‘Your neighbour, the woman next door, was worried about you,’ Sigurdur Óli explained. ‘She thought something might have happened to you, so she let me into your flat. I found bits of leather in the kitchen and when I put them together they made a round shape, a bit like a face.’
Andrés did not respond.
‘What were you cutting out?’
‘Nothing,’ Andrés said, beginning to scan his surroundings as if in search of an escape route. ‘I don’t understand why you had to go into my flat. I don’t understand.’
‘Your neighbour was concerned,’ Sigurdur Óli repeated.
‘You talked her into it.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You shouldn’t have gone into my place.’
‘What are you doing with the leather?’
‘It’s private.’
‘Do you remember we found child pornography at your flat in January?’ said Sigurdur Óli, changing tack.
‘I …’ Andrés faltered.
‘What were you doing with that?’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘You’re right, I don’t.’
‘I … I despise myself more than anyone else … I …’ He started mumbling again.
‘Where is Rögnvaldur?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I can’t let you leave until you’ve told me.’
‘I didn’t know what to do. Then I remembered. How the farmer used the spike. Then I knew how to do it.’
‘The spike?’
‘It’s no thicker than a krona piece at the end.’
Andrés was no longer making sense.
‘Where is Rögnvaldur?’ asked Sigurdur Óli again. ‘Do you know where he is?’
Andrés sat there dumbly, his eyes on the ground.
‘I always wanted to go back there,’ he said at last. ‘But I never got round to it.’
He drifted off again.
‘Röggi was a fucking bastard. I despise him, he disgusts me. He’s repulsive!’
He was staring into the distance, at what infinitely remote scenes no one could say, whispering words inaudible to Sigurdur Óli.
‘But I disgust myself most of all.’
At that moment Sigurdur Óli’s phone rang, shattering the peace in the graveyard. Hastily, he fumbled for it in his coat pocket and saw that it was Patrekur calling. He dithered, glancing from Andrés to the phone, then decided to answer.
‘I need to see you,’ he said before Patrekur could utter a word.
‘Sure.’
‘You lied to me,’ said Sigurdur Óli.
‘What?’
‘You think it’s OK to lie to me, do you? You think it’s OK to get me into trouble and lie to me?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Patrekur. ‘Calm down.’
‘You said you’d never met Lína in your life.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’re sticking to that story, are you?’
‘Sticking to what? What are you getting at?’
‘I’m talking about you, Patrekur. And me.’
‘Don’t get all worked up. Just explain what you’re on about.’
‘You went on a glacier trip with her, you jerk!’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘With a bunch of other pricks. Remember now? A glacier trip, last year. Does that refresh your memory?’
There was a lengthy silence at the other end.
‘We need to meet,’ Patrekur said at last.
‘You bet we do,’ snapped Sigurdur Óli.
He had turned away from Andrés during the conversation to gain a modicum of privacy, but when he turned back Andrés had vanished.
He reacted instantly, breaking off the call and sprinting up the hill through the graveyard, scanning the surroundings for Andrés, but he was nowhere to be seen. Reaching the gate, he ran out into the street, which was deserted, so he raced back into the graveyard and across it, looking all around him in vain. He had allowed Andrés to slip through his fingers again.
‘Shit, shit, shit!’ he shouted, coming to a halt. Andrés had been quick to make himself scarce and could have left by any gate while Sigurdur Óli was occupied.
He walked back to where he had parked, got into his car and wasted some considerable time combing the nearby streets in the hope of catching sight of Andrés, but to no avail.
The man had vanished into thin air and Sigurdur Óli did not have the first idea where he might be hiding or whether he had found Rögnvaldur and, if so, what might have become of him.
He tried to recall their conversation but did not get very far. Andrés had talked about his mother, and towards the end had begun rambling about a spike that had looked like a krona piece, and the revulsion he felt for Rögnvaldur, and that Sigurdur Óli must know that whatever happened, it was not all his fault.
For some reason it mattered to him that the police should understand this.
31
Patrekur looked up, shamefaced, as Sigurdur Óli entered the cafe and sat down opposite him. It was the same place as they had met before but now it was busier and the hubbub of conversation and other noise made it hard for them to talk without raising their voices. Realising how unsuitable the venue was, they agreed to go elsewhere and, since they were in the town centre, they started to drift slowly in the direction of the docks, past the old Icelandic Steam Ship Company headquarters, across the coast road and over towards the eastern harbour, the intended site for a giant concert hall and conference centre. They had been walking in silence but now started to talk in a desultory way about the plans.
‘We’re doing the groundwork,’ Patrekur offered, stopping to survey the site. ‘I’m not sure people realise the scale of this thing — just how massive it’s going to be.’
‘All this, when there are barely a thousand music lovers bothered enough to turn up to concerts in Reykjavík?’ exclaimed Sigurdur Óli disapprovingly, though he could hardly even spell the word ‘symphony’.
‘Search me.’
They had not yet touched on the subject of Patrekur’s lie. Sigurdur Óli wanted to wait and see what Patrekur said, but guessed that he was almost certainly thinking the same thing.
Work had started on demolishing the old buildings to make way for the new concert hall. Sigurdur Óli remembered reading a critical newspaper article by an economist who expressed dismay at the project’s vulgarity and said the building was the dream child of a nouveau-riche country desperate to raise a monument to Icelandic greed. Across the road, fortress-like, loomed the Central Bank headquarters, clad with heavy, pitch-black gabbro from the East Fjords.
Patrekur agreed with the economist, dismissing the concert hall as a typical white elephant, born of small-country syndrome. The man who had abandoned neoconservatism for radicalism during his school years still lurked not far beneath the surface.
‘I think our financiers are losing the plot,’ he added.
‘That’s rich coming from you,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Haven’t you lost the plot yourself?’
The silence stretched out between them.
‘Have you heard from Hermann at all?’ asked Sigurdur Óli eventually.
‘No,’ replied Patrekur.
Sigurdur Óli had glanced over the transcripts of their interviews and noted that both had adhered to the story they had first told him. There was every chance that Finnur would call them back for further questioning. Patrekur had categorically denied knowing Lína or having any sort of relationship with her. Both had disclaimed all knowledge of a van driver called Thórarinn and denied any responsibility for the attack on Lína.
‘How did you come to know Lína?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.
‘I thought you could just make this disappear,’ said Patrekur. ‘I was going to tell you the truth when it was all over. You may not believe me, but that was my intention.’
‘Just answer the question,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Didn’t I go over all this with you? Don’t avoid the issue.’
‘I feel bad about lying to you.’
‘Get to the point.’