The Last Refuge (22 page)

My gaze flittered between Tunheim and the prison. The devil and the deep blue sea.

‘I can’t, Inspector. I would if I could, believe me, but I can’t. If you want me to confess to killing Aron Dam, I cannot do that. It would be a lie.’

‘I see. Then help me and you by giving me something to work with.’

‘I thought the Danes were in charge of the case now.’

Tunheim fiddled with his glasses, his head tilted to the side. ‘They are. In theory it is a joint operation, a partnership. In practice, of course, they run the show. I want to make the partnership a bit more equal. So what can you tell me?’

I stared between the inspector and the jail, to where the mountain slopes ran to the fjord. Whichever way I looked, there seemed to be no way out.

‘Nothing.’

Tunheim looked out of the window and avoided my gaze, shaking his head sadly. ‘Drive on, Demmus. Mr Callum’s new home awaits him.’

Chapter 31

Four walls. It had never been anything more than a phrase before. Now it was all I had. Four walls. White. Unadorned. No natural light. A single bed bolted to the floor. A table and a chair. A double shelf was fixed to one wall and a sink to another. A toilet sat in a corner.

My company was my own. Me, the walls, the bed and the nonstop workings of my mind.

Tunheim’s warning about my being the jail’s only resident might have had some foundation to it. That long first night, all I heard was the creaking of floorboards and the whistle of the wind. I sat up on the firm bed, listening to the dirge and wondering if the air was trying to find a way out or in.

At least the wind had a choice.

On the second night, I learned I wasn’t alone. I was treated to the tuneless singing of a drunken troubadour, a new arrival who had a distinct advantage on me in being brimful of booze. That definitely seemed the way to make this bearable. His singing didn’t appeal to everyone, though, as I heard other shouts echoing from slightly further away, shouts which weren’t too appreciative.

‘Drunks,’ I’d been told the previous morning by Mørkøre, a wiry, smiling character who was one of two guards that I’d seen. Being stuck at the top of Sornfelli couldn’t have been much fun for him either, and I got the feeling he was glad to stop and chat, perhaps curious about the foreigner who was no doubt the talk of the islands. ‘Drunks. That’s what we mostly get in here. Men, always men, who have too much then get into a fight. Or who then get into their cars and drive. We don’t like that. They go into the cell to cool off then away to the court.’

‘You don’t get many murderers then?’

Mørkøre’s brows furrowed until he realized that I was probably joking.

‘No. We had one once before and it made him a celebrity. You are not so famous yet. Before it used to be drunks and only drunks. Now sometimes we get people in who have taken drugs or even some who have committed violence related to drugs. Still, not so much.’

‘How many guests do you have?’

Mørkøre laughed. ‘We can accommodate up to fourteen guests. All in single rooms. Bed and breakfast. No smoking allowed. Tonight we have four. Normal is maybe eight. You are the VIP guest.’

‘Is that good?’ I asked him doubtfully.

‘Not for you it isn’t. It means you will probably be here much longer than anyone else.’

Mørkøre left me with a sympathetic grin and the four walls swallowed me up again.

She didn’t call. She didn’t write. I was out of mind and out of sight.

A couple of times I asked Mørkøre about visitors or phone calls but he just shrugged and told me ‘maybe tomorrow’. I thought that, too; kept thinking it despite all evidence to the contrary.

The sun had already come up twice on an unseen horizon, and set twice somewhere over my shoulder. Its invisible comings and goings had got old pretty quickly. It wasn’t made any easier by the knowledge that I might have to get used to it permanently.

The sound of a key turning in the lock roused me from an uneasy sleep and I glanced at my watch to confirm it was seven in the morning. The door pushed back and a now-familiar large, gloomy, dark-haired man stepped inside, a tray in his hands bearing my breakfast. It was Jensen, the second and much less sociable of my two jailers.

He gave me the briefest of nods, grumbled under his breath, and placed the tray on the table, before turning round again and locking the door behind him. It was his way. He would bring my food or peer through the hatch in the door with the minimum of conversation or fuss.

I pulled back the covers and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, sitting there for a few moments and savouring the change of scenery. I had a long day ahead of me and next to nothing to do. I’d already learned not to waste what little activity there was by rushing it.

I caught the air, sniffing it. Strong coffee and spicy sausage. And the disappearing whiff that had been brought in on Jensen’s back. Fresh air. I hadn’t smelled it for a couple of days but that made it more recognizable rather than less.

Pacing across the cell floor, I washed my hands at the tiny sink, scraped back the chair and took a seat at my breakfast table. I wasn’t particularly hungry; in fact I’d had little appetite since I’d arrived, but mealtimes at least broke the monotony of the day and gave it a semblance of order that I could manage my sanity around.

The dried sausage was hotter than the coffee so I lifted the cup to my lips first and let a mouthful of the lukewarm brew swill around until I couldn’t take the bitter taste any longer. I opened my throat and let the pungent liquid slide down. Starbucks it wasn’t, but at least they couldn’t be accused of dodging taxes.

I cut the sausage into small pieces with the intention of making the process last as long as possible. The knife wasn’t sharp enough to allow me to do myself any serious damage, even assuming that I was of a mind to try to do so, but it accounted for the sausage and let me slowly spread butter on the Faroese rye bread.

Each forkful filled my mind if not my mouth. I picked apart the flavourings, trying to identify herbs and spices, humming the Simon and Garfunkel tune to myself: Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Trying to think of everything
except
time. Trying not to think. Trying and, inevitably, failing.

Each bite was seasoned with memories and questions, some wanted, some not. Images flashed through my mind like newspaper headlines and I struggled to know whether I had read them or written them. Unreliable memories fogged with booze and fear. I remembered staggering onto the street, my eyes blinded with rage, charging through the alleyways with a purpose. I strained to see street signs in my mind’s eye, trying to remember where I had been. And where I hadn’t been. The bar and the fish slabs were the only two certainties. In between, I was in trouble.

I knew I’d drive myself crazy by obsessing on it. I had to survive the day and would only make it longer and more difficult by dwelling on things that seemed out of reach. Anyway, some things were better forgotten, I knew that much for sure.

So I ate and deflected, trying to force my mind elsewhere. My defences were always breached though, fresh thoughts of Dam and Karis sneaking in through tiny gaps, then flooding my head. His face and hers. His body, bloodied and broken. Hers naked and warm but somewhere else. I tried to push the tide back, damming the breach with desperate memories. Thoughts of home and the past I had been so keen to flee suddenly seemed preferable to the present.

I thought of my dad and the look on his face when he read the newspapers, seeing my name in headlines. The man who had been so proud when he watched me score my first goal for the school football team, or the quiet satisfaction on his face when he was at my graduation, barely able to look at me. I forced the hurt of that memory on myself, donning a protective suit of armour that had spikes on the inside. I knew I didn’t deserve to run away from it unpunished.

I was still wrestling with my thoughts an hour later when the door opened, intruding on my solitude. It was Mørkøre, a friendly smile on his face.

‘You have a visitor. If you want one.’

I was on my feet in seconds and had to take a moment before I spoke – I knew the words would stutter out as I tried to control my excitement. I’d been waiting for this since the cops turned up at the fish farm. Aching for it every time the door opened.

‘I want one. Who is it?’

Mørkøre shook his head apologetically. ‘It’s not her. I’m sorry. It’s a Frenchman. His name is Gotteri.’

My heart sank but I still nodded, grateful for the visit nonetheless. ‘Yes. I’ll see him.’

Serge was waiting for me on the other side of a large wooden table, a wary look spreading into a forced smile. Mørkøre stood quietly in the corner, looking away but his ears working overtime.

‘How are you, Scotsman?’

I spread my arms in response. I’m in here, you see it all.’

‘Is there anything I can bring you? Something to make it easier?’

‘Sure. A bottle of whisky and my passport.’

A muffled noise escaped from Mørkøre’s throat, as if he had been about to respond to my request but stopped himself.

‘I will see what I can do,’ Gotteri replied, his eyes searching mine for clues. ‘This is bad, my friend. Very bad. You are the talk of the islands.’

‘There’s a surprise. And does everyone think I’m guilty?’

He hesitated. ‘Not everyone, I’m sure. The Danish police have interviewed me as they know I’m your friend. They interviewed Karis too.’

My heart jumped at the mention of her name. ‘How is she, Serge? Is she okay?’

Gotteri shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I have not spoken to her. I tried, but her father, the minister, said she wasn’t talking to anyone.’

‘You must have some idea.’

Another shrug. ‘Her father looked very worried. But she will be fine. It is you that I’m worried about.’

‘Don’t be. Try and make sure she is okay. Will you do that for me?’

Gotteri regarded me strangely. A man trying to make sense of what he was hearing and seeing. ‘I will if I can. So what do you remember about that night? I heard you were pretty drunk.’

Whatever I remembered, I wasn’t about to share it with Serge. It was my turn to shrug. ‘Not much. What else have you heard?’

‘About the fight with Aron. Then the argument you had with Karis. People say you staggered out of the Natur like a man on a mission. An angry man.’

I spun on Gotteri’s words like a pig roasting on a spit. More unwelcome blanks filled in my memory.

‘You know how small it is here, my friend. A place where every person has eyes that they can borrow. Everyone knows someone who saw you leave the bar. It does not look good for you. Surely you can remember something else about what happened after you were on the street.’

‘Like, did I kill Aron Dam?’

He held my stare. ‘Well, yes, that. Did you?’

‘Thanks for the visit, Serge. I’m going back to my cell now. It’s been a long day.’

My second and only visitor was Elin Samuelsen who came later the same day.

‘You have a date for court?’ Mørkøre asked as he led me along the corridor to meet her.

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘Okay. I will talk to you tomorrow night then.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

Mørkøre was still chuckling to himself as he opened the door to the visitor room. The truth was, I expected him to be right.

Samuelsen was nervously fidgeting in the same seat that had held Gotteri, a sheaf of fluttering papers in her hands. She got to her feet and offered me a soft, moist handshake. The woman’s nerves weren’t doing mine any good.

‘How are you, Mr Callum?’

‘As well as can be expected. Everyone has been very fair with me. I hope you’ve brought me some good news.’

She reddened slightly and looked apologetic. ‘No. There is none. I’m sorry. I am here to talk you through what will happen in court tomorrow. What you can expect.’

‘Can I expect to walk free?’

‘It is possible.’

I nearly laughed at her inability to pour more than the minimum of optimism into her words. Never had ‘possible’ sounded so unlikely.

Samuelsen talked me through court procedure, who would be there and who wouldn’t, what I should do and what I shouldn’t. I heard what she said on the edges of my consciousness, each word fading like the one before, like ghosts into the night.

‘Have you spoken to Karis?’ I interrupted.

The lawyer looked up, clearly surprised. ‘Karis Lisberg? Um, yes. Yes, I have.’

Of course Karis Lisberg. Who else?

‘How was she? What did she say?’

Samuelsen reached for her notes, more out of instinct or self-preservation than any real need to check, because she stopped halfway and looked back to me.

‘She was . . . upset. This has obviously been very difficult for her. She cried.’

Her words pierced my resistance, tiny arrows fired straight into my conscience.

‘What did she say?’

‘That she left the bar because she was angry with you. For what you did to Aron Dam. That she was frightened by how you were violent towards him. She went home and did not know any more until she heard the next morning what had happened.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Did you ask her the question?’

Samuelsen hesitated, feigning ignorance for as long as she could.

‘Yes. I did. She . . . she said that she didn’t know. She didn’t want to believe it, but in the bar she had seen an anger in you that she had never seen before. She said yes, maybe you had killed him.’

Sitting on a bed, staring at four white walls, and with plenty of time to do so, is not a healthy thing for a troubled mind. Especially if you’re locked up in a foreign country for something that you might or might not have done. I sat and stared, hoping for answers but seeing only questions.

My head hurt with the strain of trying to remember what had happened after I left the Cafe Natur on the night Dam was killed. The difficult part was trying to fight my way through the fog of the akvavit. If that wasn’t enough I also had to untangle my twisted memories, separate the real ones from the false, those I actually remembered and those I remembered dreaming.