Black Skies (9 page)

He seemed on the verge of tears again.

‘I want the photos, Ebeneser,’ said Sigurdur Óli.

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Where are they?’

‘I just can’t cope with this.’

‘I only know about one couple. Were there others? Who’s after you? What were you two up to?’

‘Nothing, leave me alone,’ said Ebeneser. ‘Leave me alone!’ He rushed out of the room.

As Sigurdur Óli was leaving the hospital, he passed a patient being pushed in a wheelchair. He had plaster casts on both arms, a bandage round his jaw, one of his eyes was closed by a large swelling and his nose was strapped up as if it had been broken. Sigurdur Óli failed to recognise him at first, then realised on closer inspection that it was the youth who had been sitting in the corridor at the police station; the one he had abused for being a pathetic loser and a waste of space. The boy, whose name he
now
remembered was Pétur, glanced up as they passed. Sigurdur Óli stopped him.

‘What happened to you?’ he asked.

The boy could not answer for himself but the woman pushing the wheelchair had no difficulty in doing so. Apparently he had been beaten senseless not far from the police station on Hverfisgata on Monday evening. She was taking him for yet another X-ray.

As far as she knew they had not yet caught the bastards who had given him such a vicious kicking. And he was not saying a word.

14

SHORTLY AFTERWARDS, AS
Sigurdur Óli was entering the police station on Hverfisgata by the back door, a rough-looking man who stank to high heaven stepped out of the shadows in front of him.

‘It’s impossible to get hold of you lot,’ the man whispered in a strangely weak, hoarse voice, seizing hold of his arm.

Sigurdur Óli was momentarily startled but recovered quickly and reacted angrily. To him the man looked like any other tramp – and Sigurdur Óli had come across enough of those in his time – yet he felt a dim sense of recognition. But he could not place the man immediately, and had no interest in doing so.

‘What do you mean by jumping out at me like that?’ he snapped, snatching his arm away and causing the man to lose his grip and stumble backwards.

‘I need to talk to Erlendur,’ the tramp whimpered.

‘Then you’ve got the wrong guy,’ Sigurdur Óli said, and continued walking.

‘I know that,’ the tramp shrieked in his high, hoarse voice, following him. ‘Where is he? I need to talk to Erlendur.’

‘He’s not here. I don’t know where he is,’ said Sigurdur Óli dismissively as he opened the door.

‘What about you then?’

‘What about me?’

‘Don’t you remember me?’ the man asked.

Sigurdur Óli paused.

‘Don’t you remember Andy? You were with Erlendur. You were there when he came round to mine and I told you both about him.’

Sigurdur Óli stood holding the door open, and considered the man at length.

‘Andy?’ he repeated.

‘Don’t you remember Andy?’ the tramp asked again, scratching his crotch and sniffing back his dripping nose.

Sigurdur Óli vaguely recalled meeting him but it took him a minute to remember the circumstances. The man had lost weight since then and his ragged clothes – the filthy anorak, Icelandic jumper at least two sizes too big for him and threadbare jeans – hung loosely from his frame. The old black waders on his feet were hardly any better. His face looked gaunt too, the eyes blank, the mouth sunken and the expression lifeless, the skin hanging from it like the clothes from his body. It was impossible to guess his age with any accuracy, though Sigurdur Óli seemed to recall that he was only about forty-five.

‘Are you Andrés?’

‘I have to tell him something, Erlendur that is. I have to talk to him.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘Why do you need to see him?’

‘I just need to talk to him.’

‘That’s no answer. Look, I can’t be doing with this. Erlendur will be back soon and you can talk to him then.’

The door closed on Andrés and Sigurdur Óli strode towards his
office
. He now remembered the man clearly and the case with which he had been connected. It had been shortly after New Year, in the frozen depths of winter.

Catching sight of Finnur in the distance, he attempted to take evasive action but it was too late.

‘Siggi!’ he heard him call.

Sigurdur Óli accelerated, pretending not to have heard. Anyway, he was not in the habit of answering when his colleagues addressed him as Siggi.

‘I need to talk to you,’ he heard Finnur shout as he pursued him down the corridor and into his office.

‘I haven’t got time for this,’ Sigurdur Óli protested.

‘Then you’ll just have to make time. What were you doing at Sigurlína’s? Why did you jump straight to the conclusion that her attacker was a debt collector? And what are those dodgy photos you were talking about? Come on. What do you know that we don’t? And why the hell are you trying to hide it from us?’

‘I’m not –’ began Sigurdur Óli.

‘Do you want me to take this upstairs?’ Finnur interrupted. ‘It’s easily done.’

Sigurdur Óli knew that Finnur would not hesitate and would maybe even report him for professional misconduct. He would have liked more time to work out a story, and was concerned too that Patrekur might get dragged into the investigation, though he couldn’t give a toss about Hermann or his wife.

‘Calm down, it’s nothing serious,’ he said. ‘I just didn’t want to complicate matters unnecessarily. At the time it was only GBH; now it’s murder. I was going to talk to you –’

‘How very decent of you. Out with it then.’

‘The photos are of people my friend, Patrekur, knows,’ Sigurdur Óli explained. ‘He put me in touch with them. The man’s name is Hermann. I went round to have a word with Sigurlína and Ebeneser
because
they were using the pictures against him and his wife. They’re photos of them having sex – they showed me one in which this bloke Hermann was clearly identifiable. Lína and Ebbi were involved in blackmail. They invited couples round for swingers’ parties – wife-swapping, in other words. Nothing out of the ordinary as these things go, except that Lína and Ebbi had the bright idea of trying to make some money out of it. There may be other victims but, if so, I’m not aware of them.’

‘What? You’re saying you were conducting a private investigation
for your friend
?’

‘I always intended to report it. I’m telling you now, aren’t I? There’s no harm done. I was just going to talk to Lína and Ebbi before things got out of hand. Hermann’s wife is particularly vulnerable because she’s trying to get ahead in politics. When I arrived on the scene Lína was already lying on the floor. Next thing I know the guy jumps out at me. I rang for backup but we lost him.’

‘So what does this Hermann say?’

‘He denies having anything to do with the attack. I’ve no reason to believe he’s lying, but no particular reason to believe he’s telling the truth either. Then again, the assailant could have been acting alone.’

‘And of course there may be others in the same boat as this Hermann,’ Finnur said, ‘people who are more likely to have underworld contacts. Is that what you’re getting at?’

‘Yes, though I don’t think there’s cause to rule out Hermann.’

‘Did you get anything out of Sigurlína while you were there?’

‘No, she was unconscious when I arrived.’

‘And Ebeneser?’

‘He’s playing dumb. He denies having any photos and claims not to have a clue why Lína was attacked. We should put the screws on him first thing tomorrow morning, while he’s still vulnerable.’

‘What did you mean by keeping this hidden from us?’

‘I … It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to conceal anything.’

‘No, right. That’s why you’ve been conducting some kind of private investigation. Does that seem normal to you?’

‘I haven’t experienced a normal day since I joined the force.’

‘You know I’ll have to report this. But it would look better if you came clean yourself.’

‘Do what you like. I haven’t compromised the case. I consider myself perfectly fit to remain involved. But it’s your inquiry.’

‘Fit? So you’re not just looking out for your friend?’

‘It has nothing to do with him.’

‘Wake up!’ exploded Finnur. ‘Why the hell did he come to you? Stop talking bullshit and stop making things worse for yourself. He came to you because he’s mixed up in this and wants to avoid an official inquiry. He’s using you, Siggi. Try to get your head round the fact!’

With that, Finnur swept out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Instead of switching on the TV as usual when he got home that evening, Sigurdur Óli went into the kitchen, made a sandwich and poured himself a glass of orange juice, then sat down at the kitchen table to eat. It was after midnight and silence reigned in the building. There were five other flats but he had not got to know any of his neighbours since moving in. He greeted them from time to time, if it was unavoidable, but otherwise kept himself to himself. He had no interest in talking to strangers unless it was directly connected to work. The other residents consisted of three families with children, an old couple and a single man of about forty, whom he had once seen wearing a jacket branded with the logo of a tyre company. The man had tried to strike up a friendship, saying hello to Sigurdur Óli a couple of times on his way in or out of the building, and one Saturday afternoon had knocked on his door to ask if he could
borrow
some sugar. Sigurdur Óli replied guardedly that he did not have any and when the man tried to initiate a conversation about English football he had excused himself claiming that he was busy and closed the door.

As he ate his sandwich he thought about Patrekur and Hermann and what Finnur had said. And about the tramp who had asked after Erlendur. He thought Andrés had looked better, though still a wreck, the last time they met. The man was an alcoholic and lived in a block of flats, probably council-owned, not far from where a young boy of Thai descent had been found stabbed to death back in January. The little boy had been frozen to the ground by the time he was discovered. It had been a bitterly cold spell. The police had put all their resources into solving the case, interviewing Andrés among countless other people from the surrounding area. He was a repeat offender with a long police record for crimes ranging from breaking and entering to affray. After being taken in for questioning, however, they had concluded that although peculiar and an unreliable witness, he was unlikely to constitute any sort of threat.

Now, in the late autumn, Andrés had emerged again, like a ghost from the shadows behind the police station. Sigurdur Óli could not imagine what was bothering him or what he could possibly want with Erlendur, and experienced a momentary twinge of concern about having slammed the door on him. But only momentary.

15

THE DAY AFTER
his return from the countryside he woke up on the living-room sofa. Someone had moved him there from the kitchen table where he had fallen asleep. It took him a long time to become fully awake and he briefly thought he was still on the farm, with the morning chores waiting to be attended to. Then he remembered the journey and the wait at the bus station and the stranger who had come to collect him.

He sat up on the sofa, unsure how long he had slept. It was a sunny morning outside and in the light that streamed into the flat he noticed some items of furniture that were familiar, others not, and some that were completely alien, like the television set that he had not noticed the night before, which sat on a table, with a curved screen, black plastic sides and a strange row of buttons. Getting up, he crossed the room to the television, seeing himself reflected oddly in the screen, head elongated, body grotesquely distorted, and smiled at the caricature. He ran a hand over the glass, fiddled with the buttons, and suddenly something happened; there was a low hissing sound and an incomprehensible symbol appeared, accompanied by
a
terrible piercing wail that he thought would drive him mad. He reeled back from the machine, looking round helplessly, then began to jab frantically at the buttons in an attempt to stop the noise. Suddenly the strange picture shrank into a small dot, before disappearing altogether, and the sound abated. He breathed a sigh of relief.

‘What on earth’s that racket?’

His mother came out of the bedroom.

‘I think I must have turned on the machine,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘Is that you, love?’ his mother said. ‘Sorry – I meant to come and meet you yesterday evening but I couldn’t make it; I’ve been a bit under the weather lately. Have you seen my fags anywhere?’

He looked around and shook his head.

‘What have I done with the pack?’ she asked with a sigh, scanning the room. ‘Röggi met you, did he?’

He did not know how to answer this because the man who collected him had not told him his name. She found a packet of cigarettes and some matches, lit one and inhaled, exhaled, took another drag, then blew out smoke through her nose.

‘What do you think of him, love?’ she asked.

‘Who?’

‘Röggi, of course. Bit slow on the uptake, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘All right, I suppose.’

‘Röggi’s OK,’ she said, sucking in smoke. ‘He’s a bit of a dark horse but I like him. Better than that sodding father of yours, I can tell you. Better than that bastard. Have you eaten, love? What did you used to have for breakfast on the farm?’

‘Porridge,’ he said.

‘Horrible muck, isn’t it?’ his mother said. ‘Wouldn’t you rather have some of that breakfast cereal? It’s what everyone eats in America. I bought a packet specially for you. Chocolate flavour.’

‘Maybe,’ he said, so as not to seem ungrateful. He liked starting the day with porridge and had always had it for breakfast, except when there was thick rhubarb stew, which he enjoyed with sugar.

He followed his mother into the kitchen where she took down two bowls and a brown packet. From this she shook out a shower of small brown balls. Then, fetching milk from the fridge, she poured it into the bowls and handed one to him. She chucked her cigarette in the sink without stubbing it out and began to munch on the cereal. Spooning up some of the balls, he put them in his mouth. They were hard and shattered between his teeth.