said then. “We are not here to ask questions about what happened last night. That is for others. We are here to question you about the death of Erla Sivertsen, for which we believe you are responsible.”

  A flicker of uncertainty shifted briefly across Drescher’s face. He shook his head. “I know nothing about that. I have already told this to other officers who come to the house, therefore I have nothing to say.”

  “I understand,” Remi said. “But now we have more evidence from your girlfriend, Veerle Koning. She has told us how you beat her. She has also told us that Erla Sivertsen knew this and that she was angry about it. Therefore we believe that you killed Erla when she told you to stop hurting Veerle. Isn’t that true?”

  “Nein. It is a lie.”

  “Is it?”

  Remi’s glance towards Dánjal was only slight, but enough. Dánjal reached down beside the table and brought up a large paper sack. From inside it he took out a clear plastic evidence bag holding an army surplus jacket.

  “Do you know this jacket?” Remi asked as Dánjal held up the bag. Drescher looked but said nothing.

  “Is it yours?” Remi said.

  “No.”