‘Where did you hear that?’ asked Rasmus, surprised.
‘From a man I know who used to live in Camp Knox.’
‘I’m not sure I want to talk about it,’ said Rasmus hesitantly.
‘No, all right,’ said Erlendur, keen not to put too much pressure on the man.
‘It was an unpleasant experience.’
‘I can believe it.’
‘A couple of hooligans. They stank of the camp. I was walking home from town and they followed me as if I was some kind of freak. Started insulting me. I’d never seen them before but they seemed to know all about me. That I used to live with my mother and so on. That she was dead. I begged them to leave me alone but they wouldn’t listen. They pushed me into an alleyway and hit me. Stole my bag. Then ran away. I was left lying there, covered in blood, but managed to struggle home somehow.’
‘Did the police catch them?’
‘Police? I didn’t bother the police. My mother would have said there was no point making a fuss about a little thing like that. People are just envious of our sort, you see.’
‘Tell me more about your conversation with Dagbjört. You discussed the party she was having that evening, and music. That’s all?’
‘I remember it so well; she wanted to get hold of some new records,’ said Rasmus. ‘There weren’t as many foreign records around then. Not like now, all that terrible racket.’
‘And how was she planning to “get hold of” them?’
‘She was hoping a friend of hers would bring along some brand-new records from America. The girl had got them through her cousin who worked on the base. Dagbjört wanted him to buy some for her too.’
‘So, he worked on the base, did he? This cousin?’
‘Yes, that’s what she said.’
‘Did he live there too?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘Do you know what he was called?’
‘No, all I knew was that he was the cousin of one of her friends.’
‘You didn’t mention this to the police after Dagbjört went missing?’
‘The police?’
‘Didn’t you think you were in possession of an important piece of information?’
‘What information?’ asked Rasmus, looking confused.
‘I don’t think this has come out before. That she might have been intending to meet this man.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Didn’t it occur to you after she vanished?’
‘No, I can’t say it did. She must have mentioned it to other people too. If she was intending to buy records from this man. What’s so remarkable about that? It can hardly have been much of a secret.’
‘You’re right,’ said Erlendur. ‘Not everything’s reported in the files. Perhaps it wasn’t significant.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said Rasmus.
‘Did you watch Dagbjört and her friends having their party? From your house?’
Rasmus nodded.
‘And when the party was over and her friends had left, Dagbjört went up to her room to get ready for bed and saw you peeping through the curtains, watching her undress?’
‘Yes,’ Rasmus admitted reluctantly.
‘You don’t like visitors much,’ said Erlendur, trying to meet Rasmus’s shifty eyes and read the truth from them. ‘Especially not from the police. You don’t report it when you’re beaten up. You talk to Dagbjört shortly before she vanishes but don’t tell anyone. Maybe you were afraid your secret would be exposed?’
‘My secret?’
‘After all, if it had emerged that you used to spy on her in the evenings you might have been suspected of far worse after she went missing. You couldn’t take the risk. Unless you were afraid of something quite different. Have you got other secrets, Rasmus? Something you’re hiding here in your house?’
‘I didn’t touch her,’ protested Rasmus. ‘I could never have hurt her. You’ve got to understand that. Never. Never. Never.’
36
Caroline still hadn’t made contact by the time Erlendur returned to CID headquarters. Marion was sitting by the phone but said it was unlikely they would hear from her any time soon, given that she had fobbed them off with a false number. There was no telling what she was thinking or what her next move would be. It seemed obvious to Marion that she didn’t want any further dealings with the Icelandic police for now and that she would get in touch when she felt the need. Erlendur countered that she could be in real danger if Kristvin’s death was linked to Wilbur Cain, CIA transport aircraft and arms dealing.
‘Hadn’t we better go back out there?’ said Erlendur. ‘Do something?’
‘You’re right. There’s no way I can sit here and wait for her to make contact if there’s the slightest chance she’s in danger,’ said Marion. ‘The question is, should I go alone this time?’
‘Hmm, second thoughts, I’m not sure she’d want that. I’m sure she’d let us know if she uncovered something major.’
‘Still, it couldn’t hurt to take a trip out there,’ said Marion, standing up. ‘I’ll try to be discreet. You wait by the phone and talk to her if she calls. What have you been up to, by the way? Ringing from payphones, charging around town.’
‘Dagbjört,’ said Erlendur.
‘Making any headway?’
‘Not sure. Could be.’
Erlendur outlined what he had found out since he discovered the diary pages in Dagbjört’s room. He described his visit to Rasmus Kruse who had admitted spying on Dagbjört across the garden in the evenings. And his encounter with Vilhelm at the bus station. And the news about the friend’s cousin who worked on the base and supplied the latest records from America and possibly a variety of other sought-after items that teenage girls would have coveted in the post-war years.
‘You mean the cousin may have been using that as bait?’ said Marion.
‘It crossed my mind.’
‘Of course there was nothing in the shops after the war,’ said Marion. ‘We had import restrictions and acute shortages for years, right around the time your girl went missing.’
Erlendur was aware of the import restrictions in those days. Special licences were required to ship any kind of goods into the country. Not even a holey sock could be brought in unless a rationing clerk had approved the request. Long queues would form if people got wind of some new product arriving in the shops; they were prepared to camp outside all night if necessary, waiting for the doors to open. There was a flourishing black market too and corruption was rife. The restrictions spawned all sorts of smuggling rackets and under-the-counter trade.
‘And profiteering from the army was at its height,’ said Erlendur.
‘You can say that again.’
‘There’s a passing reference to the gramophone records in the files containing interviews with the girls who were at Dagbjört’s party, but the police saw no point in following it up. They never made any connection between this man and Dagbjört – perhaps for a good reason. Perhaps they didn’t know each other and never met. But it would be interesting to talk to him. If he’s still alive.’
‘You should try and trace him,’ said Marion. ‘Meanwhile, I’m going to pay a visit to the base and see if I can make contact with Caroline.’
Marion left and Erlendur sat down by the phone and dialled the number of Dagbjört’s friend Silja. When she eventually picked up, Erlendur launched straight in, asking if she knew which of Dagbjört’s friends used to have a cousin who supplied the latest American records from the base.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Silja, unprepared for the question. It occurred to Erlendur belatedly that he might have interrupted her supper.
‘You and your friends went to a party at Dagbjört’s house shortly before her disappearance. One of the girls had got hold of some new records. She’d obtained them from her cousin who worked at the air-force base in Keflavík. I need to know which friend that was.’
‘I’ve completely forgotten.’
‘Would you be able to find out for me?’
‘I could try,’ said Silja. ‘Why’s it important?’
‘I can’t tell yet but I’d like to know who the man was.’
‘What’s so interesting about this man? Have you discovered something?’
‘No,’ said Erlendur, to discourage her from getting ideas, ‘I’m no closer. I just want to know who he was.’
‘My mind’s a blank,’ said Silja, the surprise still lingering in her voice. ‘Records from the base?’
‘He may have been living there at the time,’ said Erlendur. ‘Could you track down the friend for me?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good,’ said Erlendur. ‘Thanks. I’ll be in touch.’
There was little traffic on the road to Keflavík. The weather was still and the rising moon shed a cold light over the surrounding lava field and the pyramid form of Mount Keilir. At the gate Marion was given directions to military police headquarters and a few minutes later drew up in front of the building. There were grey jeeps parked outside. In addition to maintaining law and order among the Defense Force personnel, the police were responsible for patrolling the perimeter fence and deterring intruders.
Marion went inside and approached the reception desk. The young man standing behind it asked if he could help. Marion explained that the Icelandic police had recently received assistance from a liaison officer, Sergeant Caroline Murphy, and –
‘Are you from the Icelandic police?’ interrupted the young man.
‘Yes,’ said Marion, smiling. ‘Didn’t I mention that? I just wanted to thank her for her help.’
‘I’m afraid Caroline’s taking a few days’ leave,’ said the young man, turning over the pages in front of him. ‘But I’ll tell her you dropped by.’
‘Thank you,’ said Marion. ‘But I won’t be back this way any time soon. You couldn’t tell me where she lives? I only want to say a quick hello. It won’t take long. She really was extremely helpful.’
The man was not yet twenty, with red hair and skin, freckles, and a fine down on his cheeks. Marion noticed that his uniform was crumpled, which seemed consistent with his general air of apathy with regard to his job and assisting those who came into the station.
‘May I see some ID?’ he asked as he unhurriedly looked up the address.
‘Of course,’ said Marion and handed him a warrant card.
After giving it a sidelong glance, the young man read out Caroline’s address. Marion thanked him effusively for his helpfulness, then got behind the wheel again and a few minutes later stopped in front of a two-storey barracks. The car park was chock-full of cars and trucks which spilled out into the street as well. Finding Caroline’s name on a bell in the lobby, Marion rang it several times without getting any response. The door to the stair-well was open. There was a cigarette vending machine by the wall and another selling soft drinks and beer. Marion entered and climbed the stairs to the first floor.
This must be it, thought Marion, walking up to an unmarked door on the right-hand side and knocking. Marion waited, and knocked again, with no more success than before, then started hammering on it, calling Caroline’s name. The only result was that the door of the flat opposite opened and a man emerged onto the landing.
‘Do you have to make such a goddamn racket?’ he asked.
Marion swung round. ‘Sorry, I’m looking for Caroline. Do you have any idea where she might be?’
‘Who are you?’ asked the man, who was clad in jeans and a college sweatshirt and had a beer can in his hand. A woman peered out inquisitively from behind him.
‘I just wanted to say hello,’ said Marion. ‘We worked together recently and she was going to … er … take me to the officers’ club.’
‘You Icelandic?’
‘Yes.’
‘You here to buy something?’
‘Buy? No.’
‘So you weren’t helping yourself to cigarettes downstairs?’
‘No,’ said Marion. ‘No cigarettes.’
‘Like a beer?’ asked the man, waving the can.
‘No, thank you,’ said Marion, unsure if the man was joking.
‘Is it you who’s always cleaning out the machines downstairs?’
‘I’ve never touched them,’ said Marion. ‘I’ve never been here before.’
‘You’re all the same, you Icelandics. Goddamn parasites.’
‘Well, it –’
‘We haven’t seen Caroline today. I reckon she’d have answered by now if she was home, so you can stop banging on her door.’
The woman retreated further into the flat behind him. Marion heard the phone ringing inside.
‘Do you know where she might be?’
‘She sometimes goes to the Animal Locker in the evenings,’ said the man. ‘But never to the officers’ club. Though maybe with you. She your sponsor?’
‘The Animal Locker?’ said Marion, remembering that this was the place Erlendur had mentioned in connection with Joan; it was where she worked. Kristvin had gone there with a sponsor who may or may not have been called Wilbur Cain, and it was a place Caroline sometimes patronised herself. ‘Isn’t that … is it a …?’
‘It’s a bar,’ said the man.
‘Known as the Zoo?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Oh, right, that’s where we were supposed to be going,’ said Marion. ‘She’s probably there already. I’m sorry about all the noise; I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘Just remember that other people live here too,’ said the man and took a swig from his can.
Marion smiled apologetically, said goodbye and headed downstairs, out to the car and drove away. It was like being a foreigner in one’s own country. After a few minutes Marion stopped a soldier who was passing and asked if he could point the way to the Animal Locker.
37
Erlendur heard the phone ringing in the office. He had stepped out to fetch a coffee and, hurrying back inside, snatched up the receiver.
‘Caroline?’
‘Er, no …? Who’s this, please? Is Erlendur there?’
He recognised Silja’s voice.
‘Yes, sorry, hello again, this is Erlendur speaking. I was expecting another call.’
‘I found out who had the cousin with the records. Would you like her number?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Erlendur, grabbing a pen and paper. ‘That’d be great.’
‘It’s Rósanna,’ said Silja and reeled off her number. ‘Just give her a call, she’s expecting to hear from you. She was astonished to be asked about the records, as you can imagine. Of course all I could tell her was that you were trying to get to the bottom of the case. Are you making any progress?’
‘Not really,’ said Erlendur, sipping his coffee. He didn’t think Rasmus’s peeping Tom activities were worth reporting at this point.
‘Well, let me know if I can be of any more help.’
‘Thank you.’
Silja hung up and Erlendur phoned Svava, Dagbjört’s aunt, and asked if she remembered her brother’s next-door neighbours: a Danish woman and her son – name of Rasmus. Half Danish. His father was Icelandic but didn’t live with them.
‘Do you remember them at all?’ asked Erlendur. ‘The mother died years ago but the son still lives there.’
‘Not really,’ said Svava. ‘As far as I know, they kept themselves to themselves, the mother and son, and my brother didn’t have much to do with them.’
‘You never heard him complain about them?’
‘Not that I can remember off the top of my head.’
‘Not about the man, Rasmus?’
‘No – or only that my brother thought they didn’t look after the garden properly,’ said Svava, ‘didn’t take care of it at all, just let it go to seed. The mother may’ve been a bit odd. Not that I want to judge anyone. But now you come to mention it …’
‘Yes?’
‘My brother once fell out with her because she claimed he’d killed her
cat. Which was absolute rubbish, of course. My brother would never have hurt a fly. He couldn’t bear to see anything suffer. The woman obviously doted on the animal because she actually rang the police and sent them round to my brother’s. He had a terrible time with the old bat.’
‘What happened to the cat? Did it ever turn up?’
‘Yes, it did. My brother said it probably just needed a break from her. Why are you asking about them?’
‘No real reason,’ said Erlendur, to deflect suspicion from Rasmus. ‘I was checking who lived next door at the time and wondered about those two, that’s all. Do you recall the other neighbours at all?’
‘No, no one in particular. It was a good area. There was nothing wrong with it. As far as I know they were decent types, the people who lived there.’
They quickly wrapped up their conversation after that, then Erlendur dialled the number Silja had given him. After several rings the phone was answered, by a teenage boy, Erlendur thought. He introduced himself and asked to speak to the boy’s mother, Rósanna. Erlendur heard him call her and she picked up the phone almost immediately. He introduced himself again and Silja was right, she had been expecting to hear from him.
‘This is about Dagbjört, isn’t it?’ she said, the wonder apparent in her voice.
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
‘Are they still investigating her case?’
‘No, there’s no real investigation, I’m just taking a look at it for Dagbjört’s aunt.’
‘It must be twenty-five, twenty-six years ago?’
‘Yes. I hear you have – or had – a cousin who used to work on the base in those days and could supply this and that – records, for example.’
‘What about him?’
‘Is it right that he used to help out with that sort of thing?’
‘Well … I … I’m a bit uncomfortable discussing this over the phone,’ said Rósanna. ‘You couldn’t pop round, could you? It’s not that late.’
‘I’m afraid I’m rather tied up,’ said Erlendur, thinking of Caroline. He needed to stay by the phone in case she or Marion called.
Into Oblivion Page 18
