The Chill Factor

by Richard Falkirk

  We walked in silence, jumping small ravines, pausing to look back at the lava, grey and smoking where it had cooled: a World War One battlefield with silhouetted lava shapes like shattered farmhouses and tree stumps.

  We stopped about a mile from the craters and rested. Gudrun produced bread and cheese which we ate at the ringside and forgot insignificant human behaviour. I wondered how you started a conversation in front of the Gates of Hell.

  The problem was solved for me. A voice behind said: ‘Hallo, Conran old man. Fancy meeting you here.’

  The triteness of the remark in such majestic surroundings suited Jefferey.

  I introduced Gudrun and he looked at her as if she were by now in possession of all Iceland’s NATO secrets.

  He picked up my camera and said: ‘Will we be getting any photographs through the post this time?’

  You might well be getting a fist in your mouth, I thought. ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘You never know your luck. I know you enjoyed the previous consignment. Did you get a good price for them in Soho? No difficulty with customs I suppose – diplomatic privilege and all that.’

  He looked pointedly at Gudrun. ‘Malheur ne vient jamais seul.’ He sat down, immaculate for the occasion in climbing gear, trousers tucked into knee-high woollen socks, and heavy boots. His black hair looked as if it had just been combed, glossy with the usual wave slipping down his forehead. He was a living anachronism and he would go far in the British diplomatic service. Or would he?

  ‘How did you manage to get posted to Iceland?’ I asked.

  ‘It just happened, old man. You know how the F.O. is.’

  ‘Bit of a come-down, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I’m just in transit, really. Something rather cush lined up for me in South America. Or so I hear on the old grapevine.’ He looked at Gudrun’s bosom with passionate interest which, with a British diplomat, is denoted by a tautening of one nostril.

  Gudrun said: ‘What do you think of our volcano, Mr Jefferey?’

  ‘Absolutely marvellous,’ Jefferey said, his eyes still X-raying her jersey.

  She zipped up her anorak.

  ‘I think we’ll be moving off,’ I said.

  ‘Do you mind if I stroll along with you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. We both knew that I lied.

  The explosions became louder and the red spume leapt higher into the sky. I photographed it all and we returned past the smoking battlefield towards the Land Rover.

  ‘So you’re a stewardess,’ Jefferey said brilliantly.

  Gudrun said ‘Yes’ because there really wasn’t anything else to say.

  ‘Damned interesting job that.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And what do you do, Mr Jefferey?’

  ‘This and that,’ he said. ‘Help H.E. out when he’s a bit pushed.’

  She frowned. ‘Who is this H.E.?’

  ‘The British Ambassador,’ Jefferey said.

  ‘What a funny name,’ she said. ‘It sounds almost Japanese.’

  As we neared the Land Rover and the river of lava was far below us Jefferey said: ‘Could I have a word in your ear, old man?’

  ‘Does it have to be now?’

  ‘No time like the present.’

  ‘Could you wait in the Land Rover a minute,’ I said to Gudrun. ‘Mr Jefferey wants to tell me a dirty joke.’

  She looked at us as if we were a couple of queers.

  I rounded on Jefferey and said: ‘Look here you bloody little amateur. Do you realise you could balls the whole thing up carrying on like this in front of an Icelandic girl? I’m supposed to be studying the fall-out from this bloody volcano and you start acting like a police informer.’

  Jefferey was imperturbable. ‘Don’t blow your top, old man. It’s just that H.E. is a bit worried about your performance.’

  ‘You mean that Japanese gentleman?’

  Jefferey brushed aside unwelcome words like crumbs from his waistcoat. ‘He knows about Moscow …’

  ‘Because you told him.’

  ‘A lot of people know about your behaviour in Moscow. I don’t know why you harbour such a grudge – I think we treated you rather decently.’

  ‘Carry on,’ I said. ‘What is upsetting the Ambassador? I presume he doesn’t want any British involvement.’

  ‘Can you blame him?’

  ‘I understood that Britain was a member of NATO.’

  The crumbs were brushed aside again. ‘The point is, old man, that as soon as you chaps get into trouble you come dashing round to us for help. We don’t want you coming round to us here in Iceland. Our relations with the Icelandic Government are very good now. We don’t want any scandal.’

  ‘And why do you think there should be any?’

  He tucked an errant fold of trouser into his socks and patted the wave over his forehead as he straightened up. ‘You did spend the night with this girl after you’d been to the Saga …’

  ‘My word,’ I said, ‘Iceland is a small place.’ I lit a cigarette and flicked the smoking match over the cliffs towards the lava below. ‘But jealousy will get you nowhere, Jefferey.’

  The crumbs were brushed aside with less nonchalance. ‘The trouble is, Conran, you can’t go to bed with a girl without arranging worldwide distribution of the consummation.’

  ‘What did you do with those photographs, Jefferey? Use them as an aphrodisiac for some of those little secretary birds after a candlelit dinner for two in your apartment?’

  The imperturbability was now glacial hatred. ‘Just don’t involve the Embassy with any of your squalid behaviour. It’s just possible that we wouldn’t help you this time.’

  ‘Oh yes you would,’ I said. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Jefferey. And by the way, old man, I suggest you sack the amateur sleuth who followed me from the Saga. He fell asleep on the job because I didn’t stay the night.’

  ‘I’m sure you stayed long enough for photographs to be taken.’

  I turned and walked towards the Land Rover where Gudrun was beginning to show signs of impatience. I said: ‘Will you please take a message back to H.E. for me, old man?’

  ‘Not if it’s facetious.’

  I drew upon the centuries of breeding that had given us Conrans such an enviable reputation for wit and cultivated conversation. ‘Tell him to get stuffed,’ I said.

  ‘I do not like that man,’ Gudrun said.

  ‘We have something more in common, then.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘In Moscow. I was helping the Russians with river pollution.’ The lies tumbled out quite cheerfully.

  ‘What was all that about photographs?’

  ‘Just a joke. I took some pictures of British diplomats outside the Kremlin. I promised to send them through the post but I forgot.’

  She parked the Land Rover in the street and we went up to her apartment. My head was aching again and my mouth felt as if I had been chewing lava.

  ‘You look wery, wery tired,’ she said. We sat on the sofa and she cradled my head against her.

  ‘I feel very tired,’ I said.

  ‘I think you should stay here tonight.’

  ‘What about Johann?’ All I needed was a thump on my mastoid from an angry trawlerman.

  ‘I think he is still looking for the fish.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ Sleep was seeping through my body. ‘I hope you’re right.’ I just managed to get my clothes off. Then I was asleep, my face content against her warmth.

  8

  Two Devious Policemen

  By midday next day it was generally believed in Reykjavik that the dead girl had been raped and murdered by an American serviceman.

  I met Sigurdson in a bar above a restaurant called the Naust where everyone drank long drinks made with spirits, and I drank a Pilsner. The bar was nautical in a yacht-club sort of way.

  We sat at a table opposite each other, looked into each other’s eyes and said ‘Skal’. Sigurdson shook his head and averted his gaze from the Pilsner
, spiralled with gas bubbles.

  ‘What did the pathologist’s report on the girl say?’ I asked.

  Sigurdson drank deeply of his brandy and ginger ale. ‘This thing need not concern you, Bill. We are together to catch spies, not to apprehend the man responsible for this unfortunate girl’s death.’

  The phraseology struck me as strange even for someone not fluent in English. ‘Why do you say “responsible for the death of” instead of murdered?’

  He sighed. ‘My colleagues do not think she was murdered.’

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Tell me what you know. I saw the girl alive, remember. And in the company of an Icelandic youth.’

  ‘How do you know he was Icelandic?’ ‘He was very blond, blue-eyed …’

  ‘So you presumed he was Icelandic. That is not very good police thinking. Did it not occur to you that there are many such Americans with Scandinavian or German ancestors?’

  ‘All right then, so he could have been American. But I’m still interested. I saw them together. Don’t you understand? Or hasn’t your pathologist completed his report yet. Is that it, Einar? Are you ashamed of your colleagues’ slowness?’

  He finished his drink and said with ponderous dignity: ‘We have one of the finest police forces in the world. We are only a little country but we are very modern. We could exist very well here without the Americans.’

  ‘For God’s sake let’s not get on to that again. What does the pathologist say?’

  ‘She had drunk a great deal and had vomited. We think she may have choked to death – asphyxia if you like. Her clothing was a little torn and there was a bruise on her lip. There was no evidence of recent sexual activity. Although she had had much experience for a girl of that age.’

  ‘Then why is everyone in Reykjavik saying she was raped?’

  ‘That was the first impression. It is very difficult to destroy. We presumed too much from the torn clothing.’ He ordered another drink. ‘We in Iceland find this disgusting. Nothing like it has ever happened before.’

  ‘And that’s why people presume it must be an American?’

  He nodded. ‘Because an Icelandic man would never have to resort to rape.’

  ‘But this girl wasn’t raped.’

  ‘My colleagues are putting out a statement to that effect but I doubt if anyone will believe it.’

  ‘You mean they won’t want to believe it. Or the Communists won’t want them to believe it because this is great stuff for their anti-American campaign.’

  ‘I think they are ready to believe this against the Americans because they do not understand crimes of sex.’

  ‘There hasn’t been a crime of sex.’ The beer with its plaintive spirals of bubbles tasted weak and sour and I ordered a Scotch. ‘What’s more, I don’t think this thing is outside my field of investigation any more. It’s being used to whip up anti-American feeling and that’s just what the boys we’re after are trying to do.’

  ‘I think you’re making a mistake, my friend. Why do you not concentrate on our three suspects?’

  I felt the tenderness behind my ear. ‘One of them is concentrating on me.’

  ‘I think we should arrest Hafstein now because whoever hit you will have alerted him.’

  ‘No. I’m not convinced that Hafstein is working with anyone. I think that my assailant had gone there to ferret around just like I had.’ I redirected the conversation back to the girl. ‘Are your colleagues questioning Icelandic men as well as Americans?’

  ‘Of course. In fact they have not so far questioned any Americans. The Americans are doing that themselves.’ He leaned back in his chair and accused all Western countries more powerful than Iceland. ‘That is the way they always like to do things.’

  ‘Why were you so cagey about all this yesterday, Einar? Was it because you knew that suspicion would fall on an American and you wanted any agitation to get well under way before it was nipped in the bud by the lack of evidence of rape?’

  ‘It was just none of my business.’ His pale eyes stared at me flatly. ‘Nor yours. In any case the medical report was not complete.’

  ‘Will there be agitation now, Einar? Demonstrations and marches?’

  ‘Perhaps. You should not concern yourself with such things. You are here to catch Russian spies. Do your work and then we will go out and get drunk and get some girls.’

  ‘I think you welcome anti-American demonstrations.’

  ‘We are a little country. You cannot understand what it is like being occupied by foreigners.’

  ‘You make me sick,’ I said. ‘If the Americans weren’t here then the Russians would be and you would have been shipped off to Siberia by now.’ I finished my Scotch in one angry gulp. ‘Do you know how they execute people in Russia, Einar? They give them a choice: they either shoot them in the back or put them down a uranium mine where they die slowly from radioactive poisoning. Even then most people choose the mines because they think a miracle might happen on the way. But it never does, Einar, it never does.’

  He shrugged. ‘That sort of story does not concern me.’ He crushed his cigarette and stood up to leave.

  ‘Oh yes it does, Einar. You just think about it before you start organising another anti-American demonstration.’

  I didn’t look to see if the point had been taken. I went downstairs to my Chevrolet and drove to the NATO base at Keflavik.

  The base was hopping. Land Rovers and jeeps bustled around the blocks and the gingery military policeman at the gate jumped around desperately in his glass cage peering at the drivers of incoming vehicles.

  I parked the Chevrolet outside and went in. The Icelandic policeman smiled engagingly, shuffling his pack of cards at the same time. But the American recognised me and said: ‘Who do you want to see, sir?’

  ‘Commander Martz,’ I said.

  ‘I reckon he’s pretty busy, sir. Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘Tell him Bill Conran’s coming in to see him.’

  ‘Okay, sir.’

  He answered the phone, taking the opportunity to take off his glasses and massage the bridge of his thin nose. Without his glasses he looked defenceless. He said: ‘I can’t speak now, Mike. Yeah, as I hear it he’s being interrogated right now.’ He put down the receiver.

  ‘Who’s being interrogated?’

  He looked at me short-sightedly and unhappily. ‘It’s not for me to say, sir. I’ll find out if Commander Martz can see you.’

  Commander Martz could – with a reluctance that communicated itself over the telephone.

  As I went out to the Chevrolet the military policeman was putting on his spectacles again and resuming his petulant authority.

  Martz’s complex of Nissen huts was crowded with officers and men, worrying, colliding, saluting, obeying orders at the double. Outside his office a guard stopped me and said: ‘Commander Martz will see you in a minute, Mr Conran, sir.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on around here?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say, sir.’

  Which it wasn’t. Ten minutes and two cigarettes later I went in to see Charlie. He was in civilian clothes, harassed, tired, massaging his cropped hair a great deal. He smiled without enthusiasm, but at least he tried. He was a nice, civil guy, was Charlie Martz. ‘Good to see you, Bill old buddy,’ he lied. ‘But I guess today isn’t a great day for spy catching.’

  ‘It’s always a good day for spy catching,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you interested in where I put those little bugs of yours?’

  ‘I sure am. But not right now. Could we maybe meet for a beer tonight?’

  ‘Are the Icelanders putting the squeeze on you, Charlie?’

  He lit a cigarette with his big, wind-shielded lighter – one of his favourite delaying tactics while he thought. ‘I guess you know all about that,’ he said, hoping I would reveal how much I did know.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I know all about that.’

  A Boeing 727 screamed down the runway and climbed in to a polished blue sky at an alarmin
g angle.

  ‘One helluva bad business.’ Charlie Martz strongly suspected that I didn’t know all about it and wasn’t going to enlighten me if he could help it. The conversation was going to be as devious as the exchanges with Sigurdson because Charlie Martz had his own set of motives for avoiding or even confusing issues. He was a policeman with a diplomat’s reticence, a liaison officer contained by military regulations, an American in a foreign country resentful of unwarranted hostility, an extrovert trained to subdue his exuberance. You could understand Charlie Martz being devious.

  ‘They seem to think an American killed the girl,’ I said.

  He relaxed, presuming that was all I knew. ‘The Communists have put them up to it, the lousy bastards.’ He grinned his old frank grin permitting a glimpse of the gold tooth. ‘No, I’m afraid today I’m in liaison instead of security.’

  Now was the time to let him have it. Now he was so relaxed and frank. I said: ‘What about the man you’ve been interrogating?’

  His chair jerked forward. ‘Do they know about him in Reykjavik?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. But it won’t be long because you’ve got a lot of civilian personnel on this base, haven’t you, Charlie?’

  He stared ruefully at the young Charlie Martz on the photographs on the wall. ‘You’re right, I guess.’

  ‘What can you tell me about him, Charlie?’

  ‘I can’t see that it’s any of your Goddamn business. It’s got nothing to do with catching Russian spies.’

  ‘It’s all part and parcel of the same thing, Charlie. It’s all part of the bigger plot. You yourself said the Communists were putting the Icelanders up to it. All over the world they’re pulling tricks like this.’

  The phone rang and Martz snarled briefly into it – ‘I told you not to put any calls through to me.’ He returned to me. ‘So – it’s all part of a world pattern. You’re right, of course. But what the hell can you do about it? You’re here to catch spies, not rapists.’

  ‘There was no rape. And I’d like to see the man you’re holding. I might be able to help – I saw that girl with a young man the night she died. When your patrolman came in with his Icelandic sidekick the man vanished.’