‘Who knew that Lína would be alone at home?’
‘No one, everyone, I don’t know. Anyone. I haven’t a clue, I don’t keep a list.’
‘Don’t you want to try to solve this?’
‘Of course I do! What’s the matter with you? Of course I want this solved.’
‘Then who’s been threatening you — threatening to attack you and beat the hell out of you?’
‘No one. This is just some bullshit you’ve dreamt up.’
‘I’m almost certain that Lína’s death was an accident,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘A tragic accident. A mistake by someone who went too far. Don’t you want to help us find him?’
‘Of course, but could you please give me a break? I’ve got to go home. I’ve got to see Lína’s parents. I’ve got to …’
He seemed on the verge of tears again.
‘I want the photos, Ebeneser,’ said Sigurdur Óli.
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Where are they?’
‘I just can’t cope with this.’
‘I only know about one couple. Were there others? Who’s after you? What were you two up to?’
‘Nothing, leave me alone,’ said Ebeneser. ‘Leave me alone!’ He rushed out of the room.
As Sigurdur Óli was leaving the hospital, he passed a patient being pushed in a wheelchair. He had plaster casts on both arms, a bandage round his jaw, one of his eyes was closed by a large swelling and his nose was strapped up as if it had been broken. Sigurdur Óli failed to recognise him at first, then realised on closer inspection that it was the youth who had been sitting in the corridor at the police station; the one he had abused for being a pathetic loser and a waste of space. The boy, whose name he now remembered was Pétur, glanced up as they passed. Sigurdur Óli stopped him.
‘What happened to you?’ he asked.
The boy could not answer for himself but the woman pushing the wheelchair had no difficulty in doing so. Apparently he had been beaten senseless not far from the police station on Hverfisgata on Monday evening. She was taking him for yet another X-ray.
As far as she knew they had not yet caught the bastards who had given him such a vicious kicking. And he was not saying a word.
14
Shortly afterwards, as Sigurdur Óli was entering the police station on Hverfisgata by the back door, a rough-looking man who stank to high heaven stepped out of the shadows in front of him.
‘It’s impossible to get hold of you lot,’ the man whispered in a strangely weak, hoarse voice, seizing hold of his arm.
Sigurdur Óli was momentarily startled but recovered quickly and reacted angrily. To him the man looked like any other tramp — and Sigurdur Óli had come across enough of those in his time — yet he felt a dim sense of recognition. But he could not place the man immediately, and had no interest in doing so.
‘What do you mean by jumping out at me like that?’ he snapped, snatching his arm away and causing the man to lose his grip and stumble backwards.
‘I need to talk to Erlendur,’ the tramp whimpered.
‘Then you’ve got the wrong guy,’ Sigurdur Óli said, and continued walking.
‘I know that,’ the tramp shrieked in his high, hoarse voice, following him. ‘Where is he? I need to talk to Erlendur.’
‘He’s not here. I don’t know where he is,’ said Sigurdur Óli dismissively as he opened the door.
‘What about you then?’
‘What about me?’
‘Don’t you remember me?’ the man asked.
Sigurdur Óli paused.
‘Don’t you remember Andy? You were with Erlendur. You were there when he came round to mine and I told you both about him.’
Sigurdur Óli stood holding the door open, and considered the man at length.
‘Andy?’ he repeated.
‘Don’t you remember Andy?’ the tramp asked again, scratching his crotch and sniffing back his dripping nose.
Sigurdur Óli vaguely recalled meeting him but it took him a minute to remember the circumstances. The man had lost weight since then and his ragged clothes — the filthy anorak, Icelandic jumper at least two sizes too big for him and threadbare jeans — hung loosely from his frame. The old black waders on his feet were hardly any better. His face looked gaunt too, the eyes blank, the mouth sunken and the expression lifeless, the skin hanging from it like the clothes from his body. It was impossible to guess his age with any accuracy, though Sigurdur Óli seemed to recall that he was only about forty-five.
‘Are you Andrés?’
‘I have to tell him something, Erlendur that is. I have to talk to him.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘Why do you need to see him?’
‘I just need to talk to him.’
‘That’s no answer. Look, I can’t be doing with this. Erlendur will be back soon and you can talk to him then.’
The door closed on Andrés and Sigurdur Óli strode towards his office. He now remembered the man clearly and the case with which he had been connected. It had been shortly after New Year, in the frozen depths of winter.
Catching sight of Finnur in the distance, he attempted to take evasive action but it was too late.
‘Siggi!’ he heard him call.
Sigurdur Óli accelerated, pretending not to have heard. Anyway, he was not in the habit of answering when his colleagues addressed him as Siggi.
‘I need to talk to you,’ he heard Finnur shout as he pursued him down the corridor and into his office.
‘I haven’t got time for this,’ Sigurdur Óli protested.
‘Then you’ll just have to make time. What were you doing at Sigurlína’s? Why did you jump straight to the conclusion that her attacker was a debt collector? And what are those dodgy photos you were talking about? Come on. What do you know that we don’t? And why the hell are you trying to hide it from us?’
‘I’m not — ’ began Sigurdur Óli.
‘Do you want me to take this upstairs?’ Finnur interrupted. ‘It’s easily done.’
Sigurdur Óli knew that Finnur would not hesitate and would maybe even report him for professional misconduct. He would have liked more time to work out a story, and was concerned too that Patrekur might get dragged into the investigation, though he couldn’t give a toss about Hermann or his wife.
‘Calm down, it’s nothing serious,’ he said. ‘I just didn’t want to complicate matters unnecessarily. At the time it was only GBH; now it’s murder. I was going to talk to you — ’
‘How very decent of you. Out with it then.’
‘The photos are of people my friend, Patrekur, knows,’ Sigurdur Óli explained. ‘He put me in touch with them. The man’s name is Hermann. I went round to have a word with Sigurlína and Ebeneser because they were using the pictures against him and his wife. They’re photos of them having sex — they showed me one in which this bloke Hermann was clearly identifiable. Lína and Ebbi were involved in blackmail. They invited couples round for swingers’ parties — wife-swapping, in other words. Nothing out of the ordinary as these things go, except that Lína and Ebbi had the bright idea of trying to make some money out of it. There may be other victims but, if so, I’m not aware of them.’
‘What? You’re saying you were conducting a private investigation for your friend?’
‘I always intended to report it. I’m telling you now, aren’t I? There’s no harm done. I was just going to talk to Lína and Ebbi before things got out of hand. Hermann’s wife is particularly vulnerable because she’s trying to get ahead in politics. When I arrived on the scene Lína was already lying on the floor. Next thing I know the guy jumps out at me. I rang for backup but we lost him.’
‘So what does this Hermann say?’
‘He denies having anything to do with the attack. I’ve no reason to believe he’s lying, but no particular reason to believe he’s telling the truth either. Then again, the assailant could have been acting alone.’
‘And of course there may be others in the same boat as this Hermann,’ Finnur said, ‘people who are more likely to have underworld contacts. Is that what you’re getting at?’