Into Oblivion

by Arnaldur Indridason

  ‘Who’s the woman?’

  ‘She’s married, apparently,’ said Marion.

  ‘Married? No … no way. Really?’

  ‘So you didn’t know?’

  ‘No. Not a thing. This is the first I’ve heard of it. Married?’

  ‘To a member of the Defense Force,’ said Marion. ‘An American serviceman.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

  ‘Perhaps it was over straight away,’ said Erlendur, seeing how much the news had upset Nanna. ‘Just a quick fling he didn’t think it worth telling you about.’

  Erlendur seemed to be going out of his way to excuse her brother and soften the blow. Marion wondered if it was a good or bad quality in a policeman to let oneself become involved in a case like this.

  ‘Anyway,’ intervened Marion, ‘it’s possible that the husband, this soldier, had a bone to pick with your brother.’

  ‘I just had no idea.’

  ‘No,’ said Marion. ‘Maybe there was more to your brother than met the eye.’

  21

  The following morning Marion tried to get hold of Caroline Murphy. She had given them her phone number at military police headquarters and Marion rang it several times without success. Meanwhile Erlendur was on the trail of Rúdólf. Nanna thought he had moved recently but didn’t know where. There was no reporter with that name listed in the phone book, so the obvious course was to ring the Association of Journalists. There Erlendur learned that Rúdólf was not at present employed, either by a paper or broadcaster. He had lost his job on an evening paper some time ago. The person who answered the phone was unable to divulge the reason, stating only that it was private, but gave Erlendur Rúdólf’s address and telephone number. He rang the number, only to discover that it had been disconnected.

  Shortly before lunchtime Erlendur and Marion knocked on the door of a small basement flat. It was on Öldugata, in the west of town, in a rather dilapidated corrugated-iron-clad house that had once in its heyday been painted red. Little remained but flaking patches of colour, and the frames of the single-glazed windows were rotten from battling the elements without any help from the owners. A chimney poked up from the roof with a television aerial attached. The wire ran down to the first floor. From there another ran down to Rúdólf’s flat.

  Erlendur rapped a second and a third time before finally he heard a noise and a man appeared in the doorway, still bleary-eyed with sleep. He looked as if he had stepped straight out of bed, standing there in nothing but his underpants and a duvet wrapped round his shoulders, below which protruded spindly legs and bare feet, with an ugly case of athlete’s foot on both big toes, Erlendur noticed.

  ‘What … what’s all this noise in aid of?’

  ‘Are you Rúdólf?’ asked Erlendur.

  ‘Yes, my name’s Rúdólf. Who are you?’

  ‘We’re from the police,’ said Erlendur. ‘We’d like a word, if we can come in.’

  ‘In here?’ said Rúdólf, as if he had never heard such a preposterous idea.

  ‘Or you could come with us, if you’d rather,’ said Erlendur. ‘Makes no odds.’

  ‘You what … am I under arrest?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Erlendur. ‘We just need to ask you a few questions about a story you were interested in a while back, to do with the NATO base at Keflavík.’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll pull on some clothes,’ said Rúdólf and moved out of sight. Before long he appeared in the doorway again, this time wearing a pair of tight green trousers and dragging a T-shirt over his head. He hadn’t bothered with socks. ‘Maybe you should come in,’ he said. ‘Sorry about the mess, I …’

  His words trailed off. Erlendur told him not to worry and entered his lair. Marion followed, closing the door behind them. The flat was nothing but a bedsit with a tiny kitchenette and a desk with an old typewriter on it. The bathroom was out in the entrance hall. The mess Rúdólf had apologised for was unbelievable: a chaos of old newspapers and documents, interspersed with milk cartons and leftovers. A fetid odour of rotting food hung over the place, from rancid meat or sour milk. Rúdólf was apparently conscious of the smell since he hastily opened a couple of windows.

  ‘I’d make coffee but, you know, the machine’s kaput,’ he said, sitting down on the edge of his bed. There was a chair at the desk which Marion drew out. Erlendur, finding nowhere to sit, took up position by one of the windows in the hope of snatching a breath of fresh air. ‘So what’s this story you were talking about?’

  ‘We believe you knew Kristvin who was found –’

  ‘Krissi? Yeah. Are you here because of him?’

  ‘We hear you asked him to do you a favour since he worked on the base –’

  ‘Who told you that?’ asked Rúdólf. ‘Was it his sister? Did Nanna tell you that? Was she talking about me?’

  ‘We found a note among Kristvin’s belongings,’ improvised Erlendur, honouring his promise not to mention Nanna in her ex-boyfriend’s hearing. ‘What exactly did you ask him to do for you?’

  ‘A note? What kind of note?’

  ‘About a foreign airline that used the airport and –’

  ‘Is that why he was killed?’ asked Rúdólf, waking up slightly. He had obviously been drinking the night before and was struggling not only with the unexpected visit but a crippling hangover as well.

  ‘Just to be clear, Rúdólf,’ said Marion, ‘anything we discuss here is strictly confidential. We understand you’re a journalist, though you’re not employed at present, but you can’t use any of the information revealed in our conversation. I hope you appreciate that. If you do, it could compromise our investigation.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rúdólf. ‘Hey, I used to handle the police news. I’m a pro,’ he added airily.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ve got quite a lot on actually,’ Rúdólf continued, as if he felt compelled to justify himself. ‘I’m a freelance hack and write for various rags. The fishermen’s paper and so on. Besides, I heard they’re going to offer me my old job back; it’s only a question of time –’

  ‘A hack?’ queried Erlendur.

  ‘Yeah, hack.’

  ‘Is that …?’

  ‘Hack, man, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of that?’ said Rúdólf, waking up properly now.

  ‘You mean you’re some kind of pen for hire?’

  Rúdólf clearly didn’t think this worthy of a reply. He retrieved a pair of socks from under the bed, sniffed them, then put them on. Marion asked if he knew anything about Kristvin’s relationships with women but Rúdólf said it was ages since he’d had any contact with him so he couldn’t help them on that score. Though did that mean Krissi had finally managed to get his leg over? Marion left this unanswered; the less information they gave this journalist the better. Exercising the same caution, Erlendur enquired about Kristvin’s purchase of cigarettes and alcohol from the base. Rúdólf admitted having enjoyed the perks while he was seeing Nanna, but said his friendship with Kristvin had ended as soon as he and Nanna split up. He seemed unaware of the drugs; at least he didn’t bring them up.

  ‘She has cancer,’ said Marion.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Rúdólf. ‘Total bummer.’

  ‘And you split up.’

  ‘Not because of that – she didn’t say that, did she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was just over between us, you know. Shit happens.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Marion. ‘So you don’t know if Kristvin was seeing a woman on the base?’

  ‘No. No idea.’

  ‘Did you know of any friends he had there? Icelandic or American?’

  ‘Nope. None.’

  Marion steered the conversation back to the foreign airline. Rúdólf was looking much brighter. He had found a hip flask with some spirits left in the bottom and drained it, then tossed the flask on the bed.

  ‘Krissi told me about the Hercules transports the Icelandic crew serviced at NAS Kef,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘They l
and here fairly regularly, and if they require maintenance, they call on Krissi and his crew, you follow?’

  ‘Nass Keff?’ repeated Erlendur, puzzled.

  ‘Yeah, NAS Kef – Naval Air Station Keflavík. Come on, you must have heard the term? Don’t you understand anything? Are you from the countryside or –?’

  ‘Just keep talking,’ said Marion, signalling to Erlendur to lay off Rúdólf.

  ‘They claim these aircraft belong to a commercial company, so they’re treated as if they’re from an ordinary civilian operator,’ said Rúdólf, glaring at Erlendur. ‘That’s why the Yanks don’t handle the maintenance if they have to stop over here. Icelandair takes care of them just like all the other civilian aircraft that pass through Kef.’

  ‘And Kristvin thought there was something dubious about that?’ said Erlendur.

  ‘We used to debate these kinds of issues,’ said Rúdólf loftily. ‘I was with his sister at the time … You’ve talked to Nanna – did she ask after me at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t get it … just don’t get why she gave me the boot. I’ve never understood.’

  ‘It’s a mystery,’ said Erlendur, his eyes travelling round the squalid flat.

  ‘What did Kristvin “debate” with you?’ asked Marion.

  ‘This airline,’ said Rúdólf, still frowning at Erlendur, uncertain how to interpret his comment.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He? It was more like what I told him. I ran a few checks, called up some of my contacts – I was still at the paper then, you know.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘In the first place, commercial companies don’t operate Hercules,’ said Rúdólf. ‘They’re military transports built for the army and civilian airlines don’t use them. So Krissi and I were wondering what a private outfit was doing flying Hercules. Then one of them stopped in transit here and they had to do repairs on it in the big hangar –’

  ‘Hangar 885?’

  ‘Yeah, right, 885. And because it was the landing gear, they had to unload the cargo and it turned out the hold was jam-packed with weapons and among all the crates there was only a whole bloody tank that they had to roll out onto the ground. Krissi’d never seen anything like it. They covered the lot with tarpaulins. Krissi and his crew repaired the undercarriage, then they were told to beat it.’

  ‘Did Kristvin witness the unloading?’

  ‘Yeah … well, no, he saw the cargo after they’d covered it up. He took a peek under the tarpaulins and saw what they were transporting. He was curious. He knew the stuff had come out of the plane.’

  ‘Did anyone see him?’

  ‘No. He didn’t think so. After that they hastily reloaded and the plane went on its way.’

  ‘And what did Kristvin intend to do with this information?’

  ‘You mean what did we intend to do with it?’

  ‘Yes, of course, what did you intend to do?’ asked Marion, with a weary roll of the eyes at Erlendur.

  ‘I asked him to snap a few pics next time, lent him a camera and all, but the weeks went by and nothing happened. Then I lost my job.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell your editor about this?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Rúdólf. ‘I wanted to go down to the base, take photos in the hangar and talk to the guys there, but we were refused permission and there wasn’t much interest in the story at the paper. The bunch of reactionaries who own it didn’t want to piss off the Yanks or something. The big papers here are more about burying news than digging it up.’ He paused for effect.

  ‘Did it happen again?’

  ‘No, or at least not that Krissi told me. He gave back the camera. Said he couldn’t risk lugging it around at work. We stopped talking after I broke up with Nanna. It was over between us. All of us.’

  ‘Do you remember what the airline was called?’

  ‘Yes, it was … hang on … it ended in “trans” something, “transfer”, or …’

  ‘Could it have been Northern Cargo Transport?’

  ‘Hey, that’s it,’ said Rúdólf. ‘Northern Cargo Transport. Krissi found that out. He also found out that the plane was in transit from Europe to South America. He didn’t know where exactly but of course there’s all kinds of conflicts there.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said Marion. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They were obviously shipping arms.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Handled by a civilian operator. Northern Cargo Transport.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So why? Why aren’t the Yanks using their own Hercules transports? Tell me that.’

  ‘Do you think Kristvin might have found out why?’ asked Marion.

  ‘Dunno. But it’s entirely possible.’

  Later that day a dispatch marked ‘Confidential’ arrived from Fleet Air Command. It was their response to the reiterated letter rogatory that had been issued by the state prosecutor’s office and police commissioner to request all necessary access to the military base for an investigation into the death of an Icelandic citizen. The letter had stated that there were grounds for believing that the man had been murdered on the naval air station, and that the Defense Force’s assistance with the investigation of the incident would be not only welcome but essential. The inquiry’s findings were briefly outlined to explain how it had come to focus on Kristvin’s work on the base, more specifically in Hangar 885.

  Fleet Air Command’s response stressed that, since no direct connection to Defense Force activities had yet emerged from the investigation, the military authorities saw no reason at the present time to cooperate with the Icelandic police or grant them access to restricted areas. This applied particularly to Hangar 885. It was pointed out that the naval installation was US territory and that, if the Icelandic police wished to question American nationals within the military zone, they would be required to submit a special application to the commander’s office in each instance, and that all interviews would have to be conducted in the presence of the Defense Force attorney. However, since the Icelandic police’s case was at present based on no more than conjecture, they could not expect further cooperation from the Defense Force at this time.

  22

  The woman bore all the signs of a tough life. From her hands with their swollen knuckles and fingers twisted into the palms it was evident that she was far gone with osteoarthritis. Her small eyes peered colourless from a face scored with wrinkles. Her skin was dry and withered, her lips sunken, and when she spoke her words were accompanied by a whistling through the gaps in her teeth. Her hair was a straggling grey mess. Erlendur had come across her name in the police reports from 1953. At the time she had been living in Camp Knox, struggling to bring up five children as a single mother. She was about seventy but looked ninety.

  She lived on Brædraborgarstígur in the west of town. Erlendur had rung her doorbell twice before he caught sight of a bent figure shuffling towards him, carrying a green net of groceries from the local shop and a shabby handbag. She was on her way home from work. As she came closer he noticed that she was a little lame and wore a threadbare coat and a headscarf knotted under her chin. On her feet she had brown winter boots with woollen socks sticking over the tops.

  ‘Who are you after?’ she asked when she reached the door and began scrabbling in her handbag for her keys. Her voice was hoarse and tetchy, as if she didn’t care for men hanging around on her doorstep.

  ‘Baldvina,’ said Erlendur. ‘This is the right house, isn’t it?’

  ‘My name’s Baldvina,’ said the woman, surprised. ‘Is it me you’re looking for?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Well, I never. What do you want?’

  ‘I’d like a quick word, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You used to live in Camp Knox, didn’t you?’

  ‘Camp Knox? Why do you want to know that?’ said the woman. She had her keys in her hand and was about to open the door but changed her mind. �
��What’s it got to do with you?’ she added gruffly.

  ‘I wanted to know if you could help me with something,’ Erlendur said, noting how her guard had gone up at the mention of Camp Knox. ‘I’m looking into the case of someone who went missing near there a long time ago.’

  ‘What’s that to do with me?’ asked the woman. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Erlendur. You spoke to the police at the time in connection with the missing girl. Remember?’

  ‘The girl?’

  ‘Yes, she was called Dagbjört.’

  ‘Oh, her, yes. I remember. What about her?’

  ‘Could I possibly have a word with you about the incident? I promise it won’t take long.’

  ‘No, I can’t help you, I’m afraid,’ said the woman, opening the door. ‘Just clear off, will you, and leave me alone?’

  ‘People said she had a boyfriend in the camp. Do you remember?’

  ‘They thought he’d killed her, didn’t they? Easy to blame the camp people for everything. Buried under the floor of his hut, I expect.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard that,’ said Erlendur. ‘Was … is that what you’ve heard?’

  ‘They built the swimming pool where the camp used to be. Expect she’s buried under there now.’

  Erlendur couldn’t tell if she was making fun of him.

  ‘Do you know who her boyfriend was?’ he asked, hastily jamming his foot in the door as she tried to close it on him.

  ‘Leave me alone, mister,’ said Baldvina. ‘I don’t want to talk to you. Bugger off.’

  ‘Her father died the other day,’ said Erlendur. ‘And her mother passed away some time ago. They never did find out what happened to their daughter. But I don’t think they ever really stopped hoping she’d come back one day.’

  He pulled out his foot and the door closed. A few seconds passed, then he heard the lock rattling and the woman opened the door again and peered at him.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’