Black Skies de-8 Read online

  Sigurdur Óli watched him go. Ebeneser needed time to absorb how much he knew and to consider his offer. Sigurdur Óli smiled grimly to himself. He was a pretty experienced police officer but could not immediately recall having met such a consummate liar before — nor one more adept at getting himself into deep water.

  10

  Bergthóra had already arrived and was sitting at the table, reading the menu, when Sigurdur Óli turned up a few minutes late. She had chosen an Italian restaurant in the centre of town and he headed straight there after spending the day assisting Elínborg, who was bearing the brunt of the inquiry into the Thingholt murder. He would have liked to have gone home first for a shower and a change of clothes but there had been no time. Although he usually enjoyed eating out, he was rather dreading this encounter.

  He kissed her on the lips and took a seat. Bergthóra looked tired. The last few months had been hard on her. The IT company she ran, in which she owned a large stake, had recently gone through a rocky patch, resulting in a great deal of extra work for her. Their separation had taken its toll too, on top of their failure to have children.

  ‘You look well,’ she said to Sigurdur Óli as he sat down.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, fine. Meeting in restaurants like this feels like dating again. I can’t get used to it. You should have come round to mine; I could have made us something.’

  ‘Yes, it does feel a bit like the old days,’ Sigurdur Óli agreed.

  They pored over the menus. It was not like the old days and they both knew it. They were weighed down by the awareness of their failed relationship, of the wasted years, of the feelings that were no more, of the shared life that had unravelled. They were like weary receivers winding up a bankruptcy; all that remained was to tie up the loose ends and settle the final claims. Because Bergthóra had a tendency to become emotional about the way things had turned out, Sigurdur Óli had chosen to meet her at a restaurant.

  ‘How’s your father?’ she asked, her eyes on the menu.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Is she still with that bloke?’

  ‘Saemundur? Yes.’

  They chose what they were going to eat and agreed to share a bottle of Italian red. There were few other midweek diners. Soothing music emanated from somewhere over their heads, interspersed with the sounds of clattering and laughter from the kitchen.

  ‘How’s life on Framnesvegur?’

  ‘OK, though the flat’s still half empty,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘Has anyone been round to view our place?’

  ‘There were three viewings today. One man said he’d get in touch. I’ll miss the flat.’

  ‘Naturally. It’s a great flat.’

  Neither of them spoke. Sigurdur Óli wondered if he should tell her about Hermann and his wife, and decided to give it a go in the hope that it would lighten the atmosphere. So he told her about his meeting with Patrekur who had unexpectedly brought along his brother-in-law Hermann, and described how the couple’s former hobby had landed them in trouble. Then he described the attack on Lína, the man with the baseball bat and Ebbi in his hiking boots, feigning ignorance.

  ‘He was literally stunned,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘Ebbi’s a guide,’ he added with a grin. ‘He could do with some guidance right now.’

  ‘Do people really get up to that sort of thing?’ Bergthóra sighed.

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone who goes in for that — wife-swapping, I mean. They must be mad. And to get into such a mess.’

  ‘Well, this is a bit of a one-off.’

  ‘It must be hard for Súsanna’s sister, what with her being in politics. To have this come back to haunt them.’

  ‘Yes, but what kind of idiot is she to put herself in that position in the first place? Especially when she’s in politics. Don’t start feeling sorry for them.’

  ‘You’re not big on sympathy, are you?’ Bergthóra said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sigurdur Óli demanded.

  They were interrupted by the friendly middle-aged waiter who brought over the bottle of red wine, and after showing Sigurdur Óli the label, poured some into his glass. Sigurdur Óli watched him.

  ‘You’ve already uncorked the bottle?’

  The waiter did not understand the question.

  ‘You’re supposed to do it in front of me,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘How do I know how long ago this bottle was opened or what you’ve been doing with it behind the scenes?’

  The waiter looked at him in surprise.

  ‘I’ve only just opened it,’ he mumbled apologetically.

  ‘Well, you’re supposed to uncork it here at the table, not in some back room.’

  ‘I’ll fetch another bottle.’ The waiter hurried away.

  ‘He’s doing his best,’ Bergthóra objected.

  ‘He’s an amateur,’ Sigurdur Óli said dismissively. ‘We pay a lot to eat here and they’re supposed to know what they’re doing. Anyway, what did you mean when you said I’m not big on sympathy?’

  Bergthóra looked at him. ‘All that just now,’ she said. ‘It’s typical.’

  ‘The poor service, you mean?’

  ‘You’re just like your mother.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re both so … cold. Such snobs.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake …’

  ‘I was never good enough for you,’ Bergthóra went on, ‘and she used to make sure I knew it. Whereas your father was always such a sweetheart. I don’t understand how a woman like her could ever have stooped so low as to get involved with a plumber, or how on earth he put up with her for so long.’

  ‘I’ve often wondered that myself,’ Sigurdur Óli admitted. ‘But Mum really likes you. She told me so. There’s no need to bad-mouth her.’

  ‘She never showed me any support when we lost … when we had our problems. Never. I got the impression she felt it had nothing to do with her. I felt as if she blamed it all on me — ruining things for you by not being able to have children.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  ‘You’ve never mentioned this before.’

  ‘Sure I have; you just didn’t want to listen.’

  The waiter returned with a new bottle, showed Sigurdur Óli the label and began to remove the cork under his nose. Then he poured some and Sigurdur Óli tasted and approved the wine. The waiter filled their glasses and left the bottle on the table.

  ‘You’ve never wanted to listen to a word I say,’ Bergthóra said.

  ‘That’s not true.’

  She looked at him, her eyes filling with tears, then picked up a napkin.

  ‘All right,’ she said, changing tack. ‘Let’s not quarrel. It’s over and done with and we can’t change anything.’

  Sigurdur Óli looked down at his plate; he found scenes hard to cope with. Happy as he was to subject criminal lowlifes to a tirade of abuse, he would do anything to keep the peace when it came to his home life. He had once asked himself if it stemmed from the role he played as a boy during his parents’ divorce, when he had tried to keep everyone happy and discovered that it was impossible.

  ‘I feel as if you often forget that it was hard for me too,’ he said carefully. ‘You never asked how I felt. It was all about you. And you insisted on adoption, you never really asked my opinion. You were just determined to go ahead. We’ve been over this so often, I really don’t want to discuss it this evening.’

  ‘No,’ Bergthóra agreed, ‘let’s not talk about it. I didn’t mean to either. Let’s drop it.’

  ‘I’m surprised to hear you say that about Mum,’ Sigurdur Óli said after a pause. ‘Though I know what she can be like. I seem to remember warning you about her when we first got together.’

  ‘Yes, you told me not to let her get to me.’

  ‘And I hope you didn’t.’

  There was a long
silence. The wine was from Tuscany, smooth and mellow on the palate; the music over their heads was Italian too, and the food they were waiting for. Only the silence between them was Icelandic.

  ‘I don’t want to adopt,’ Sigurdur Óli said.

  ‘I know,’ Bergthóra answered. ‘You’ll find another woman and have your own babies with her.’

  ‘No,’ Sigurdur Óli said, ‘I don’t think I’d make a good father.’

  When he got home he turned on the television and started watching the baseball but the Red Sox put in an atrocious performance which did nothing to cheer him up after his dinner with Bergthóra. Then his phone started ringing on the kitchen table where he had left it. Sigurdur Óli did not recognise the number and was about to turn it off when curiosity got the better of him.

  ‘Yes?’ he answered with unnecessary brusqueness. It was a tactic he had developed long ago for dealing with unknown callers. After all, it might be a charity. His name was marked with a red cross in the telephone directory, indicating that he was not to receive any cold calls, but there was always the odd one that slipped through the net and the caller was immediately made to regret it.

  ‘Sigurdur?’ said a female voice.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Is this Sigurdur Óli?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Eva.’

  ‘Eva?’

  ‘Eva Lind. Erlendur’s daughter.’

  ‘Oh. Hi.’

  There was no warmth in his voice. Sigurdur Óli was well aware of who she was; he and Erlendur had been colleagues for years, and he had encountered her professionally too. Eva Lind had led an unruly life that had brought her into contact with the police on more than one occasion. Indeed, her life as an addict had caused her father untold grief.

  ‘Have you heard from him at all?’ Eva Lind asked.

  ‘Your father? No, nothing. All I know is that he took some leave and was intending to head to the East Fjords for a few days.’

  ‘Oh. Didn’t he take his phone with him? He’s only got the one mobile number, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘He hasn’t got any other phone? Because he’s not picking up.’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘If he gets in touch, could you tell him I was asking after him?’

  ‘Sure, but …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not expecting to hear from him,’ Sigurdur Óli said, ‘so …’

  ‘No, me neither,’ Eva Lind said. ‘We …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We went for a drive the other day; he wanted to look at some lakes around Reykjavík. He was …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He seemed so down.’

  ‘Isn’t he always? I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ve never known your dad to be anything but down.’

  ‘I know.’

  Neither of them spoke.

  ‘Will you say hi from me?’ Eva Lind asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Bye then.’

  Sigurdur Óli said goodbye and put down the phone. Then he turned off the television and went to bed.

  11

  It took him some time to find the old projector, tucked away in a low cubbyhole in the kitchen broom cupboard.

  He had been sure the old man would not have destroyed it; a machine like that would never end up on the tip if that bastard had anything to do with it. Amazingly, after all these years the old lead-grey device still worked, but then the bastard was probably still using it. He felt its familiar weight as he lifted it out of its hiding place and set it up on the table in the sitting room, his eye falling on the manufacturer’s logo: Bell amp; Howell. He remembered how puzzled he had been as a boy by this name, until a friend explained it as almost certainly the names of two men, one called Bell, the other Howell, who had manufactured the machine together, most likely in America. The projector itself was concealed in a deep compartment under the lid. He pulled the lid off, swung out the reel arms, plugged in the old electric cable and flicked the switch. The wall opposite lit up.

  The projector was one of the few possessions the bastard had brought with him when he moved in with his mother, Sigurveig. He had been unaware of the new man in her life since he was in the countryside at the time. Then one day word had come that his mother wanted him back. She had moved into a council block in one of the newer suburbs, and claimed that she had quit the booze and met a new man. Next he received a phone call from the woman whom he never addressed as Mother, only Sigurveig, because after two years apart she was like a stranger to him. It was the first and only time she rang him at the farm and the conversation was brief: she wanted her youngest child to come and live with her. He replied that he was happy on the farm. ‘I know, dear,’ he heard her say down the phone, ‘but now you’re coming home to me. It’s been approved. It’s all sorted.’

  Some days later he said goodbye to the farmer’s wife and the couple’s two daughters, and the farmer himself drove him down to the main road and waited with him until the bus arrived. It was the height of summer and he felt he was betraying the farmer because the hay harvest was under way and they needed his help. The couple had often praised him for his diligence and helpfulness. One day, they said, he would turn out all right, more than all right. In the distance they saw the bus approaching and eventually it drew up beside them in a cloud of dust.

  ‘All the best, and maybe you’ll drop by and see us when you get the chance,’ the farmer said, making as if to shake his hand, then giving him a hug. He slipped a thousand-krona note into his hand. The bus set off with a jerk and the farmer disappeared as the dust rose again. He had never in his life owned any money before and on the journey to Reykjavík he kept taking the note out of his pocket and examining it in wonder, then folding it up and putting it back in his pocket, only to fish it out a minute or two later to study it again.

  Sigurveig was supposed to be meeting him at the bus station but when he arrived she was nowhere to be seen. It was a cold evening and he stood for a long time beside his suitcase, waiting for her. Eventually he sat down on the case. He did not know how to get home, or what district the block of flats was in or even the name of the street, and he grew increasingly anxious as the evening wore on. There was no one he could turn to for help. He had been away for a long time; the farmer had told him ages ago that his father had gone to live abroad and he knew nothing about his two siblings, who were considerably older. There was nobody else.

  He sat on his case, casting his mind back to his home or rather to the place that he had called home for the last two years. They would have finished in the cowshed by now and the girls would be mucking around. Then they would shoo the dogs out of the kitchen and dinner would be served up: boiled trout from the lake with melted butter, perhaps — his favourite.

  ‘I assume you’re the brat I’m supposed to be meeting.’

  He looked up. A man he had never seen before was looming over him.

  ‘You’re little Andy, aren’t you?’ the man said.

  No one had called him Andy since he had left town.

  ‘My name’s Andrés,’ he replied.

  The man looked him up and down.

  ‘Then it must be you. Your mum says hello — or at least I think that’s what she said. She hasn’t been on particularly good form lately.’

  He did not know how to answer, did not know what the man’s words meant or what he meant by form.

  ‘Let’s get a move on then,’ the man said. ‘Don’t forget your case.’

  The man walked off in the direction of the car park in front of the bus station. After watching the stranger disappear round the corner, he stood up, picked up his case and followed. He did not know what else to do, but he was wary; from the first instant he had got the impression that this was a man who would not be easy to please. His tone of voice when he referred to his mother told him this, the scorn with which he had said ‘little Andy’. The man had not even greeted him; all he had said was
: ‘I assume you’re the brat I’m supposed to be meeting.’ He noticed that the tip of one of the man’s forefingers was missing but it did not cross his mind either then or later to ask how it had happened.

  Sigurveig was asleep in the bedroom when they reached the flat. The man announced that he was going out and said he was not to make any noise or to wake his mother, so he sat waiting quietly on a chair in the kitchen. The flat had one bedroom, behind a closed door, a living room, a kitchen and a small bathroom. Apparently the sofa in the living room was to be his bed. He was worn out from the journey and his long wait at the bus station but did not dare to lie down on the sofa, so he laid his head on his arms on the kitchen table and before he knew it he was asleep.

  Just before he had dropped off his eye had been caught by an object in the living room. He had no idea what it was but there it stood on the table by the sofa, square and boxy, with a handle on top; an alien object from the outside world, with that incomprehensible logo on the side: Bell amp; Howell.

  He was to discover later that the new man in his mother’s life also owned a film camera with another name that he could make neither head nor tail of, which puzzled him no less than the name of the projector. The name, Eumig, was burnt into his memory.

  He stared for a long time at the old Bell amp; Howell projector and at the light it cast on the facing wall; snatches of memory seemed to play themselves out in the glare of the machine. The old man whimpered something and he turned round.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

  The man in the chair was silent. There was a powerful stench of urine and the mask over his face was damp with sweat.

  ‘Where’s the camera?’

  The man stared at him through the slits in the death mask.

  ‘And the films? Where are the films? Tell me. I can kill you if I want to. Do you understand that? I’m the one in control now! Me! Not you, you old shit. Me! I’m in control.’

  Nothing. Neither cough nor groan emerged from behind the mask.

  ‘How do you like that, eh? How do you like that? Don’t you find it strange, after all these years, that I should be stronger than you? Who’s the wimp now, eh? Tell me that. Who’s the wimp now?’