‘What do you think of him, love?’ she asked.
‘Who?’
‘Röggi, of course. Bit slow on the uptake, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘All right, I suppose.’
‘Röggi’s OK,’ she said, sucking in smoke. ‘He’s a bit of a dark horse but I like him. Better than that sodding father of yours, I can tell you. Better than that bastard. Have you eaten, love? What did you used to have for breakfast on the farm?’
‘Porridge,’ he said.
‘Horrible muck, isn’t it?’ his mother said. ‘Wouldn’t you rather have some of that breakfast cereal? It’s what everyone eats in America. I bought a packet specially for you. Chocolate flavour.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, so as not to seem ungrateful. He liked starting the day with porridge and had always had it for breakfast, except when there was thick rhubarb stew, which he enjoyed with sugar.
He followed his mother into the kitchen where she took down two bowls and a brown packet. From this she shook out a shower of small brown balls. Then, fetching milk from the fridge, she poured it into the bowls and handed one to him. She chucked her cigarette in the sink without stubbing it out and began to munch on the cereal. Spooning up some of the balls, he put them in his mouth. They were hard and shattered between his teeth.
‘Good, isn’t it?’ said his mother.
‘All right,’ he said.
‘Better than porridge,’ his mother added.
The milk turned brown and tasted nice when he drank it out of the bowl. He studied his mother covertly. She had changed since he last saw her, had grown fatter and somehow puffier about the face. One of the front teeth was missing from her lower jaw.
‘Good to be home?’ she asked.
He thought.
‘Sure,’ he said at last, not managing to sound very convincing.
‘Eh? Aren’t you pleased to see your mum? That’s nice, after all the trouble I’ve taken to get you home. You should be grateful. You should thank your mum for everything she’s done for you.’
She lit a new cigarette and eyed him.
‘That’s nice,’ she said again, inhaling until the tip of the cigarette glowed.
When he needed to rest he would lie down on the floor of the basement flat in Grettisgata and doze for an hour or two at a time. He had not been home for days and could not afford a proper sleep, not while he needed to keep an eye on the old man, to make sure he did not escape. On no account must he get away.
So far he had failed to find the Eumig camera or any of the films, despite overturning tables, pulling out drawers and throwing the contents on the floor, breaking open cupboards and sweeping the bookshelves clear. Finally, after some hesitation, he had opened the door to the bedroom. Like the rest of the flat it was a pigsty: the bed unmade; the sheet missing, revealing a filthy mattress; no cover on the duvet. There was an old chest in one corner containing four drawers, the chair beside the bed was covered with a pile of clothing, and a large wardrobe stood against one wall. The floor was covered in brown vinyl. He tackled the wardrobe first, chucking out shirts and trousers, tearing out every garment and hacking into the lining of some with the knife he always carried. The rage boiled inside him. Climbing into the wardrobe he struck the back and sides until one of the panels broke. After that he dragged the drawers out of the old chest and flung them down, along with underwear, socks and some papers he could not be bothered to examine. He broke the bottom out of one of the drawers by stamping on it. Finally he overturned the chest and smashed it open at the back. Then he cut the mattress to shreds and scattered it all over the floor. Underneath was the bed frame which he propped up on its side, but found no trace of the camera or films there either.
Returning to the living room, he sat down beside the bound man. The only illumination in the basement was the beam from the Bell & Howell projector, still shining onto one wall. Its lamp was as good as new and he had not turned it off since he had found it. Now he adjusted the projector until the beam fell on the man slumped in his bonds on the chair, his face covered.
‘Where do you keep the filth?’ he asked, still breathless from his exertions.
The man raised his head, screwing up his eyes against the light.
‘Let me go,’ he heard him groan from behind the mask.
‘Where’s the camera?’
‘Let me go.’
‘Where are the films you made with it?’
‘Let me go, Andy, so we can talk.’
‘No.’
‘Untie me.’
‘Shut up!’
The man was racked by a rattling cough.
‘Untie me and I’ll tell you everything.’
‘Shut up.’
He stood up and looked around for the hammer, unable to remember where he had put it. He had destroyed the flat in his search for the camera. As he surveyed the ruins, he saw tables and chairs littered about like matchwood, and suddenly he remembered that the last time he had used it was in the kitchen. He crossed the room, stepping over the rubbish he had strewn around the flat, and glimpsed the handle. It had fallen on the floor. He carried it back into the living room and took up position in front of the old man. Grasping the man’s chin firmly, he forced his head back until the spike was poking up vertically.
‘Tell me!’ he snarled, raising the hammer aloft.
He let the hammer fall but just before it struck the spike he checked the momentum so that it merely tapped the end.
‘Tell me!’
‘Shut up, you bastard!’
‘Next time I’ll go all the way,’ he whispered.
He raised the hammer and was on the point of striking when the man began to shout.
‘Don’t, don’t, wait … don’t do it, no more, let me go … let me go …’
‘Let you go?’ he echoed.
‘Let me … go … untie me …’ The man’s words had dropped to a whisper. ‘Stop … that’s enough …’
‘Enough? You’ve had enough? Isn’t that what I used to cry at you? Remember? Remember? When I begged you to stop. Remember, you piece of shit?!’
The hammer had drooped in his hand but now he raised it high and brought it down with all his strength. It passed within a few millimetres of the man’s head.
He bent down to him.
‘Tell me where you hide the shit or the spike is going in your head!’
16
PATREKUR WAS IN his office and visibly busy when Sigurdur Óli barged in. He worked for an engineering firm, where he specialised in load-bearing capacity, concentrating mainly on the construction of bridges and dams for hydroelectric stations. The firm was one of the largest of its kind in Iceland and Patrekur, who was well regarded in his field, was in charge of a sizeable team as deputy director. The country’s engineering firms had experienced an unprecedented expansion thanks to the current economic boom which manifested itself in high bank interest rates, the rampant acquisition of foreign assets by Icelandic business tycoons and companies, the huge proliferation of new buildings in the capital area and massive infrastructural projects connected to the hydroelectric dam and aluminium smelting factory in the East Fjords. Patrekur certainly could not complain of any shortage of work. It was still early in the morning and he was standing in rolled-up shirtsleeves, mobile phone in one hand, office phone in the other, reading out information from one of the two computer monitors on his desk. Closing the door behind him, Sigurdur Óli sat down on a black leather sofa facing the desk, crossed his legs and waited patiently.
Patrekur’s face registered surprise when he saw him enter and take a seat. He hurriedly finished one of his phone calls but had more trouble concluding the other. At first Sigurdur Óli listened but his interest soon faded when the conversation turned to quantities of reinforced concrete and incremental design costs. Patrekur’s desk was covered in piles of paper which had also colonised the windowsill; rolled-up engineering plans were propped against the wall, a safety helmet hung from a peg and t
here was a photo of his wife Súsanna and their children on the desk.
‘They’re giving me a hard time,’ Sigurdur Óli said when Patrekur finally extricated himself.
The desk phone rang. Patrekur picked up the receiver and laid it on the desk, cutting off the call. He silenced his mobile as well.
‘Who?’ he asked. ‘What for? What are you talking about?’
‘My colleagues. I’m afraid I had to tell them about you – that we’re friends.’
‘About me? Why, for God’s sake?’
‘They think you’re more involved than you’re letting on. The whole thing got a lot more serious after Lína died yesterday. Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t even be sitting here talking to you.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding?’
Sigurdur Óli shook his head.
‘Why did you have to tell them about me?’
‘Why did you have to come to me?’ Sigurdur Óli countered.
‘I saw on the news yesterday that she’d died. They don’t seriously believe I’m mixed up in all this, do they?’
‘Are you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’d have told you if I was. Have you got into trouble?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Sigurdur Óli assured him. ‘What did Hermann say when he heard about Lína?’
‘I haven’t spoken to him. Will all the details be made public?’
Sigurdur Óli nodded.
‘I just wanted to warn you about what’s going to happen. You’ll be called in for questioning, probably later this afternoon. So will Hermann and his wife. And of course Súsanna won’t escape either, though I don’t know that for sure. The man who’ll do the first round of interviews is called Finnur. He’s OK. For your own sake, I hope you tell him everything you know. Don’t hold back and don’t be difficult; just keep it short and sweet. Stick to answering their questions and don’t volunteer any extra information. Don’t say anything unless you’re asked, and don’t start talking about bringing in a lawyer – your situation is nowhere near serious enough and it’ll just cause surprise and suspicion. Be yourself and try to stay calm.’
‘Are you … Do they suspect us of having done this?’ Patrekur asked miserably.
‘Hermann’s in a much worse position than you,’ Sigurdur Óli pointed out. ‘I don’t know what they’ll do about you but I told Finnur about us, about the photos and the blackmail and how you know Hermann and how it was you who brought us together.’
Patrekur had slumped in his chair in horrified amazement. He shot a glance at the photo of Súsanna and the children.
‘So this is what I get for coming to you for advice,’ he said.
‘It would all have come out eventually.’
‘Come out? What do you mean? Súsanna and I haven’t done anything!’
‘That’s not what Finnur thinks,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘He says that you’ve been using me, that you’re mixed up in this sordid little mess yourself and that I was supposed to intimidate the blackmailers into handing over the photos.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ Patrekur gasped.
Sigurdur Óli watched his friend squirm in his chair.
‘Nor do I,’ he conceded. ‘Finnur’s OK, but if you ask me the whole thing’s ridiculous. He’s choosing to ignore the fact that you would hardly have sent me and the debt collector to see Lína at the same time. Look, is there anything you can tell me that we don’t know yet? Anything that could help us find whoever did this? Do you know anyone at all that Lína and Ebbi had dealings with?’
He saw his friend’s relief when he said he did not believe Finnur’s version of events.
‘I’m completely in the dark,’ Patrekur assured him. ‘I’ve told you what I know and that’s next to nothing. Really, nothing. These people are complete strangers to us.’
‘Good,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Say that when you meet Finnur and everything should be all right. But, for God’s sake, don’t mention that I came here to warn you.’
Patrekur looked imploringly at Sigurdur Óli.
‘Can’t you do something?’ he said. ‘I’ve never been hauled in by the police before.’
‘It’s out of my hands, I’m afraid.’
‘And the media, will they get wind of this?’
Sigurdur Óli had no words of comfort.
‘That’s a given,’ he said.
‘Why the hell did you have to drag me into this?’
‘It was Hermann who did that for you,’ Sigurdur Óli pointed out drily, ‘not me.’
Sigurdur Óli arrived back at the station on Hverfisgata to find his father waiting for him. He was taken aback.
‘Is everything all right?’ was his first reaction.
‘Yes, fine, Siggi,’ his father replied. ‘I wondered how you were. I’m working nearby and decided to drop in. I’ve never visited you at work.’
Sigurdur Óli showed him into his office, astonished and somewhat irritated by this intrusion. His father let out a quiet sigh as he sat down, as if he was tired. He was short but sturdily built, his strong hands worn from years of toiling with pipes and wrenches, and he limped a little from bad joints after spending so much of his working life on his knees. Where it was visible under his baseball cap, his hair was streaked with grey, though the thick brows over his kindly eyes still retained their reddish tint. The hairs of his brows stood up in tufts as he had not been to a barber for a while and he had several days’ stubble on his chin as usual. Sigurdur Óli knew that he only shaved once a week, on Saturdays, and never touched his eyebrows if he could help it.
‘Seen your mother at all?’ his father asked, rubbing his painful knee.
‘I was round at hers yesterday evening,’ Sigurdur Óli answered. He was sure this was no courtesy call. His father had never been one to waste time on inessentials. ‘Shall I get you a coffee?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you, don’t go to any trouble,’ his father said quickly. ‘Was she on good form?’
‘Yes, pretty good.’
‘Still spending all her time with that man?’
‘Saemundur, yes.’
It was more or less the same conversation they had had when his father rang him nearly three weeks ago. They had not spoken since. There had been no reason for his call then, apart from the questions he dropped in here and there about Gagga and her live-in partner.
‘Perfectly decent bloke, I suppose,’ his father said.
‘I don’t really know him,’ Sigurdur Óli said truthfully. He did his best to avoid contact with Saemundur.
‘She’s done well for herself.’
‘Are you planning anything for your birthday?’ Sigurdur Óli asked, watching his father massage his knee.
‘No, I don’t suppose so. I …’
‘What?’
‘The thing is, I’ve got to go to hospital, Siggi.’
‘Oh?’
‘They found something in my prostate. Apparently it’s not uncommon with men my age.’
‘What … what is it? Cancer?’
‘I’m hoping it’s not very advanced – they don’t think it’s spread at all – but they need to operate as soon as possible and I just wanted to let you know.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Sigurdur Óli blurted out.
‘Yes, these things happen,’ his father said. ‘No point dwelling on it. Now, how’s Bergthóra getting on?’
‘Bergthóra? Fine, I guess. But aren’t you scared? What do the doctors say?’
‘Well, they asked if I had any children and I told them about you and they mentioned wanting to see you too.’
‘Me?’
‘They talked about risk groups; that you were in a risk group. Men used not to have to worry about these things until they were in their fifties but apparently it’s happening younger and younger these days. And since it can be hereditary they’d like to see you too, or at least for you to go for a check-up.’
‘When are you going under the knife?’
‘Next Monday. They say they can�
��t hang around.’
His business finished, his father stood up and opened the door.
‘That was all, Siggi. You look into getting yourself checked out. Don’t put it off.’
Then he was gone, limping a little from his worn-out knee.
17
WHEN SIGURDUR ÓLI drove to Ebbi and Lína’s house, towards evening, everything was quiet. Ebeneser’s large jeep was parked in front of the house, jacked up on enormous tyres designed to cope with all manner of off-road conditions involving rock, ice and snow. As Sigurdur Óli parked behind it, he thought about adventure tours into the interior. Personally he had never seen the attraction, never had the slightest interest in sightseeing in his own country, let alone giving up his creature comforts to camp or rough it. Why on earth would he want to trek up an Icelandic glacier? Bergthóra had sometimes tried to encourage him to travel around Iceland with her, but found that he was as reluctant and unenthusiastic about the idea as he was about so much else. All he really wanted was to stay in Reykjavík, preferably near his own flat.
His summer holidays were generally spent abroad, in search of guaranteed sunshine rather than horizon-broadening experiences. It came as no surprise to Bergthóra that one of his favourite places was Florida. He was less keen to visit Spain or other southern European beach destinations, regarding them as dirty and poor, with suspect food. Historical sites, museums and architecture held absolutely no appeal for him, which made Orlando the ideal spot. His taste in films was similar: he could not stand pretentious European films, plotless arty flicks, in which nothing ever happened. Hollywood movies, with their thrills, laughs and glamorous stars, were more to his taste. In his opinion, cinema was made for the English-speaking world. If any programme came on TV that was neither British nor American he was quick to change channels. All other languages, especially Icelandic, sounded childish on-screen. Naturally, he avoided Icelandic films like the plague. Nor was he a reader, barely managing to plod through one book a year, and when he listened to music it was invariably classic American rock or country.
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