Black Skies (18 page)

‘He’s no friend of mine,’ Kristján declared, ‘if that’s what you think.’

He was almost the only customer in the pub and was enjoying life, at peace with the world after receiving his wages for the few days he had worked. There had been occasions in the past few years when he had been so hard up that he had gone hungry.

‘No, I can imagine,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘I doubt he’s pleasant company. I saw his wife but she didn’t know where he could be hiding.’

‘What? Are you telling me that you lot haven’t managed to find Toggi yet?’

‘No, he’s vanished into thin air. It’s just a question now of how long he’ll be able to hold out. People usually admit defeat after a few days. Have you got any idea where he could be?’

‘Not a clue. Why don’t you relax and have a beer. Cigarette?’

Kristján pushed the packet towards him, much cockier now that he was on his home turf, the beer providing Dutch courage. Sigurdur Óli studied him in silence, hardly recognising him as the same person. Could he stomach any more of this sort of humiliation? If there was one thing that deeply pissed him off about his job it was having to be matey with little jerks like Kristján, having to suck up to people he despised and stoop to their level, even pretend to be one of them, try to put himself in their shoes. His colleague Erlendur found it easy because he understood these losers, and Elínborg could call on some sort of feminine intuition when forced to consort with criminal lowlifes. But the way Sigurdur Óli saw it, there was an unbridgeable gulf between him and a delinquent like Kristján. They had nothing in common, never would have, and would never exist on any sort of level playing field; one a law-abiding member of society, the other a repeat offender. From Sigurdur Óli’s point of view, the little shit had forfeited the right to stand up and be counted, to be listened to or treated as a member of society. But there were
times
, like now, when Sigurdur Óli had to put on a show of caring about what one of these deadbeats thought, about his opinions, about how his tiny mind worked. He had decided to ingratiate himself with Kristján in the hope of gleaning some more information.

‘No, thanks, I don’t smoke,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘It’s absolutely vital that we find him as soon as possible. If you have the faintest idea where Toggi could be or who he might be in touch with, we’d be extremely grateful.’

Kristján was instantly wary. The detective’s manner was nothing like before and he was unsure how to react.

‘I don’t know a thing,’ he objected.

‘Who are his mates? Who does he hang out with? We’ve got nothing on him. He’s not had any brush with the law recently, so we have to put our trust in people like you, you see?’

‘Yes, but like I said –’

‘One name, that’s all. Someone he’s mentioned in your hearing. It might only have been once.’

Kristján studied him, then drained his glass and held it out.

‘You can get me a refill, mate,’ said the little runt. ‘Then come and park yourself here for a nice cosy chat. Who knows, something might come back to me.’

Three pints and a period of interminable boredom later, Sigurdur Óli was driving east along the Miklabraut dual carriageway, searching for a mechanic’s specialising in motorbikes and snowmobiles, where, according to Kristján, he would find a man called Höddi who belonged to Thórarinn’s tiny circle of friends. Kristján had forgotten how their paths had crossed originally but they used to help each other out with debt collecting and other jobs that might crop up. That was how Höddi had once come to set fire to a white Range Rover with leather fittings and all the extras, worth a cool twelve
million
kronur, at the request of the owner. He needed to pay off a loan that was causing him grief and also wanted to squeeze some cash out of his insurance company. The request had come via Toggi, who was in contact with the owner – Kristján did not know how – but it so happened that Toggi was in Spain at the time and the job needed doing quickly. Höddi had sorted out the matter easily; Kristján said he was considered a dab hand at arson jobs. Apart from that, he claimed he did not know who Toggi ‘Sprint’ was friendly with.

Höddi turned out to be a tall, powerfully built figure, with the beginnings of a paunch, a totally bald head and a thick goatee. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt bearing the Confederate flag, like a caricature of an American redneck. When Sigurdur Óli arrived he was inside the workshop, stooped over a motorbike with chrome fittings. The workshop was small and he was the owner and sole member of staff, as far as Kristján knew.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘I’m looking for Höddi. Is that you, by any chance?’

The man straightened up. ‘Who wants to know?’ he asked, as if he could smell trouble at a hundred paces.

‘I need to find Toggi – Thórarinn – and I gather you know him,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘It’s a police matter. You may have heard about it. I’m with the police.’

‘What police matter?’

‘An attack on a woman in the eastern suburbs.’

‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Well, I –’

‘Who sent you here?’ asked Höddi. ‘Are you alone?’

Sigurdur Óli was unsure how to take this last question. A policeman was by his nature never alone, but he had no intention of engaging in philosophical debate with Höddi. So what did the question mean? If he was alone was the man intending to attack
him
? Nor was there any way Sigurdur Óli could answer his first question, as he did not intend to divulge Kristján’s identity, despite the niggling desire to do so in revenge for the mind-numbing tedium of their lunchtime chat. So he merely stood there in silence, gazing round the workshop at the snowmobiles which were in the process of being converted to make them even faster and noisier, and the motorbikes being souped up in order to break the speed limit with even greater ease.

Höddi advanced towards him. ‘Why do you think I’ve got anything to say about this guy Toggi?’ he demanded.

‘I’m asking you,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Do you know where he could be?’

Höddi glowered at him. ‘No, is the answer. I don’t know the bloke.’

‘Then do you know a man called Ebeneser, known as Ebbi?’

‘I thought you were asking about Toggi.’

‘Ebbi too.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘He has a wife called Lína. Do you know her?’

‘Nope.’

The man’s phone started ringing in his pocket. He looked at Sigurdur Óli as the phone rang, four, five, six times, and when he finally deigned to answer, he continued to eyeball Sigurdur Óli.

‘Yup,’ he said, then listened for a while.

‘I don’t give a shit,’ he said. ‘Yup … yup … yup, doesn’t matter to me.’

He listened again.

‘I don’t care if he’s related to you,’ he snarled. ‘I’m going to kneecap the fucker.’

His eyes were fixed provocatively on Sigurdur Óli as he said this. In what sounded like either an act of revenge or the calling in of a debt Höddi was threatening to take a baseball bat to somebody. Whichever it was, Höddi clearly felt no compulsion to conceal it.
He
was deliberately provoking Sigurdur Óli, as if to demonstrate that they had nothing on him and could not touch him.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ said Höddi into the phone. ‘Yeah … yeah … right, yeah, and up yours. You can shut the fuck up, mate.’

He ended the call and stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

‘Has Toggi been in touch with you recently?’ asked Sigurdur Óli, as if he had not heard the exchange.

‘I don’t know any Toggi.’

‘He’s known as Toggi “Sprint”.’

‘I don’t know him either.’

‘I assume you travel in the highlands on those things,’ commented Sigurdur Óli, gesturing towards the powerful snowmobiles.

‘Why don’t you just cut the crap and get the hell out of here?’ said Höddi.

‘Or maybe on glacier trips,’ Sigurdur Óli continued, unperturbed by the man’s rising anger. ‘Am I right? I’m talking about organised tours for businesses or institutions, not just mucking about by yourself.’

‘What’s this bullshit?’

‘Do you organise tours like that? Are you involved with them at all? Glacier tours for corporate clients: snowmobiles, barbecues, the works?’

‘I often go on glacier trips. What’s it to you?’

‘This bloke I mentioned – Ebbi – he runs highland tours. Ever worked with him?’

‘I don’t know any Ebbi, mate.’

‘All right,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Have it your way.’

‘Yeah, right. Now get the fuck out and leave me alone,’ he said, turning back to his motorbike.

When Sigurdur Óli returned to Hverfisgata he found an email waiting for him from Kolfinna, the secretary at Lína’s accountancy
firm
. She had promised to send him the list of employees and clients who had gone on the company’s second glacier tour with Ebbi and Lína. Sigurdur Óli printed it and glanced down the list. To his surprise and consternation, he encountered Hermann’s name. Then, further down, he was brought up short by another name so familiar he could hardly believe his eyes.

It was the name of his friend, Patrekur.

28

THEY HAD WATCHED
him suspiciously when he went into the state off-licence to buy two bottles of Icelandic
brennivín
. He had made an effort to smarten himself up by hitching up his trousers, pulling on an anorak and donning a woolly hat to hide his dirty, unkempt hair and keep out the cold. Then he had walked the long distance to the off-licence on Eidistorg Square, on the Seltjarnarnes Peninsula at the westernmost end of the city. He had taken the decision to avoid visiting the same shop too often after noticing the glances of the staff when he went to the town centre off-licence, near Grettisgata. The branch in the Kringlan shopping centre was also out. He had been there recently too. He had had to pay using cash because he did not own a credit card, never had, which meant he sometimes had to go to the bank to withdraw money. His disability benefit was paid directly into his account and in addition to this he had some savings left over from his last job. Not that he needed much these days, because he hardly ate; the
brennivín
served as both food and drink.

The staff at the off-licence watched him as if he had committed
a
crime. Perhaps it was his appearance? He hoped so. What could they know, anyway? They knew nothing. Nor did they refuse to serve him; after all, his money was good, even if he didn’t exactly look like a banker. They avoided engaging with him, though; did not address a single word to him. Well, what did he care what they thought? They meant nothing to him. And anyway, what did he have to do with them? Not a thing. He was just there to buy a couple of bottles of spirits and that was all. He was causing no trouble; he was a customer, just like anyone else.

So why the hell were they gawping at him like that?

Was there a dress code for drinking
brennivín
?

He walked out of the off-licence, his mind churning, casting frequent glances behind him, as if he expected to be followed. Could they have called the cops? His pace quickened. The young man who had served him sat on his chair by the till, watching him through the glass frontage until he was out of sight.

He did not see any police officers but took the precaution of turning down a side street as soon as he could. From there he made his slow way back towards the centre of Reykjavík, heading for the old graveyard, instinctively picking the quietest back streets and alleyways. From time to time, when no one was looking, he stopped, removed one of the bottles from the bag and took a swig. When he finally reached the graveyard the bottle was nearly empty. He would have to go easy if the other one was to last.

The old cemetery on Sudurgata was a favourite refuge when he needed peace and quiet. He sat down now for a rest on a low stone wall that fenced in a large tomb, taking frequent sips from the second bottle, and although it was cold he did not feel it, protected as he was by the drink and his thick, padded jacket.

The alcohol had a restorative effect and he felt livelier, somewhat lighter of heart. A snatch of verse kept repeating itself in his head, as it often did when he was drinking:
Brennivín is the best of
friends
/ It never lets you down
. In future he would avoid the town centre; you never knew when you might bump into some acquaintance, or even a cop, and that was the last thing he needed. More than once he had been picked up for the sole crime of showing his face in town. He had not been pestering anybody, merely sitting on a bench in Austurvöllur Square, minding his own business, when two policemen had approached him. He had told them to get lost – maybe adding a few obscenities, not that he could remember – and before he knew it he was in the cells. ‘You spoil the view for the tourists,’ they had told him.

He gazed across the graveyard at the mossy headstones and the trees that grew amid the tumbled graves, then raised his eyes heavenwards. The sky was gloomy and overcast; to him it seemed almost black, but then the clouds over the mountains parted for an instant, showing a gleam of sunlight and a pale strip of blue sky before it was obscured again by a dark bank of cloud.

He had not attended his mother’s funeral. Sometime, somewhere – probably when she was admitted to hospital, he did not know – she had given his name as next of kin, to be contacted in the event of her death. One day he had received a phone call that he still heard occasionally, as if from afar, from beyond the rim of sky over the mountains, telling him that his mother Sigurveig was dead.

‘Why are you telling me?’ he had asked.

He had felt neither gladness nor sorrow, neither surprise nor anger. Just numbness, but then he had been numb for a long time.

The woman had wanted to discuss arrangements about the body and the undertaker, and something else he did not catch.

He took a slug from the bottle and looked up at the clouds, checking to see if they had parted again but he could see no sunlight. He knew the graveyard well, often coming here in search of respite. No one bothered him here.

As he sat there among the old graves he was filled with a strange
sense
of tranquillity, and so he remained, uncertain, as sometimes happened, which side of the grave he was really on.