‘Are you … Do they suspect us of having done this?’ Patrekur asked miserably.
‘Hermann’s in a much worse position than you,’ Sigurdur Óli pointed out. ‘I don’t know what they’ll do about you but I told Finnur about us, about the photos and the blackmail and how you know Hermann and how it was you who brought us together.’
Patrekur had slumped in his chair in horrified amazement. He shot a glance at the photo of Súsanna and the children.
‘So this is what I get for coming to you for advice,’ he said.
‘It would all have come out eventually.’
‘Come out? What do you mean? Súsanna and I haven’t done anything!’
‘That’s not what Finnur thinks,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘He says that you’ve been using me, that you’re mixed up in this sordid little mess yourself and that I was supposed to intimidate the blackmailers into handing over the photos.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ Patrekur gasped.
Sigurdur Óli watched his friend squirm in his chair.
‘Nor do I,’ he conceded. ‘Finnur’s OK, but if you ask me the whole thing’s ridiculous. He’s choosing to ignore the fact that you would hardly have sent me and the debt collector to see Lína at the same time. Look, is there anything you can tell me that we don’t know yet? Anything that could help us find whoever did this? Do you know anyone at all that Lína and Ebbi had dealings with?’
He saw his friend’s relief when he said he did not believe Finnur’s version of events.
‘I’m completely in the dark,’ Patrekur assured him. ‘I’ve told you what I know and that’s next to nothing. Really, nothing. These people are complete strangers to us.’
‘Good,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Say that when you meet Finnur and everything should be all right. But, for God’s sake, don’t mention that I came here to warn you.’
Patrekur looked imploringly at Sigurdur Óli.
‘Can’t you do something?’ he said. ‘I’ve never been hauled in by the police before.’
‘It’s out of my hands, I’m afraid.’
‘And the media, will they get wind of this?’
Sigurdur Óli had no words of comfort.
‘That’s a given,’ he said.
‘Why the hell did you have to drag me into this?’
‘It was Hermann who did that for you,’ Sigurdur Óli pointed out drily, ‘not me.’
Sigurdur Óli arrived back at the station on Hverfisgata to find his father waiting for him. He was taken aback.
‘Is everything all right?’ was his first reaction.
‘Yes, fine, Siggi,’ his father replied. ‘I wondered how you were. I’m working nearby and decided to drop in. I’ve never visited you at work.’
Sigurdur Óli showed him into his office, astonished and somewhat irritated by this intrusion. His father let out a quiet sigh as he sat down, as if he was tired. He was short but sturdily built, his strong hands worn from years of toiling with pipes and wrenches, and he limped a little from bad joints after spending so much of his working life on his knees. Where it was visible under his baseball cap, his hair was streaked with grey, though the thick brows over his kindly eyes still retained their reddish tint. The hairs of his brows stood up in tufts as he had not been to a barber for a while and he had several days’ stubble on his chin as usual. Sigurdur Óli knew that he only shaved once a week, on Saturdays, and never touched his eyebrows if he could help it.
‘Seen your mother at all?’ his father asked, rubbing his painful knee.
‘I was round at hers yesterday evening,’ Sigurdur Óli answered. He was sure this was no courtesy call. His father had never been one to waste time on inessentials. ‘Shall I get you a coffee?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you, don’t go to any trouble,’ his father said quickly. ‘Was she on good form?’
‘Yes, pretty good.’
‘Still spending all her time with that man?’
‘Saemundur, yes.’
It was more or less the same conversation they had had when his father rang him nearly three weeks ago. They had not spoken since. There had been no reason for his call then, apart from the questions he dropped in here and there about Gagga and her live-in partner.
‘Perfectly decent bloke, I suppose,’ his father said.
‘I don’t really know him,’ Sigurdur Óli said truthfully. He did his best to avoid contact with Saemundur.
‘She’s done well for herself.’
‘Are you planning anything for your birthday?’ Sigurdur Óli asked, watching his father massage his knee.
‘No, I don’t suppose so. I …’
‘What?’
‘The thing is, I’ve got to go to hospital, Siggi.’
‘Oh?’
‘They found something in my prostate. Apparently it’s not uncommon with men my age.’
‘What … what is it? Cancer?’
‘I’m hoping it’s not very advanced — they don’t think it’s spread at all — but they need to operate as soon as possible and I just wanted to let you know.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Sigurdur Óli blurted out.
‘Yes, these things happen,’ his father said. ‘No point dwelling on it. Now, how’s Bergthóra getting on?’
‘Bergthóra? Fine, I guess. But aren’t you scared? What do the doctors say?’
‘Well, they asked if I had any children and I told them about you and they mentioned wanting to see you too.’
‘Me?’
‘They talked about risk groups; that you were in a risk group. Men used not to have to worry about these things until they were in their fifties but apparently it’s happening younger and younger these days. And since it can be hereditary they’d like to see you too, or at least for you to go for a check-up.’
‘When are you going under the knife?’
‘Next Monday. They say they can’t hang around.’
His business finished, his father stood up and opened the door.
‘That was all, Siggi. You look into getting yourself checked out. Don’t put it off.’
Then he was gone, limping a little from his worn-out knee.
17
When Sigurdur Óli drove to Ebbi and Lína’s house, towards evening, everything was quiet. Ebeneser’s large jeep was parked in front of the house, jacked up on enormous tyres designed to cope with all manner of off-road conditions involving rock, ice and snow. As Sigurdur Óli parked behind it, he thought about adventure tours into the interior. Personally he had never seen the attraction, never had the slightest interest in sightseeing in his own country, let alone giving up his creature comforts to camp or rough it. Why on earth would he want to trek up an Icelandic glacier? Bergthóra had sometimes tried to encourage him to travel around Iceland with her, but found that he was as reluctant and unenthusiastic about the idea as he was about so much else. All he really wanted was to stay in Reykjavík, preferably near his own flat.
His summer holidays were generally spent abroad, in search of guaranteed sunshine rather than horizon-broadening experiences. It came as no surprise to Bergthóra that one of his favourite places was Florida. He was less keen to visit Spain or other southern European beach destinations, regarding them as dirty and poor, with suspect food. Historical sites, museums and architecture held absolutely no appeal for him, which made Orlando the ideal spot. His taste in films was similar: he could not stand pretentious European films, plotless arty flicks, in which nothing ever happened. Hollywood movies, with their thrills, laughs and glamorous stars, were more to his taste. In his opinion, cinema was made for the English-speaking world. If any programme came on TV that was neither British nor American he was quick to change channels. All other languages, especially Icelandic, sounded childish on-screen. Naturally, he avoided Icelandic films like the plague. Nor was he a reader, barely managing to plod through one book a year, and when he listened to music it was invariably classic American rock or country.