She lit a new cigarette and eyed him.
‘That’s nice,’ she said again, inhaling until the tip of the cigarette glowed.
When he needed to rest he would lie down on the floor of the basement flat in Grettisgata and doze for an hour or two at a time. He had not been home for days and could not afford a proper sleep, not while he needed to keep an eye on the old man, to make sure he did not escape. On no account must he get away.
So far he had failed to find the Eumig camera or any of the films, despite overturning tables, pulling out drawers and throwing the contents on the floor, breaking open cupboards and sweeping the bookshelves clear. Finally, after some hesitation, he had opened the door to the bedroom. Like the rest of the flat it was a pigsty: the bed unmade; the sheet missing, revealing a filthy mattress; no cover on the duvet. There was an old chest in one corner containing four drawers, the chair beside the bed was covered with a pile of clothing, and a large wardrobe stood against one wall. The floor was covered in brown vinyl. He tackled the wardrobe first, chucking out shirts and trousers, tearing out every garment and hacking into the lining of some with the knife he always carried. The rage boiled inside him. Climbing into the wardrobe he struck the back and sides until one of the panels broke. After that he dragged the drawers out of the old chest and flung them down, along with underwear, socks and some papers he could not be bothered to examine. He broke the bottom out of one of the drawers by stamping on it. Finally he overturned the chest and smashed it open at the back. Then he cut the mattress to shreds and scattered it all over the floor. Underneath was the bed frame which he propped up on its side, but found no trace of the camera or films there either.
Returning to the living room, he sat down beside the bound man. The only illumination in the basement was the beam from the Bell amp; Howell projector, still shining onto one wall. Its lamp was as good as new and he had not turned it off since he had found it. Now he adjusted the projector until the beam fell on the man slumped in his bonds on the chair, his face covered.
‘Where do you keep the filth?’ he asked, still breathless from his exertions.
The man raised his head, screwing up his eyes against the light.
‘Let me go,’ he heard him groan from behind the mask.
‘Where’s the camera?’
‘Let me go.’
‘Where are the films you made with it?’
‘Let me go, Andy, so we can talk.’
‘No.’
‘Untie me.’
‘Shut up!’
The man was racked by a rattling cough.
‘Untie me and I’ll tell you everything.’
‘Shut up.’
He stood up and looked around for the hammer, unable to remember where he had put it. He had destroyed the flat in his search for the camera. As he surveyed the ruins, he saw tables and chairs littered about like matchwood, and suddenly he remembered that the last time he had used it was in the kitchen. He crossed the room, stepping over the rubbish he had strewn around the flat, and glimpsed the handle. It had fallen on the floor. He carried it back into the living room and took up position in front of the old man. Grasping the man’s chin firmly, he forced his head back until the spike was poking up vertically.
‘Tell me!’ he snarled, raising the hammer aloft.
He let the hammer fall but just before it struck the spike he checked the momentum so that it merely tapped the end.
‘Tell me!’
‘Shut up, you bastard!’
‘Next time I’ll go all the way,’ he whispered.
He raised the hammer and was on the point of striking when the man began to shout.
‘Don’t, don’t, wait … don’t do it, no more, let me go … let me go …’
‘Let you go?’ he echoed.
‘Let me … go … untie me …’ The man’s words had dropped to a whisper. ‘Stop … that’s enough …’
‘Enough? You’ve had enough? Isn’t that what I used to cry at you? Remember? Remember? When I begged you to stop. Remember, you piece of shit?!’
The hammer had drooped in his hand but now he raised it high and brought it down with all his strength. It passed within a few millimetres of the man’s head.
He bent down to him.
‘Tell me where you hide the shit or the spike is going in your head!’
16
Patrekur was in his office and visibly busy when Sigurdur Óli barged in. He worked for an engineering firm, where he specialised in load-bearing capacity, concentrating mainly on the construction of bridges and dams for hydroelectric stations. The firm was one of the largest of its kind in Iceland and Patrekur, who was well regarded in his field, was in charge of a sizeable team as deputy director. The country’s engineering firms had experienced an unprecedented expansion thanks to the current economic boom which manifested itself in high bank interest rates, the rampant acquisition of foreign assets by Icelandic business tycoons and companies, the huge proliferation of new buildings in the capital area and massive infrastructural projects connected to the hydroelectric dam and aluminium smelting factory in the East Fjords. Patrekur certainly could not complain of any shortage of work. It was still early in the morning and he was standing in rolled-up shirtsleeves, mobile phone in one hand, office phone in the other, reading out information from one of the two computer monitors on his desk. Closing the door behind him, Sigurdur Óli sat down on a black leather sofa facing the desk, crossed his legs and waited patiently.
Patrekur’s face registered surprise when he saw him enter and take a seat. He hurriedly finished one of his phone calls but had more trouble concluding the other. At first Sigurdur Óli listened but his interest soon faded when the conversation turned to quantities of reinforced concrete and incremental design costs. Patrekur’s desk was covered in piles of paper which had also colonised the windowsill; rolled-up engineering plans were propped against the wall, a safety helmet hung from a peg and there was a photo of his wife Súsanna and their children on the desk.
‘They’re giving me a hard time,’ Sigurdur Óli said when Patrekur finally extricated himself.
The desk phone rang. Patrekur picked up the receiver and laid it on the desk, cutting off the call. He silenced his mobile as well.
‘Who?’ he asked. ‘What for? What are you talking about?’
‘My colleagues. I’m afraid I had to tell them about you — that we’re friends.’
‘About me? Why, for God’s sake?’
‘They think you’re more involved than you’re letting on. The whole thing got a lot more serious after Lína died yesterday. Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t even be sitting here talking to you.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding?’
Sigurdur Óli shook his head.
‘Why did you have to tell them about me?’
‘Why did you have to come to me?’ Sigurdur Óli countered.
‘I saw on the news yesterday that she’d died. They don’t seriously believe I’m mixed up in all this, do they?’
‘Are you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’d have told you if I was. Have you got into trouble?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Sigurdur Óli assured him. ‘What did Hermann say when he heard about Lína?’
‘I haven’t spoken to him. Will all the details be made public?’
Sigurdur Óli nodded.
‘I just wanted to warn you about what’s going to happen. You’ll be called in for questioning, probably later this afternoon. So will Hermann and his wife. And of course Súsanna won’t escape either, though I don’t know that for sure. The man who’ll do the first round of interviews is called Finnur. He’s OK. For your own sake, I hope you tell him everything you know. Don’t hold back and don’t be difficult; just keep it short and sweet. Stick to answering their questions and don’t volunteer any extra information. Don’t say anything unless you’re asked, and don’t start talking about bringing in a lawyer — your situation is nowhere near serious enough and it’ll just cause surprise and suspicion. Be yourself and try to stay calm.’