Black Skies (24 page)

The line went dead. Sigurdur Óli leapt from his chair, grabbing his mobile as he went and dialling directory enquiries to get the number of Andrés’s neighbour. He knew her address but could not immediately recall her name. He racked his brains.

Margrét Eymunds, that was it.

They put him straight through and Margrét answered at the third ring. By now, Sigurdur Óli was in his car and on the move. He introduced himself and when he was sure she remembered who he was and that he had come round before in search of Andrés, he asked her to go to her neighbour’s flat and check if he was at home.

‘Do you mean Andrés?’ the woman asked.

‘Yes. If you see him, could you try to keep him there until I arrive, please? He just rang me and I think he needs help. Are you outside his door yet?’

‘What, you want me to spy on him?’

‘Are you on a cordless phone?’

‘Cordless? Yes.’

‘I’m trying to help him. I’m afraid he might do something stupid. Could you hand him the phone? Please?’

‘Just a minute.’

He heard a door opening, then the sound of knocking and Margrét’s voice calling Andrés’s name. Sigurdur Óli braked and swore. There had been an accident ahead that had caused a tailback.

‘What have you been doing to yourself, Andrés dear?’ he heard her ask in a shocked tone.

Sigurdur Óli leaned on the horn and tried to change lanes. He could not hear Andrés at all but could vaguely make out Margrét saying something about a policeman wanting to speak to him, then ‘Where are you going?’, followed by an oddly maternal phrase like,
‘You
can’t go out looking like that, dear.’ He tried to attract her attention but she obviously did not have the phone held to her ear.

He passed the scene of the accident and was dodging between other cars at twice the speed limit when Margrét came back on the line.

‘Hello?’ she said, sounding uncertain.

‘Yes, I’m still here,’ answered Sigurdur Óli.

‘The poor man,’ said Margrét. ‘He looked absolutely dreadful.’

‘Has he gone?’

‘Yes, I couldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t have anything to do with me, just went down the stairs, almost at a run. He seemed very drunk.’

‘Which way did he go when he left the building?’

‘I didn’t see. I didn’t see where he went.’

Sigurdur Óli pulled up at the block of flats and scanned the surroundings for Andrés but could see no trace of him. He started combing the nearby roads but it was evident that he had lost his man, so he parked outside the flats again and rang Margrét’s bell. She buzzed him in and was waiting for him on the landing, looking extremely worried.

‘Didn’t you find him?’ she asked as soon as she saw Sigurdur Óli.

‘He’s vanished. Did he say much to you?’

‘Not a word. The poor man. He clearly hasn’t washed in ages and stinks to high heaven. And he looks like a tramp. I’ve never seen him in such a state before. Never.’

‘Have you any idea where he might be going?’

‘No. I asked him but he wouldn’t answer, just rushed downstairs and disappeared.’

‘Was he carrying anything when he left the flat?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘Have you ever heard him talk about a man by the name of Rögnvaldur?’

‘Rögnvaldur? No, I don’t think so. Is that a friend of his?’

‘No,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Hardly.’

Margrét let him into Andrés’s flat as she had done before. Sigurdur Óli took a quick glance round while Margrét stood in the doorway. Nothing seemed to have changed. From what he could tell, Andrés had gone there for the sole purpose of calling Sigurdur Óli to inform him that he had got Rögnvaldur, whatever that meant.

Sigurdur Óli’s phone rang. It was a colleague from the drug squad.

‘I just heard that you’re holding Hördur Vagnsson.’

‘Höddi? Yeah. What about him?’

‘We’ve been keeping tabs on him for a while but no joy yet. But we’ve been recording his phone calls and it occurred to me that you might like to take a look.’

‘Have you got a transcript?’

‘Yup, I put it on your desk.’

‘Have you got anything on him?’

‘We will eventually. Unless you’ve done it for us. There’s one thing you should know about Höddi – the poor bastard’s a complete moron.’

He heard chuckling at the other end of the line.

‘You haven’t by any chance tapped his friend Thórarinn’s phone or been monitoring him at all?’

‘Toggi?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, we only know him by name. If he’s dealing, he must be a very cagey operator, to say the least, especially if he’s been doing it for a while. All I can say is that he must be a lot brighter than Höddi.’

It was the first time Sigurdur Óli had entered the headquarters of the bank and he was instantly impressed with the opulence of it all. He might have stepped from the centre of Reykjavík into a
whole
other world. The design was all glass and steel and dark wood, with pure, classical lines amid the tropical foliage. No luxury had been spared. Eventually he found what appeared to be a reception desk, where an elderly man was attempting to pay a bill by bank giro.

‘Yes, but I’m afraid that’s just the way it is – you can’t pay that here,’ said the woman behind the desk, which formed a small island in the midst of all the grandeur.

‘But this is a bank, isn’t it?’ asked the old man.

‘Yes, we are, but you’ll have to go to one of our branches if you want to pay that.’

‘But I only wanted to settle a bill,’ the man persisted.

‘What can I do for you?’ asked the woman, turning to Sigurdur Óli, too impatient to waste any more time on him.

‘Sverrir in Corporate Finance. Is he in?’

The woman typed in the name. ‘Unfortunately he’s just gone out and won’t be back for a couple of hours.’

‘What about Knútur then?’ asked Sigurdur Óli. ‘Knútur Jónsson?’

‘Is he expecting you?’ asked the receptionist in the sing-song tone of one who has asked the question a thousand times.

‘I very much doubt it.’

‘Where’s the nearest branch then?’ asked the old man, who had still not given up trying to pay his bill.

‘Laugavegur,’ the receptionist said, without bothering to look up.

‘Knútur Jónsson’s in a meeting. Would you mind waiting? And who shall I say is asking for him? Are you looking for advice on currency accounts?’

Deciding to answer only the second question, Sigurdur Óli agreed that he was as he watched the old man depart through the massive glass doors, still clutching his bill.

‘Second floor,’ said the receptionist, ‘the lifts are over there.’

Sigurdur Óli had been waiting for around a quarter of an hour
when
a man emerged from a meeting room, accompanied by a young couple. He had an oddly childlike face, blond hair, and a stocky body encased in a designer suit. Having taken his leave of the couple with a smile and a promise to send them more detailed information about foreign currency accounts, he turned to Sigurdur Óli.

‘Are you waiting for me?’ he asked, still smiling.

‘If you’re Knútur,’ said Sigurdur Óli.

‘I am. Are you interested in a currency account?’

‘Not exactly. I’m from the police and I’d like to know more about the circumstances in which your colleague, Thorfinnur, lost his life. It won’t take long.’

‘Why? Have there been any new developments?’

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be discussing this in the middle of the corridor.’

Knútur stared at Sigurdur Óli, then glanced down at his watch. Sigurdur Óli stood there in silence until Knútur eventually invited him to come and take a seat in his office. He was very busy but could fit him in quickly, he explained, though he did not quite understand what he wanted.

38

KNÚTUR’S ACCOUNT OF
how his colleague had died the year before on the Snaefellsnes Peninsula in west Iceland coincided in almost every detail with the police report. Four men, all of whom worked for the bank, had embarked on a trip together to Hótel Búdir on Snaefellsnes. They had driven up on the Friday in two four-wheel drives, intending to stay at the hotel for two nights, do some work, explore the peninsula, and return to town on the Sunday. When they arrived on the Friday evening the weather was calm and several degrees below zero. On the Saturday morning they split up, two of them, Knútur and Arnar, deciding to join a group of tourists who were going to climb the Snaefellsjökull glacier, while the other two, Sverrir and Thorfinnur, drove out to Svörtuloft, the cliffs at the westernmost point of the peninsula, between Skálasnagi to the south and Öndvardarnes to the north. The plan was to meet at the hotel later that afternoon, but as the day went on the weather had deteriorated, with strengthening winds and an unexpected snow-storm. The two men who had gone out to climb the glacier returned at the appointed time but there was no sign of their colleagues
who
had left for Svörtuloft. They had not made any detailed contingency plans but it was known more or less where they were intending to hike.

The two men’s mobile phones had lost their signal when they left the main road.

Only one of the pair ever came back from Svörtuloft. The moment Sverrir had phone reception he called his colleagues to alert them to the fact that he and Thorfinnur had become separated. They had been walking south along the cliffs, heading for the lighthouse at Skálasnagi, when Sverrir decided to turn back. It was getting late. But Thorfinnur was keen to press on, so they had agreed that Sverrir would fetch the car and meet Thorfinnur on the road near Beruvík. When Sverrir arrived, however, Thorfinnur was nowhere to be seen. After waiting for some time, he had looked high and low for him for at least an hour until the weather took a turn for the worse. Sverrir wanted to know if his colleagues had heard from Thorfinnur but they had not and by now three hours had passed since they had split up. Knútur and Arnar drove out to the lava field and the three of them continued the search before finally deciding to contact the police and rescue services.

It was pitch dark and the storm had grown increasingly severe by the time the rescue team began to assemble at Gufuskálar prior to setting out for Svörtuloft. The three companions joined in the search and Sverrir was able to show them where Thorfinnur and he had parted company, though he could give them little help beyond that. This area of the lava field was difficult to traverse and after several hours’ battling with darkness and extreme weather conditions, the rescue team were forced to abandon their task. As soon as it was light the next day, however, the hunt was resumed, with rescue workers combing the rim of the lava field where it fell into the sea, but the precipitous cliffs were so battered by waves and gale-force gusts that it was almost impossible to stay on one’s feet.

The rescue team told the three Reykjavík men that the cliffs were known locally as the ‘Black Fort’, the pitch-black precipice being the last thing fishermen would see looming over them as their ship went down, as so many had in those parts. The cliff edge was scored with deep clefts, gullies and dangerous fissures which were continually being worn away by the action of the surf. One theory was that Thorfinnur might have stepped too close to the edge and that it had crumbled, plunging him into the sea.

‘They didn’t find him,’ Knútur told Sigurdur Óli. ‘You know the phrase – it was as if the earth had swallowed him up. Well, I never thought I’d experience it literally.’

‘Until the following spring,’ said Sigurdur Óli.

‘Exactly. I can’t begin to describe how horrible it was. Horrific. Of course, he wasn’t a family man – he was single – but that doesn’t really make it any the less tragic.’

‘You think that matters, do you?’

‘No, no, of course not.’

‘And this happened a year ago.’

‘Yes.’

‘I gather that none of you were particularly familiar with the area.’

‘Sverrir is. He took us there. His family comes from round there and he knows it … so … no, I don’t know the area. It was my first time on the glacier. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back.’

‘The post-mortem revealed nothing except death by misadventure. Some Swedish tourists found his body where it had washed up on a small sandy beach in Skardsvík cove. He was unrecognisable after being in the sea so long but an identification was made later. The verdict was accidental death; that he had simply failed to take sufficient care and fell over the cliff.’

‘Yes, something like that.’

‘You all worked together here at the bank?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Sverrir was the last person to see Thorfinnur alive?’

‘Yes. Naturally he regrets not having taken better care of him. He rather blames himself for what happened, but of course it wasn’t his fault. Thorfinnur could be really stubborn.’

‘He insisted on carrying on alone?’

‘Yes, according to Sverrir. Thorfinnur was really into the scenery.’

Knútur’s BlackBerry began to buzz and, after glancing at the screen, he asked Sigurdur Óli to excuse him. He sat down at his desk, turning his chair away for a semblance of privacy, but Sigurdur Óli overheard the whole conversation.

‘Where did you get hold of that orchestra you had the other day, the chamber group?’ Knútur asked. ‘No, I’m having a little dinner party,’ he continued, in reply to a question. ‘Yes, I know it’s short notice but it was a classy outfit and I’ve got one of the senior execs coming to dinner. I just thought it was kind of smart when you had the chamber orchestra.’

After jotting something down, he said a brisk goodbye and turned back to Sigurdur Óli.

‘Was that all?’ he asked, checking the time on his computer screen as if to underline that he was too busy to pursue their conversation.

‘Did you all work in the same area?’

‘No, though our projects overlapped of course. We worked on a lot of the same deals.’

‘Any you’d care to mention?’

‘Not without breaking confidentiality. There’s a reason for banking confidentiality, you know.’ Knútur smiled.

Sigurdur Óli had the feeling he was being patronised. Knútur was several years younger than him but probably fifty times richer; a baby-face like that, booking chamber groups for dinner parties. As a rule Sigurdur Óli admired people who succeeded in life on their own merits and initiative, rather than envying them for their achievements, but Knútur’s manner irritated him and for some
reason
the business with the musicians had annoyed him.