“Pardon?”
“It’s what it says on the gravestone: Preserve my life from fear of the enemy. From Psalm 64.”
“’Preserve my life from fear of the enemy’.”
“Does that help you at all?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“There were two sets on fingerprints on the photograph.”
“Yes, Sigurdur Oli told me.”
“One set is Holberg’s but we don’t have the others on our files. They’re quite blurred. Very old fingerprints.”
“Can you tell what kind of camera the photo was taken with?” Erlendur asked.
“Impossible to tell. But I doubt it was a high-quality one.”
9
Sigurdur Oli parked his car in the Iceland Transport yard where he hoped it would be out of the way. Lorries were standing in rows in the yard. Some were being loaded, some driven away, others reversed up to the cargo warehouse. A stench of diesel and oil filled the air and the noise from the engines of the trucks was deafening. Staff and customers were rushing around the yard and the warehouse.
The Met Office had forecast yet more wet weather. Sigurdur Oli tried to protect himself from the rain by pulling his coat over his head as he ran to the warehouse. He was directed to the foreman who was sitting in a glass cubicle checking papers and appeared to be extremely busy.
A plump man wearing a blue anorak done up with a single button across his paunch and holding a cigar stub between his fingers, the foreman had heard about Holberg’s death and said he’d known him quite well. Described him as a reliable man, a hard worker who’d been driving from one end of the country to the other for decades and knew Iceland’s road network like the back of his hand. Said he was a secretive type, never talked about himself or in personal terms, never made any friends at the company or talked about what he’d done before, thought he’d always been a lorry driver. Talked as if he had been. Unmarried with no children, as far as he knew. Never talked about his nearest and dearest.
“That’s the long and the short of it,” the foreman said as if to put an end to the conversation, took a lighter from his anorak pocket and lit the cigar stub. “Damn shame,” puff, puff, “to go like that,” puff.
“Who did he associate with here mainly?” Sigurdur Oli asked, trying not to inhale the foul-smelling cigar smoke.
“You can talk to Hilmar, I reckon he knew him best. Hilmar’s out the front. He’s from Reydarfjordur so sometimes he used to stay at Holberg’s place in Nordurmyri when he needed to rest in town. There are rest rules that drivers have to comply with, so they have to have somewhere to stay in the city.”
“Did he stay there last weekend, do you know?”
“No, he was working in the east. But he might have been there the weekend before.”
“Can you imagine who would have wanted to do Holberg any harm? Some friction here at work or…”
“No, no, nothing", puff, “like", puff, “that,” puff. The man was having trouble keeping his cigar alight. “Talk to", puff, “Hilmar,” puff, “mate. He might be able to help you.”
Sigurdur Oli found Hilmar after following the foreman’s directions. He was standing by one of the warehouse bays supervising a lorry being unloaded. Hilmar was a hulk, two metres tall, muscular, ruddy, bearded and with hairy arms protruding from his T-shirt. Looked about 50. Old-fashioned blue braces held up his tatty jeans. A small forklift was unloading the lorry. Another lorry was backing up to the next bay along; at the same time two drivers beeped their horns and hurled abuse at each other in the yard.
Sigurdur Oli went up to Hilmar and tapped him lightly on the shoulder, but the man didn’t notice him. He tapped harder and eventually Hilmar turned round. He could see Sigurdur Oli talking to him but couldn’t hear what he was saying and looked down at him with bovine eyes. Sigurdur Oli raised his voice, but to no avail. He raised his voice further and thought he detected a glimmer of comprehension in Hilmar’s eyes, but he was mistaken. Hilmar just shook his head and pointed at his ear.
At this, Sigurdur Oli redoubled his efforts, arched himself and stood on tiptoe and shouted at the top of his voice at the very moment everything fell completely silent and his words echoed in all their glory around the walls of the gigantic warehouse and out into the yard:
“DID YOU SLEEP WITH HOLBERG?”
10
He was raking up leaves in his garden when Erlendur saw him. He didn’t look up until Erlendur had been standing watching him for a long time as he toiled away with the slow movements of an old man. He wiped a drip from the end of his nose. It didn’t seem to matter that it was raining and the leaves were stuck together and awkward to deal with. He did nothing hurriedly, hooked the leaves with his rake and tried to scrape them into little piles. He still lived in Keflavik. Born and bred there.
Erlendur had asked Elinborg to collect information about him and she’d dug up the main details about the old man whom Erlendur now watched in the garden; his police career, the numerous criticisms of his conduct and procedures during his many years in the force, the handling of Kolbrun’s case and how he had been specifically reprimanded over it. She phoned back with the information while Erlendur was sitting over a meal, still in Keflavik. He considered saving the visit until the following day, then thought to himself that he couldn’t be bothered driving there and back in a raging storm so he would just go direct.
The man was wearing a green parka and a baseball cap. His white, bony hands held the shaft of the rake. He was tall and had obviously once been sturdier and cut a more authoritative figure but he was old, wrinkled and runny-nosed now. Erlendur watched him, an old man pottering around in his garden. The man looked up from his leaves, but paid no particular attention to his observer. A good while passed like this until Erlendur decided to make a move.
“Why doesn’t her sister want to talk to me?” he said and the old man looked up with a start.
“Eh? What was that?” The man stopped what he was doing. “Who are you?” he asked.
“How did you treat Kolbrun when she came to you to press charges?” Erlendur asked.
The old man looked at this stranger who had entered his garden, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He looked Erlendur up and down.
“Do I know you?” he said. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
“My name’s Erlendur. I’m investigating the murder of a man from Reykjavik by the name of Holberg. He was accused of rape almost 4oyears ago. You were in charge of the investigation. The woman who was raped was called Kolbrun. She’s dead. Her sister won’t talk to the police for reasons I’m trying to establish. She said to me, ’After what you did to her.’ I’d like you to tell me what she’s referring to.”
The man looked at Erlendur without saying a word. Looked him in the eye and remained silent.
“What did you do to her?” Erlendur repeated.
“I can’t remember .… what right have you got? What kind of an insult is this anyway?” His voice was trembling slightly. “Get out of my garden or I’ll call the police.”
“No, Runar, I am the police. And I don’t have time for any of this bollocks.”
Runar thought it over. “Is this the new method? Attacking people with accusations and abuse?”
“Good of you to mention methods and abuse,” Erlendur said. “At one time you ran up eight charges for breaches of duty, including brutality. I don’t know who you had to serve to keep your job, but you didn’t do him well enough towards the end because eventually you left the police in disgrace. Dismissed…”
“You shut up,” said Runar, looking around shiftily. “How dare you.”
“… for repeated sexual harassment.”