The Last Refuge (29 page)

The next morning, as I stood on the doorstep waiting for my knock to be answered, I felt I could hear curtains twitch and neighbours whispering to each other. It’s him. The Scotsman. The murderer. It seemed the good folk of Torshavn had withdrawn the warmth of their welcome.

The door opened and Tummas Barthel stood there, seemingly unsurprised at my unannounced arrival at his home. Dressed in a classic black Rolling Stones tongue T-shirt and faded denims, he briefly looked over my head before beckoning me inside.

I closed the door behind me and stepped into the Room of Rock, with its posters, album covers and top-of-the-range CD player. A faint air of booze floated warmly, although it wasn’t yet noon, and I reminded myself that Barthel had already done a full day’s work on the ocean. His sun was well over the yardarm.

I fell into an armchair as directed by my as-yet-silent host. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d want to speak to me. Not given what they say I’ve done.’

Barthel grunted a gravelly laugh. ‘I spoke to you before, remember. And I knew what they’d said about you then. Whisky?’

‘Thanks. You still got any of that Johnnie Walker Blue?’

‘Long gone. I have a good bottle of Ardbeg though. Had it flown in. You’ll like it.’

He fetched the bottle from the other room, topping up a glass next to the computer, even though it already held an inch of golden dreams, before filling a glass for me. He carried them in one hand, a finger in each and let me take mine from him.

‘You’ll not only be liking this,’ he sipped at his whisky as he sat in the chair opposite, ‘you’ll be needing it too, I think.’

‘I can’t argue with that.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think I don’t know. I’m thinking only two or three people know the truth. Aron Dam, you and the person who did it. Either two or three.’

‘I can’t argue with your maths, either.’

We sat in silence for a bit, contemplating the whisky and the world, words an unnecessary distraction. I could hear the wind picking up outside, wind chimes singing nearby and foliage being blown repeatedly against a window, like nature knocking to be allowed inside.

‘I hear you’re not allowed to leave,’ Barthel said at last. ‘Like me. Staying here whether you like it or not. My promise to my father, and yours to the judge.’ He raised his glass towards me. ‘Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.’

‘I hoped you might help me, Tummas.’

‘With what?’

‘Information.’

Barthel stroked absently at his white beard. ‘Why me?’

‘Not many people in Torshavn seem to want to talk to me any more. They’ve judged me guilty. I hoped you’d be different.’

He took another mouthful of the Ardbeg. ‘Oh, I’m different all right. What is it you want to know?’

I almost laughed. That was the difficult part, knowing what it was that I wanted. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? That was a dangerous luxury. A convenient truth? Maybe. I wanted answers that led to a truth I could live with.

‘I want to know about Aron Dam. And his brother. And about the Frenchman, Serge Gotteri.’

Barthel nodded slowly. ‘Separately or together?’

‘Both.’

He paused, sipping at the malt.

‘I know some things for sure. Other things I have heard but could not testify to their certainty.’

‘Okay.’

‘Aron and Nils are not very popular. Never have been. This is a strange business we are in, where men work independently yet we all rely on the same thing, and on each other. We are all, as you would say, in the same boat. Not the Dams. They’ve never given a fuck about anyone other than themselves. Always angry, always looking for a fight about this or that. They were always a pain in the ass.’

‘Plenty of enemies then?’

Barthel regarded me coolly, as if weighing up my meaning.

‘Yes. They made more enemies than friends, I would say. Aron obviously made one very serious enemy for himself.’

Perhaps it wasn’t meant as an accusation, but my paranoia and my guilt ensured that I took it as one. I’d have been better placed to respond if I could have been sure what I had done. Instead I swallowed down whisky, not enjoying its assault on my throat as it headed straight to my gut.

‘What about Gotteri?’

‘He is your friend, is he not? Surely you will know more about him than I do.’

‘Maybe. I want to know about his involvement with the Dams.’

‘Are you sure there is any involvement?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. I can ask around.’

‘I’d be grateful. But no one can know . . .’

The laugh gurgled in him, the whisky coughing in disbelief. ‘That I’m asking for you? My God, of course not. Anyway, that would hardly help get me your information, would it?’

‘Thanks, Tummas.’

‘More whisky?’

I looked at the time on the display of Barthel’s CD player.

‘No. I can’t. I need to go to the police station and I have to make a call in town first.’

Chapter 44

I dialled and waited, the delay seeming to last for an eternity, time enough for me to realize I should have thought through what I was going to say.

The unfamiliar ring tone sounded distant, an echo of what it should be. I put it down to the 3,000-plus miles between Torshavn and Washington DC. It rang on frustratingly and I urged someone to answer. At last they did. A woman’s voice, pleasant and efficient but showing the wear of having repeated the same phrase a million times.

‘
National Geographic
. How may I help you?’

‘I’d like to speak to someone in, um, Features, please.’

There was the faintest sigh. ‘Of course, sir. Could you be more specific? Which area of publication would your query be addressed to?’

I had no idea and scrambled for an answer. ‘Overseas assignments. Birds.’

The sigh was more evident this time, barely restrained. ‘Are you an existing correspondent, sir?’ The tone of voice made it clear she knew that I wasn’t. ‘Or do you wish to offer something for publication?’

‘Um, well, to offer something. Yes. I’d like to speak to someone about the possibility of an overseas assignment. A features editor.’

‘Thank you, sir, but we accept such submissions by mail or email. If you would like to send—’

I cut across her. ‘I’d like to speak to someone today, please. It’s a matter of urgency. There isn’t time for any correspondence.’

‘Really?’ I had to admire the restrained way she conveyed her doubt, nothing more than a nuance of insult.

‘Yes, really.’ I was firm and she knew I wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

The sigh was almost inaudible. ‘Okay, sir. If you could hold the line, please, I will try to find someone available to speak to you.’

Silence and she was gone, the line humming with static. I imagined the conversation that I was shut off from. A grouchy editor, or more likely an assistant, complaining that they were the one being dumped on by the switchboard operator. Wondering why she hadn’t told the nutcase on the line that he had to write in. She indignantly replying that of course she had. More bitching, then finally, I hoped, a reluctant acceptance. The line clicked again.

‘Hello. Bob Dokoris.’

The man’s voice was suitably terse, making it clear that he was really far too busy and important to be taking calls like this and it had better be good.

‘Hi Bob, thanks for taking my call. My name is James Johnstone and I’m calling from Glasgow in Scotland.’

The silence didn’t sound as if it was overly impressed by any of that. ‘What can I help you with, Mr Johnstone?’

‘I understand that you deal with overseas assignments. I wanted to run a couple of things by you, if that’s okay.’

‘I’m pretty busy, Mr Johnstone. It would be easier if you could email us with—’

‘Yes, I understand that. I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m up against a deadline of my own. I have a story here that I’m certain you would want to see, but there are other publications showing interest.’

‘Okay . . .’

‘But my first choice would be
National Geographic
. It’s a photo-led article and I don’t think anyone else can do it justice the way you could. It also needs a global audience.’

There was interest now, albeit still wary. ‘Could you tell me what your article is about, Mr Johnstone? Clearly I can’t get into a discussion with you on this until I know the subject matter. And what’s your background? Are you a journalist in Scotland?’

‘In Scotland, but in London, too, and spells in Johannesburg and Madrid. I can provide you with references from various editors.
The Times
, the
Mail & Guardian
in Jo’burg,
El Pais
,
Le Monde.
’

He was softening, I could hear it in his voice. I’d been scaled up from nutcase to timewaster to possible useful contact. Bob Dokoris was interested.

‘Okay, I’m listening. What’s the story?’

I paused, as much for effect as to gather my thoughts. I had to get this right.

‘I can’t tell you the whole thing right now, Bob. It’s still pretty sensitive and you’ll appreciate that I need to protect some information until we conclude a deal. Like location. I’d need to keep that secret for now, or people will be all over this. But the basics are that I have proof, photographic proof, that a once-native species has been re introduced to Scotland by an extremely wealthy foreign land owner. A species that will be hugely controversial once this is made public.’

The pause on Dokoris’s end of the line was different from the earlier one. This one was his brain working overtime.

‘You’ll need to give me more than that, James. What species? And why would it be controversial?’

‘Well, let’s just say that this species is quietly going about the business of killing other native species. Ones that are proving a nuisance on the landowner’s many acres, but which he is not allowed to cull. Are you interested?’

More silence. More thinking. ‘James . . . are we talking about wolves here? Killing deer?’

My turn to let the question hang in the air.

‘As I said, I can’t tell you the whole thing right now, but let’s say that’s a very well-informed guess.’

‘Wow. And you have photographs?’

‘I do.’

‘Good quality?’

‘Top quality.’

‘Okay, James. Let’s say I’m interested. But you will also realize I’m not going to talk money until I hear and see a lot more.’

‘I appreciate that. I haven’t dealt with
National Geographic
before, but a friend of mine tells me that you are very professional to deal with and always fair when it comes to payment. It was him that recommended I take the story to you.’

‘Well that’s great to hear. We do always try to deal fairly with contributors. Who is your friend?’

‘Serge Gotteri. I think he’s on assignment for you right now.’

I heard static and Bob’s brain whirring. Something had changed in the wind.

‘How well do you know Mr Gotteri, James?’

Get this right. Play it carefully.

‘Um, not
that
well. I’ve bumped into him in various places around the world. Shared the odd beer on assignment.’

‘Right. So you’re not best friends or anything?’

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Okay. Well I’m kind of glad to hear that. Between us, Gotteri is a bit of a pain in the ass. He’s always trying to push articles on green anarchism, real eco-terrorism stuff. You know? It’s just not what we’re looking for right now. And he’s very . . . insistent. Difficult to deal with, let’s say. That’s between us, though, you understand?’

‘Sure. No problem. Won’t say a word. But you are using him. Aren’t you?’

‘Well, no. That’s what I don’t understand. Gotteri sure isn’t on any assignment from us. We haven’t taken anything from him in three years. He knows we don’t want his stuff. God knows we’ve told him often enough.’

Bob Dokoris suddenly seemed a very long way from Torshavn. A long way from Serge Gotteri and his fake job.

‘Are you there, James?’

‘Yes, I’m here, Bob. I think there’s maybe a problem on the line. I’ll need to call you back.’

‘Okay. Well, do that. I’m interested, and I’m sure we can better the terms of the other publications. Here, take my direct number. James? James?’

Chapter 45

I had to report for my first daily check-in at the police station on Jonas Broncksgøta, the road that ran north from the old fort, Skansin, at the ferry port. It was probably as much a chore for the cops as it was for me, particularly as they knew there was little or no chance of me getting off these islands, short of pinching a rowing boat and taking my chances on the high seas.

Demmus Klettskarð, the heavyweight constable who had picked me up from the fish farm, was on duty and he cheerlessly had me follow the prescribed routine. Procedure, meaningless and torturous as it was, was followed to the letter.

I was signed in and my attendance ticked off like an habitual school truant, albeit one who never ventured further than the back of the school for a smoke. I had bent my knee to their will, and that satisfied them for now. It was all an act of bureaucratic theatre to satisfy their annoyance at my being released by the court.

When the play was done, I half-heartedly asked Klettskarð what his plans were for the rest of the day and, to my satisfaction, got no response. It was a minor victory in a losing war.

I pushed my way through the station door and was hit by a lively breeze that sought to gain entrance. Unlike the wind, I needed to be out. Once I was out in the open I was no less trapped – like a bird with clipped wings – but at least I was able to breathe air that wasn’t fogged with the stench of police paperwork.

Like my freedom, my options for the day were limited. I wasn’t exactly welcome at some of the places I’d frequented previously. My face wasn’t the first one that people wanted to see in the Natur, at Kaffihúsið or on Nils Finsens gøta. I was having to get used to curious stares and suspicious glances, pointing fingers and people crossing the street to avoid me. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I had come to the Faroes to get away from people, and now they were getting away from me.