New District Sheriff Tristan Haraldsen is looking forward to a peaceful semi-retirement in the beautiful yet isolated Faroe Islands. But when the suspicious disappearance of two boys leads to the discovery of a series of dark secrets, Haraldsen comes to realize that this may not be the rural paradise he imagined…
This standalone thriller from David Hewson uncovers a dark reality hidden within the wild beauty of the Faroe Islands. Meet Sheriff Tristan Haraldsen in an extract below…
He was on the roof of their little cottage mowing the thick and umber turf, briar pipe clenched tightly in his teeth, happy and a little lost in his own thoughts, when his wife called from the front porch to say the killings were on the way.
‘Tristan! Grind! Grind! Are your cloth ears listening? All those cars a-tooting in the village! They are here! You must come! Come now, man. Oh what a time to be mowing the roof! What will people think?’
A strong man of fifty five. Not tall, not short. Not fat, not thin. Clean-shaven with a good head of sandy-coloured hair edging towards grey. It went with a friendly, freckled face, pale since Haraldsen was by trade and nature a man for the office, never the country. Eight weeks out of police headquarters in Tórshavn. A civilian latterly responsible for systems, newly-retired on medical grounds – his mild cardiac arrhythmia failed to pass the adjusted health diktats put in place by the government health officer – he had now only the part-time job of District Sheriff for the fishing to occupy a few working hours each week.
‘I do not hear you moving, husband.’
It was a sunny September day. A brisk easterly wind from the Atlantic buffeted Tristan Haraldsen as he went about his work on the shallow turf roof of the cottage. Four fat sheep grazed in the back yard next to a flock of white and brown chickens picking for worms in the grass. Out on the water, framed by the two high cliffs on either side of the fjord, past the line of snag-toothed rocks called the Skerries, a small flotilla of multi-coloured boats dotted the bright horizon. Fishermen often gathered at the mouth of the snaking, narrow inlet to the Atlantic from which Djevulsfjord took its name, searching for cod, haddock, redfish and mackerel, anything they could catch and transport down to the market in Sørvágur for ready cash.
The vessels flocked together, like sharks slyly closing on the prospect of prey. This was the end of summer. The season the pilot whale pods were on the move, coming close to land. He was the District Sheriff. It was time – the first occasion – to earn his keep.
DEVIL’S FJORD is available now in the UK and from 1 May 2019 in the US. Read more here.