The Chill Factor

by Richard Falkirk

  Then we returned to our sweet soup. She drank this quickly, panting a little from her exertions. Her face was flushed and pretty and her soft blonde hair was brushed into wings in front of her ears so that it looked like a helmet.

  I drank my beer which was not dissimilar from water and said: ‘Skal.’

  ‘Skal,’ she said. We looked into each other’s eyes in search of messages.

  ‘I’m enjoying myself,’ I said.

  ‘That is good. In Iceland we know how to enjoy ourselves.’ She then embarked on the cross-examination which swiftly follows any meeting between man and woman in any country; although in most other countries it is often conducted with subtlety.

  Gudrun said: ‘Are you married?’ Elsewhere they favour an exploratory, ‘I suppose you had to leave your wife in England?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Are you divorced?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is best.’

  ‘What do you mean – it is best?’

  ‘If two people do not get on then they should part.’

  ‘And if there are children?’ Not that I had any.

  ‘Then they should still part because they will only make the children unhappy.’ She drank some wine and attacked the mutton. ‘In Iceland we love children but we do not let them rule our lives. In any case many are born before marriage – thirty-three per cent I believe.’

  ‘And then the couples marry?’

  ‘Very often.’ She warmed to her subject. ‘I am travelling a lot and I do not understand your ways in other countries. There is so much talk about this permitting society.’

  ‘Permissive,’ I said.

  ‘We have always been like that in Iceland – but we do not talk about it all the time. If a man and a woman are attracted to each other then they should make the love. But why make big fusses about it all the time?’

  I imagined that her Icelandic philosophy was immensely popular in the Skyways Hotel at London airport – or wherever Icelandair overnighted.

  ‘Do you have any children?’

  ‘Only one,’ she said, and popped the last piece of mutton into her mouth.

  ‘Does the child live with you?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘He is away.’ She patted her lips with a napkin. ‘You will perhaps see him.’

  Beside our table a girl of about sixteen was dancing with a partner two or three years older. Her face was very pale and she did not look well. Her hair was long and honey-coloured, parted in the centre, and her eyes were dark and staring. In London she would have been part of Chelsea, on the brink of debbiness, embarking on a few years of hunt balls and pot before marrying into stockbroking. Her partner wore a dark flared jacket, light grey trousers and a flowered blue shirt; his hair was blond, almost yellow, and his eyes very blue.

  Gudrun said. ‘What are you staring at?’

  ‘Just that couple. They’re rather striking.’

  ‘Just two young Icelanders enjoying themselves.’ She pointed towards the bar at the entrance to the restaurant. ‘See those two men there?’

  ‘Which two?’ Icelandic men had now begun to appear and were standing around, drinks in their hands, apparently waiting to be chosen, like the girls in the dance halls of my youth.

  ‘Those two in the front looking around the restaurant.’

  One was middle-aged, balding, wearing a brown gaberdine suit, square-toed shoes and a button-down collar. The other was slighter, fair, sharp.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Police,’ she said. ‘American and Icelandic. It has gone ten and all Americans must be back at their base. That is the agreement that the Americans have with our Government except on Wednesdays when there is no drink sold in Reykjavik. Those two policemen are looking for Americans breaking the rules. If they catch any they will be in the big trouble.’

  The Icelandic plain-clothes man stared at me and spoke to the American in the brown suit. The American appraised me, shook his head and continued examining the dancers. I followed his gaze. The girl with the pale face and dark eyes was still dancing, staring across the heads of the diners. But of her partner there was no sign.

  We danced and drank till midnight. Then Gudrun said we should leave. I went to the toilet and found several Icelandic men gathered there with their drinks – escaping briefly from a predominantly female gathering. They were talking about politics, fishing and their expectations for the night.

  Outside the hotel a crowd was still clamouring to get in. Gudrun led me to her baby Fiat and we drove to her apartment on the east side of the city.

  The apartment was smart and untidy, adorned and littered with the paraphernalia of a stewardess. Ornaments from foreign parts, duty-free packets of cigarettes, an airline bag, half-consumed bottles of whisky and gin, a framed photograph of Gudrun with some air-crew grinning muzzily over champagne glasses.

  ‘I hope that was after a flight,’ I said.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. She looked at them fondly. ‘Vonderful men.’ She poured me a large Scotch and retired to the bathroom where she made a lot of noise with water.

  I stood at the window of the apartment and gazed across the sea to the mountains. The 1 a.m. light was mauvish and the crumpled peaks were sugared with new snow even though it was June.

  The apartment was on the fifth floor of a skyscraper block in an area known as ‘Snob Hill’ because of the expensive villas there. From the bathroom there came the faint smell of Hydrogen Sulphide as Gudrun washed herself in the hot water piped from natural springs.

  I was wondering whether to start undressing when she reappeared – naked. She stood in front of me and said: ‘You like me?’

  I pulled the curtains and said: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you must get undressed.’ She took off my jacket and tie with deft movements. ‘And now I will wait for you in bed.’ She paused on the way to light a cigarette; her alpine breasts swung slightly; her buttocks jogged jauntily. Someone once said that the spectacle of a half-dressed woman was more erotic than the sight of a nude one: he was wrong.

  We made love with enthusiasm, pleasure and – certainly in her case – expertise that might have aroused jealousies in my conformist soul if I had been more involved.

  Then we smoked cigarettes and looked at the ceiling through the lacework of smoke.

  She touched my face and said: ‘You have very sensitive eyes.’

  ‘I’m a very sensitive person.’

  ‘Why did you divorce your wife?’

  ‘I didn’t – she divorced me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She found someone else.’

  ‘Then she was wery stupid,’ Gudrun said.

  ‘So was I.’

  She raised herself on one elbow and examined me. ‘You are a very interesting man.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Brains first, then looks.’

  She ignored me. ‘You have a wery sensitive face and yet your ways and your body are hard.’ She nibbled at her lower lip. ‘What are your hobbies, Mr Conran?’

  ‘Bill,’ I said.

  ‘What are your hobbies, Bill?’

  ‘Bird watching.’ I waited for the amusement that usually greeted the confession.

  ‘Vonderful,’ Gudrun said. ‘We have the most vonderful birds in Iceland.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  She looked puzzled and said: ‘We have the most vonderful birds in Iceland.’

  ‘I hope to see some of them before I leave.’

  ‘When will you leave, Bill?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve sorted out this eruption of yours.’

  ‘When will you go and see Hekla?’

  I would have to go soon, I thought, to maintain the cover. ‘Tomorrow, maybe.’

  ‘Then I shall take you.’

  ‘Aren’t you flying?’

  ‘Not for two days. So, it is arranged. I have a friend who will lend me a Land Rover. I will pick you up at your guest-house. Or,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘you can stay here.’
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  ‘It might be better if you picked me up,’ I said.

  She lit another cigarette with a gold Dunhill lighter. ‘Yesh,’ she said, ‘it might be better. Johann might come back in the morning.’

  I digested this enigmatic information. ‘Who is Johann and where might he be coming back from?’

  ‘Johann is my boyfriend. He is out fishing at this moment. He is on a trawler.’

  I imagined him at the door, enormous in a blue sweater and thigh-boots, delivering me a stunning blow as if I were an errant cod. ‘Is he the father of your child?’ It sounded unbelievably pompous.

  She looked surprised. ‘Gud minn almattugur’ – which means Good Lord – ‘he is not. He is just a boyfriend but he likes me very much and he comes round here straight from his ship.’

  I glanced at my watch; it was 2.30 a.m. ‘What time does his ship get back?’

  ‘I do not know. When they have enough fish.’ She shrugged and dismissed the ardent, salty Johann from the conversation. ‘So, it is fixed – I will pick you up tomorrow at six in the evening. It is best to see Hekla at night when at least there is a little dusk.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘There’s just one thing.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Don’t bring Johann.’

  She smiled and shifted her body so that her nipples touched my face. ‘Elskan min,’ she said, which means darling. I noted that with familiarity she lapsed more into Icelandic. The breasts lowered fractionally and my powers of observation faded for a while.

  Later she said: ‘This eruption – is that your only reason for visiting Iceland?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  I washed in the sulphurous water and dressed. Outside the sky was icy bright. I kissed her and said: ‘See you today – blessadur.’

  She stood at the door, still naked, and said: ‘Bles.’

  I walked back through the shopping centre of Laugavegur and down the hill to Laekjargata, the home of many Government offices, on the perimeter of the old city centre. At first there were a few teenagers around, a few drunks, a lot of broken glass – Icelanders are dedicated breakers of bottles.

  Gradually I became aware of more activity. Police cars, policemen, an American military patrol.

  I was stopped by a black-uniformed policeman. ‘Your identification papers, please,’ he said.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘A girl has been found dead,’ he said. ‘We think she may have been murdered.’

  Intuitively I knew that the dead girl was the girl with the long hair and dark wide eyes that I had seen dancing at the Saga.

  6

  Ruffled Feathers

  The problem was how to get to know the suspects without arousing their suspicions. Laxdal was the easiest. I could charter one of his aircraft to fly around Hekla and I could offer good money. For really good money Valdimar Laxdal would fly into one of the craters …

  A friendship could probably be arranged with Hafstein through the freemasonry of ornithology. We bird watchers were a formidable alliance. He was an anti-social man. But a sighting of one of the ten breeding pairs of white-tailed eagle left in Iceland would socialise the most diffident of ornithologists – even if it were fictitious.

  The most difficult was Magnusson, the trawler-owner. There was no common ground there. In fact Magnusson might be hostile following his role in the Cod War of 1958-59 when British and Icelandic ships clashed over fishing limits around the island. Sigurdson would have to find a solution to that one.

  I rose at nine, had a sulphurous shower and breakfasted upstairs with my landlady and some delegates to a marine conference. They came from Florida, the Philippines, Brazil and South Africa and they all listened with patience and little comprehension to her views on the younger generation and strong drink. The Brazilian looked particularly hungover, I thought.

  It was a rainbow morning with showers and sunshine competing. The newspapers were full of the girl’s death: murders of any kind were a rarity in Iceland.

  I called at Sigurdson’s office in the eastern part of town. The office was clinically clean, incongruous for a man not notably tidy in his appearance.

  ‘Komdu sael,’ he said. ‘Sit down, my friend. Have some coffee.’ The omnipresent jug was on the table and he called for another cup. ‘A brandy, perhaps, to go with it?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m still recovering from my first encounter with you.’

  He poured coffee with a steady hand. ‘That was a good night, eh? We drink much. We must do it again and we must find some girls.’ The faded eyes searched my face. ‘Or perhaps you have found one already?’

  I ignored the bait. ‘Anything on that bullet that was intended to put a hole in my head?’

  ‘Not yet. Today perhaps. But I don’t think it will help us. A British bullet, a German bullet, a Russian bullet. So what will that tell us?’

  I sipped the excellent coffee, black and sweet and strong. ‘Do you have a lead on the murder of this girl?’

  The beam left his pale face and he fingered the round scar on his neck. ‘That is a terrible thing. Never before have we had anything like that in Iceland.’

  ‘But do you have a lead?’

  ‘It is not my business. It has nothing to do with spies.’

  ‘Was she raped?’

  ‘I told you – it has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘But you must have heard.’ I sensed uncharacteristic reticence.

  ‘It is apparently difficult to tell. The girl was experienced, it seems. There is a possibility that intercourse may have taken place and a suggestion that it may have been against her will. The pathologist has not yet established the cause of death.’

  ‘Can I see the body?’

  ‘Whatever for?’ He sat back, fists white-knuckled on the desk; I didn’t think I should like to be interrogated by Einar Sigurdson.

  ‘I think I might be able to help your investigating officers. Was the girl at the Saga last night?’

  He relaxed a little. ‘So were you, my friend – or so I have been told.’

  ‘You had me under surveillance? That wasn’t very trusting of you, Einar.’

  He smiled, much more happy now. ‘You were seen there with a very attractive young lady. Reykjavik is a small place, Herra Conran. I presume that you believe you know who the dead girl was and you saw her with someone?’

  ‘Something like that. Just an instinct, really.’

  ‘In this game instincts are everything,’ Sigurdson said, as if he were lecturing a class of police recruits. ‘If you really want to see the body then I can arrange it.’

  We went to the morgue together. Her eyes were closed and there was a bruise on her bloodless lips. Her long hair had been drawn behind her and she looked like a child.

  ‘She was seventeen,’ Sigurdson said.

  I gave him a description of the boy she had been with to pass on to the detectives.

  Sigurdson made a few notes and said: ‘The trouble is that she was with many boys that night.’

  ‘You mean physically?’

  ‘Not physically. Just drinking and dancing. I expect they already have a description of the boy you saw.’

  We returned to his office and drank more coffee. It was my turn to be interrogator. ‘You seem to know more about this case than you indicated at first.’

  ‘I told you the truth, my friend – it is none of my business. Nor is it any of yours. The two of us are in this office at this moment to break a spy ring. Is that not so?’

  It was so. But I was uneasy about his attitude.

  He picked the dossiers on the three suspects that I had brought back. ‘What do you think of our three friends?’

  ‘Not much,’ I said. ‘There’s not much to go on.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you that one or two or even all three of them might not be Icelandic? It is quite possible. The Russians plan a long way ahead – as the West has found out to its cost.’

  ‘I find it a little hard to believe
.’

  He shrugged as if to say, ‘These Russians’. He emptied the coffee jug into his own cup. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘See Laxdal, I think. Then go over Hafstein’s place in the country while he’s at work.’

  ‘Make sure you don’t alarm them.’

  ‘It’s a risk I’ll have to take. I’m going to hire a plane from Laxdal. I shall want your help in bugging the homes and offices of all three of them.’

  ‘All right, my friend. But be careful.’ He paused. ‘Soon you will have to go and see Hekla from the ground otherwise people will begin to wonder how you are carrying out your research.’

  ‘I’m going this evening,’ I said.

  ‘By yourself?’

  ‘Not by myself.’

  He rose and squeezed my hand very hard. ‘Good hunting,’ he said. ‘But remember – Reykjavik is a very small place.’

  I left him in his tidy office paring his fingernails with a paper cutter and walked up past the lake to the city airport where Valdimar Laxdal ran his business – whatever that really was.

  Valdimar Laxdal’s office was inside a hangar owned by Loftleidir, Iceland’s other international airline. It contained a desk, a worn aircraft tyre, a tailplane, three crates of aircraft parts from London, two bosomy calendars and an electric light without a shade. It smelled of kerosene and coffee. Laxdal smelled of powerful aftershave. He was fair and tanned, which was unusual in Iceland – I imagined he used an ultraviolet lamp. He was older than his photograph, a man probably taking many precautions to slow down the ageing process. Exercise, dieting, cutting down on liquor, importing hormone pills from Europe.

  His face was thin, the chin dimpled. ‘Dimpled chin, the devil within.’ His cheeks shone from a close shave, his eyes were grey with pinpoint pupils, his hair was razor-cut. A hard and dangerous man, attractive to women – a fervent admirer of Valdimar Laxdal.

  He sauntered in, twirling expensive French sunglasses in his hand. He wore white overalls and for one illusory moment I saw him at a bedside with a stethoscope hanging from his neck: he would have enjoyed the illusion.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’ This time the accent was English, not American. And the English was very good – just a little mannered.