‘I don’t know. Súsanna and I got wind of it a couple of years back when her sister started dropping hints. It’s just some kind of game to them. It’s not something I have any experience or understanding of. I’ve never even discussed it with them — it’s none of my business.’
‘And Súsanna?’
‘She was shocked, naturally.’
‘How did Lína and Ebbi first make contact with Hermann when they started threatening him with the photos?’
‘I think Lína rang him. I couldn’t say exactly.’
‘So if we examine Lína and Ebbi’s phone records, it’s possible that Hermann’s name will crop up?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘All right, I’ll be in touch.’
On his way home, Sigurdur Óli stopped by intensive care at the National Hospital in the suburb of Fossvogur. A police officer was stationed outside Lína’s room. Her parents and brother were sitting in a small visitors’ lounge, waiting for news, but as yet no one had managed to reach Ebbi. Sigurdur Óli learned from the doctor on duty that Lína had not recovered consciousness and that the outlook was very uncertain. She had received two heavy blows to the head, one of which had fractured her skull, the other had crushed it, causing a brain haemorrhage. No other marks were visible on her body except on her right arm, which indicated that she had tried to protect her head with her arms.
There had been no progress yet in the hunt for her assailant, although the police had widened their net to cover the area around the mental hospital and nearby container port, as well as the Ellidavogur inlet and the residential districts above the coast road. The man had managed to get clean away, leaving nothing but the evidence in Lína’s house to help the police establish his identity.
Sigurdur Óli watched a baseball game for a while before going to bed. He thought about the incriminating photos that Lína and Ebbi were holding, which may well have been the attacker’s objective. If the man had been searching for the pictures, it seemed likely, from the violent treatment Lína had received, that she had not given up their whereabouts, which meant that the pictures were either still at the house or else in another safe place known only to Ebbi.
Just before he fell asleep, Sigurdur Óli remembered that a man had been asking for him again down at the station. He had appeared around supper time and the duty officer had recognised him, though the man had obstinately refused to reveal his name or business. From what the officer could recall, the man’s name was Andrés and he used to be a regular among the Reykjavík down-and-outs, picked up by the police at various times for theft and affray.
8
He had not prepared himself with any great thoroughness, nor did he know exactly how he would go about it, only that the timing had to be right. He had some idea of what he wanted to achieve by the attack but none at all about how he was going to manage it. In the end it was the hatred, so long impotent, that had spurred him on.
The police wanted to talk to the old man; he had dropped hints to them about him last winter but the case had come to nothing. It had been sheer coincidence that their paths had crossed — he had not even been on the lookout for him, just happened to see him one day, out of the blue. It was decades since the bastard had disappeared from his life but then there he was, walking through his neighbourhood. It turned out that the bastard lived there, in his very neighbourhood! After all these years he had moved in virtually next door.
It was hard to find words for the tumult of emotions he experienced when it dawned on him who this was. Surprise, certainly, since he had long ago concluded that there was no chance of their ever meeting again. And the old fear too, for he still dreaded the brute more than anything in the world. But then rage had flared up inside him, for he had forgotten nothing, in spite of all the years that had passed. All these emotions churned within him when he spotted the man in the distance. The bastard may have been old and bent but he still had the power to fill him with fear, with the terror that came crawling out of its hiding place to claw at his heart.
Perhaps it was an ingrained reaction, but from the beginning he took care that the man should not see him. He kept an eye on him but did not have the nerve to do more, did not know what to do with his knowledge. When the police had started asking questions, his instinct had been to say as little as possible, to be enigmatic and contradictory, for his relationship with the police had been at best an unhappy one. In reality, though, he did not have any very clear recollection of what had happened because he had been out of his mind on booze and drugs at the time. Since then he had pulled himself together and come up with a plan for revenge. After learning that the police had been asking after him, the old man was keeping a low profile and had moved house, hiding himself away in the basement flat on Grettisgata.
The last thing he wanted was to feel self-pity. He could never and would never do that. He took full responsibility for his crimes — not the ones that others wanted to pin on him but his own. No, he would not feel sorry for himself, though it was fair to say that he had never known any happiness in his life because of what happened. His parents had been a dead loss; his drink-sodden father used to beat the living daylights out of the kids for the most minor misdemeanours, not that he even needed that excuse. He would use a leather belt for the hidings, and used to beat their mother mercilessly too.
He avoided dwelling on that, could not bear to think about the years before their family was finally broken up and he was sent to live with strangers in the countryside. There, in spite of himself, he had been content. Not that he was ever really happy; he did not know what happiness was. He had a perpetual knot of anxiety in his stomach, a feeling of fear that he could never shake off. Perhaps he clung to it because it was all he knew, and he would be at a loss as to what to put in its place.
One night he had stood out of sight of the house on Grettisgata, thinking that it was time to stop spying on him like this; wearing out his eyes staring at the basement all night but doing nothing about it. He reckoned he could easily take the bastard on, reckoned he could overpower him without much difficulty. He remembered the adventure stories he would read as a boy, all those tales of heroics, and recalled how important it was to take one’s enemy by surprise. There was no question of attacking the old bastard outside in the street; it would have to be done in his house. But it would hardly do to knock on his door in the middle of the night when nobody was about — that would immediately put him on his guard. The attack would have to come when he least expected. First thing in the morning would probably be the best time, when he emerged to go for his swim.
The morning he broke into the flat the weather was cold and damp, there was a stiff northerly breeze and he was frozen to the bone after lurking outside for hours, his shabby anorak and woollen hat offering little protection. Not a soul had passed along the street all night. As morning approached, he inched his way towards the house and was within a stone’s throw when suddenly the basement door opened. Reacting quickly, he raced down the short flight of steps and met the old man just as he was closing the door, swimming bag in hand. Without hesitating, he shoved him back indoors, into the little hallway, and shut the door behind him. He heard the man objecting and received a knock on the head from the swimming bag. Grabbing hold of it, he tore it away. Realising the situation was hopeless, the man tried to flee into the sitting room, but he caught him, knocked him to the floor and flung his weight on top of him.
Bringing the bastard down proved much easier than he had anticipated.
9
Hermann wanted to avoid meeting Sigurdur Óli at work, where he managed a business supplying machinery and other equipment to the building industry. Instead, they agreed to talk at the cafe where they had met the day before with Patrekur. Sigurdur Óli understood the reasons for Hermann’s wariness but had no intention of treating him with kid gloves. If Hermann knew anything about the attack on Lína, he would get it out of him.
Her condition remained unchanged; she was still lying in a c
oma in intensive care and the doctors were not optimistic. Ebeneser had turned up, however. He had returned home that night, walking straight into the forensics team who were still at work in his house, and had become extremely distressed when he heard what had happened. They had taken him to the hospital where he was still sitting beside his wife. Finnur had gone to take his statement and learned that Ebbi worked as a guide in the highlands and had been out with a small group of French tourists at the Landmannalaugar hot springs. Another guide had taken charge of the party at Hótel Rangá in the evening and Ebbi had driven back to town. Finnur had his alibi checked and received immediate confirmation. Ebbi claimed that he had no idea why anyone would hurt Lína or who her attacker could possibly have been, but thought a burglar the most likely explanation. He was so distraught that the police decided to postpone his interview.
It was eleven fifteen when Hermann entered the cafe and took a seat beside Sigurdur Óli. They had agreed to meet at eleven.
‘Do you think I have nothing better to do than hang around waiting for you in cafes?’ Sigurdur Óli asked irritably, looking pointedly at his watch.
‘There was something I had to finish,’ Hermann said. ‘What do you want?’
‘The woman who’s trying to extort money from you came this close’ — Sigurdur Óli held up his pinched thumb and forefinger — ‘to dying last night. Even if she survives, she may never be more than a vegetable. Someone smashed her skull in.’
‘Was that the incident that was all over this morning’s papers?’
‘Yes.’
‘That was Lína? I just read the news. They didn’t mention any names. It said something about a debt collector.’
‘We have reason to believe it was a debt collector who beat her up.’
‘And?’
‘Are you acquainted with anyone like that?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’
‘You think I did this?’
‘I can’t think of anyone with a better motive.’
‘Hang on, this was yesterday evening, the same day I talked to you. You think I attacked her the very day I talked to you about sorting the matter out for us?’
Sigurdur Óli stared at him in silence. Earlier that morning he had taken his summer coat to the dry-cleaner’s; it may have been ruined yesterday evening when he fell into the bushes during the pursuit.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘it’s always better for a man in your situation to answer the question directly instead of trying to beat about the bush and twist people’s words. I couldn’t give a monkey’s what you believe I think or don’t think. I couldn’t care less about you and your wife or your sleazy sex lives. If you don’t want to be banged up right now just answer the question.’
Hermann straightened in his chair.
‘I haven’t laid a finger on her,’ he said. ‘I swear it.’
‘When were you last in contact with her?’
‘She rang me three days ago saying she wouldn’t wait any longer for the money. She threatened to circulate the photos. I begged her for more time. She said she’d give me two more days, but she wouldn’t talk to me again. I was to deliver the money to her house or else the photos would be posted on porn sites all over the world.’
‘So the material was supposed to be published yesterday, the day she was attacked?’
‘We didn’t set anyone on that bitch,’ Hermann said. ‘Anyway, how do you go about finding a debt collector? Do they advertise? I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘And you never spoke to Ebbi?’
‘No, only Lína.’
‘Do you know if you’re their only victims?’
‘No, I don’t. Though it seems unlikely, doesn’t it — that it should be just us?’
‘So you were supposed to go round to their house with the money, collect the photos and that would be the end of it?’
‘Yes, it wasn’t very sophisticated, but then they’re not very sophisticated people. They’re sick.’
‘But you weren’t intending to pay up?’
‘You were supposed to straighten it out,’ Hermann said. ‘Did you find any pictures at their place?’
Sigurdur Óli had attempted to conduct an unobtrusive search but the presence of the other officers had made it impossible to do a thorough job. He had found nothing, not even a camera.
‘You were at their place when the pictures were taken?’ he said.
‘Yes. It was about two years ago.’
‘Was that the only time?’
‘No, we went there twice.’
‘Yet they only started blackmailing you now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because your wife’s face is in the media and she has political ambitions?’
‘It’s the only explanation.’
‘Classy,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘What classy people.’
Ebeneser was sitting at his wife’s bedside in intensive care when Sigurdur Óli turned up to interview him. Finnur, who was in charge of the investigation, had said he needed to talk to Ebeneser again, but when Sigurdur Óli offered to save him the effort, Finnur had accepted since he had far too much on his plate already. Ebeneser was a lean, vigorous-looking man of medium height, with a slightly weather-beaten face, sporting several days’ worth of beard. He was wearing thick-soled hiking boots as one would expect of a highland guide. He rose when Sigurdur Óli entered the room and greeted him with a dry handshake, avoiding eye contact. Lína was lying in bed, hooked up to all kinds of monitors and drips, her head swathed in bandages. The couple were both around thirty, perhaps a decade younger than Hermann and his wife, and appeared to be reasonably good-looking, though Sigurdur Óli found it hard to gauge with Lína in her current state. Could it have been their youth that had attracted Hermann and his wife?
‘Are you planning to leave town again?’ Sigurdur Óli asked, eyeing the man’s footwear once they were seated in the visitors’ lounge. Given the circumstances he had been prepared to treat Ebeneser with sympathy and understanding, but was not sure if he and his wife really deserved such consideration.
‘What? These? No, not for the moment. I just like wearing boots, even in town.’
‘We’ve received confirmation that you were on your way back from the highlands when your wife was attacked,’ Sigurdur Óli said.
‘I find it bizarre that you should think I did it,’ Ebeneser retorted.
‘Whether something’s bizarre or not has no bearing as far as we’re concerned. Were you and your wife seriously in debt?’
‘No more than most people. And we’re not married. We’re living together.’
‘Any children?’
‘No, none.’
‘Were you in debt to parties who might be prepared to resort to violent methods to recover their money? Like debt collectors, for example? Anyone like that?’
‘No,’ Ebeneser said.
‘So you’re not short of money?’
‘No.’
‘And you haven’t been involved with debt collectors before?’
‘No. I don’t know any debt collectors myself and I don’t know anyone who’s in contact with them. Wasn’t it just an ordinary burglar?’
‘Did he take anything?’
‘I gather he was interrupted by a cop.’
‘I’ve never come across a burglar who began by smashing up the house he was intending to burgle, then hit the owner over the head with a baseball bat,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘I suppose such a thing may have happened some time, some place, but I’m not aware of it.’
Ebeneser was silent.
‘Did anyone know you’d be out of town yesterday evening?’
‘Yes, lots of people. But they’re all people I know, who would never do anything like this, if that’s what you mean.’
‘And you don’t have money troubles?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I should know.’
‘What about your sex life — is that good?’
/>
Ebeneser had been sitting opposite him in the visitor’s lounge, legs crossed, swinging his free foot gently up and down, evincing little interest in Sigurdur Óli’s questions. But at this he stopped, sat up in his chair and leaned forward.
‘Our sex life?’
‘Your sexual relations with other people,’ Sigurdur Óli clarified.
Ebeneser stared at him. ‘What … are you joking?’
‘No.’
‘Sexual relations with other people?’
‘Let me spell it out for you: do you think that the attack on Lína can have had anything to do with the fact that you both have sex with other people?’
Ebeneser was flabbergasted. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he replied.
‘No, of course not,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘So you’ve never heard of swingers’ parties either?’
Ebeneser shook his head.
‘Where swinging is another word for wife-swapping.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re on about,’ said Ebeneser.
‘So you and Lína have never taken part in wife-swapping?’
‘That’s disgusting,’ Ebeneser said. ‘We’ve never done anything like that. How dare you!’
‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘You give me the photos that you and Lína took of yourselves having sex with other people and I’ll try to pretend I never heard anything about it.’
Ebeneser did not respond.
‘Other people,’ Sigurdur Óli said, as if struck by a new idea. ‘Who were these other people? I only know of the one couple but of course you’ve been blackmailing people all over town, haven’t you?’
Ebeneser stared at him again.
‘Someone’s had enough of your shitty little games and meant to intimidate you with a debt collector. Is that it, Ebbi?’
Ebeneser decided not to put up with this any longer. He stood up.
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said and stormed out of the visitors’ lounge, back down the corridor to Lína’s room.
Black Skies de-8 Page 4
