‘No, thanks, I don’t smoke,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘It’s absolutely vital that we find him as soon as possible. If you have the faintest idea where Toggi could be or who he might be in touch with, we’d be extremely grateful.’
Kristján was instantly wary. The detective’s manner was nothing like before and he was unsure how to react.
‘I don’t know a thing,’ he objected.
‘Who are his mates? Who does he hang out with? We’ve got nothing on him. He’s not had any brush with the law recently, so we have to put our trust in people like you, you see?’
‘Yes, but like I said — ’
‘One name, that’s all. Someone he’s mentioned in your hearing. It might only have been once.’
Kristján studied him, then drained his glass and held it out.
‘You can get me a refill, mate,’ said the little runt. ‘Then come and park yourself here for a nice cosy chat. Who knows, something might come back to me.’
Three pints and a period of interminable boredom later, Sigurdur Óli was driving east along the Miklabraut dual carriageway, searching for a mechanic’s specialising in motorbikes and snowmobiles, where, according to Kristján, he would find a man called Höddi who belonged to Thórarinn’s tiny circle of friends. Kristján had forgotten how their paths had crossed originally but they used to help each other out with debt collecting and other jobs that might crop up. That was how Höddi had once come to set fire to a white Range Rover with leather fittings and all the extras, worth a cool twelve million kronur, at the request of the owner. He needed to pay off a loan that was causing him grief and also wanted to squeeze some cash out of his insurance company. The request had come via Toggi, who was in contact with the owner — Kristján did not know how — but it so happened that Toggi was in Spain at the time and the job needed doing quickly. Höddi had sorted out the matter easily; Kristján said he was considered a dab hand at arson jobs. Apart from that, he claimed he did not know who Toggi ‘Sprint’ was friendly with.
Höddi turned out to be a tall, powerfully built figure, with the beginnings of a paunch, a totally bald head and a thick goatee. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt bearing the Confederate flag, like a caricature of an American redneck. When Sigurdur Óli arrived he was inside the workshop, stooped over a motorbike with chrome fittings. The workshop was small and he was the owner and sole member of staff, as far as Kristján knew.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘I’m looking for Höddi. Is that you, by any chance?’
The man straightened up. ‘Who wants to know?’ he asked, as if he could smell trouble at a hundred paces.
‘I need to find Toggi — Thórarinn — and I gather you know him,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘It’s a police matter. You may have heard about it. I’m with the police.’
‘What police matter?’
‘An attack on a woman in the eastern suburbs.’
‘Why are you asking me?’
‘Well, I — ’
‘Who sent you here?’ asked Höddi. ‘Are you alone?’
Sigurdur Óli was unsure how to take this last question. A policeman was by his nature never alone, but he had no intention of engaging in philosophical debate with Höddi. So what did the question mean? If he was alone was the man intending to attack him? Nor was there any way Sigurdur Óli could answer his first question, as he did not intend to divulge Kristján’s identity, despite the niggling desire to do so in revenge for the mind-numbing tedium of their lunchtime chat. So he merely stood there in silence, gazing round the workshop at the snowmobiles which were in the process of being converted to make them even faster and noisier, and the motorbikes being souped up in order to break the speed limit with even greater ease.
Höddi advanced towards him. ‘Why do you think I’ve got anything to say about this guy Toggi?’ he demanded.
‘I’m asking you,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Do you know where he could be?’
Höddi glowered at him. ‘No, is the answer. I don’t know the bloke.’
‘Then do you know a man called Ebeneser, known as Ebbi?’
‘I thought you were asking about Toggi.’
‘Ebbi too.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He has a wife called Lína. Do you know her?’
‘Nope.’
The man’s phone started ringing in his pocket. He looked at Sigurdur Óli as the phone rang, four, five, six times, and when he finally deigned to answer, he continued to eyeball Sigurdur Óli.
‘Yup,’ he said, then listened for a while.
‘I don’t give a shit,’ he said. ‘Yup … yup … yup, doesn’t matter to me.’
He listened again.
‘I don’t care if he’s related to you,’ he snarled. ‘I’m going to kneecap the fucker.’
His eyes were fixed provocatively on Sigurdur Óli as he said this. In what sounded like either an act of revenge or the calling in of a debt Höddi was threatening to take a baseball bat to somebody. Whichever it was, Höddi clearly felt no compulsion to conceal it. He was deliberately provoking Sigurdur Óli, as if to demonstrate that they had nothing on him and could not touch him.
‘Shut the fuck up!’ said Höddi into the phone. ‘Yeah … yeah … right, yeah, and up yours. You can shut the fuck up, mate.’
He ended the call and stuffed the phone back in his pocket.
‘Has Toggi been in touch with you recently?’ asked Sigurdur Óli, as if he had not heard the exchange.
‘I don’t know any Toggi.’
‘He’s known as Toggi “Sprint”.’
‘I don’t know him either.’
‘I assume you travel in the highlands on those things,’ commented Sigurdur Óli, gesturing towards the powerful snowmobiles.
‘Why don’t you just cut the crap and get the hell out of here?’ said Höddi.
‘Or maybe on glacier trips,’ Sigurdur Óli continued, unperturbed by the man’s rising anger. ‘Am I right? I’m talking about organised tours for businesses or institutions, not just mucking about by yourself.’
‘What’s this bullshit?’
‘Do you organise tours like that? Are you involved with them at all? Glacier tours for corporate clients: snowmobiles, barbecues, the works?’
‘I often go on glacier trips. What’s it to you?’
‘This bloke I mentioned — Ebbi — he runs highland tours. Ever worked with him?’
‘I don’t know any Ebbi, mate.’
‘All right,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Have it your way.’
‘Yeah, right. Now get the fuck out and leave me alone,’ he said, turning back to his motorbike.
When Sigurdur Óli returned to Hverfisgata he found an email waiting for him from Kolfinna, the secretary at Lína’s accountancy firm. She had promised to send him the list of employees and clients who had gone on the company’s second glacier tour with Ebbi and Lína. Sigurdur Óli printed it and glanced down the list. To his surprise and consternation, he encountered Hermann’s name. Then, further down, he was brought up short by another name so familiar he could hardly believe his eyes.
It was the name of his friend, Patrekur.
28
They had watched him suspiciously when he went into the state off-licence to buy two bottles of Icelandic brennivín. He had made an effort to smarten himself up by hitching up his trousers, pulling on an anorak and donning a woolly hat to hide his dirty, unkempt hair and keep out the cold. Then he had walked the long distance to the off-licence on Eidistorg Square, on the Seltjarnarnes Peninsula at the westernmost end of the city. He had taken the decision to avoid visiting the same shop too often after noticing the glances of the staff when he went to the town centre off-licence, near Grettisgata. The branch in the Kringlan shopping centre was also out. He had been there recently too. He had had to pay using cash because he did not own a credit card, never had, which meant he sometimes had to go to the bank to withdraw money. His disability benefit was paid directly into his account and in addition to this he had some savings left over from his last job. Not that he needed much these days, because he hardly ate; the brennivín served as both food and drink.