Black Skies Page 14

  The game ended and as Sigurdur Óli changed channels he thought about the film clip and the boy’s distressing pleas for mercy. He recalled the time he and Erlendur had visited Andrés shortly after New Year. Andrés, stinking and repulsive, had clearly been drinking for a long time. He had suddenly started referring to himself as little Andy, which Erlendur took to be a childhood nickname. So could it be little Andy on the clip? And where was the rest of the film? Were there others? Just what had little Andy been forced to endure at the hands of his stepfather? And where was this stepfather today? Rögnvaldur. Sigurdur Óli had checked the police records but found nobody by that name who could have been Andrés’s stepfather.

  If Andrés had looked terrible back in January when they had confronted him in his lair, he seemed in an even worse condition now, in the autumn. The wraithlike figure who had accosted Sigurdur Óli behind the police station had been a shadow of his former self: his haggard, grey face unshaven, a disgusting stench rising from his filthy clothes, his back hunched. A bundle of nerves. What had happened? Where had Andrés been hiding?

  Surely the boy in the film must be Andrés?

  Sigurdur Óli remembered how he had been at that age. His parents had recently divorced and he had been living with his mother but would spend some weekends with his father, accompanying him to work at times, as he seemed to work late seven days a week. Sigurdur Óli had learned a little about plumbing and discovered that his father had a nickname among his fellow tradesmen that puzzled him at first. He had gone with his father to a cafeteria one lunchtime; it was midweek but he had a day off school because it was Ash Wednesday, so he went with his father, who always ate lunch at the same place. The cafeteria was on Ármúli, somewhere tradesmen and labourers gathered to enjoy cheap, unpretentious platefuls of meatballs or roast lamb, shovelling down their food, smoking and swapping gossip before returning to work. It took no more than twenty minutes, half an hour at most, and then they were gone.

  He was standing by a table, waiting while his father queued for food, when a man hurrying out bumped into him, almost knocking Sigurdur Óli over.

  ‘Sorry, son,’ the man said, catching him before he could fall. ‘But what the hell are you doing getting in the way like that?’

  He spoke roughly, as if the boy had no right to get under the feet of his elders and betters. Perhaps he was curious about what a youngster like him was doing in a workers’ canteen.

  ‘I’m with him,’ explained Sigurdur Óli timidly, pointing to his father who had just turned round and smiled at him.

  ‘Oh, Permaflush, eh?’ said the man, nodding to his father and patting the boy on the head before going on his way.

  It was the smirk, the tone of mockery, the lack of respect that winded Sigurdur Óli. He had never before had any cause to assess his father’s position in society and it took him some time to grasp that the man had been referring to his father with this peculiar name, and that it was intended to belittle him.

  He never mentioned the incident to his father. Later he discovered what Permaflush meant but could not work out why he had acquired this nickname. He had assumed that his father was like any other tradesman and it upset him to find out that he bore such a humiliating moniker. In some way that Sigurdur Óli could not fully understand it diminished him. Did his father cut a ridiculous figure in the eyes of others? Was he seen as a failure? Was it because his father preferred to work alone, had no interest in joining a firm, had few friends and tended to be unsociable and eccentric? He was the first to admit that he did not particularly enjoy company.

  Earlier that day Sigurdur Óli had gone to the hospital and sat by his father’s bed, waiting for him to come round from his operation. He had been dwelling on the time he heard the nickname. Years later he understood more clearly what had happened, the emotions he had felt. It was that he had suddenly been put in the uncomfortable position of feeling sorry for his father, of pitying him, defending him even.

  His father stirred and opened his eyes. They had informed Sigurdur Óli that the operation had gone well, the prostate had been removed and they had found no sign that the cancer had spread; it appeared to have been restricted to the gland itself, and his father was expected to make a quick recovery.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asked, once his father had woken up.

  ‘All right,’ he answered. ‘A bit groggy.’

  ‘You look fine,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘You just need a proper rest.’

  ‘Thank you for looking in on me, Siggi,’ his father said. ‘There was no need. You shouldn’t be wasting your time on an old codger like me.’

  ‘I was thinking about you and Mum.’

  ‘Were you?

  ‘Wondering why you two ever got together when you’re so different.’

  ‘You’re right, we are, we’re poles apart.’ The words emerged with an effort. ‘That was obvious from the off but it wasn’t a problem until later. She changed when she started working – when she got the accountancy job, I mean. So you find the whole thing a mystery do you? That she got together with a plumber like me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘I suppose it seems a bit unlike her. When you say later, do you mean after I arrived on the scene?’

  ‘It had nothing to do with you, Siggi. Your mother’s just a piece of work.’

  They were both silent and eventually his father drifted off to sleep again. Sigurdur Óli remained sitting beside him for a while.

  Sigurdur Óli stood up and switched off the TV. He glanced at his watch; it was probably too late to call but he wanted to hear the sound of her voice. He had been thinking about it all day. He picked up the receiver and weighed it in his hand, hesitating, then dialled her number. She answered on the third ring.

  ‘Am I calling too late?’ he asked.

  ‘No … it’s OK,’ said Bergthóra. ‘I wasn’t asleep. Is everything all right? Why are you ringing so late?’ She sounded concerned but excited too, almost breathless.

  ‘I just wanted a chat, to tell you about the old man. He’s in hospital.’

  He told Bergthóra about his father’s illness, how the operation had gone well and that he would be discharged in a few days. And how he had visited him twice and intended to look in on him regularly while he was recuperating.

  ‘Not that he’ll let anyone do anything for him.’

  ‘You’ve never been very close,’ said Bergthóra, who had not known her former father-in-law well.

  ‘No,’ admitted Sigurdur Óli. ‘Things just turned out that way, I don’t really know why. Look, I was wondering if we could see each other again? Maybe at your place. Do something fun.’

  Bergthóra was silent. He heard a noise, a muffled voice.

  ‘Is there somebody with you?’ he asked.

  She did not answer.

  ‘Bergthóra?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I dropped the phone.’

  ‘Who’s that with you?’

  ‘Maybe we should talk another time,’ she said. ‘This isn’t really a good moment.’

  ‘Bergthóra …?’

  ‘Let’s talk another time,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you.’

  She hung up. Sigurdur Óli stared at the phone. Inexplicably, it had never occurred to him that Bergthóra would go in search of pastures new. He had been open to the idea himself but was completely thrown by the fact that Bergthóra had beaten him to it.

  ‘Fuck!’ he heard himself whisper furiously.

  He should never have rung.

  What was she doing with someone else?

  ‘Fuck,’ he whispered again, putting down the phone.

  27

  THEY DID NOT think it necessary to take Kristján into custody, as the accomplice, if accomplice was the right word, of Thórarinn, the debt collector and drug dealer. All the evidence suggested that Thórarinn was the man who had attacked and killed Lína. Kristján was no longer employed by the DIY store; he had gone back to his old work-shy ways and was easily tracked down at t
he pub where Sigurdur Óli had gone in search of him before. He had downed a few pints by the time Sigurdur Óli arrived and waved from his seat in the corner, looking for all the world as if they were old friends.

  ‘They told me at Bíkó that you’d quit,’ Sigurdur Óli said, joining him.

  It was shortly after midday and Kristján was alone at the table, a half-empty beer glass, a packet of cigarettes and a disposable lighter in front of him. He was in no better or worse shape than the last time they had met and claimed, with obvious relief, not to have heard from Thórarinn. He was evidently hoping that the police would arrest Thórarinn as quickly as possible and put him away for life.

  ‘He’s no friend of mine,’ Kristján declared, ‘if that’s what you think.’

  He was almost the only customer in the pub and was enjoying life, at peace with the world after receiving his wages for the few days he had worked. There had been occasions in the past few years when he had been so hard up that he had gone hungry.

  ‘No, I can imagine,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘I doubt he’s pleasant company. I saw his wife but she didn’t know where he could be hiding.’

  ‘What? Are you telling me that you lot haven’t managed to find Toggi yet?’

  ‘No, he’s vanished into thin air. It’s just a question now of how long he’ll be able to hold out. People usually admit defeat after a few days. Have you got any idea where he could be?’

  ‘Not a clue. Why don’t you relax and have a beer. Cigarette?’

  Kristján pushed the packet towards him, much cockier now that he was on his home turf, the beer providing Dutch courage. Sigurdur Óli studied him in silence, hardly recognising him as the same person. Could he stomach any more of this sort of humiliation? If there was one thing that deeply pissed him off about his job it was having to be matey with little jerks like Kristján, having to suck up to people he despised and stoop to their level, even pretend to be one of them, try to put himself in their shoes. His colleague Erlendur found it easy because he understood these losers, and Elínborg could call on some sort of feminine intuition when forced to consort with criminal lowlifes. But the way Sigurdur Óli saw it, there was an unbridgeable gulf between him and a delinquent like Kristján. They had nothing in common, never would have, and would never exist on any sort of level playing field; one a law-abiding member of society, the other a repeat offender. From Sigurdur Óli’s point of view, the little shit had forfeited the right to stand up and be counted, to be listened to or treated as a member of society. But there were times, like now, when Sigurdur Óli had to put on a show of caring about what one of these deadbeats thought, about his opinions, about how his tiny mind worked. He had decided to ingratiate himself with Kristján in the hope of gleaning some more information.

  ‘No, thanks, I don’t smoke,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘It’s absolutely vital that we find him as soon as possible. If you have the faintest idea where Toggi could be or who he might be in touch with, we’d be extremely grateful.’

  Kristján was instantly wary. The detective’s manner was nothing like before and he was unsure how to react.

  ‘I don’t know a thing,’ he objected.

  ‘Who are his mates? Who does he hang out with? We’ve got nothing on him. He’s not had any brush with the law recently, so we have to put our trust in people like you, you see?’

  ‘Yes, but like I said –’

  ‘One name, that’s all. Someone he’s mentioned in your hearing. It might only have been once.’

  Kristján studied him, then drained his glass and held it out.

  ‘You can get me a refill, mate,’ said the little runt. ‘Then come and park yourself here for a nice cosy chat. Who knows, something might come back to me.’

  Three pints and a period of interminable boredom later, Sigurdur Óli was driving east along the Miklabraut dual carriageway, searching for a mechanic’s specialising in motorbikes and snowmobiles, where, according to Kristján, he would find a man called Höddi who belonged to Thórarinn’s tiny circle of friends. Kristján had forgotten how their paths had crossed originally but they used to help each other out with debt collecting and other jobs that might crop up. That was how Höddi had once come to set fire to a white Range Rover with leather fittings and all the extras, worth a cool twelve million kronur, at the request of the owner. He needed to pay off a loan that was causing him grief and also wanted to squeeze some cash out of his insurance company. The request had come via Toggi, who was in contact with the owner – Kristján did not know how – but it so happened that Toggi was in Spain at the time and the job needed doing quickly. Höddi had sorted out the matter easily; Kristján said he was considered a dab hand at arson jobs. Apart from that, he claimed he did not know who Toggi ‘Sprint’ was friendly with.

  Höddi turned out to be a tall, powerfully built figure, with the beginnings of a paunch, a totally bald head and a thick goatee. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt bearing the Confederate flag, like a caricature of an American redneck. When Sigurdur Óli arrived he was inside the workshop, stooped over a motorbike with chrome fittings. The workshop was small and he was the owner and sole member of staff, as far as Kristján knew.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘I’m looking for Höddi. Is that you, by any chance?’

  The man straightened up. ‘Who wants to know?’ he asked, as if he could smell trouble at a hundred paces.

  ‘I need to find Toggi – Thórarinn – and I gather you know him,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘It’s a police matter. You may have heard about it. I’m with the police.’

  ‘What police matter?’

  ‘An attack on a woman in the eastern suburbs.’

  ‘Why are you asking me?’

  ‘Well, I –’

  ‘Who sent you here?’ asked Höddi. ‘Are you alone?’

  Sigurdur Óli was unsure how to take this last question. A policeman was by his nature never alone, but he had no intention of engaging in philosophical debate with Höddi. So what did the question mean? If he was alone was the man intending to attack him? Nor was there any way Sigurdur Óli could answer his first question, as he did not intend to divulge Kristján’s identity, despite the niggling desire to do so in revenge for the mind-numbing tedium of their lunchtime chat. So he merely stood there in silence, gazing round the workshop at the snowmobiles which were in the process of being converted to make them even faster and noisier, and the motorbikes being souped up in order to break the speed limit with even greater ease.

  Höddi advanced towards him. ‘Why do you think I’ve got anything to say about this guy Toggi?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m asking you,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Do you know where he could be?’

  Höddi glowered at him. ‘No, is the answer. I don’t know the bloke.’

  ‘Then do you know a man called Ebeneser, known as Ebbi?’

  ‘I thought you were asking about Toggi.’

  ‘Ebbi too.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He has a wife called Lína. Do you know her?’

  ‘Nope.’

  The man’s phone started ringing in his pocket. He looked at Sigurdur Óli as the phone rang, four, five, six times, and when he finally deigned to answer, he continued to eyeball Sigurdur Óli.

  ‘Yup,’ he said, then listened for a while.

  ‘I don’t give a shit,’ he said. ‘Yup … yup … yup, doesn’t matter to me.’

  He listened again.

  ‘I don’t care if he’s related to you,’ he snarled. ‘I’m going to kneecap the fucker.’

  His eyes were fixed provocatively on Sigurdur Óli as he said this. In what sounded like either an act of revenge or the calling in of a debt Höddi was threatening to take a baseball bat to somebody. Whichever it was, Höddi clearly felt no compulsion to conceal it. He was deliberately provoking Sigurdur Óli, as if to demonstrate that they had nothing on him and could not touch him.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ said Höddi into the phone. ‘Yeah �
� yeah … right, yeah, and up yours. You can shut the fuck up, mate.’

  He ended the call and stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘Has Toggi been in touch with you recently?’ asked Sigurdur Óli, as if he had not heard the exchange.

  ‘I don’t know any Toggi.’

  ‘He’s known as Toggi “Sprint”.’

  ‘I don’t know him either.’

  ‘I assume you travel in the highlands on those things,’ commented Sigurdur Óli, gesturing towards the powerful snowmobiles.

  ‘Why don’t you just cut the crap and get the hell out of here?’ said Höddi.

  ‘Or maybe on glacier trips,’ Sigurdur Óli continued, unperturbed by the man’s rising anger. ‘Am I right? I’m talking about organised tours for businesses or institutions, not just mucking about by yourself.’

  ‘What’s this bullshit?’

  ‘Do you organise tours like that? Are you involved with them at all? Glacier tours for corporate clients: snowmobiles, barbecues, the works?’

  ‘I often go on glacier trips. What’s it to you?’

  ‘This bloke I mentioned – Ebbi – he runs highland tours. Ever worked with him?’

  ‘I don’t know any Ebbi, mate.’

  ‘All right,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Have it your way.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Now get the fuck out and leave me alone,’ he said, turning back to his motorbike.

  When Sigurdur Óli returned to Hverfisgata he found an email waiting for him from Kolfinna, the secretary at Lína’s accountancy firm. She had promised to send him the list of employees and clients who had gone on the company’s second glacier tour with Ebbi and Lína. Sigurdur Óli printed it and glanced down the list. To his surprise and consternation, he encountered Hermann’s name. Then, further down, he was brought up short by another name so familiar he could hardly believe his eyes.