‘Seems to have slipped his mind that beer’s illegal in Iceland,’ commented Erlendur. ‘You won’t find gallon bottles like those in the state off-licence either.’
‘And certainly not cigarettes like these,’ said Marion, sniffing a roll-up. ‘Probably smoked them himself. We found dog ends in an ashtray in the sitting room.’
‘All from the base, I’d guess,’ said Erlendur, picking up one of the cigarette cartons.
‘The question is how big a scale was he operating on? Was this just the tip of the iceberg?’
‘Aren’t these the same brands as the stash we found in the brothers’ shed? The vodka and cigarettes, I mean?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Reckon they’ve got contacts on the base too?’
‘We’d better ask them. What did the aunt say?’
‘Aunt?’
‘The girl’s paternal aunt,’ said Marion, closing the fridge. ‘Haven’t you just come from seeing her?’
‘She doesn’t believe the girl had a boyfriend,’ said Erlendur. ‘Or he’d have come forward during the search.’
‘Unless he bumped her off himself.’
‘She reckons there was too big a class difference. That the girl would never have got mixed up with a boy from Camp Knox.’
‘What would she know about it?’
‘She claims she knew her niece well.’
‘Bit of a snob, is she?’
‘She said she was trying not to be prejudiced but that’s the way it looked to her. Her niece would never have associated with a boy from the slum.’
Marion had long been aware of Erlendur’s fascination with Dagbjört’s story; had discovered it during a quiet period at work. Erlendur had been talking about his hobby of collecting accounts of people getting lost in violent storms and barely making it home alive or never being found; about accidents at sea, avalanches and other natural disasters. Marion was intrigued by this unusual pastime and found that Erlendur was especially interested in missing-persons cases and had read up exhaustively on Dagbjört’s disappearance. Was obsessed by it, in fact. Marion only knew about the case by hearsay but immediately recognised that Erlendur was in earnest, and got the impression that he felt the police could have done a better job at the time. Marion didn’t necessarily agree and argued the point with Erlendur, before eventually encouraging him to take action instead of endlessly shilly-shallying. Erlendur implied it was too late. Marion dismissed this as nothing but a pretext: the longer he delayed, the more time would pass, and it was never too late to reopen a cold case. So it was in large part due to Marion that Erlendur had finally taken the plunge and contacted Dagbjört’s family.
‘So, what now? What’s your next step?’ asked Marion, sniffing at one of the dog ends.
‘Maybe talk to the girl who heard Dagbjört refer to a boyfriend,’ said Erlendur and followed Marion out onto the balcony. ‘Could Kristvin have been operating a smuggling racket from the base and got into a spot of bother as a result?’
‘I’m wondering what his sister knows,’ said Marion. ‘Whether she’s told us everything.’
Marion leaned over the balcony railing and peered down at the car park belonging to the block. The balcony faced north and Erlendur lifted his eyes to the icy slopes of Mount Esja.
‘Could he have fallen from here?’ Marion wondered aloud.
‘Wouldn’t people have noticed?’
‘I don’t know. If it happened at night, no one about, a silent fall. Bearing in mind he could have been dead already. Or unconscious.’
‘There are no signs of a struggle in the flat,’ Erlendur pointed out.
‘No, true.’
‘And why was his body taken all the way out to Svartsengi?’
‘Search me,’ said Marion. ‘We should have another word with his sister.’
‘Did you notice her hair?’
‘Yes.’
‘Didn’t it look like a wig to you?’
‘That was obvious,’ said Marion.
That evening it was reported on the news that two men had gone missing on the Eyvindarstadir Moors in the north of the country. They were hunters from Akureyri, who had failed to return home at the expected time. Conditions in the area had deteriorated since they set out and the north Iceland rescue teams were preparing to launch search parties. According to the report the two men were friends, in their twenties.
Erlendur and Marion were listening to the radio in the office. Otherwise the local news was dominated by the coming elections. The Conservatives’ slogan was: ‘War on Inflation’. The Commies had twisted this into ‘War on Living Standards’. The announcer gave the latest on the hostage crisis in Teheran: Ayatollah Khomeini was refusing to receive Jimmy Carter’s negotiators. A British art historian in the royal household had admitted to spying for the Russians. Polish dissidents had been sentenced to prison.
‘Same old,’ said Marion, switching off the radio.
They had not yet managed to get hold of Kristvin’s sister to question her about the goods in his flat, but Erlendur had spoken to his boss and arranged to meet him at the Icelandair premises at Keflavík airport the following day.
‘I just hope to God they’re well equipped and know the area. No one should go on a trip like that without the proper gear,’ muttered Erlendur after the announcement about the two missing men.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ said Marion.
‘People should take proper precautions,’ said Erlendur. ‘It’s madness to go charging up into the mountains at this time of year, trusting in luck. You never know what might happen.’
He said this with such a chill in his voice that Marion turned to look at him.
‘Are you talking from experience? Is that why you’re so obsessed with all those stories?’
‘People should just take care,’ said Erlendur, dodging the question. ‘Or things can go badly wrong.’
Marion said goodnight and headed home, stopping off on the way at a popular Danish-style smørrebrød place to buy a prawn sandwich. Once home, Marion sat in the quiet house, eating this takeaway accompanied by a glass of port, and thought about Kristvin and the milky-blue lagoon, his sister’s wig and the stash in the fridge. As so often, once the day’s hectic business had receded, memories of Katrín began to intrude, of their intermittent relationship that had ended so abruptly. Marion had met her at a TB sanatorium in the 1930s and they had shared painful recollections of their time there and the lasting impact of the disease.
She had stayed on in Denmark but travelled a great deal, and over the years she had sent Marion an assortment of little souvenirs from all over the world. But now those days were over and their correspondence had dwindled until in the end she had stopped writing altogether.
Towards midnight Marion finished the port and went to bed feeling a faint sense of misgiving, without knowing why.
12
Kristvin’s sister Nanna could not hide her surprise when Marion Briem and Erlendur turned up early next morning at the nursery school where she worked, asking to speak to her. She was busy dressing the children in their outdoor clothes and after a bit of a tussle she beckoned the two detectives to come out into the playground with her as they were short-staffed due to illness and she had to supervise. Marion asked if she shouldn’t be taking time off; it must be tough coping with her brother’s death, all the more so given the circumstances and the news coverage. Nanna replied that she preferred being at work to moping around at home with nothing to do: she had to keep herself busy. This seemed sensible to Erlendur.
Nanna was Kristvin’s next of kin. The day before, she had asked Erlendur when the post-mortem would be completed so she could start planning the funeral, but he hadn’t been able to inform her. She repeated her question as the three of them stood by a large sandpit, watching the children play, but again received a vague reply. She also wanted to know how the investigation was progressing and was told that naturally it would take time and no results could be expected just yet.