‘Yes, though I don’t think there’s cause to rule out Hermann.’
‘Did you get anything out of Sigurlína while you were there?’
‘No, she was unconscious when I arrived.’
‘And Ebeneser?’
‘He’s playing dumb. He denies having any photos and claims not to have a clue why Lína was attacked. We should put the screws on him first thing tomorrow morning, while he’s still vulnerable.’
‘What did you mean by keeping this hidden from us?’
‘I … It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to conceal anything.’
‘No, right. That’s why you’ve been conducting some kind of private investigation. Does that seem normal to you?’
‘I haven’t experienced a normal day since I joined the force.’
‘You know I’ll have to report this. But it would look better if you came clean yourself.’
‘Do what you like. I haven’t compromised the case. I consider myself perfectly fit to remain involved. But it’s your inquiry.’
‘Fit? So you’re not just looking out for your friend?’
‘It has nothing to do with him.’
‘Wake up!’ exploded Finnur. ‘Why the hell did he come to you? Stop talking bullshit and stop making things worse for yourself. He came to you because he’s mixed up in this and wants to avoid an official inquiry. He’s using you, Siggi. Try to get your head round the fact!’
With that, Finnur swept out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
Instead of switching on the TV as usual when he got home that evening, Sigurdur Óli went into the kitchen, made a sandwich and poured himself a glass of orange juice, then sat down at the kitchen table to eat. It was after midnight and silence reigned in the building. There were five other flats but he had not got to know any of his neighbours since moving in. He greeted them from time to time, if it was unavoidable, but otherwise kept himself to himself. He had no interest in talking to strangers unless it was directly connected to work. The other residents consisted of three families with children, an old couple and a single man of about forty, whom he had once seen wearing a jacket branded with the logo of a tyre company. The man had tried to strike up a friendship, saying hello to Sigurdur Óli a couple of times on his way in or out of the building, and one Saturday afternoon had knocked on his door to ask if he could borrow some sugar. Sigurdur Óli replied guardedly that he did not have any and when the man tried to initiate a conversation about English football he had excused himself claiming that he was busy and closed the door.
As he ate his sandwich he thought about Patrekur and Hermann and what Finnur had said. And about the tramp who had asked after Erlendur. He thought Andrés had looked better, though still a wreck, the last time they met. The man was an alcoholic and lived in a block of flats, probably council-owned, not far from where a young boy of Thai descent had been found stabbed to death back in January. The little boy had been frozen to the ground by the time he was discovered. It had been a bitterly cold spell. The police had put all their resources into solving the case, interviewing Andrés among countless other people from the surrounding area. He was a repeat offender with a long police record for crimes ranging from breaking and entering to affray. After being taken in for questioning, however, they had concluded that although peculiar and an unreliable witness, he was unlikely to constitute any sort of threat.
Now, in the late autumn, Andrés had emerged again, like a ghost from the shadows behind the police station. Sigurdur Óli could not imagine what was bothering him or what he could possibly want with Erlendur, and experienced a momentary twinge of concern about having slammed the door on him. But only momentary.
15
The day after his return from the countryside he woke up on the living-room sofa. Someone had moved him there from the kitchen table where he had fallen asleep. It took him a long time to become fully awake and he briefly thought he was still on the farm, with the morning chores waiting to be attended to. Then he remembered the journey and the wait at the bus station and the stranger who had come to collect him.
He sat up on the sofa, unsure how long he had slept. It was a sunny morning outside and in the light that streamed into the flat he noticed some items of furniture that were familiar, others not, and some that were completely alien, like the television set that he had not noticed the night before, which sat on a table, with a curved screen, black plastic sides and a strange row of buttons. Getting up, he crossed the room to the television, seeing himself reflected oddly in the screen, head elongated, body grotesquely distorted, and smiled at the caricature. He ran a hand over the glass, fiddled with the buttons, and suddenly something happened; there was a low hissing sound and an incomprehensible symbol appeared, accompanied by a terrible piercing wail that he thought would drive him mad. He reeled back from the machine, looking round helplessly, then began to jab frantically at the buttons in an attempt to stop the noise. Suddenly the strange picture shrank into a small dot, before disappearing altogether, and the sound abated. He breathed a sigh of relief.
‘What on earth’s that racket?’
His mother came out of the bedroom.
‘I think I must have turned on the machine,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘Is that you, love?’ his mother said. ‘Sorry — I meant to come and meet you yesterday evening but I couldn’t make it; I’ve been a bit under the weather lately. Have you seen my fags anywhere?’
He looked around and shook his head.
‘What have I done with the pack?’ she asked with a sigh, scanning the room. ‘Röggi met you, did he?’
He did not know how to answer this because the man who collected him had not told him his name. She found a packet of cigarettes and some matches, lit one and inhaled, exhaled, took another drag, then blew out smoke through her nose.
‘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.’