Black Ice (20 page)

'They actually had an official deal with the US Government. They  weren't too keen on those of a darkish  hue.'

'Those of what?  I do wish you'd  speak English, Jack.'

'Blacks,   my  boy.  They  wouldn't let  any  blacks  near  the place.'

'You  mean  Oscar  Murphy is a black?'

'Yes.'  He sounded quite  blank.  'Of course  he is .. .'

I stood holding the receiver and not listening. Pennies, dimes and  kronur began  to drop. There'd always  been one man  too many,  right from the start. The  one in the kitchen at Solrun's, who'd  knocked  me cold  with  the  pan.  The  one who'd  set up camp in the spare bedroom at Palli's. The one who'd almost certainly have damaged hands  from beating  up Kirillina. He was the little  Mr  Nobody  who did  everything but  was never seen.

He was half-mad, stoked  up with jealousy and anger, and he was out  there  running around  with a Colt .45.

Then it struck  me. The  chances  were that  he wouldn't take too kindly  to people  taking his name in vain. The  man l'd just met- the white man  who claimed  to be Oscar  Murphy- had

been publicly identified.  That made him a target.

I put the phone down without saying goodbye. There wasn't time.

So far as I'm aware, no one has yet done comparative studies on the time it takes to bash a sodding  great  Vauxhall estate out of the way when you're  in a rush. For those who care about  these things, the answer is about  three minutes if you're in a Daihatsu jeep.

But you have to be very bad-tempered.

Whoever  had parked  the Vauxhall two millimetres from my rear bumper would come back to find it three feet further north, and  with its front several inches  nearer  the back.

It's always the same when you're rushing. As soon as I'd got out of that,  I somehow  took a couple  of wrong  turns  and  got myself stuck  in the  town centre.  They  were all  there:  house wives who hadn't been told about  indicators, blind  tradesmen in  their  vans,  tourist   coaches  pausing   to  photograph every lamp-post.

Teeth   gritted,  hand   on   horn,   I  hopped   from   brake   to accelerator as I fought my way through. Minutes clicked by. I had  to get on the road out  to the base. And all the time I was thinking  how much quicker  you'd do it on a Triumph Trophy. When they’d break free of the town, it was one of those days that demanded admiration. The sun sparkled on the apartment block windows in the suburbs and threw cheap  glitter  over the sea. You could almost  reach out and touch  the mountains. But it was all wasted on me. I had a nasty feeling that I was too late. The   tick-drum    noise  of  the  diesel   engine   didn't   seem anything like enough, and I found myself rocking in the driving seat like a kid as I tried to will more speed out of it. If only I'd gone for a bonnet  full of cylinders  instead  of four-wheel  drive. When  the road narrowed to a straight two-car strip,  I could see that  I was the only  man  on  the move.  I was out  in lava country again. On either side the wastelands of stones stretched out. I was the only man on the moon, me and my moon buggy. By the time I saw the car I was almost  past it. It was about twenty yards off the road to the left, in a gulley nearly,  but not quite,  deep  enough  to hide it. It had plunged  downwards and rammed its  nose  under  a rust-coloured boulder  the size of a small  house.

I stopped, reversed,  pulled  in, and  walked over.

I didn't run. The  time for running was over.

I walked  across  to it,  picking  my way across  the bomb-site left by nature's civil wars.  All around the  air  was sweet  and pure and silent, and the first thing I noticed about  Dempsie was the way the sun  lit up the brilliant jewels in his mop of black hair.

You  might  have  thought  he was  running for Queen  of the May  if  it  wasn't  for  his  face.  It looked  like  an  uncooked beef burger. As the  Ford  came  bucketing over  the  rocks, he'd been flung through the windscreen and  he'd  ploughed  up the screen  with his face. That was how I found  him. The smashed windscreen had  provided  him with the tiara.

But he was alive and, as far as I could see, the rest of him was undamaged.

I  looked  in  the  car,  under   the  car,  and  around  the  car. Nowhere was there any sign of his  passenger. There was no sign of a motor-bike either.

A minute later  I waved down  two US sailors and sent them on their way to raise help. As I waited with Dempsie,  the blood bubbled  on his lips as he tried  to talk.

I leaned  close to him. 'Who  was it?' His lips moved without making  a sound. I asked  him again.

This  time I bent right down  to hear his reply. There was no doubt about  what  he said.

'Oscar Murphy,' he said.  'The bastard.'

I waited. The  sentence that  kept coming  back to me was the one Dempsie  himself had quoted from someone else- I couldn't even  remember who: 'The greatest threat  to the American presence  in the North  Atlantic is the interface  between  the American male and  the Icelandic female.'

Dempsie screwed  up his eyes and shook his battered head in some wild dream. 'Oscar Murphy,' he whispered  again.  'The bastard.'

33

Kids are the urban  vultures. Wherever they cluster,  you'll find the action  - even  if it's  only  a comical  drunk or  a domestic punch-up. This  time they were gathering for a kill.

At  Breidholt, the  uniformed  cop  in  the  entrance to Palli's block of fiats whispered urgent threats and curses and even took a swipe at them, but it didn't make any difference. On bikes and on  foot,  they  circled  the  doorway, yelping  and  giggling  and firing  their  finger-guns at each  other. Don't ask me how they knew. Don't ask me how everyone  knew. Outside the square was  too empty  and  the  windows  all  around were  too full of faces.

Petursson exchanged words  with  the cop, who then started talking  to his crackling radio.

'Palli's in,'  Petursson said  to me. 'With one or two friends, according to neighbours.'

Neither of us mentioned the name. We were both thinking he had to be up there- Oscar Murphy. On Palli's floor, we waited a  few minutes  until  two  more  uniformed   policemen  arrived. They  whispered  and  one of them  handed  Petursson a gun.  It looked like a .38 police special.  He checked  it like a man  who knew his way around guns.

'One thing,'  I said, also whispering. 'I didn't notice- was the bike outside?'

He spoke to the uniformed  men, then turned  back to me. 'No. It hasn't been there all day.  Why do you ask?'

I  shrugged. I  wasn't  absolutely sure   myself.  Even  so,  I would've  been happier if it had  been there.

'Very well, gentlemen,' he said, more loudly. He dropped the gun into his pocket. 'I do not suppose we shall be needing  that, not for one moment. Shall  we go?'

The   uniformed  men  ran  into  prearranged -positions.  One beyond   the   fiat   door,   one   almost   opposite,  and   one   at

Petursson's shoulder just in front of me. Palli's door was open. At a nod from the fulltrui, I called out: 'Hello  Palli, are you

there?  It's Sam. Sam Craven.'

We listened  to the restrained rasp of our own breathing.

'Can I come in, Palli?' I shouted this time. Then, at another nod from  Petursson: 'I'm coming  in now.'

But it was Petursson who slipped in front of me and began to move down  the  narrow dark  corridor into  the familiar  warm scent  of soiled  bodies.  When  he was one step  from  the open room,  Palli's  voice bellowed: 'See ya, you sonofabitch!'

I  dropped to  the  floor.  Petursson tried  to flatten  his  bulk against the wall and  I saw  the .38 in his hand  and  heard  the oiled click of the safety. Maybe  he wasn't going to need it but he wasn't taking  too many chances.

Then   I  heard   Palli's  laugh,   bright  with  glee and  malice:

'Come on in, Sam, and  bring your spooky pals with you. We're having  a friendly  game of cards, is all.'

So they  were. On  the floor around an  upturned cardboard box sat  Palli and  two younger  men. He held his hand of cards up as proof. 'I just said I'd  see these guys and, you know what, they'd  only got a lousy pair  between  them.'

Chuckling, he began to scoop up the few notes from the box.

I had to give it to Petursson. No officer of the law above the rank of ink monitor likes being mocked, and  he'd just been made to look  foolish  by  a  bunch  of street-corner comedians. But  he wasn't your average cop: he kept cool and his big face stayed as expressionless as a paving  stone.

He split  the three of them  up between  the rooms in the flat, the  corridor and  a  police Volvo outside.  The  other  two were only a pair of trainee vandals. In no time at all their triumphant sneers  had  turned  to shrill  protests.

Wisely,  he didn't try  to pressure  Palli  at  all.  No cops  had anything that  would  frighten  him. He'd  been places and seen things  that  put  him a long way out of reach.

We stayed  in the living-room. The baby clothes were back on the radiators again,  so that  a fine skin of moisture  put a sheen on the furniture. Again,  it was hothouse  damp.

It was all very matter of fact. The girl-mother came out of the bedroom  and dumped  the baby in a plastic  chair. It slumped forward   asleep,   and  she  slumped   beside  it  in  one  of  the mutilated chairs,  watching  us through  half-closed eyes.

Looking  pleased  with himself,  Palli sat  cross-legged  on the floor playing Chinese patience now that his poker school had broken up. He whistled between his teeth, breaking off to swear cheerfully when he pulled  the wrong card,  and swigging  Polar beer from the neck. He offered me a drink from the same bottle, and winked when I declined. I knew why he did it: to show the friendship  between  us was still there.

After looking at the choice of resting places, Petursson put his hat on his knees and  kept it there. And he sat  upright  to keep contact  with the Olafsson  home- if it was his- to a minimum.

'Your  bike was stolen  this morning,  was it, Palli?'

'Now  that's what  I call a fine bit of detective  work,'  Palli replied to him. He whistled  his admiration as he faked amazement. 'How  about  that,  Sam? Only  had  the bike stolen this morning and here's Mr Petursson  knows all about it. Don't suppose  you happen  to know where it is, do you?'

Without  lifting her sleepy head,  the girl said: 'He  has been

here  all  day.  I  will tell you. Those  two  men,  they  will also tell ...'

Petursson  silenced  her with a movement  of his hand.  He'd been outside  talking to the other  two. He knew what they were all going to say. Nothing.

'They're telling the truth?' I asked.

. 'Yes. No doubt. Those  others  cannot  lie for long. They  are what Palli's countrymen call chicken-shit.'

'Beer?'  Palli held the bottle up.

'No,  thank  you.'

'Now that's a shame.  Makes me feel I ain't  offering you real Icelandic  hospitality. Hey, good news. Red nine on black ten, here comes the eight, dammit.'

'Where is Oscar  Murphy?' Petursson  kept his voice level and emotionless. He wasn't  allowing himself to be drawn  by Palli's minor dramatics.

Once again,  he mimed  wide-eyed surprise. 'My  old  buddy Oscar? He's back home in the States. You security people know all about  that.'

'Why  did he come back?' I took that one. It was less painful for me to look a fool than  it was for Petursson.

'Has that  old rascal  come back here and  not told me? Well, I'll be damned. You tell him, you hear, you tell him to come and see his old pal. There's the eight,  knew it was hiding  in there somewhere.' He glanced  up grinning. 'Just  like old Oscar.'

'When did he move his stuff?' I pointed  over to the bedroom where  I'd  found  his camp.

'What stuff?'

'Clothes, money,  booze, cigarettes.' He went on playing  cards.

'Colt  .45.'

He flicked through the next few cards. 'That's cheating, but I know you  two won't  tell,'  he said.  Then, looking down  at the cards  again:  'I don't recall Sam  here going in that  room on his previous  visit- his only visit, do you, sugar?'

'No.' The  girl's  lips moved in a patient  smile.

'So you're just guessing.'

He went on turning the cards.

I  tried  again. I don't know  why. 'Who  told you about  the other  Oscar Murphy? Someone  from the Soviet Embassy?'

'Now we've got two Oscar  Murphy’s. Are you sure you fellers aren't getting just a little confused  here?'

We  were getting nowhere.  Petursson   pulled  himself  to his feet and  I could  see where  the weight  of the gun  creased  his well-pressed jacket.  He moved towards  the door.

'That will be all for now, Palli.'

He looked up from beneath  his colourless brows. 'Hope I've been some help to you guys.'

'We will, of course,  find Murphy and when we have spoken to him we shall be back to see you. Then  you will have to talk.'

'Why,  I'd  be glad to.' Palli was milking it for every ounce of pleasure he could  get.

'The only  thing  that  surprised me was the old lady,'  Pete went on, in the same quiet  tone.

'An old lady  now, would you believe. Was she called Oscar

Murphy, too?'

'I didn't think you would do that. Torture her by pulling out

her hair,  then letting  her die. No, I didn't think .. .'

Palli went quite still and his eyes closed. 'Don't try and tie my name  to that.'

'I was surprised, but I don't know why. It was the crime of a vicious animal, wasn't  it? Are you coming,  Sam?'

The girl had opened her eyes and was staring at Palli. 'An old lady?'

'Shut up, dummie.' He took another slug from the bottle of

beer. 'You  tell him that  ain't true, Sam.'

'How  do I know what's true?'

He  got  up  and  jabbed  a finger  at  Petursson. 'You  wanna know about  that you go ask those bums on the Russian  trawler down in the harbour, okay? Just don't tie my name on it.'

He followed us down the corridor. 'Another thing, Sam.' He

was back to his chuckling triumph again.  'You  got your nationality as mixed up as me. There I was thinking you were a true Brit and  the guy down  the corridor here reckons you're a German.'