The Last Refuge (24 page)

‘This is a preliminary hearing to decide whether you will be charged with the murder of Aron Dam in the town of Torshavn . . .

‘You will be given the right to state how you plead to this charge . . .

‘If you are charged with the offence then you will have the right to appeal . . .’

There was a hint of a tremor in my lawyer’s voice as she translated the last and most vital of the statements: ‘How do you plead?’

Almost as soon as she said it, Samuelsen held her arm out in front of me, as if barring me from replying. Then she froze. She stood still for long enough that the judge had to repeat the enquiry in Faroese and again call on her to translate it.

‘Frøkun Samuelsen?’

She nodded, obviously flustered, and held a hand up as if asking for more time, before finally bending down and whispering hoarsely and nervously into my ear.

‘I am changing the plea. Trust me.’

My head snapped up at her but she was already facing the judge. What the hell was she playing at? This woman didn’t know what she was doing. My mouth had dropped open by the time she answered the judge in Faroese. Whatever she said caused a hubbub to spiral round the court. She let that die down before spelling it out for me in English for everyone else to hear.

‘My client asks for the charges to be dismissed on the grounds of a complete lack of evidence.’

I wasn’t sure if the court fell into silence or if it was just that I could hear nothing above the sound of my heart thumping into my ribcage. Samuelsen dropped into the seat next to mine and picked up a sheaf of papers, moving two sheets from the top to the bottom for no apparent reason other than to busy her fingers. I could see that they were shaking.

‘What are you doing?’ I hissed at her through clenched teeth.

She didn’t look up but kept staring blindly at the papers in her hands. Above us, the judge was making some pronouncement to the court.

‘I think they have nothing.’

‘You think? You
think
they have nothing? Are you fucking kidding me?’

A flush was beginning to make its way up Samuelsen’s cheeks and my swearing had only increased the effect. Her breathing was fast, too, and she was trying to regulate it with regular little gasps, hidden by a hand placed over her mouth.

She turned her head to mine and whispered again: ‘The crime-scene examiner, Munk. She is not happy. The officers are not happy with what she tells them. She is not happy with their reaction. In the interview room, she was . . . Little Miss Sunshine. Here . . . not so much. I think she has nothing and they are not happy with that. I think.’

I’d seen the sneer on Inspector Nymann’s face when Samuelsen had stated the plea. His lip had curled up at one side in a show of superiority. A display of dismissive disbelief. Now he stared ahead at the judge, still a model of confidence, still holding all the cards.

The smart-suited man for the prosecution made a statement and Nymann left his seat and advanced on the opposition bench, neatly tucking the tail of his suit jacket underneath him as he sat down.

Questions were asked of him by his lawyer and briskly answered with complete assurance. He spoke, naturally enough, in Danish and the prosecutor repeated his words in Faroese, even though everyone in the court seemed to understand him first time round.

There was no time for Samuelsen to translate for me as he spoke, but there was no real need. Whatever Nymann had been asked was simply a vehicle to allow him to lay out the police’s case. It boiled down to one simple statement, whatever the language. They believed I had killed Aron Dam.

Samuelsen was finally given space in which to interpret, but the words had already been made clear to me in the expressions of the Hojgaards and the press, the local busybodies and the judge.

When I looked back at Nymann, he was smoothing down his suit, like a cat licking its paws and wiping its fur cleaner than clean. Elin Samuelsen, her navy ensemble somewhat crumpled and bulging unflatteringly around the waist, pushed her chair back and got to her feet. She cleared her throat nervously.

The one sentence she spoke squeaked a little. Then she paused and repeated it in English, either for me or for effect.

‘Inspector Nymann, I will ask you one simple question.’

The time taken up by the translation gave Nymann time to wonder, and I saw a trace of doubt pass across his face. Samuelsen paused again, composing herself and making him wait.

‘Inspector Nymann, do you have even one single piece of physical evidence connecting Andrew John Callum to the murder of Aron Dam?’

The question came first in either Faroese or Danish – the distinction was beyond me – but she translated it quickly enough that I was able to see the look on Nymann’s face for what it was. She did so quickly enough that he was forced to give an immediate answer.

Whatever it was he said, it wasn’t acceptable to either Samuelsen or the judge. She pushed him. What she said sounded like a demand for a yes or a no. He floundered on in the same vein, but the judge, Hammershaimb, intervened and, it seemed, ordered him to answer directly. That much was clear from the look of unhappiness on Nymann’s face.

He tried though. There was an extended statement, a puffed-up, puffed-out defence of his accusation. When he finished, Elin Samuelsen said nothing. She stood and waited, letting the silence hang there for as long as she dared. With a final stare at Nymann, she turned and spoke to me, but it was clear the reiteration wasn’t for my benefit but for the court’s.

‘Inspector Nymann says that there is strong evidence linking you to the murder of Aron Dam. He says you were witnessed in a fight with the accused on the night of the killing. He says you had motive because of a violent disagreement over Dam’s ex-girlfriend, Karis Lisberg. He says you were seen to be extremely drunk and aggressive. He says you cannot account for your movements after leaving the Cafe Natur. He says that attempts to retrieve trace evidence from the murder scene were compromised by the rain.’

She paused and reached down to pick papers up from the desk in front of her. My eyes instinctively followed her hands and saw they were still shaking.

‘However . . . the inspector has not answered the key question.’

She launched into Faroese again and then Danish, or it may have been the other way round. Finally, in English.

‘Inspector Nymann, I ask you again, do you have a single piece of firm forensic evidence that places Mr Callum at the scene of the crime? Do you have even one piece of DNA or one fingerprint or one fibre of clothing or one footprint or one witness? Anything? Anything at all that actually proves my client had anything to do with this dreadful crime?’

The best that Nymann could offer in response was two words: ‘Not yet.’

Samuelsen sat down beside me. I could hear the rapidity of her breathing and I saw her grip the seat below her to steady herself. She’d done well though. We both knew it.

Hammershaimb conferred with his colleagues on the bench, their heads close together, speaking low. When he re-emerged to face the court, it was with the grim expression of a man ready to confer a death sentence. My stomach somersaulted in expectation.

He spoke slowly and deliberately. I heard Samuelsen’s name and mine, Nymann’s too. Hammershaimb was reiterating the points made by both sides as he summed up. As he continued I tried to get some indication from Samuelsen’s face, but she was impassive as she intently followed the judge’s summation. It was only as he finished that a noise broke out around us and I caught the hint of a smile on the corner of her lips. My eyes flew to the other side of the room, where Nymann looked furious and Nils Dam was on his feet, pointing furiously and shouting.

Samuelsen turned to me breathlessly. ‘You are not being charged with murder. You can walk free. The judge agreed there was insufficient evidence to charge you.’

I blew out hard, a release valve being triggered deep inside me. I’d been relatively calm until then, but I suddenly found a shake in my hands.

‘
Kortini
. . .’ Hammershaimb hadn’t finished and my heart stopped again.

This time he looked straight at me and spoke in English.

‘There remains reason to question Mr Callum’s role in this terrible incident. I am ruling that he must give up his passport, stay on the Faroe Islands and report to the police station in Torshavn every day until this court rules otherwise. The police can continue their investigation into the murder of Aron Dam and they have the right to petition this court again with a charge against Mr Callum or any other person. However, if they appear before me again, I hope to see more from them in the form of evidence.’

I nodded my agreement, even though no one had asked if it was okay by me. I had come to the Faroes to get away from the world and now I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to.

The Danes, Nymann and Kielstrup, got to their feet, their dissatisfaction obvious. They both glared at Nicoline Munk as if it was all her fault. The diminutive forensic expert wasn’t for taking the fall though, and I could see her arguing forcibly with them.

Nymann took a couple of strides in my direction and gave me a curt nod, his dignity and sense of superiority intact as he sneered down his nose at me. ‘You will be hearing from us, Mr Callum. Do not go far.’

Nils Dam was being half-pushed, half-encouraged out of the door by a police officer. Wild-eyed and loud, he wasn’t easily persuaded, but the cop kept inching him nearer and nearer to the door until his shouts dimmed and he finally disappeared.

Elin Samuelsen got up and I followed suit. She shook my hand and wished me well.

‘I will be in touch, Mr Callum. But for now I am going to meet my husband. I need a drink.’

As I left the courtroom, I watched Munk continue her argument with the two detectives, and allowed myself to consider what I saw as the two possible reasons for the failure of the crime-scene investigator to find evidence of my guilt. Either the wind and rain that had toyed with me since my arrival on these islands had come to my rescue, washing away any physical proof of my having been at the scene. Or else I had never been there at all.

I wished I knew which. But I didn’t.

Chapter 34

It was raining a bit as I walked out of the court, a welcoming drizzle that wiped my face clean. The air was fresh and I gulped down a lungful of it, hungry for the taste of it in my mouth.

I looked around me, more in hope than expectation. Maybe, I thought, the news would have reached her and she’d coming running through the rain into my arms like we were in some shitty movie. But all I saw was a handful of people regarding me with curiosity and contempt. It seemed I’d been freed by the court of the land but not the court of public opinion. Hushed conversations, knowing nods and suspicious, even fearful, glances.

‘Hey, Scotsman.’ The accent was unmistakeably Gotteri’s, and as I turned I saw his broad smile and his arms spread wide. For a moment I thought he was going to hug me but the gesture was expressive. I was free and he’d known it would happen all along.

‘I am thinking that perhaps you could do with a drink, my friend.’ His words made me think of Elin Samuelsen, heading off for a drink with her husband, driven by similar yet different stresses of her own. Gotteri was still talking, always talking.

‘But maybe not the Cafe Natur, huh? Come on, let’s go to Hvonn. They have good enough beer. And you can tell me all about killing Aron Dam.’

‘Very funny.’

‘Ah, come on, Callum. A little spell at the top of Sornfelli and you lose your sense of humour? I don’t think so. This is a thing to celebrate. I am buying.’

I sighed. ‘Yeah, okay. I’m Scottish. I can’t pass up an opportunity like that.’

Gotteri laughed and clapped me heartily on the shoulder, guiding me towards the bar in Hotel Torshavn. We hadn’t gone two steps when Nils Dam stepped out from a doorway across the street. I expected him to run across the road and attack me but he just stood there and stared, making sure that I’d seen him. It was a threat. Perhaps a promise of sorts. His eyes bulged like a madman’s and there was a red tinge of fury about his unshaven face.

‘Just walk on,’ Gotteri implored me, his arm on the small of my back, propelling me forward. ‘And don’t look back. He won’t do anything. Not here in the street.’

‘Shit, is that supposed to reassure me, Serge? He won’t do anything
here
? He’ll wait until no one else is around and I’m not looking? Is that what you’re saying?’ Gotteri shrugged. ‘I’m not saying that, but maybe. He looks pretty mad. And he thinks you murdered his brother.’

‘You know the guy. What is he likely to do? What is he capable of?’

‘I don’t know him. I’ve spoken to him once or twice, but apart from his reputation for a temper I don’t know much.’

I said nothing but fell into stride with the Frenchman, head down, and marching with him towards a beer. Moments later, his words left lying on the pavement behind us, I looked up and studied Gotteri unseen: the perma-smile still plastered to his face, the blond hair bobbing as he walked. In my mind’s eye I could see him sitting in his car with Nils Dam in the passenger seat the night Karis and I had got together. The raised voices, the angry gestures. Not a conversation you would have with someone you’d spoken to just once or twice.

Maybe, after being locked up in a sleepless cell, I was seeing lies where none existed, paranoia overruling common sense. And maybe not. I’d drink his beer but I’d be watching and listening carefully.

There were only a few lunchtime customers in the Hvonn, all of whom looked up when Gotteri and I walked through the door. We breezed past them straight to the bar, where Serge ordered two Klassics, then took seats in a quiet corner away from the other drinkers.

He raised his glass to me before knocking back his first mouthful. ‘
Santé
! So, how was it in Mjørkadalur? I think that, as prisons go, it is not Devil’s Island.’

I gulped at my own beer, the way I’d done with the air when I left the court. ‘They were fair. But I’m in no rush to go back.’