‘Your paper?’ Sigurdur Óli broke in quickly. ‘You’re wrong there, mate; this is Gudmunda’s.’
Only now did he cast a glance into the lobby where the postboxes hung in rows, five across and three high, and saw the paper jutting out of Gudmunda’s postbox just as he had left it.
‘Shit!’ he swore as he got back into his car and shamefacedly drove away.
3
HE WAS ON his way to work on Monday morning when he heard the news that a body had been discovered in a rented flat in the old Thingholt district, near the city centre. A young man had been murdered, his throat slashed. The CID were quick to arrive on the scene and the rest of Sigurdur Óli’s day was spent interviewing the young man’s neighbours. At one point he ran into Elínborg, who was in charge of the case and appeared as calm and unflappable as ever; rather too calm and unflappable for Sigurdur Óli’s taste.
During the day he took a phone call from Patrekur reminding him that they had planned to meet, but as he had heard about the murder he said Sigurdur Óli should forget it. Sigurdur Óli told him it was all right; they could meet later that day at a cafe he suggested. Shortly afterwards he received another call, this time from the station, about a man who was asking after Erlendur and refused to leave until he was allowed to see him. The man had been informed that Erlendur was on leave in the countryside but would not believe it. Finally, he said he would talk to Sigurdur Óli instead, but eventually left after refusing to give his name or state his business. Lastly, Bergthóra rang and asked him to meet her the following evening, if he could spare the time.
Having spent the day at the crime scene, Sigurdur Óli went to meet Patrekur at five at the appointed cafe in the city centre. Patrekur was there first, accompanied by his wife’s brother-in-law, whom Sigurdur Óli knew vaguely from parties at his friend’s house. There was a beer in front of the man and he had apparently already emptied a shot glass.
‘Bit heavy for a Monday,’ Sigurdur Óli commented, looking at him disapprovingly as he took a seat at their table.
The man smiled awkwardly and glanced at Patrekur.
‘I needed it,’ he said and took a sip of beer.
His name was Hermann and he was a wholesaler, married to Súsanna’s sister.
‘So, what’s up?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.
He sensed that Patrekur was not his usual self and guessed that he was uncomfortable about having arranged this meeting without warning Sigurdur Óli that Hermann was coming along; as a rule he was the easy-going type, quick to smile and always cracking jokes. They sometimes went to the gym together early in the morning and grabbed a quick coffee afterwards, or to the cinema, and had even holidayed together from time to time. Patrekur was the closest thing Sigurdur Óli had to a best friend.
‘Are you familiar with the term “swinging”?’ Patrekur asked now.
‘No, what, you mean dancing?’
Patrekur’s lips twitched. ‘If only,’ he said, his eyes on Hermann, who was sipping his beer. Hermann’s handshake had been weak and moist when Sigurdur Óli greeted him. He had thin hair, small, regular features, and, in spite of being smartly dressed in a suit and tie, had several days’ stubble on his chin.
‘So you’re not talking about the swing – that forties dance?’ Sigurdur Óli asked.
‘No, not a lot of dancing goes on at the parties I’m talking about,’ Patrekur said quietly.
Hermann finished his beer and waved to the waiter to bring him another.
Sigurdur Óli looked at Patrekur. They had founded a neoconservative society known as Milton in the sixth form and produced an eight-page magazine of the same name, singing the praises of individual enterprise and the free market. They had booked well-known right-wing speakers to come to the school and address thinly attended meetings. Later, much to Sigurdur Óli’s surprise, Patrekur had turned against the magazine, developing left-wing sympathies and starting to speak out against the American base on Midnesheidi, calling for Iceland to leave NATO. This was around the time he met his future wife, so it probably reflected her influence. Sigurdur Óli had struggled on alone to keep Milton going but when the magazine dwindled to four pages and even the young conservatives no longer bothered to turn up to the meetings, the whole thing died a natural death. Sigurdur Óli still owned all the back issues of Milton, including the one containing his essay: ‘The US to the Rescue: Lies About CIA Involvement in South America’.
He and Patrekur had started university at the same time and even after Sigurdur Óli had abandoned his law degree in order to enrol at a police academy in the US, they continued to write to each other regularly. Patrekur had come out to visit him, bringing his wife Súsanna and their first child, while he was still on his engineering course, full of talk of soil mechanics and infrastructure design.
‘Why are we talking about swinging?’ asked Sigurdur Óli, who could not make head or tail of his friend’s hints. He flicked some dust off his new light-coloured summer coat that he was still wearing, in defiance of the onset of autumn. He had bought it in a sale and was rather pleased with it.
‘Well, I feel a bit awkward raising this with you. You know I never ask you favours as a policeman.’ Patrekur smiled uneasily. ‘But the thing is, Hermann and his wife are in a tight corner thanks to some people they hardly even know.’
‘What kind of tight corner?’
‘These people invited them to a swingers’ party.’
‘You’re on about swinging again.’
‘Let me tell him,’ interrupted Hermann. ‘We only did it for a short time and stopped after that. Swinging is another term for …’ He coughed in embarrassment. ‘… it’s another term for wife-swapping.’
‘Wife-swapping?’
Patrekur nodded. Sigurdur Óli gaped at his friend.
‘Not you and Súsanna too?’ he asked.
Patrekur hesitated, as if he did not understand the question.
‘Not you and Súsanna?’ Sigurdur Óli repeated in disbelief.
‘No, no, of course not,’ Patrekur hastily reassured him. ‘We weren’t involved. It was Hermann and his wife – Súsanna’s sister.’
‘It was just an innocent way of livening up our marriage,’ Hermann added.
‘An innocent way of livening up your marriage?’
‘Are you going to repeat everything we say?’ asked Hermann.
‘Have you been practising this for long?’
‘Practising? I don’t know if that’s the right word.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t know.’
‘We’ve stopped now but a couple of years back we experimented a bit.’
Sigurdur Óli glanced at his friend, then back at Hermann.
‘I don’t need to justify myself to you,’ Hermann said, bridling. His beer arrived and he took a deep draught, then, looking at Patrekur, added: ‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’
Patrekur ignored him. He was studying Sigurdur Óli with a sombre expression.
‘Please tell me you’re not involved in this,’ Sigurdur Óli said.
‘Of course not,’ Patrekur repeated. ‘I’m just trying to help them.’
‘Well, what’s it got to do with me?’
‘They’re in a spot of bother.’
‘What kind of bother?’
‘It’s all about having fun with strangers,’ Hermann chimed in, apparently revived by the beer. ‘That’s what makes it such a turn-on.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Sigurdur Óli again.
Hermann took a deep breath. ‘We got involved with con men.’
‘You mean they conned you out of a shag?’
Hermann turned to Patrekur. ‘I told you this was a mistake.’
‘Will you listen to him?’ Patrekur admonished Sigurdur Óli. ‘They’re in deep shit and I thought you might be able to help. Please just shut up and listen.’
Sigurdur Óli obliged his friend. Hermann and his wife had been involved in wife-swapping for a while two years previously, inviting people over for swingers
’ parties and accepting invitations to similar gatherings at other people’s homes. They had an open relationship, which worked well for them, according to Hermann. The sex was exciting; they only went with ‘nice’ people, as he put it, and they soon became part of a club consisting of a small group of like-minded couples.
‘Then we met Lína and Ebbi,’ he said.
‘Who are they?’ Sigurdur Óli asked.
‘A couple of total shits,’ Hermann said, emptying his glass.
‘Not “nice” people, then?’
‘They took photos,’ Hermann said.
‘Photos of you?’
Hermann nodded.
‘Having sex?’
‘They’re threatening to post them on the Internet if we don’t pay up.’
‘Súsanna’s sister is in politics, isn’t she?’ Sigurdur Óli asked Patrekur.
‘Do you think you could talk to them?’ Hermann said.
‘Isn’t she an assistant to one of the cabinet ministers?’ Sigurdur Óli asked.
Patrekur nodded. ‘It’s a nightmare for them,’ he said. ‘Hermann was wondering if you could talk some sense into these people, get the pictures off them, scare them into coming clean and handing over everything they’ve got.’
‘What exactly have they got?’
‘A short video,’ Hermann said.
‘Of you having sex?’
Hermann nodded.
‘You mean you didn’t know you were being filmed? How could you fail to notice?’
‘I can’t really remember – it was two years ago,’ Hermann said. ‘They sent us a photo. It looks as if they had a camera installed in their flat that we didn’t spot. Actually, I do remember seeing a camera of some kind – a very small one – on a bookshelf in the sitting room where we were at the time, but it didn’t occur to me that it was switched on.’
‘It wouldn’t require a particularly sophisticated set-up,’ Patrekur pointed out.
‘Were you at their place?’
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of people are they?’
‘We don’t know them at all and haven’t seen them since. I expect they recognised my wife because she sometimes appears in the media, so they decided to try a little coercion.’
‘With considerable success,’ Patrekur put in, his eyes on Sigurdur Óli.
‘What do they want?’
‘Money,’ said Hermann. ‘Far more than we’ve got available. It was the woman who made contact with us. She told us to take out a loan and said we mustn’t talk to the police.’
‘Do you have any proof of their claim to have pictures of you?’
Hermann looked at Patrekur.
‘Yes.’
‘What is it?’
Hermann glanced around the cafe, then reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and took out a photo which he slid across to Sigurdur Óli. The quality was poor as it had apparently been run off on a home printer, but it showed a group of people having sex, two of them women whom Sigurdur Óli did not recognise from the grainy image, and Hermann, who was instantly identifiable. At the moment the photo was taken the party seemed to have reached its climax, so to speak …
‘And you want me to sort these people out?’ Sigurdur Óli asked, looking at his friend.
‘Before things turn nasty,’ Patrekur said. ‘You’re the only person we know who could possibly deal with scumbags like these.’
4
HE HAD STALKED the bastard for several months before finally taking action. Had stood outside and spied on the dump in Grettisgata, whatever the weather, at all hours of the day and night, taking care to remain at a discreet distance and keep a low profile. It was risky to loiter too long in the same place in case he attracted the attention of passers-by or residents. They might call the police and that was the last thing he wanted. It would not be the first time he had been in trouble with the law.
The houses in this neighbourhood were all much of a muchness. Here and there new houses had sprung up, built according to the prevailing fashion at the time, while others blended in better with the original appearance of the street: humble, low-rise, wooden buildings, clad in corrugated iron, and standing one or two storeys high, on raised concrete basements. Some had been lovingly restored, others neglected and allowed to go to seed, like the dump where the old man lived. The roof was in a dilapidated state, there were no gutters on the side facing the street, the light blue colour the house had originally been painted was almost worn away and large patches of rust marred the roof and walls. As far as he could tell, the floor above the basement was unoccupied; there were curtains drawn across all the windows and he had never seen anyone set foot inside.
The years had not been kind to the old man; he must be well into his seventies by now, stiff-legged and stooped, with grey hair straggling from under his woollen hat, an old anorak, and an air of threadbare neglect. There was little about him to remind one of the past. His routine was more or less fixed: every other day he went to the old swimming pool early in the morning, so early that he sometimes had to wait for it to open. It was possible that he had been awake all night, because he would go straight home afterwards and not stir again until evening, when he would re-emerge to visit the local shop and buy milk, bread and a few other groceries. Occasionally he would drop by the off-licence. He never spoke to anyone on these journeys, never greeted anyone and only ever stopped briefly, just long enough to do what was strictly necessary before continuing on his way. He never received any visitors either, except the postman now and then. His evenings were spent at home, apart from two occasions when he had walked down to the sea by the coast road, continuing along the shore as far as the fishing docks, then home again through the western part of town and the old Thingholt district.
On the second occasion it had started to rain in the middle of his walk and the old man had crept under cover of darkness into the garden of a two-storey period house, where he had peered through the ground-floor windows at the family with several children who lived there. For more than an hour he had lurked behind a clump of trees in the cold rain, at a safe distance from the house, watching the family get ready for bed. Long after all the lights had been turned out, he stole over to the window of one of the children’s rooms and gazed inside for a long time before resuming his journey home to Grettisgata.
All that night, ignoring the lashing rain, he himself had stood outside, his eyes fixed on the basement door of the house on Grettisgata, feeling as if he had to stand guard over all Reykjavík’s innocent little children.
5
IT WAS EVENING, and peace had descended over the city with the coming of dusk, when Sigurdur Óli rang the doorbell of Sigurlína Thorgrímsdóttir, also known as Lína, alleged blackmailer. He was keen to get his conversation with her over as soon as possible. She lived in a terraced house in the leafy eastern suburbs, not far from the Laugarás cinema, with her husband Ebeneser, nicknamed Ebbi. Sigurdur Óli looked over at the illuminated frontage of the cinema and remembered watching some great films there back in his teens when he used to be a keen moviegoer. Not that he could call any of them to mind just now – he had always been quick to forget films – but he knew that the cinema itself would always occupy a special place in his heart thanks to a memorable date there when he was in the sixth form. He had gone there with a girl who had subsequently got away, but he could still remember the long kiss they had exchanged afterwards outside her house in his car.
He did not have a clue how he was supposed to help Hermann and his wife but thought he might as well read the riot act to Lína and Ebbi, threaten them with police involvement, and see if that did the trick. Judging from what Hermann had said, they were not very experienced blackmailers, but then it was not exactly a common occupation.
On the way to Lína’s house he had been thinking about the phone call that had interrupted him the night before, when he was lying comfortably ensconced on the sofa at home, watching an American sports channel. As a student in the US he
had started following two all-American sports that had previously been a closed book to him – American football and baseball, becoming a major supporter of the Dallas Cowboys and Boston Red Sox respectively. After returning home, he invested in a satellite dish in order to watch the big games live, which he did with great dedication, though the time difference meant that some games took place in the middle of the night in Iceland. Sigurdur Óli had never needed much sleep, however, and rarely missed his morning session at the gym, in spite of his sports obsession. On the other hand, Icelandic sports like football and handball left him cold; the standard of play seemed embarrassingly low in comparison to top international leagues and he regarded domestic competitions as unworthy of being televised.
These days he lived in a small rented flat on Framnesvegur, a quiet residential street in the west of town. When he had moved out after living with Bergthóra for several years, they had divided up their possessions – books, CDs, kitchenware and furniture – in a civilised fashion. He had coveted the plasma screen, she the painting by a young Icelandic artist given to them as a present. She had never watched much television and could not understand his passion for American sports. His new flat still felt rather bare as he had not yet had time to furnish it properly, perhaps hoping deep down that his relationship with Bergthóra could be salvaged.
They had quarrelled over and over again until they could barely speak without losing their tempers and descending into mutual recrimination. Towards the end she had accused him of failing to give her enough support when she suffered her second miscarriage. They had been unable to have children and their attempts to solve the problem medically had ended in miserable failure. Afterwards, when she broached the subject of adoption, he had been ambivalent, before eventually coming right out and saying that he did not want to adopt a child from China as she had proposed.
‘What’s left then?’ Bergthóra had asked.
‘The two of us,’ he had replied.
‘I’m not so sure,’ she had said.
In the end the decision to separate had been mutual; their relationship had run its course. They both recognised the fact and knew that the blame lay on both sides. Once the decision had been taken, things seemed to improve; the strain they had been living under eased noticeably and their interaction was no longer as fraught or filled with anger. For the first time in ages they could have a conversation without it ending in bitterness and silence.
Black Skies Page 2
