‘How about Toggi and Höddi?’
‘No. I wasn’t in the know. Sverrir and Arnar took care of all the finer points. I don’t know who these men are.’
‘Where were you going?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You were packing.’
‘They wanted to send me away,’ said Knútur, ‘when you started poking around. They thought I’d crack, so they told me to get the hell out of the country.’
‘And you did crack.’
‘If telling the truth counts as cracking.’
There was a silence which lasted until Knútur cleared his throat. Sigurdur Óli saw that he was struggling to remain composed.
‘Thorfinnur wanted to pull out when he heard where Sörensen’s money came from,’ Knútur said.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Alain blurted it out. He was showing off. He should never have told us.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘Thorfinnur went mental.’
‘Where did the money come from?’
Knútur hesitated. ‘Ask Sverrir. He was in charge.’
48
In the interests of the investigation it was thought inadvisable to postpone the arrests of Sverrir and Arnar until the morning. So towards midnight the police went to their homes with warrants for their arrest, and they were taken down to Hverfisgata on suspicion of large-scale money laundering. Sigurdur Óli assumed that it would not be long before additional charges were brought against them for the murders of Sigurlína and Thorfinnur.
He was not present at the arrests, not out of any particular sympathy for the suspects but because after witnessing Knútur’s life come crashing down around his ears he did not have the stomach for any further scenes. The formal interrogation of Sverrir and Arnar would begin the following day. They had both requested lawyers and, according to the officers who brought them in, appeared unflustered, almost as if they were expecting the police. Sigurdur Óli guessed that Knútur’s wife must have called them with the news and they had foreseen the inevitable. They would be detained at Hverfisgata overnight before being transferred into custody at the Litla-Hraun prison in the morning.
He decided to wait for them to be brought in and in the meantime started reading the drug squad’s transcripts of Höddi’s phone calls over the last few weeks. It was mind-numbing stuff and his attention wandered.
On his way to his office he had noticed a young offender in the corridor, the kind of waster he would sometimes go out of his way to abuse. He remembered having a go at Pétur and encountering him later in hospital. The boy had certainly got a taste of his own medicine when he was beaten to a pulp not far from the police station. As far as Sigurdur Óli was aware, no one had yet been picked up for the incident, but then it was Finnur’s case and he did not know much about it.
He wondered if Finnur was also in charge of the case of the kid sitting out there now. After trying in vain to focus on the transcripts of Höddi’s inanities, he gave up and went out into the corridor.
‘What is it this time, Kristófer?’ he asked, sitting down next to him.
‘None of your business,’ said Kristófer, who was known to all as Krissi. He was twenty-two years old, with a mess of scar tissue on his forehead, and in many ways resembled Pétur, though he was chubbier and covered in tattoos, one of which extended from his throat to the nape of his neck. He was notorious for starting fights, either alone or with his mates, and it made little difference whether he was on drugs or sober. These incidents generally occurred in the city centre, and the victims tended to be out alone in the early hours of the morning. Like anyone who preys on easy, unsuspecting targets, Krissi was at heart a coward.
‘Been kicking the shit out of someone again?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.
‘Fuck you.’
‘Don’t tell me, you’ve been in for questioning and now you’re just waiting to be released?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘You should be happy, shouldn’t you? We’ve got a dream system for losers like you.’
‘Oh yeah, right.’
‘What happened?’
Krissi ignored him.
‘Who did you beat up this time?’
‘He went for me.’
‘Same old story,’ said Sigurdur Óli.
Krissi was silent.
‘People are always picking on you. Don’t you find that odd?’
‘I can’t help that.’
‘Oh, no, I know. It’s not your fault that you’re like you are.’
Krissi did not react.
‘Is Finnur handling the case?’
Still no answer.
‘I shouldn’t be interfering,’ said Sigurdur Óli, standing up.
‘Don’t then,’ retorted Krissi.
Instead of returning to his office, Sigurdur Óli went and examined the report of Kristófer’s arrest earlier that evening. He had attacked a nineteen-year-old sixth-former outside a nightclub where a school disco was being held. The victim had to be taken to hospital by ambulance, having been kicked unconscious by Kristófer and sustained serious injuries. The witness statements disagreed about the course of events, though one said that Kristófer had simply approached the boy and headbutted him unprovoked.
‘Why do I concern myself with these tossers?’ Sigurdur Óli asked himself with a sigh, putting down the report.
Having tried and failed to track down Finnur, who he assumed must be busy with the arrest of the two bankers, he returned to reading Höddi’s transcripts. Many of the calls were short — his wife wanting him to go to the shops for her or to check on her mother or drive their children to school events. Höddi’s wife was no cook; she was forever dispatching him to takeaways to buy fried chicken or burgers or pizzas to bring home. Other conversations were with friends, about bodybuilding, how much he had lifted, what weights other people had done, about football, snowmobile trips, snowmobile repairs, which spare parts were required, and so on. Then there were the calls to or from customers of the garage. Sigurdur Óli glanced through the lot and could not see a single conversation with Thórarinn, about Lína or anything else, so he assumed they deliberately avoided using the phone and met in person to discuss anything serious.
Hearing a noise outside, he got up. The officers had returned with Arnar, and Sigurdur Óli looked on as he was booked.
‘Was Finnur with you?’ he asked one of the officers.
‘No, I didn’t see him,’ the man said. ‘Hasn’t he gone home?’
‘I expect so. He’s not answering his phone.’
Arnar looked at him. He appeared to want to say something, then hesitated, lowering his eyes, before eventually getting up the nerve.
‘Did you bring Sverrir in too?’ he asked.
Sigurdur Óli nodded.
‘Has Knútur been helping you?’
‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Goodnight.’
Walking away, he noticed that Kristófer was no longer in the corridor. Finnur was just disappearing into his office and Sigurdur Óli called to him but the other man pretended not to hear and shut the door behind him. Sigurdur Óli barged in.
‘Where’s Kristófer?’ he demanded. ‘Have they let him go?’
‘What’s it to you?’ asked Finnur.
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know; I expect he’s been released. It’s not my case. Why are you asking me?’
‘Where did he go?’
‘Where did he go? Do you think I know or care where these dickheads go after they’re released?’
Sigurdur Óli dashed back out into the corridor and rushed down to the yard behind the station and into the adjoining alleyway. As he left the building he caught sight of Sverrir being helped out of a police car, but he ran on down the side alley, calling Kristófer by name. After glancing up Snorrabraut, he decided to head down towards the coast road instead. He ran to the Freemasons’ House, but seeing no sign of Krissi, turned and jogged back in the direction of the sea, then into Borgartún where he forlornly shouted Kristófer’s name several times. Slowing his pace, he walked up the street, and was just about to turn back at the junction to a small side street when he spotted a man lying on the ground and three figures taking to their heels.