Black Ice (14 page)

There was only one thing  to do. Try  it.

'What I don't understand is this, Palli,'  I said. I didn't have to act drunk. This  was Method School where you have to live the part.

'Whassat?' He  had  one eye closed  to focus on me. The  girl had gone.

'This.' I wanted  to bring  the badge and  the man together  in one sentence for maximum impact and with the state my brain was in it wasn't easy work. But eventually I got there. I took a deep   breath.  'If   your   buddy   Oscar  Murphy  had   got  his helicopter wings  and  was doing  so well, why  the  hell did he want  to quit  the marines like that?'

His face registered a hull's  eye.

Show  me a conclusion and  I'll jump to it. If had a family, that'd be the motto.

24

As soon  as he picked  up  the  phone,  I went  straight into  my nasal-yankee voice. 'You gotta  Mr Vale there?'

'Jack  Vale speaking,' he said, in that  mellifluous  Edinburgh accent  that  made the rest of the English-speaking world sound like wood-smeared savages.  'Can  I help you?'

'Sure you can, Vale, unless you wanna wind up at the bottom of the river with a nickelodeon  around your neck. You can keep your stinkin' hands  off my wife.'

A long pause followed. After all, it was five in the morning in New York.

'Behind   that   atrocious imitation  of  the  great   Mr  James Cagney,  I do believe I detect  the unmistakeable voice of an old friend.   How   are   you,  Sam?   And   what   do  you   mean   by attempting such clumsy  deceptions at this hour of the night?' Since  he went  to freelance  in New York  ten years  ago,  I'd rung Jack about once a year, in a variety of causes and accents.

I'd  never survived  the first minute without  being spotted.

'Just  testing, Jack. I was wondering if you could  check something out for me.'

'Do you  have  to tell  me  now? Oh,  it doesn't matter, I'm awake. Who's  it for?'

'Grimm's sunny  stories.'

'Surely you're  not reduced  to that, are you? Tell me the worst then. But I warn you, under  no circumstances will I even contemplate doing Sexy Secrets  of the Stars again.'

I told him. He didn't sound  too hopeful.

'Jamaica's out  by the airport. He works in a muffler shop, you say?'                                                      

'Yes. I assume  that's a place where Americans buy colourful woollen scarves  to keep the cold out, isn't  it Jack?'

He  gave a sigh  of elaborate weariness.  'You  don't assume anything of the sort. But I must tell you that there are hundreds of those  back-street exhaust centres  - as you would  put it, in your  quaint British  way. However, leave it with me.'

We  were  finishing  off all  that  whatever-happened-to-old thingy  when  I  saw  Christopher coming  in  through Hulda's door.  Five minutes later  he was having  breakfast  with me and rabbiting away  with  Hulda in Icelandic.

'Absolutely delicious,' he enthused, smearing what  looked like jellied  seal on to his toast. He made  his finger and  thumb into  that  Gallic  ring of approval. 'Superb, Hulda, superb. Try some,  Sam.  It's a sort  of potted  lamb.'

I'd been tucking mine away behind  the geraniums but now I didn't have any choice.  He was right.  It was delicious.

'If it wants  to get eaten,  why does it go round  looking like that?'

'Don't be so squeamish,' he said. Then  he rhapsodised some more at Hulda. She was presiding- no lesser word would cover it  - at   the  head  of  the  table,  delighted  at  last  to  have  an appreciative audience for her efforts.

When  she spoke  back to him, in Icelandic of course,  I knew what  she'd be saying  by the formal  way she tilted her head.

'You  really ought to learn some of the language,' Christopher said  to me. 'You  miss so much.'

'Oh, I wouldn't say  that.  She just  told you that  it was her duty  and  her pleasure.'

His head spun towards me. 'Gosh, you do after all.'

'Sam  knows me too well,' Hulda said, and they both laughed. I might've fooled him  but I couldn't kid Hulda for long.

When she went through to the kitchen, Christopher began to talk seriously. He'd  heard  about  Solrun's mother  when he got back from  the north  the previous  night.  Even at second-hand, he  was   horrified    by  what   had   happened,  which   set   me wondering if he could  be Batty's man sent along to throw me a lifeline.   There  was   his   nose:   surely   that  would   pass   as credentials for one of the shadier trades.

What he wanted, when he got around to it, was to express his doubts about  Ivan. Knowing we were friends  didn't make it any  easier  for him,  but in the end  he did manage  to say it.

'He's up at the Russian  Embassy  again  now.' He was whispering, his eyes on the door  for Hulda's return.

I wasn't going to join in the whispering. 'Why  not? He works for the Russian  government.'

'Yes, but doing what? I know he's an old friend of yours and all that,  but  I must say it- I think  he's a spy. A proper  spy.'

'Like all of us, he operates as best he can in a world of limited possibilities.'

'An  awful lot more limited  in Russia,' he grumbled.

He'd  come  round  to offer his services  as interpreter again. He'd   had   a  disappointing  trip   to  Akureyri.  No  one   was interested in his lavatory  gimmick. It was hard  to believe that he was genuinely surprised by this, but he was clearly quite crestfallen. Now he was having  problems getting authority to move stuffed  puffins out of the country.

His gypsy face looked quite  pale.  'I'm  beginning to think  I may not be cut out for business after all,'  he said. I had to hide my smile. 'Anyway, not to worry. At least it gives me the opportunity to offer a small  present  to your daughter.'

He swung over a plastic  bag. Without looking,  I knew what would  be inside.  It  was.  A stuffed  puffin.  I  assumed it  was stuffed but,  to be honest,  it looked alive to me. Alive, and  very still.  I'm  sure  you  can't get  that  quality of malevolence into glass eyes. The look on its face was the sort of expression you'd expect to see on your worst enemy as you fell down a manhole. Malicious satisfaction. With its webbed feet clinging  to a chunk of lava, it stood  with its head cocked,  gloating.

'I'm sure she'll  love it.'  He was almost  prompting me.

'Oh, yes,  I'm  sure  she  will. Although I'm  not  sure  Uncle Ivan will approve.'

'Any  use for a passing  polyglot  today?'

For  a  second,   I  couldn't  think   what   he  meant. Then  I realised. I was tempted  to include  him.  I might  well need  an interpreter. But since  the old lady's  death, it had struck  me I was involved  with some deeply  serious  people.

'I can manage,' I said. 'But  thanks, anyway.'

25

The coughing man was bothering me. l don't know why. There was no reason  why Palli's  girlfriend- if that's what she was shouldn't have a male guest in the spare  bedroom. She didn't altogether look like a girl who was saving  herself for Mr Right. On  the other  hand, maybe  it was her  poor old granddad, or maybe  an out-of-town hack like me who was staying  with her. When  I'd  heard  him cough, she'd shouted out of the window at  Palli  and  that  was  when  he'd  taken  off. In  the  rush,  I'd forgotten  the coughing man.

I'd intended asking Palli about it last night. I'd also meant  to ask  him about the girl  and  the  baby,  although I'd  somehow picked  up the impression that  they didn't belong to him in any permanent sense. All that had gone the moment  I'd  mentioned Oscar Murphy. That sobered  him up all right.  It sobered  me up, too - for a second,  there  was a fair chance  he was going to redesign  my face. Then, without  another word, he'd got up and thundered out.  He crashed  through  the party  crowds  with as much  ceremony as a Sherman tank.

I remembered he'd  said  he was going  fishing.  Maybe  that would give me a chance to try to talk my way into the flat again. At the worst  I could keep watch.

It was   raining.  Heavy   sheets   ceaselessly   poured   down, swinging and swirling  in a gusty wind. In Iceland  you don't let that  keep  you  indoors.   If you  did,  you  could  be  there  for a month.

As I drove  up the long hill towards  the Breidholt flats, I saw Palli's  female flatmate rushing down  behind  an encased  pram. If I'd  thought about it, perhaps I would've  turned  back. But I was still suffering from brain damage from the night before and I wasn't up to flexible forward  planning. So I carried on. In the car  park  I couldn't see any sign of Palli's Triumph.

Which  meant, if the coughing man wasn't there, that the flat was empty.  Me, I'm  like nature, I abhor a vacuum.

Since my last visit, the only improvement to the environment was a fresh  vomit  stain  in the  lift. The  corridor was empty. From  the flat  next  door  came  the sound  of American voices from the base radio and a small child's monotonous pleading. Happy-family time.

On the door of Palli's flat, swinging from a central drawing pin, was a note. It was scrawled  in thick blurred pencil lines on the back of a computerised bill. I read  it, and  read  it again  -

'Lykillinn era  sinum  stad.'

It didn't mean a lot to me. In fact, it didn't mean  a thing  to me. Not many  Icelandic words do.

I took a closer look at the door. It wasn't much  more than  a thin board on a frame with a key-turn  opening, which  meant  it only had one fastening. Under pressure from my hand, it gave a little  before springing back. One  bash  would  do it. One  heel kick would rip out  the screws  that  held it to the jamb.

It would also rip all the neighbours out of their  flats  to see what was going on. And what would I find inside? Maybe Palli lying on  his bed  reading comics and  smoking while a friend borrowed  his  bike.  No: whatever   real  spies  may  do,  kicking doors down  wasn't the answer.

I examined the note again in the hope that my Icelandic had improved. It hadn't. Next door the woman was singing and the child was crying - which was cause  and  which  was effect was anyone's guess. Two doors down,  I heard a man's voice getting louder as he got nearer  to the corridor. His door opened  and his voice, echoing in the tiled corridor, stopped when  he saw me. He  was  a  weathered-looking man,   heavily   built,  in  an  old leather jerkin.  He stood  there, scratching his belly, then  went back inside.

Then  I remembered the credit  card  trick beloved of private eyes. The  latch didn't take Amex, but thought seriously  about Diners  before rejecting  that  too.

I stared  at the door again,  hoping  it would  talk to me.  In a way it did.  Woman, child  and  Palli  resident, plus  one  more man  who  may  be resident  or guest.  Keys.  How  did  they  all come and go? Did people like that have a selection of keys ready cut for house guests?  No, they did  not.  So what  did they do?

Bruce Willmott, who was at school with me, had five brothers and  two sisters. They didn't all have keys that was for sure. So what  ... I remembered.

I reached up and  ran  my fingers  along  the shelf above  the door. The  key was there. They  did what  most people did who weren't too  worried   about  burglars because  they'd  nothing worth  nicking.  They  stuck  the key in the nearest  hiding  place and  left a note saying,  'Key  in Usual  Place'.

The door opened easily. I stepped inside and closed it behind me.

The  coughing man suddenly became an eight-foot Viking in my imagination. Every creak  became a footfall, every shadow an ambush. Even  my breathing was deafening. I leaned  back against the door  and  calmed  down  my fears.  I was inside.  I couldn't go back.

'Hello,' I  called  out  in  a  breezy  voice. 'Anyone  at  home?

Palli? You there,  Palli?'

With   thumping, confident steps,  I  strode  into  the  living room. Some of the steamy smell had lifted, otherwise it was the same. If I abhorred a vacuum then she abhorred a vacuum cleaner.

The  first  bedroom  was hers and  the baby's. His too, lucky feller. Her  clothes  were heaped  in a jumble  on a chair, spilling down  to the floor. She'd  propped  a chipped  mirror against  the window. That, with a few flattened tubes and topless pots, took care of her glamour requirements. Over the duvet cover, Snow White and  the dwarfs  scampered, presumably looking for somewhere to have a wash.  Both pillows were badly bruised.

The second  bedroom  was unfurnished: no bed, no chairs,  no carpet, nothing. But someone  was camping out  there just  the same.

It was  the  tidiest  corner  of the whole flat. One  olive-green sleeping-bag had  been rolled up and stacked  against  the wall. Beside that stood a nylon tote-bag. A few items of clothing had been folded and  put into a neat  pile: roll-neck sweater,  patch pocket canvas trousers, a camo-shirt. A green woollen stocking hat  held  the  pocket  debris:  a handful  of American coins, an airline boarding pass, a pair of nail dippers, a book of matches from a bar in New Jersey inscribed  'No Faggots Allowed',  two ballpoint  pens.  Next  to that  lay a duty-free carton of tipped Camels, ripped open with several packs missing, and a bottle of Jack Daniels Black Label,  either  half-empty or half-full, depending on whether  you're  a pessimist  or an optimist.

Whoever  he was, he liked things  neat  and  tidy. The  map of Iceland  might have unfolded itself if he hadn't been careful  to pin it down with a good solid weight.

But  that's the  thing  about  a Colt  .45 automatic - they  do weigh a lot. Now I don't know a lot about  guns- when  I first read James Bond  I  wondered   why  he shot  people  with  the Pope's  hat - but  I do know  that  this one  was very  big, very wicked, and very dangerous.

If you could manage  to lift it, that is. I could, with an effort. I held it in my handkerchief while I inspected it. Full magazine, one  up  the spout,  safety  on,  which  is how  a  working  pistol should  be if you're  thinking  of putting it to some  use. And  if you're  not, why not carry  a willing smile instead?

It wasn't  new,  but  it was well cared-for. Which  was  more than  you could say for me.