That night I hardly slept at all. The voice of Captain Lovaas and the information he had broadcast dominated my mind. Why had he wanted a description of Farnell? Why had he spoken in English and not Norwegian? Above all who was Hans Schreuder? These questions kept hammering at my tired brain. Jorgensen had recognised the name Hans Schreuder. I was certain of it. And if he recognised the name — recognised the significance of it in the mystery of Farnell’s death — then he had shown that Farnell was not alone on the Jostedal. Had Farnell been murdered? Had this man Schreuder killed Farnell for the information he had? How else explain those, ‘little pieces of rock’ Lovaas had discovered among the man’s things. I had no doubts about what those little pieces of rock would prove to be. They would be samples of thorite. As soon as Jorgensen obtained those from his whaling captain, then he would know as much as I knew.
My watch took over at four in the morning. The ship was heeling to a warm sou’-westerly breeze. The moonlight showed a long, flat swell marching northwards and the surface of the sea ruffled and corrugated by the new direction of the wind. Dahler came up with us. He sat on the chartroom roof gazing out towards Norway. He sat there without moving, a little, hunched-up figure, watching the moonlight fade and the dawn come up out of the east, waiting for the first sight of his homeland. Jill was silent. She, too, had her face turned to the east and I wondered again what Farnell had meant to her.
I began to feel a sense of excitement. It was a mood that increased as the pale, cold light strengthened. Jill put her hand on my sleeve. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Do you see it, Bill? It’s nearer than I expected.’
A low, dark line emerged on the edge of visibility. It grew rapidly sharper and blacker. From a vague blur it took shape and became small hills and rock-bound inlets. It was the islands of Norway about five miles away on our starboard beam. And then behind, in great serried lines emerged the shape of Norway’s mountains. The light strengthened and then we saw that the huddled masses of the mountains were topped with snow.
The light grew from ghostly grey to cold blue and then changed to an orange glow. The hot rim of the sun rose and for a moment the mountains were a sharp black line like a cross-section marked on a map. Then the sun was up, the snow was pink, rimmed with crimson, and I could see the white-painted, wooden houses on the islands.
I glanced at Dahler. He hadn’t moved. He sat perched there like a little troll, his gaze fixed on the coastline. In the early sunlight it seemed to me his face had softened. The lines were not so deep and the set of his mouth was kinder.
Curtis came on deck and stood for a while by the rail, gazing out towards the land. A ship was steaming along the coast — a little, painted thing, trailing a wisp of smoke. A fjord had opened up — a long rift between the islands. A small town gleamed fresh and clean on a headland. It was Solsvik. Beyond lay the Hjeltefjord and the way to Bergen. Curtis came aft. ‘First time I saw Norway,’ he said, ‘was from the deck of a destroyer.’
‘Where was that?’ I asked.
‘Farther north,’ he answered. ‘Andalsnes.’ He was gazing out again to the islands. He sighed and shook his head. ‘It was a bad business. The Norwegians had nothing. We weren’t properly equipped. Jerry had it all his own way in the air. They hadn’t a hope. But they kept on fighting. We were driven out. But they wouldn’t give up. We gave ‘em help up in the north, in Finnmark, and they started to fight back. We got as far as Tromso, pushing Jerry back all the way, then the break-through in France came and we had to go. All that effort wasted.’ He was still staring out towards Norway. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘there were sixty thousand less Germans.’
‘You came back later — after the war, I mean — didn’t you0’ Jill asked.
He turned and looked at her steadily for a second. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was in Norway from the beginning of 1945 until the middle of the following year. In Bergen,’ he added.
They stared at one another for a moment. And then Jill looked away. She picked up the glasses and began sweeping the coast. Curtis turned to me. ‘When will this Captain Lovaas get in?’
‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘Jorgensen said last night that he’d be able to get in touch again by radio at nine this morning.’
‘We’ll be at the whaling station by then, won’t we?’ Curtis said.
‘Just about,’ I replied.
‘What is this about Kaptein Lovaas?’ I turned. It was Dahler. He had got down from his perch on the chartroom roof and was standing over me where I sat in the cockpit. His hand was plucking agitatedly at the cloth of his jacket.
‘He’s the captain of one of the Bovaagen catchers,’ I said. ‘He has information for us that may have a bearing on Farnell’s death. Why — do you know him?’ I asked.
