“What was his name?”
“His name was Lothar,” Quinn said.
“Lothar,” Elinborg parroted.
“Yes,” Quinn said, looking at the papers he was holding. “His name was Lothar Weiser and he was born in Bonn. And, interestingly enough, he spoke Icelandic like a native.”
20
Later that day they requested a meeting at the German embassy, stating the reason to give the staff time to gather information about Lothar Weiser. The meeting was arranged for later in the week. They told Erlendur about what the meeting with Patrick Quinn had revealed, and discussed the possibility that the man in the lake was an East German spy. A number of signs pointed to that, they felt, notably the Russian device and the location. They agreed that there was something foreign about the murder. Something about the case that they had seldom, if ever, seen before. Admittedly it was ferocious, but all murders were ferocious. More importantly, it appeared to have been carefully planned, skilfully executed, and had remained covered up for so many years. Icelandic murders were not generally committed in this way. They were more coincidental, clumsy and squalid, and the perpetrators almost without exception left a trail of clues.
“If he didn’t just fall on his head,” Elinborg said.
“No one falls on their head before being tied to a spying device and thrown into Kleifarvatn,” Erlendur said.
“Making any progress with the Falcon?” Elinborg asked.
“None at all,” Erlendur said, “except that I’ve been putting the wind up Leopold’s girlfriend, who can’t understand what I’m going on about.” Erlendur had told them about the brothers from outside Mosfellsbaer and his half-baked hypothesis that the man who owned the Falcon might even still be alive or, for that matter, living in another part of Iceland. They had discussed this idea before and regarded it in much the same way as the missing man’s girlfriend — they had nothing substantial to support it. “Too far-fetched for Iceland,” Sigurdur Oli said. Elinborg agreed. “Perhaps in a city of a million people.”
“Funny that this guy can’t be found anywhere in the system, though,” Sigurdur Oli said.
“That’s the point,” Erlendur said. “Leopold, as he called himself — that much we do know — is quite a mysterious figure. Niels handled the case originally and never looked into his background properly, he never found any records. It wasn’t investigated as a criminal matter.”
“No more than most missing persons in Iceland,” Elinborg chipped in.
“Only a few people had that name then and they can all be identified. I did a quick check. His girlfriend said he had spent a lot of time abroad. He may even have been born abroad. You never know.”
“Why do you think he was called Leopold in the first place?” Sigurdur Oli asked. “Isn’t that a rather odd name for an Icelander?”
“It was the name he used, at least,” Erlendur said. “He may well have used another name elsewhere. That’s quite likely actually. We know nothing about him until he suddenly surfaces selling bulldozers and farm machinery and as the boyfriend of a woman who somehow becomes the victim in the whole affair. She knows precious little about him but is still in mourning for him. We have no background. No birth certificate. Nothing about his schooling. We just know that he travelled widely, lived abroad and might have been born there. He lived abroad for so long that he spoke with a slight foreign accent.”
“Unless he just killed himself,” Elinborg said. “The only foundation for your theory about Leopold’s double life is in your own fantasies.”
“I know,” Erlendur said. “The overwhelming odds are that he took his own life and that’s the only mystery there is to it.”
“I think you were bloody crass, trying out that ludicrous idea on the woman,” Elinborg said. “Now she thinks he might be alive.”
“She’s believed that herself the whole time,” Erlendur said. “Deep down. That he just walked out on her.”
They stopped talking. It was late in the day. Elinborg looked at her watch. She was testing a new marinade for chicken breasts. Sigurdur Oli had promised to take Bergthora to Thingvellir. They were going to spend a summer night at the hotel there. The weather was at its best for June: warm, sunny and with the scent of flowers in the air.
“What are you doing tonight?” Sigurdur Oli asked Erlendur.
“Nothing,” Erlendur said.
“Maybe you’d like to come to Thingvellir with me and Bergthora,” he said, making a bad job of concealing the answer he wanted to hear. Erlendur smiled. Their concern for him could get on his nerves. Sometimes, like now, it was merely politeness.
“I’m expecting a visitor,” Erlendur said.
“How’s Eva Lind doing?” Sigurdur Oli asked, rubbing his shoulder.
“I haven’t heard much from her,” Erlendur said. “I just know she completed rehab, but I’ve hardly heard anything else.”
“What were you saying about Leopold?” Elinborg suddenly said. “Did he speak with a foreign accent? Did you say that?”
“Lothar was bound to have had an accent,” Sigurdur Oli said.
“What do you mean?” Erlendur said.
“Well, the guy at the US embassy said that this German, Lothar, spoke fluent Icelandic. But he must have spoken it with an accent.”
“We’ll have to bear that in mind, of course,” Erlendur said.
“That they’re the same man?” Elinborg said. “Leopold and Lothar?”
“Yes,” Erlendur said. “I don’t think it’s an abnormal assumption to make. At least they both disappeared the same year, 1968.”
“So Lothar called himself Leopold?” Sigurdur Oli said. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Erlendur said. “I have no idea what was going on. Not the faintest.”
“Then there’s the Russian equipment,” Erlendur said after a long silence.
“And?” Elinborg said.
“Leopold’s last business was at Haraldur’s farm. Where would Haraldur have got a Russian listening device to sink him in the lake with? You could begin to understand it if Lothar had been involved, if he was a spy and something happened that ended with his body being dumped in the lake. But Haraldur and Leopold are worlds apart.”
“Haraldur flatly denies that the salesman ever went to his farm,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Whether his name was Leopold or Lothar.”
“That’s the point,” Erlendur said.
“What is?” Elinborg said.
“I think he’s lying.”
Erlendur went to three video rental shops before he found the western to take for Marion Briem. He had once heard Marion describe it as a favourite because it was about a man who faced a looming peril alone when the community, including all his best friends, turned its back on him.
He knocked on the door, but no one answered. Marion was expecting him, because Erlendur had telephoned in advance, so he opened the door, which was unlocked, and let himself in. Not planning to stay, he only intended to drop the video in. He was awaiting a visit that evening from Valgerdur, who had moved in with her sister.
“So you’re here?” said Marion, who had fallen asleep on the sofa. “I heard you knock. I feel so tired. I’ve slept all day. Do you mind pushing the oxygen tank over to me?”
Erlendur placed the cylinder by the sofa and an old memory of a lonely and absurd death suddenly crossed his mind when he saw Marion’s hand reach for the oxygen.
The police had been called to a house in Thingholt. He had gone with Marion. He had only been in the CID a few months. Someone had died at home and it was classified as accidental death. A large elderly woman was sitting in an armchair in front of her television. She had been dead for a fortnight. Erlendur was almost overpowered by the stench in the flat. The woman’s neighbour had called the police because of the smell. He had not seen her for some time and eventually noticed that her television could be heard softly through the wall around the clock. She had choked. A plate of salted meat and boiled turnips was on the table beside her. A knife and fork lay on the floor by the chair. A large lump of meat was lodged in her throat. She had not managed to get out of the deep armchair. Her face was dark blue. It turned out that she had no relatives who called on her. No one ever visited her. No one missed her.