The Blue Ice (11 page)

‘Ask Jorgensen,' he replied with a violence that I did not understand. ‘Ask him who Hans Schreuder is.'

Jorgensen stopped at the name. Then he came slowly aft. His eyes were watching Dahler. With a sudden assumption of carelessness, he said, ‘Good-morning, gentlemen. Good-morning, Miss Somers. I see we're off Solsvik. We'll be at Bovaagen in time for breakfast.' His eyes swept over our watchful faces and then gazed out towards the islands.

‘Who is this Hans Schreuder, Mr Jorgensen?' I asked.

He swung round on me. ‘How should I know?' His voice was angry. Then he turned to Dahler. ‘What do you know about Schreuder?'

The cripple smiled. ‘I would prefer you to tell them about him,' he said. ‘He was your man.'

‘I have never heard of him. What are you talking about?' Jorgensen's voice had risen. It was trembling with anger.

‘I think you have heard of him, Knut.'

Jorgensen took a cigarette out of his case and lit it. ‘Knocking you out yesterday seems to have upset your mind. The name Hans Schreuder means nothing to me.' He flicked the match overboard. The flame made a little hiss as it hit the water. ‘What speed are we making?' he asked me.

‘About five knots,' I answered. I was watching his face. ‘Jorgensen,' I said. ‘I'd still like to know who Hans Schreuder is.'

‘I tell you I don't know.' He emphasised the point by striking the roof of the chartroom with his clenched fist. I waited, and in the silence he said, ‘Don't you believe me?'

‘No,' I said quietly. I turned to Dahler. ‘Who is Hans Schreuder?' I asked.

‘A metallurgist employed by Det Norske Staalselskab,' Dahler replied.

I looked at Jorgensen. He was watching Dahler, his body taut and his right hand clenched. Dahler stepped down into the cockpit and seated himself on the far side. He was smiling quietly. ‘Know anything about him?' I asked.

‘Yes,' Dahler said. ‘He was a German Jew. He left Germany in 1936 and settled in Norway. He became naturalised. When war broke out he was in the research department of D.N.S. After the invasion of Norway he worked for the Germans.'

‘Where did you meet him?'

‘At Finse.'

‘What was he doing there?'

‘He was an expert on metal alloys. He was engaged on certain low temperature tests in the German test sheds by Finsevatn.'

‘Did Farnell meet him up at Finse?'

Dahler shrugged his shoulders. ‘I do not know,' he said. He looked up at Jorgensen. ‘What was Schreuder doing up on the Jostedal with Farnell?' he asked.

But Jorgensen had recovered his ease of manner. ‘I don't know,' he said. ‘And I must say, Mr Gansert, that I am surprised that you took the attitude you did just now. I have never heard of this man Schreuder until last night. He may have been a collaborator, as Dahler says. He may work for D.N.S. But you must remember that because I manage the affairs of the company, it does not mean that I know everyone who works in the laboratories, workshops and foundries.' He turned towards the companionway. ‘Let me know when we are nearing Bovaagen Hval, please.'

I watched him go below with a feeling that I hadn't handled him very well. It was quite possible for Schreuder to have worked for D.N.S. without Jorgensen knowing. And what reason had I to believe Dahler, a man branded as a traitor, in preference to one of the country's industrial leaders? And then I began to wonder again why Schreuder should have been on the Jostedal when Farnell met his death.

One thing I was now determined to do – I must have a post-mortem carried out on Farnell's body. I must know whether there was any evidence of a struggle. If Schreuder had killed Farnell … But why the message in that consignment of whale meat if he worked for D.N.S. – why the desire to get to England? It didn't make sense.

I must have sat there lost in thought for a long time, for Curtis suddenly emerged from the chartroom and said, ‘Skipper – this looks like the gap we take for Bovaagen.'

I noticed then that we were close in to the islands. They were bare, salt-scored rock without sign of habitation. A narrow gap with sheer cliffs like the Corinth Canal cut through to Hjeltefjord. I checked with the chart and then ordered Carter, who was at the wheel, to alter course. As we glided into the gap the wind died away. I took the wheel and sent Carter below to start the engine.

The sea was smooth as glass. The gap was like a street paved with water. The rock cliffs on either side threw back the sound of our engine. We passed a brief inlet with a little
vaag
or wharf. Beside it lay the bones of a barge, weed-grown and slimy. Above, a white wooden cottage, perched precariously under the cliffs. The flag of Norway flew lazily from a flag-pole. Children waved to us, their shrill voices mingling with the sound of the engine. We glided out into the wide thoroughfare of Hjeltefjord. Here, too, the sea was a mirror, broken only by the long ripples of our wash trailing out on either side from the bows. And in the continued absence of any wind we lowered the sails. We turned north then, following the distant wake of a coastal steamer. Dahler touched my arm and pointed to the land over the stern. ‘That is Herdla,' he said. ‘The Germans built nearly five hundred gun positions round the coast of Norway. The island of Herdla was one of the strongest – sunken batteries, torpedo positions, even an airfield.'

‘How do you know about Herdla?' I asked him.

‘I worked there,' he answered. ‘For three months I helped to dig one of the gun positions. Then we were moved to Finse.' He nodded in the direction in which our bows were pointed. ‘Straight ahead of us is Fedje. That's the island we were taken to after our escape from Finse. We waited there two weeks for the arrival of a British M.T.B.'

He fell silent again. Nobody spoke. The only sound was the throb of the engine and the swish of the water slipping past. The sun was warm in a clear blue sky and beyond the low, rocky islands the mountains stood cool and white in their cloak of snow. We slid diagonally across Hjeltefjord and ran up the coast of Nordhordland. Little landing stages showed here and there among the rock, and above them always a huddle of wooden houses, each with its inevitable flagstaff flying the red and blue of Norway. White-painted churches with tall, wooden steeples were visible for miles on the high ground on which they had been built. The tall chimneys of the fish canneries showed here and there in the narrow fjords. Up and down the coast motor fishing boats moved lazily, their hulls white and black and an ugly little wheelhouse aft. ‘Tock-a-tocks,' Dahler said. ‘That's what your Shetlanders called them.' And tock-a-tocks exactly described the sound made by their little two-stroke engines.

We cleared the first northward pointing finger of Nordhordland and under Dahler's direction I turned a point to starboard. We ran past tiny islets white with the droppings of the seabirds that wheeled constantly about us. A fjord opened up, leading, he said, to Bovaagen itself where there was a fish factory. Cairns, chequered black and white, indicated that it was a shipping route.

And then suddenly we saw the whaling station. It was half hidden in a fold of rock and protected from the north by low islands. The corrugated tin of its ugly factory buildings and the tall iron chimneys belching smoke were a black scar in the wild beauty of the islands, as ugly as a coal pit in a Welsh valley. Not another building was to be seen. The fjord leading to Bovaagen was astern of us now, the friendly black and white shipping guides lost behind a jutting headland. We were in a world of rock and sea – not dark granite cliffs topped with grass as in the west of England, but a pale, golden rock worn smooth and sloping in rounded hillocks to the water. It reminded me of Sicily. These rocks had the same volcanic, sunbaked look. And they were bald – bald to the top of the highest headland – save for wisps of thin grass and big rock plants. And the seabirds wheeled incessantly.

A minute later and we had opened up the channel leading into Bovaagen Hval. I ordered half speed and we drifted quietly into the quay. The water became oily and streaked with a black, viscous excretion. Pieces of grey, half-decayed flesh slid by. The smell of the place closed in on us like a blanket. A Norwegian tock-a-tock moored to the quay was loading cases of whale meat. Beyond was the slipway leading to the flensing deck. The place was littered with the remains of the last whale. Long, straight-bladed steam saws were tearing through the gigantic backbone, slicing it into convenient sections. A little group of men stood at the end of the quay, watching us.

Jorgensen came on deck and stood by the starboard rail, gazing out towards the factory. I ran alongside the quay just beyond the meat boat and we tied up. An elderly man detached himself from the group of watchers and came towards us. He was tall and lean with a face that was the colour of mahogany below thick, white hair. ‘
God dag, herr direktör
,' he called to Jorgensen. He had small, impish features that puckered into a smile and the corners of his eyes were lined with a thousand little crinkles.

I climbed over the rail and jumped on to the quay. ‘This is Mr Kielland, the station manager,' Jorgensen said curtly by way of introduction. And then still speaking English, he said, ‘Well, Kielland, what have you found out about that consignment of whale meat for England? How did the message get into it?'

Kielland spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘I am sorry,' he said. ‘I have found out nothing. I cannot explain it at all.'

‘You've questioned all the men?'

‘Yes,
herr direktör.
They know nothing. It is a complete mystery.'

‘What catchers were in at the time?' I asked.

‘Was it
Hval Ti
?' Jorgensen's voice was sharp, precise. He was dealing with a subordinate now and I suddenly knew I wouldn't like to work for the man.

But Kielland was unperturbed by his director's tone. ‘Yes,' he answered, a shade surprised. ‘Yes, it was
Hval Ti.
Lovaas brought that whale in. It was the first of the season. How did you know?'

‘Never mind how I knew,' Jorgensen answered. ‘Come up to the office and we will talk.' And he went off through the packing sheds.

Kielland turned to me and smiled. ‘We had better follow,' he said.

Jill and Curtis had both come ashore. They joined me as I moved off after Jorgensen. ‘What a horrible smell,' Jill said. She had a handkerchief held to her nose. The delicate scent of it was obliterated by the overpowering stench.

‘That is money,' Kielland chuckled. ‘Money always smells on a whaling station.'

‘Thank God I don't possess much of it then,' Curtis said with a laugh. ‘I've never smelt anything as bad as this – not even in the desert, and the smell was pretty bad there sometimes.'

We went through the packing sheds where whale meat was stocked on deep shelves, tier on tier, from floor to ceiling. Then we emerged into the charnel house of the flensing deck. This was a wood-floored yard surrounded by the factory buildings. To our left the slipway dropped into the sea. To our right were the winches, their greasy hawsers littering the deck. And opposite us was the main part of the factory with the hoists for raising the blubber to the vats for boiling. Great hunks of backbone, the meat hanging in red festoons from the enormous bones, were strewn all over the deck. Men in heavy boots slithered on the blood-soaked planking as they dragged the sections of bone on long steel hooks to the hoist. The wooden boards were covered in a thick film of oily grease. Jill caught my arm. It was very slippery. We went past the winches and up a cindered slope by the boiler house and the oil storage tanks to a huddle of wooden buildings perched on a flat rock.

In the office the smell was less penetrating. The windows looked out to the smoking chimneys and over the corrugated iron roof of the factory to the sea. ‘So it was Lovaas who brought that whale in.' Jorgensen seated himself at the desk by the radio equipment. ‘Was that on the 8th or 9th?'

‘The 9th,' Kielland answered. He had pulled forward a chair for Jill. Curtis and I seated ourselves on the edge of a desk. ‘He came in at dawn. The meat was cut out, packed and away on the meat boat by the evening.'

‘When did Lovaas leave?' Jorgensen asked.

‘Not till the evening. He required water and fuel.'

‘So the message could have been placed in the meat by anyone on the station or any of the crew of
Hval Ti
?'

‘Yes.'

‘What about your head packer? Why doesn't he keep an eye on things?'

‘He does. But the packing sheds are too big to watch everyone who comes and goes. Besides, there is no reason for him to watch the men coming through from the deck to the quay.'

‘They might steal meat.'

‘They have no need. I allow them to take as much as they wish back to their homes.'

‘I see.' Jorgensen stroked his chin, massaging the blue stubble with his fingertips. A gold signet ring glittered as it caught the light. ‘It could be almost anyone on the station then?'

‘That is so.'

Kielland, I felt, was not being helpful. It was clear he resented this cross-examination. Jorgensen looked at his watch. ‘Just on nine,' he murmured and turned to the radio. A moment later the familiar ‘
Ullo-ullo-ullo-ullo Bovaagen Hval
' of the catchers reporting filled the office. Whale Two reported his position and then Whale Five reported whale. Jorgensen lifted the microphone and requested Whale Ten for his position. The voice of Captain Lovaas answered: ‘
Vi passerer Utvaer Fyr, herr Jorgensen. Vi er fremme klokken ti.
'

‘What's Lovaas say?' I whispered to Jill.

‘He say he's just passing Utvaer lighthouse,' she answered. ‘He will be in at ten o'clock this morning.'

An hour to go. Just one hour and he would be here in this office. He might tell his story to Jorgensen and myself together. On the other hand, Jorgensen might get him alone and persuade him to keep his mouth shut. ‘Where's Utvaer light?' I asked Jill. ‘North of Bovaagen?'