Black Skies (11 page)

‘Next Monday. They say they can’t hang around.’

His business finished, his father stood up and opened the door.

‘That was all, Siggi. You look into getting yourself checked out. Don’t put it off.’

Then he was gone, limping a little from his worn-out knee.

17

WHEN SIGURDUR ÓLI
drove to Ebbi and Lína’s house, towards evening, everything was quiet. Ebeneser’s large jeep was parked in front of the house, jacked up on enormous tyres designed to cope with all manner of off-road conditions involving rock, ice and snow. As Sigurdur Óli parked behind it, he thought about adventure tours into the interior. Personally he had never seen the attraction, never had the slightest interest in sightseeing in his own country, let alone giving up his creature comforts to camp or rough it. Why on earth would he want to trek up an Icelandic glacier? Bergthóra had sometimes tried to encourage him to travel around Iceland with her, but found that he was as reluctant and unenthusiastic about the idea as he was about so much else. All he really wanted was to stay in Reykjavík, preferably near his own flat.

His summer holidays were generally spent abroad, in search of guaranteed sunshine rather than horizon-broadening experiences. It came as no surprise to Bergthóra that one of his favourite places was Florida. He was less keen to visit Spain or other southern European beach destinations, regarding them as dirty and poor, with suspect
food
. Historical sites, museums and architecture held absolutely no appeal for him, which made Orlando the ideal spot. His taste in films was similar: he could not stand pretentious European films, plotless arty flicks, in which nothing ever happened. Hollywood movies, with their thrills, laughs and glamorous stars, were more to his taste. In his opinion, cinema was made for the English-speaking world. If any programme came on TV that was neither British nor American he was quick to change channels. All other languages, especially Icelandic, sounded childish on-screen. Naturally, he avoided Icelandic films like the plague. Nor was he a reader, barely managing to plod through one book a year, and when he listened to music it was invariably classic American rock or country.

He sat for some time in his car behind Ebbi’s monster jeep, thinking about his father and their meeting earlier that day, the cancer diagnosis and the recommendation that he too should go for screening. He grimaced. It would take a lot to let them check his prostate. The memory was still too fresh of all those disagreeable trips to the National Hospital, bearing those little plastic pots, when he and Bergthóra had been trying to conceive using IVF. He used to have to go into the bathroom early in the morning and ejaculate into a pot, then keep the contents warm and deliver them to the girls on reception, revealing intimate details about how things were going, feeling compelled to throw in little jokes for their benefit. In prospect now was a visit to a specialist who, while he snapped on his latex gloves, would ask him to lie on his side and draw up his knees, no doubt chatting about the weather, prior to probing him for lumps.

‘Shit!’ Sigurdur Óli swore and thumped the steering wheel.

Ebeneser opened the door and admitted him reluctantly, pointing out that he was working through the mourning process. It sounded as if he had been talking to a priest or a therapist. Sigurdur Óli said he quite understood and would not keep him long.

Ebeneser had tidied the house since Sigurdur Óli’s last visit. Then
the
sitting room had been a bomb site; now it was almost cosy in the low light of a standard lamp, the chairs in their places, pictures straight on the walls; a framed photograph of Lína on the table, with a candle burning in front of it.

Ebeneser had been in the kitchen, about to make coffee, when Sigurdur Óli disturbed him; the packet was on the table, the filter open in the coffee-maker. Sigurdur Óli waited to be offered a cup but the offer was not forthcoming. Ebeneser’s movements were slow and he seemed distracted. No doubt Lína’s death was beginning to become real, the shocking circumstances slowly sinking in as incontrovertible fact.

‘Did she say anything?’ Ebeneser asked as he measured out the coffee. ‘When you found her?’

‘No,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘She was unconscious. And her assailant went for me almost immediately.’

‘You needn’t have chased him.’ Ebeneser turned to Sigurdur Óli. ‘You could have tended to her instead, but you didn’t. She might have got to hospital sooner. That’s all that counts, all that counts in … circumstances like that.’

‘Of course,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘That’s why I rang for assistance straight away. I’d already done that when the man jumped me. I wanted to catch her attacker – it was a natural reaction. In fact I don’t see how I could have behaved any differently.’

Ebeneser switched on the coffee-maker but remained standing.

‘Anyway, what about you?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.

‘What about me?’ Ebeneser responded, his eyes on the coffee machine.

‘You’re obviously looking for a scapegoat, but what about you? What part did you play in the attack on Lína? What were you two up to? Who did you cross? Was it all your idea? Did you drag Lína into some scam? Are you in debt? What about your responsibility, Ebeneser? Have you asked yourself that?’

The other man was silent.

‘Why won’t you tell us?’ persisted Sigurdur Óli. ‘I know you’ve tried to blackmail people with photographs, there’s no use denying it. We’re in the process of interviewing them now, hearing how you and Lína held swingers’ parties and took photos of people having sex with you, then used the pictures to extort money from them. You’re going down, Ebeneser. On top of everything else, you’ll be charged with blackmail.’

Ebeneser did not look up. The coffee-maker belched and black liquid began to rise inside the glass jug.

‘You’ve destroyed these people’s lives,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘You’ve destroyed your own life, Ebeneser. And for what? For who? How much was it worth to you? What price did you put on Lína? Half a million? Was that what she was worth to you?’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ hissed Ebeneser through clenched teeth, his eyes still glued to the coffee. ‘And get out.’

‘You’ll be called in for questioning, probably later this evening, and treated as a suspect in a sordid case of blackmail. You may even be remanded in custody, for all I know. Maybe you’ll find yourself having to apply for parole to attend Lína’s funeral.’

Ebeneser stared at the coffee jug as if it were the only fixed point in his life.

‘Think about it, Ebbi.’

The man did not answer.

‘Are you acquainted with a man by the name of Hermann? You sent him a photo. He showed it to me.’

Ebeneser did not flinch. Sigurdur Óli took a deep breath: he was not sure if he wanted to ask the next question.

‘What about a man called Patrekur?’ he asked after a moment. ‘With a wife called Súsanna. Are they involved as well?’

Rising to his feet, he walked over to Ebeneser and took a photo from his coat pocket. He had fetched it from his flat before coming
there
; it showed Patrekur and Súsanna at home with him and Bergthóra back in the days when life was still good. The picture had been taken in summer, their faces were tanned and they were holding glasses of white wine. Sigurdur Óli placed the photo on the table beside the percolator.

‘Do you know these people?’ he asked.

Ebeneser glanced at the picture.

‘You have no right to be here,’ he said, so quietly that Sigurdur Óli could barely hear him. ‘Get out. Get out and take that bloody thing with you!’ He swept the photograph to the floor. ‘Get out!’ he yelled again, raising his arms as if to shove Sigurdur Óli away. Having rescued the picture, Sigurdur Óli backed off. They eyed each other until Sigurdur Óli turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen, out of the house and back to his car. As he was getting in he looked up at the kitchen window which faced onto the street and saw Ebeneser grab the coffee jug and hurl it at the wall with all his strength. The jug shattered and black liquid spattered all over the kitchen like bloodstained vomit.

On his way home Sigurdur Óli stopped at the gym, where he ran several kilometres, lifted weights as if his life depended on it and burnt off his energy on a variety of machines. He generally bumped into the same people during these morning and evening sessions. Sometimes he would share a little light banter, at other times he would shut himself off, wanting to be left in peace. Like now, for instance. He spoke to nobody and if anyone addressed him he answered tersely and moved away. After finishing his exercises, he made straight for home.

Once there he prepared himself a thick hamburger on ciabatta, with sweet onion and fried egg, which he consumed with an American beer, while watching an American comedy on TV. He was too restless to watch television for long, however, and switched it
off
when a Swedish crime series came on. He sat in his TV chair, still preoccupied with thoughts of his father’s visit, wondering if he should make an appointment with a specialist or leave it and hope for the best. He hated the idea of suddenly becoming a statistic, a member of some risk group. As someone who had always taken great care of his health and never needed to visit a doctor, he regarded himself as the robust type and was proud of never having been in hospital. Admittedly, he came down with heavy colds or flu from time to time, like the bout he was recovering from now, but that was about it.

His notebook lay on the floor where it had fallen out of his pocket when he folded his coat over the back of the chair. Sigurdur Óli stood up, retrieved it and turned the pages before putting it on the desk in the sitting room. He had never been a hypochondriac, never worried about contracting a serious, incurable illness; since he was the picture of health the possibility had simply never crossed his mind. Eventually, however, after mulling it over, he decided to talk to a specialist, knowing it would be impossible to live with the uncertainty.

He picked up the notebook again. There was a detail he needed to check, one he had forgotten to pin down. He reread his jottings from the past few days and saw that his oversight was minor: he had not yet checked a phone number that really ought to be verified. He looked at the clock; it was not that late, so he picked up the phone.

‘Hello,’ a voice said. It was a weary and indifferent woman’s voice.

‘Please excuse my ringing so late,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘But do you know a woman called Sara? Is she a friend of yours?’

There was a silence on the other end.

‘What can I do for you?’ the woman asked eventually.

‘Ah,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Did she visit you last Monday evening? Could you confirm the fact?’

‘Who?’

‘Sara.’

‘Sara who?’

‘Your friend.’

‘Who is this, please?’

‘The police.’

‘What do you want with me?’

‘Was Sara at your address last Monday evening?’

‘Is this a joke?’

‘A joke?’

‘You must have the wrong number.’

Sigurdur Óli read out the number he had been given.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ the woman said, ‘but there’s no Sara working here. I don’t know any Sara. This is the box office at the University Cinema.’

‘So you’re not Dóra?’

‘No, and there’s no Dóra here either. I’ve been working here for years and I’ve never known anyone called Dóra.’

Sigurdur Óli stared at the number in his notebook, seeing in his mind’s eye the pierced eyebrow and tattooed arm of yet another liar, and a convincing one at that.

18

SIGURDUR ÓLI WAS
debating if he should call Sara in for questioning, send a car to fetch her from her workplace and see how she liked being escorted from the bottling plant between uniformed officers. That was one method he could envisage. Another would be to pay her a visit at work and intimidate her with all sorts of dire threats, such as leading her out in handcuffs, speaking to her boss, making her lies public. Since he did not know her at all, he was not sure how tough Sara was, but assumed she would be an unreliable witness and quick to lie. She had reeled off the telephone number of the cinema without hesitation, gambling that he would never check up on it.

He decided to adopt the latter approach, for although Sara had lied to him about her movements, this was no guarantee that the truth would have any bearing on Lína’s attack. She could have a hundred other reasons for lying to him.

There she sat at the bottling-plant switchboard with the ring through her eyebrow and the snake around her arm, each indicative of a small rebellion against bourgeois conservatism. Tasteless and
tacky
, thought Sigurdur Óli as he approached her. Sara was on the phone dealing with a customer, so he waited at first but when it appeared that the conversation would never end he lost patience and, seizing the receiver, cut the connection.

‘You and I need another chat,’ he announced.

Sara looked startled. ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘Either here or down at the station, it’s up to you.’

A somewhat older woman was standing behind the desk, observing their conversation with surprise. Sara glanced at her and Sigurdur Óli saw that she was keen to avoid any trouble at work.

‘Is it OK with you if I take a short break?’ she asked the woman, who nodded calmly but asked her not to be long.

Sara led Sigurdur Óli towards the cafeteria, opened a door beside it, which turned out to lead to a staircase, and stopped just inside.

‘What on earth are you on about?’ she asked as the door closed behind them. ‘Why can’t you leave me alone?’

‘You weren’t visiting a friend on the evening of the attack – incidentally, it’s murder now, not assault and battery. The number you gave me for your friend was false.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Sara said, scratching her tattoo.

‘Why was your car parked in the area?’

‘I was visiting a friend.’

‘Dóra?’

‘Yes.’

‘Either you must be stupid or you think I am,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘Whatever, you’ll have plenty of time to mull it over while you’re in custody. From now on you’ll be treated as a suspect: the police will be coming to take you in later today. I’m going to go and print out a warrant for your arrest right now. It shouldn’t take long. By the way, don’t forget your toothbrush.’