‘We need to talk to him about an old case,’ Sigurdur Óli replied, avoiding going into any detail. ‘Nothing particularly urgent but we do need to track him down.’
He had been convinced from the outset that the boy in the film was Andrés himself and that by sending him the clip Andrés wanted to draw the attention of the police, or more precisely of Sigurdur Óli whom he had met before, to a crime or crimes that had been committed against him in his youth. The time frame fitted. The boy in the film was about ten years old. Andrés was forty-five, born in 1960, according to his police file. His statement about Rögnvaldur, his stepfather, had alleged that he was a paedophile, and Rögnvaldur had lived with Andrés’s mother during the period when it seemed likely that the film had been made.
‘Did he ever talk about how he ended up on the streets?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.
‘He never opened up about himself,’ Hólmgeir replied. ‘I sometimes used to ask him but he never answered. Some of the others were forever whining and moaning and blaming everyone but themselves. Pointing the finger, making accusations, that sort of crap. Including me, I might add. But I never heard him complain about anything. He just accepted his lot. But …’
‘Yes?’
‘But you got the feeling that he was angry; I never knew what about exactly. Although we hung around together, I never really got to know him. Andrés was very secretive. He was filled with loathing and rage, a seething rage he bottled up, which could boil over when you least expected it. But a lot of this is very hazy, you understand; I’m afraid there are long gaps in my memory.’
‘Do you know what he did before — what job, if he had one?’
‘Yes, he once tried to train as an upholsterer,’ Hólmgeir said. ‘He’d meant to learn the trade once, when he was young.’
‘Upholsterer?’ repeated Sigurdur Óli, picturing the scraps of leather at Andrés’s flat.
‘But it all came to nothing, of course.’
‘You don’t know if he’s been doing that sort of work recently?’
‘I don’t.’
‘And you have no idea where he might be living?’
‘No.’
‘Did he have any friends he could turn to?’ asked Sigurdur Óli. ‘Can you suggest anyone he might still be in touch with?’
‘No, he never went anywhere and no one ever visited him. There was a time he used to hang about the bus station at Hlemmur. It was warm and we were left in peace as long as we didn’t make any trouble. But he didn’t have any friends. Anyway, those friendships didn’t usually last long because people often wouldn’t survive the winter.’
‘No family?’
Hólmgeir thought.
‘He sometimes talked about his mother but I gathered that she had died long ago.’
‘What did he say about her?’
‘He didn’t have a good word to say about her.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I don’t remember exactly. I have a feeling it was to do with some people he’d been staying with in the countryside.’
‘Do you remember who they were?’
‘No, but Andrés spoke well of them. I think he’d wanted to stay there instead of coming to live in town. He said it was the only time in his life he’d been happy.’
26
Sigurdur Óli got home around midnight and collapsed on the sofa in front of the TV. He turned on an American comedy but soon lost interest and channel-surfed until he found a live broadcast of an American football game. But he could not concentrate on that either. His mind kept drifting to his mother and father and to Bergthóra and their relationship, and how it had all come off the rails without his making any real effort to save it. He had just let things run their course until they had gone irretrievably wrong and there was no turning back. Perhaps it was his obstinacy and indifference that had caused everything to break down.
His thoughts moved on to Patrekur, from whom he had heard nothing since he was called in for questioning, and to Finnur, who had threatened to throw the book at him. This was unlike Finnur. He was good at what he did and it was out of character for him to act precipitately, but then of course Patrekur and Súsanna were not friends of his. Sigurdur Óli had nothing against Finnur. He was a family man, meticulous in his private and professional lives. His three daughters had been born at two-year intervals and all had birthdays in the same month. His wife was a part-time sixth-form teacher. He was conscientious almost to the point of pedantry, concerned that all his dealings should be above board, both with his colleagues and in his capacity generally as a police officer. So it was no surprise that he should take exception when Sigurdur Óli failed to take himself off the case, citing a conflict of interest. But Finnur had his foibles too, as Sigurdur Óli had reminded him. He had managed to pacify him for now but how long that would last he could not say. Sigurdur Óli could see nothing improper in continuing to work on the investigation despite his friend’s connection to the case. He had full confidence in his own judgement, and anyway Iceland was a small country; links to friends, acquaintances or family were inevitable. All that mattered was that they were handled in an honest, professional manner.
The game ended and as Sigurdur Óli changed channels he thought about the film clip and the boy’s distressing pleas for mercy. He recalled the time he and Erlendur had visited Andrés shortly after New Year. Andrés, stinking and repulsive, had clearly been drinking for a long time. He had suddenly started referring to himself as little Andy, which Erlendur took to be a childhood nickname. So could it be little Andy on the clip? And where was the rest of the film? Were there others? Just what had little Andy been forced to endure at the hands of his stepfather? And where was this stepfather today? Rögnvaldur. Sigurdur Óli had checked the police records but found nobody by that name who could have been Andrés’s stepfather.
If Andrés had looked terrible back in January when they had confronted him in his lair, he seemed in an even worse condition now, in the autumn. The wraithlike figure who had accosted Sigurdur Óli behind the police station had been a shadow of his former self: his haggard, grey face unshaven, a disgusting stench rising from his filthy clothes, his back hunched. A bundle of nerves. What had happened? Where had Andrés been hiding?
Surely the boy in the film must be Andrés?
Sigurdur Óli remembered how he had been at that age. His parents had recently divorced and he had been living with his mother but would spend some weekends with his father, accompanying him to work at times, as he seemed to work late seven days a week. Sigurdur Óli had learned a little about plumbing and discovered that his father had a nickname among his fellow tradesmen that puzzled him at first. He had gone with his father to a cafeteria one lunchtime; it was midweek but he had a day off school because it was Ash Wednesday, so he went with his father, who always ate lunch at the same place. The cafeteria was on Ármúli, somewhere tradesmen and labourers gathered to enjoy cheap, unpretentious platefuls of meatballs or roast lamb, shovelling down their food, smoking and swapping gossip before returning to work. It took no more than twenty minutes, half an hour at most, and then they were gone.
He was standing by a table, waiting while his father queued for food, when a man hurrying out bumped into him, almost knocking Sigurdur Óli over.
‘Sorry, son,’ the man said, catching him before he could fall. ‘But what the hell are you doing getting in the way like that?’
He spoke roughly, as if the boy had no right to get under the feet of his elders and betters. Perhaps he was curious about what a youngster like him was doing in a workers’ canteen.
‘I’m with him,’ explained Sigurdur Óli timidly, pointing to his father who had just turned round and smiled at him.