The Blood Strand

Chris Ould

This is the first crime novel in a trilogy set in the Faroe Islands. We dare you to read it and not want to plunge immediately into the next book. The characters feel comfortably lived-in, and the Faroe Islands setting is exactly the rugged, wind-and-rain-swept landscape you want in Nordic Noir.

First, context. The Faroes are 18 islands in the North Atlantic — tiny dots on the globe halfway between Iceland and Norway. Rocky volcanic islands with sharp sea cliffs, rushing waterfalls, and beaches on all sides, they’re sprinkled here and there with grass-roofed cottages and colorful Lego-like houses. The weather is a _presence; moody like a teenager, with slashing rain, fog, wind, and sun fighting it out most days.

The story opens with a mysterious crime scene. A prominent local businessman, Signar Ravnsfjall, has been found in a car in an isolated spot by the sea. He’s unconscious with a bash on his head, a fired shotgun rests on the car seat beside him, someone else’s blood on the door. In the trunk, a briefcase full of cash.

Then more oddities: another body washes up on the shore, a local goes missing. Is the now-hospitalized Signar a victim? Is he a murderer? What’s the money in the truck all about? Our two intrepid investigators are on the case.

The first is Hjalti Hentze, a Faroese local. He’s a good cop and gentle man — far more interested in getting to the truth than in following rules or playing at politics.

The second is Jan Reyna. Born in the Faroes, he left the islands with his mother as a child. Now he’s a British police detective, reluctantly drawn back to the islands to see his father — Signar, the local mysterious businessman/suspect. The last time the two saw each other decades ago, they both threw punches. But family ties run deep, and Jan is drawn into the investigation of his father’s role in this messy situation.

The police procedural unfolds in dual narratives: Hjalti’s third-person POV traces the practical developments in the case, while Jan’s first-person narration is more introspective and gives us access to his feelings. He has a lot of feelings: about his estranged father, his now-dead mother, his upbringing, and his relationship to all things Faroese.

From the moment his plane lands, we’re treated to Jan’s bitter impressions of what he sees and feels. This is a family reckoning story hidden inside a crime novel. It has a rich emotional palate, and asks questions like, where do we learn to place our trust? What do we owe to family, simply because we’re connected by blood? And what is home?

I stood with my back to the wind as it buffeted its way in through the inlet behind me. The narrow passage between the rock faces was the only break in the encircling mountainsides, towering so far above that it felt more like being at the bottom of a chasm, instead of standing at sea level. This well of a cove was perhaps a quarter of a mile across: a vast natural amphitheatre holding a lagoon of brown-tinged water, rippled and stirred by the gusting wind. The water lapped at the margin of the grey-black sand bar where I stood but it was impossible to guess how deep it might be further out: maybe shallow enough to wade through, or perhaps abyssally deep. And somehow this uncertainty only served to reinforce the sense of foreboding the place seemed to have, at least to me. It felt like a trap, for air and water and space. And for dead bodies. It was halfway to the underworld already. — Chris Ould

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