He broke out into a cold sweat as he jogged through the deserted industrial estate, stopping only to take the bags from his feet and roll off the surgical gloves, dropping them into a waste container outside another dark building. Forced by the arrival of at least a few of the Undertakers to take a roundabout route, it was a long walk back to the car, during which he reflected that he’d had a very lucky escape. Gradually his nerves turned to euphoria as the familiar buzz stole through him. He walked faster, rolling his balaclava back and fighting back an urge to laugh out loud and punch the air.
Chapter Nine
The hammering on the door gradually worked its way into her consciousness and Emilija fumbled for the clock. The sight of a luminous 0420 was not a welcome one and she moved carefully to avoid waking the toddler asleep next to her. She padded to the door, a dressing gown thrown on hurriedly and tied around her as she pushed strands of hair away from her face.
He clicked on the outside light and could see a shadow on the other side of the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Alex. Let me in, will you, Emilija?’
‘What do you want? It’s four in the morning. I have to go to work in a few hours.’
‘I just wanted to see you.’
There was a plaintive quality to his voice that she hadn’t heard before as she debated with herself whether or not to let him in.
‘What’s the matter, Alex? Are you drunk, or something?’
‘I’m not drunk, I swear.’
‘That’s what you said last time.’
‘Please, Emilija. I swear, I just wanted to see you.’
With a sinking feeling that she was doing the wrong thing, Emilija clicked the lock and Alex practically fell through the door, shutting it quickly behind him with a sigh of relief that he could not hide.
‘Thank God,’ he breathed, and threw his arms around her.
‘Alex, what do you want?’ Emilija demanded. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’
‘I know. I missed you, darling,’ he wheedled, lifting a hand to her cheek to stroke it.
‘Get off,’ she said, slapping his hand away. ‘What’s happened? Have you been thrown out of your place?’
‘No, of course not.’
Emilija turned and made for the little flat’s living room with its bed against one wall. She perched on the edge of the bed, and when Alex made to sit next to her, she pushed him away.
‘No, sit there,’ she ordered, pointing to the only armchair. ‘And don’t make a noise. Anton’s asleep.’
‘Ah, he’s such a sweet child.’
‘Yeah. That’s not what you said when he cried in the night.’
‘I’m sorry. I was drunk that time and it won’t happen again.’
Alex’s eyes flickered around the room, stopping repeatedly on the window, as if he were expecting to be followed.
‘What the hell have you done this time?’
‘Nothing.’ Alex protested. ‘Nothing at all. I couldn’t sleep and I was thinking of you all the time.’
‘So you got up at four in the morning to make sure I wasn’t asleep as well? Or to make sure I didn’t have anyone else here? Is that it?’
‘Don’t be silly, Emilija. I trust you.’
‘Alex, we’re not a couple. I slept with you a few times and you walked off as if it meant nothing to you.’
‘But it did,’ Alex said, standing up and coming across to her. ‘Of course it did. I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy.’
‘And you think I haven’t?’
He shifted to sit next to her and clasped her hands in his. ‘Emilija, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have been so thoughtless.’
‘You’re a heartless bastard, Alex.’
‘Emilija,’ he breathed, stroking a wisp of loose hair away from her face and moving closer for a kiss as he wrapped his arms around her. Emilija felt herself sink into his muscular arms and returned his kiss, surprising herself at her own eagerness. Alex’s hand plucked at the dressing gown and pulled it from one shoulder while the other slipped inside. She felt herself being gently pushed back onto the bed as Alex ran one hand through the thick hair at the back of her head.
‘I’ve missed you so much,’ he crooned as he pulled the dressing gown wide open and a hand was suddenly under her T-shirt and cupping a breast.
‘No, Alex. Not now, not again,’ Emilija whispered unconvincingly as she made to sit up and shake him off.
‘Come on, sweetheart. You don’t know how much I want you.’
‘No, stop. Alex. Stop,’ Emilija said firmly, and pulled herself upright as a moan from the other side of the bed called her to where Anton was sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
‘Mummy. Who’s the man?’
He crawled across the bed and into her arms as Alex retreated. Emilija pulled the dressing gown closed around herself and Anton.
‘It’s all right, my darling. It’s only Alex. You remember Uncle Alex, don’t you?’
Anton nodded sleepily and huddled closer. As Emilija rocked back and forth, his eyelids drooped and he gradually fell asleep in her arms, but not before Alex was also stretched out and snoring.
Eiríkur’s quick response took Lárus Erlendsson by surprise, arriving at the Selfoss police station with his sheaf of screengrabs from the city surveillance cameras before he had even had his first mug of coffee.
‘They’re good pictures, aren’t they?’ He observed as he leafed through them at Eiríkur’s side in the tired Polo from the police car pool.
‘You could make out someone’s Visa card number if you wanted to,’ Eiríkur said. ‘Where is this place?’
‘Straight on past the farm at Mýri and it’s the next left after that.’
Eiríkur understood that he was expected to know the farm at Mýri, but said nothing and waited for a sign. When it finally appeared from the flat landscape, he dutifully signalled and turned, bumping the car down a dirt road.
‘This is it?’
‘Over there.’
Lárus Erlendsson pointed to a row of low buildings that looked dilapidated from a distance, but as they approached turned out to be immaculate stables painted the same shade as the dun-coloured hills that rose gently behind. Eiríkur stopped the car and the silence after the rumble of the gravel road from Selfoss flooded in as he opened the door. The quiet and the view took him by surprise, even after the drive over the Hellisheidi heath that morning. The only sounds to be heard once the car’s engine had been shut down were muffled laughter and conversation from the stables and birdsong all around, while a mountain of towering white cloud formed a backdrop to the distant mountains where sunlight made the white tips glitter.
Eiríkur followed Lárus into the stable and wrinkled his nose at the overwhelming smell of horses and hay that met him and made Lárus breathe deep.
‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said.
‘You keep horses as well?’
‘We have six horses here, me and my wife between us.’
‘Are there many members?’ Eiríkur asked, inspecting a noticeboard pinned with announcements and cleaning rotas.
‘About sixty, altogether.’
‘Sixty? I’m amazed.’
‘Why’s that?’ Lárus grunted in a tone that indicated offence had been taken.
‘I didn’t expect this place to be so big. I thought there might be a dozen people.’
Lárus looked dismissive as he pushed open a door and grunted a greeting to the group of people gathered around a long table.
‘My colleague Eiríkur Thór Jónsson from Reykjavík,’ he announced, the word ‘Reykjavík’ dropped as if it had a foul smell to it. ‘He’s brought some photos as part of an investigation, so if you’d like to have a look at them . . . Eiríkur?’
‘Er . . . hello,’ he said to the group of middle-aged people staring at him as he placed the pictures in the table, dealing them like cards. The pictures began to circulate and the group whispered and muttered. ‘This is a person we are looking fo
r. We don’t know who he is, but as you can see, he’s wearing a fleece that should look familiar to you,’ he said, looking around the room and noticing several identical fleeces.
‘What’s this fellow done?’ A corpulent man at the end of the table asked.
‘I can’t tell you at the moment,’ Eiríkur answered. ‘It’s a sensitive matter.’
‘Not a banker is he?’
‘No, not as far as we know.’
‘Anything exciting?’ A young woman asked, smiling. ‘I wonder how come he’s wearing one of our fleeces?’
‘I take it he’s not a member, then?’
Heads shook around the table.
‘He’s not anyone we’ve seen here,’ the corpulent man said. ‘And I should know.’
‘Gulli’s the chairman,’ Lárus explained. ‘He knows all the members.’
‘How many of these fleeces did you buy?’
‘A hundred, I think it was. We still have forty or fifty of them left. Every member had one at the time and we give one to every new member.’
‘In that case, I’d like to borrow one.’
‘What for?’
‘I’d like to get some tests carried out to check against a crime scene.’
‘Ólöf, would you?’ Gulli said without looking up, his eyes still on the picture in his hands. ‘This person’s definitely not a member, so I’d certainly have a few questions to ask him about why he’s wearing one of our fleeces. Our logo is on it,’ he pointed out needlessly as the young woman opened a cupboard and handed Eiríkur a new fleece, folded into its bag with the logo showing through the transparent wrapper.
‘Where did you order these from?’
‘A company called PeysuPrent. The guy who ran it used to be a member here so we got them at cost price, but it closed down a while ago.’
‘He’s still a member?’
‘No. Sold his horses and packed it in.’
‘How long ago did you order the fleeces?’
Gulli inserted a little finger into one ear and twisted it around thoughtfully. ‘Five, six years ago. Something like that,’ he decided finally.
Eiríkur tucked the fleece in its bag under one arm. ‘But you’re all sure that this man isn’t anyone you recognize?’ He asked the room at large and heads shook in response. ‘All right, in that case, thanks for your time. I’ll leave some photographs with Lárus, just in case anyone needs to take another look, and I can be reached at the police station on Hverfisgata,’ he added, handing out cards. ‘This is turning out to be more serious than a handful of burglaries, so if anything comes to mind, I’d certainly appreciate a call.’
‘Sorry nobody could help you,’ Lárus said as they walked back to the Polo. If you don’t mind, I’m just going to have a quick look at my mare,’ he said and walked towards a stable without waiting for a reply.
‘Eiríkur?’
He turned to see the young woman who had handed him the fleece walking towards him.
‘Yes?’
‘Listen. I didn’t want to say anything in there in front of the rest of them. But . . .’
‘You know who this guy is?’
‘Actually, no. I don’t know his name. But I think he is, or was, the boyfriend of a girl who used to be a member here. She moved to Reykjavík a couple of years ago. I don’t see her very often these days, but we’ve kept in touch. I met her in town about a month ago and I’m sure this is the guy who was with her. But I could be wrong,’ she said, looking around guiltily, as if she were betraying a secret.
‘And where can I find her?’
‘I’m not sure. She works at a factory outside Hafnarfjördur and I’m not sure where she lives now.’
‘You have a phone number?’
‘Not any more,’ Ólöf said. ‘She changed her number a while ago and I don’t have the new one.’
‘So how do you keep in touch?’
‘Just through Facebook normally. We meet up every few months when I have a reason to go to Reykjavík, which isn’t all that often.’
‘Understood. What’s her name?’
‘Elísabet Sólborg Höskuldsdóttir. Everyone calls her Lísa.’
Gunna peered at the man’s smashed hand as the doctor showed her the X-ray.
‘Deliberate?’
‘No doubt,’ the doctor said. He had black rings under his eyes and Gunna realized he had to be much younger than he looked.
‘That’s why you called us?’
He shrugged. ‘Standard practice. There’s no doubt in my mind that this wasn’t the result of some accident. You can see how the damage is confined to particular areas. I’ve been here for a while and never seen anything that looks remotely like that from an industrial injury.’
‘How’s the patient?’
‘Shocked and sedated.’
‘Other injuries?’
He shook his head. ‘Not that we’re aware of. But it’s not as if there’s a chance of a full examination.’
‘This couldn’t have happened with something falling on his hand?’
‘I don’t know, I’m not an expert. But the breaks aren’t in line, so this looks like four separate fractures, not four fingers that have been fractured all at once.’
‘How did he arrive? Ambulance?’
‘No, he turned up in a taxi. He wouldn’t be able to drive himself with his hand in that condition.’
‘I’d best go and have a quiet word. He’s still sedated?’
‘He’s painkillered up to the eyeballs,’ the doctor said cheerfully. ‘Good luck.’
Maris lay back in bed with his left hand rested on his chest, swathed in a bandage. Gunna sat next to him and saw that behind the drawn face he was relaxed, courtesy of the painkillers. She wondered how soon the pain would set in again and if he would ever recover the full use of his hand.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘My name’s Gunnhildur Gísladóttir and I’m a detective with the city police force. You speak Icelandic, or is English easier for you?’
Maris winced. ‘English is better.’
‘The medical staff have a duty to report to the police anything that appears not to be an accident, which is why I’m here.’
‘Accident.’
‘Go on. Tell me how this accident happened,’ Gunna said, relieved to hear that her slow English was better than his.
‘I was moving . . .’ He winced again and pointed with his good hand at the other side of the room. ‘Like that.’
‘A cupboard?’
‘Yes, cupboard for clothes.’
‘And what happened that broke all of the fingers in your hand so neatly?’
‘I drop it.’
‘On your hand?’ Gunna’s tone left Maris in no doubt that she disbelieved him.
‘Yes. It fall. From table.’
‘You put the cupboard on a table, and it fell off, onto your hand?’
‘I was not looking. It fell.’ He put out his good hand again, flat, as if this would demonstrate how the accident had occurred.
‘I think you’re lying to me, Maris. That is your real name, isn’t it?’ Gunna said. ‘In fact, I know you’re lying. I’ve seen the X-rays of your hand and there are separate breaks on each finger that don’t line up. So who did this to you?’
‘Accident.’
‘Who attacked you, and why?’
‘Accident.’ His face set firmly. ‘It was accident.’
‘Who did this?’
‘Accident,’ Maris repeated doggedly.
Gunna shook her head. ‘So whoever did this is going to walk around knowing that you’re in here and your hand will never be any use again. You realize that?’
‘What you say?’
Gunna sighed. She didn’t need to ask any more questions to know that this was going to be a struggle.
He blinked at the square of bright light on the wall and wondered where he was. His head felt heavy. It took a little while for him to work out that the intermittent buzzing he could hear was in his head. Otherwise, th
ere was silence, but not the silence of insulated walls and windows that he was used to. This was an absence of sound, not sound carefully excluded. After a while, he lifted his head from whatever it had been resting on and felt it with one heavy hand, wondering if someone had hit him.
Eventually he forced himself to sit up and found that he ached; not just his head, but every part of him seemed to hurt. Hauling himself to his feet, he supported himself against a windowsill, a graveyard of last summer’s flies, and looked out through the cracked panes. The square of light on the opposite wall had been cast through this window, and he was instantly dazzled by the brightness that stabbed into his head. His glasses had gone and only things that were far away were in focus. The rising distant hills were clear, sparkling in the morning sun and white with a delicate scattering of snow, as a cake is dusted with powdered sugar.
He wondered where he might be. He remembered leaving the hotel and getting into a taxi that appeared by magic, as if called, and leaving it to get into the lift at . . . Where was it? Who had called him? It wasn’t easy to remember and he found himself trying to claw back memories of what he told himself had happened only a day or so ago, but which felt like ancient history.
Sounds gradually started to impinge on his consciousness. There was an occasional distant drip of water somewhere behind him. A bird sang outside beyond the cracked window. There was the slightest rustle of wind in the dry grass outside and he felt a sudden overwhelming hunger.
He was in a cubicle, a grey box that had once been a room, and the door hung at an awkward angle on one of its hinges. He shuffled to it and looked past into a corridor that he gingerly went along, hands on the walls to support himself.
At the end was another room, the glassless windows open to the elements and their long-broken panes shadows of shards in the deep layer of dust on the floor. What had once been a kitchen was open to the elements and Jóhann shivered. Spring was on the way but summer was still a long way off as he again wondered where he could be, gazing around him as he gathered his wits.
There was a gaping hole in the wall for what had once been the flue for a stove of some kind. Any cupboards or furnishing had long been stripped out, but a rickety table against one wall and a chair next to it looked clean, as if recently wiped down, and to his surprise, he saw his belongings stacked neatly on it. The jacket he had been wearing had been folded. He shook it out and gratefully put it on. In the pockets were his wallet, the cash and cards still there inside, and his phone, its battery dead. He tried to switch it on several times without success before pocketing it and finding his glasses there. The left lens had cracked with a starburst of fine lines at one corner, but he almost wept with relief as the world jumped back into focus and he was able to take in his dismal surroundings.
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