The Land
Rover follows Bron out onto the highway that leads to the capital.
The man in
the passenger seat takes out his mobile ‘phone and dials.
Back by the
fjord, the watcher takes the call.
‘He’s
heading for the capital. What should we do?’
‘Is the tracker
on that bike working?’
‘Yes’
‘Then pull
back. He’ll be going to see Joansen, get someone outside Joansen’s office ready
for when he arrives. We do have the office bugged I take it?’
‘We do
indeed.’
The watcher
settles back. It’s good that Bron’s going to see Joansen. Rationally, that
should have been his first port of call on the islands. But rationality is not
a trait he often shows. Still better late than never. The watcher looks across
the fjord. Soon Bron will go to Huldegarde. The watcher needs a plan.
An hour
later, Bron disembarks from the small, rattling ferry that’s brought him from
the Thörsvik island. Although the travel distance was small, the change is
major. Here in the capital, he’s in a vibrant, thriving town. There are banks
and shops and hotels, everything he might expect. He rides down to the
waterfront and parks the bike next to the old harbour wall. Sitting on the wall
looking at the sleek white shape of the ferry to the mainland, he realises he
never got Joansen’s address from the land agent. Still, bustling though it is,
it is a small town, how many lawyers called Joansen can there be? He heads for
the Post Office to find a directory. Thirty minutes later he realises that just
about every lawyer in the town is called Joansen.
He rings
Arnesen’s office, the secretary answers.
‘It’s Bron
Turner,’ he says, ‘can you give me Joansen the lawyer’s address please?’
'Oh, dear,’
she sneers, ‘don’t you have it? I’ll see if I can find it.’
After what
seems to Bron a ridiculously long wait, she finally comes back.
‘You want
old Mr Joansen, Nils. He’s at 9, Hafnsgatan.’
‘Thank ….’
starts Bron but she’s already cut the connection.
‘What’s
eating you?’ he wonders.
Bron sets
out to find Hafnsgatan. It’s almost the next street.
He enters
the entrance area, where another receptionist, another Miss Hansen look-a-like
looks down her nose at him, as if he’s got dog shit on his shoes.
‘Do you want
something?’ she says.
‘I want to
see Mr Nils Joansen, old Mr Joansen.’
‘Mr Nils is
rarely in the office these days, and he certainly doesn’t see people who just
wander in off the street with no appointment.’
‘I hope
he’ll see me,’ says Bron, trying a winning smile. It fails.
‘My name is
Bron Turner, he was, is, my mother’s lawyer or at least her family’s lawyer.’
‘And your
mother is …. ?’
‘Anna
Turner, she was Anna Frandsen, from Alvanaes, Mr Joansen manages her affairs.’
‘Well, Mr
Nils isn’t available today. Leave me a contact number and I’ll ask his
secretary if she can arrange an appointment for you with one of his junior
colleagues.’
‘I don’t
want a junior colleague,’ snaps Bron, ‘I need to speak to Mr Joansen. Arnesen
the land agent at Thörsvik said it was important.’
‘Give me
your mobile number. I’ve told you, I’ll pass your request to Mr Joansen’s
secretary. Now please leave or I’ll call security.’
Bron
scribbles his number on a card and gives it to the woman who takes it and drops
it into an in-tray, as if afraid it’s infectious. Then he storms out through
the front door onto Hafnsgatan. Through a third floor window, an elderly,
silver haired man watches his progress. He is Nils Joansen. He mutters to
himself, ‘So that’s Bron is it? I will have to see him, of course. Perhaps
tomorrow. I wonder how long he’ll last before Thomas Youngman or Eric Krol
sends him packing.’
Bron walks
through the streets of the capital. Why are people treating him this way? Back
home, as the son of a respected academic writer and his beautiful wife, he has
always felt accepted. At university, he’d been popular, his reputation in Tae
Kwon Do and his lesser ability at sports like rugby and athletics, gave him an
entrée of sorts into all sorts of groups. And of course there had been Ciara.
Where was Ciara? She’d make sense of this for him, she’d know, with her lawyer’s
mind and her psychology degree, what should be done. But Ciara has vanished.
He wishes
his sisters were with him. They have inherited their mother’s quiet calm and
determination. They always seem in control. As, he muses, his mother had seemed
to be, according to his father’s account, on that flight from the islands all
those years before. He still finds the story hard to believe, Adam seems such
an unlikely knight errant riding to the rescue of his lady. But true it must
be, for Adam never lied.
As if wishes
could make things happen, he looks up the street, and sees a tall girl with
pale blonde hair weaving her way towards him. He rushes forward but a few feet
from her realises it’s not his elder sister, but a girl who looks extremely
like her.
The girl
looks at him in distaste. ‘Get out of my way,’ she says, ‘how dare you approach
me!’
‘I’m sorry,’
he stammers, ‘I thought you were someone else, my sister actually.’
‘Do I look
like one of your kind?’ she sneers. ‘I’d heard your people had come back to the
islands. You’re trying to create a new Huldagarde. But you won’t succeed, my
father will stop you.’
‘Your
father?’ asks Bron.
‘Birger
Krol,’ she snorts, ‘even you must have heard of him.’
‘I’ve heard
of him, he married my mother’s sister. You must be Freya, we’re cousins.’
The girl
looks horrified.
‘So my mother’s suspicions are true!’ she says. And she rushes
past him through the crowded street towards the harbour.
Bron’s mind
is racing. Too many people seem to know too many things about him that he doesn’t
know. He needs some answers, and he wants them quickly. Who can he turn to?
‘Hello,’
says a voice behind him, ‘can I speak with you?’
He turns to
find a small, brown-haired girl looking up at him.
‘You’re one
of the Huldegarde folk, aren’t you? I’m Rachel, I’m really interested in your
project.’
‘So, talk to
Thomas Youngman,’ snaps Bron, still angry at two rejections in one hour.
‘Mr Youngman
won’t talk to me, he doesn’t like journalists.’
‘So why
should I talk to you?’
‘Well,
you’re out of Huldegarde on your own. That makes you unusual. And you’ve just
had a run-in with Freya Krol. That makes you interesting. And you look like you
need someone to talk to ….’
‘And what
does that make me?’ says Bron.
‘Attractive?’
says Rachel. ‘Well, shall I buy you a coffee?’
‘I’d like
that,’ says Bron, smiling despite himself. It seems hard to be angry with this
girl. ‘But I should tell you I’m not from Huldegarde. My name’s Bron Turner,
I’m from the Isle of Man. You’ve probably never heard of it. And I’m currently
camped out near Alvenaes on the Skarafjord. Still want to buy me a coffee?’
‘More than
ever,’ says the girl.
Ten minutes
later the pair are sat in a harbour-side café, eating cinnamon buns and
drinking coffee.
‘So,’ says
Rachel, ‘sing for your supper, or at least your buns and coffee. What’s your
story?’
‘I don’t
think I know all of it myself yet,’ says Bron, ‘but I aim to find out. I told
you, my name’s Bron Turner and I was brought up on the Isle of Man. My Dad was
Adam Turner, he was a writer on archaeology and ancient languages and my mother
was Anna Frandsen, who was brought up at Alvenaes.’
‘You say
was,’ asks the girl.
‘They were
both killed in a car crash a couple of months back. A real shock. I’d just
finished uni and ….. well it knocked me back really….
And then it
turns out that I’ve inherited this huge tract of land out here from Mum. It’s
on both sides of the Skarafjord, it includes Alvanaes and Huldegarde. So I’ve
come over to find out more.’
‘Your
parents hadn’t told you about the land?’
‘No, not a
word. I just found out from a journal my Dad left and a pile of legal documents
that their solicitor handed me after reading the will. I’ve tried to ask Mr
Arnesen, the Land Agent out at Thörsvik about it all, but he just said I had to
speak to Nils Joansen, the lawyer here in the capital. But Joansen won’t see
me, I have to wait for a phone call.’
He pauses,
then asks, ‘Why am I telling you all this?’
‘Maybe I’m
just an easy person to talk to?’
‘You remind
me of someone. But then everyone here seems to remind me of someone else, but
then they never are that person. I mistook Freya Krol for my sister, that’s why
I was rushing towards her. They’re very alike, I suppose because their mothers
were sisters.’
‘Your mother
was Sigyn Krol’s sister? You get more interesting all the time. And you’re the
heir to Huldegarde, curiouser and curiouser.’
‘So, why are
you interested in Huldegarde?’
‘Thomas
Youngman is trying to establish some kind of community out there. He’s started
bringing back the scattered remnants of the ‘Hidden Folk.’ They’re starting to
retake Huldegarde. But his project stands in the way of Birger Krol. Krol has
an idea for a place called ‘Ny Asgard’ – a new paradise, a new heaven, a
leisure and tourism place for birdwatchers and naturalists. It’s likely to get
interesting, few who challenge Birger Krol seem to survive.’
‘You seem to
like the word “interesting”!’
‘I do, don’t
I? Why don’t we work together then? Between the two of us, we can find out more
than working alone.’
‘And then you’ll
write your story? But about what, and for whom?’
‘Let’s wait
and see shall we? That’s the good thing about stories, you never know how
they’ll end.’ smiles Rachel. ‘Now where will you sleep tonight?’
Around six
o’clock that evening, the watcher on the hill gets a text.
‘Gröken
staying in capital tonight. He’ll see Joansen tomorrow. Have an early night.’
The watcher
texts back ‘Take care, sister dear, take care’.