Black Ice (27 page)

'Bless.'

As the  door  closed,  a  thin  shaft  of light  swung  across  the room.  It caught  one evil eye, mocking  me from  the  table-top. Stuffed puffins never sleep.

43

Conscience,  the best early-morning alarm  in the business,  was off the  mark  sharp the  next  day.  At  six  o'clock  I  was  wide awake. And sleep, who's got this name for delivering solutions to  problems   under   plain   cover,   for  once   lived   up   to  his reputation.

I knew what the columns of figures on the back of the bar-bill were.

Petursson  wasn't all that  delighted to be woken  up at  that time- but he was when I began to tell him. He promised  to pick me up in an hour.

Hulda  emerged  from the kitchen  with coffee. Or  one of the several  Huldas  who appeared on round-the-clock duty  in this house, and  it seemed  as good a time as any to check up on my dream.

I had  no problem  in remembering it.  In  many  ways it was like an  enhanced form  of reality.  But  I'd  suffered  so  much mental confusion from the moment  I'd awakened in the boot of the car that  I didn't know if I could trust  my own perceptions any more.

'Do you lock up at night,  Hulda?' I asked.

'Most nights,  yes. The  young  people today  .. .'

Her purple-veined hand rose and fell in despair at the decline of youth.

'Did  you last night,  Hulda?'

'No.' That was all. No. She sat, her hands  now linked in her lap,  shoulders back, chin  up. I'd  reached  the Please-Proceed With-Caution sign.

'The door was open all night?' She gave one firm nod to that.

'Why?'

'Sometimes,' she said,  rising to fetch more coffee, 'I lock the door, and sometimes I do not. Last night I did not. That is all.' That was it. She could  be a bit other-worldish sometimes, could   Hulda,  and   this   was  obviously   one  of  them.   The Icelanders like a bit of the old mystic and  cryptic.  Sol run  had been doing it in my dream- if it was a dream: in recollection, the conversation sounded like a Times crossword  on a bad day. As  Hulda was  halfway  through the  door,  I  thought of a question she might  answer. Now.

'You  know Solrun's baby?'

'Yes.'

'Do you know what  they call it?'

'Yes. It is called Asta. After her mother.' With a flick of her

long  black  skirt  she  slipped   down  the  dark  passage  to  the remoter regions of the kitchen. Anyone with any more trick questions could follow her down  there- if he dared.

As  I  was  waiting  for  Petursson, the  phone  went.  It  was Christopher.

'Did  you say it was that  Esperanto chap  Bottger  who found you?' he asked,  after apologising for ringing so early.

'That's right.'

'You  wouldn't happen to know  where  he's  staying  - I'm rather anxious  to get in touch  with him.'

'I don't think  he'll  need an interpreter.'

'What? Oh  no, quite.  No, I thought his Esperanto contacts might help me get the old musical loo thing off the ground. It's really  not taking  at all you know.'

I told him I didn't know for sure  but I'd  got the impression that  he was camping somewhere up country. Before I had time

to gauge  his reaction, I heard  Petursson's horn tooting outside.

At  the  entrance  to  Thingholtsstraeti,  two  uniformed   cops waved our car straight through. We were expected.

The  Marine House- three white-washed storeys of bed-sits, lounge,  bar,  television and games  that's home for the marines on embassy  duty- was buzzing with action.  The door with the peephole  in it was wide open.  With  an  air  of brisk  urgency, several  young men were bringing  out loaded  boxes and taking in photographic gear. They  were all under  thirty, they all had cropped  hair, and  they all had problems fastening their sports jackets  over their chest development.

'I think  you are  right,'  Petursson said,  examining the limp piece of paper.  'Once or twice in London  I played darts, and  I remember this strange upside-down way of scoring.'

Why  I  hadn't recognised  it immediately, I'll  never  know. The  two  columns   began  at  three  hundred and  one  and  the numbers gradually whittled  away  until  they came  to the final dart. I can't think of any other game where they score from the top like that. And the only dartboard in town was the one in the Marine House  basement bar.

In  the  bar,  three  young  marines  - two  in  pyjamas, one huddled  in a striped-cotton robe - were lined  up in front  of Dempsie. He had one heavy haunch propped  on the edge of the pool table. He was still in golf gear- powder-blue slacks, dark blue sports shirt- but there was nothing  playful in his manner.

'Later,' he snapped at  a sharp-suited man  who  had  to be

something  from   the  embassy   and   who'd   apparently   been rolling  out  the  threats  to the  three  young  men. 'Right  now I want  to hear them  talk.'

The  one  who'd  got  stuck  with  the  spokesman's job  had ginger hair and freckles- and a face blood-red  with guilt.  But he was trying hard  to be a good marine and take it on the chin.

'Like we said, Sir, we felt sorry for him. I knew him from his last tour and he was a real squared-away guy then, so when he said  he'd  nowhere  to sleep .. .'

At   that    the   sharp-suit  hissed:   'What  about    embassy security?'

Dempsie  silenced  him with one flap of his hand.  'Security's

my game  and  I play anywhere I want. Go on, kid.' He took a cigarette from the pack with his lips.

'He came in with us, then later he said he had to see a friend

and  the way he said it I took it he meant  this girl. I heard some bumping around later on but I didn't think anything of it .. .'

'You  didn't see him bring anyone  else into the building?'

'No, Sir. I told him to take Gary's room because he was away fishing and  naturally Oscar knew which room was which and didn't need showing  around or anything like that.'

'He'd gone the next morning?'

'Yes, Sir. Just that  note saying  thanks  fellers or something, and  we didn't have any  reason  to go into  the room until you came  this morning. Look, Sir, if .. .'

The dartboard was on the wall behind him. I went round and picked  up  the darts. One,  two, three,  just  like that.  They  all missed the board.  Darts  is like riding a bicycle. Once you can't do it, you never forget.

'And  you've  no idea where he's gone?'

'None, Sir.'  The   red-head   gulped  and  his  Adam's  apple bobbed. 'We didn't like to think of the guy sleeping rough, was all, Sir.'

'All grunts together, hey?' As the man in the suit started  to

interrupt, Dempsie  cut him down.  'Hell,  we teach 'em to be a team,  don't we?'

'How  was he?' I asked.

'You  mean  health-wise?' the  embassy  man  said,  incredulously.

'No. His  mood.'

The  marine  was grateful  for a distraction. 'Well, Sir, we all thought he was kind a spooky. He kept laughing but it was that uptight sort of laughing.'

'You'd better see this.' Dempsie led us up two flights of stairs.

On  the way he called  out  to us over his shoulder.  'Question: Where'd you hide a big black in a country  like this? Answer: The one place where he wouldn't stand out. Here. He must've found it tricky getting in and out of Palli’s, so he rolled up here. Then, if he moved at night and kept his face covered with that stocking  mask and goggles- no problem.'

At  the  top of the flight,  he stopped. I  think  we both  knew what to expect. It was a light airy room with white built-in cupboards,  wardrobes, and   dressing-table  units.   Hi-fi  and video  equipment was stacked  waist-high next  to a  turntable and  television set. Bar-bells  and sets of weights were arranged neatly  by the window.  Over  a chair  by the  bed  hung  a dark green  sweat-shirt  bearing   the  slogan,   'This   is a  herpes-free zone',  above a down-pointing arrow.

On  the  bed,  his  head  raised  on  a  pillow,  his arms  folded across his stomach, was the man  I'd  interviewed as Oscar Murphy. You might've thought he was resting there if it hadn't been for the hole where his right eye should've been. That's the way the pro's do it. It would look quite neat if you didn't have to dislodge  the eyeball.

The  ID propped  on his hands  made  him Roddy  Hermon of

the Naval  Investigative Service.

'Not  public relations?' I said  to Dempsie.

'Same  thing,'  he growled.  'Same damn  thing.'

When  I got back to Hulda's, I stood  looking at my bed in the hope of some sign that Solrun  really had been my night visitor. I don't know why. As soon as Hulda  had confirmed  the baby's name  was Asta,  I knew I hadn't been dreaming.

Unless,  of course,  I was developing a talent  for clairvoyant dreams, and after my experiments with meditation that  didn't seem too likely.

So what was it she'd said about a ceremony? Try as I could,  I couldn't make any sense out of that fragment. I was lying on the bed  trying   to  dredge   my  memory   when   I  saw  the  puffin watching  me. With its cocked head and glinting eye, it looked to me like a puffin that  knew too much.  I pulled  a sock over its head. And it wasn't a clean sock either.

A  ceremony.   A  public   ceremony.    It   was   the   price   for something, she'd  said,  but  I was damned if I could  remember what.

I  was  quite  glad  when  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door  and Christopher Bell came in. He was wearing his usual cosy clutter of jumble-sale rubbish and  his thick  black  hair  was hanging down so that  only one bright  eye showed.

'You  know, Christopher, either  you're growing  to look like those  bloody  puffins or .. .'

'Quite possibly,' he said,  not  at all affronted.  'Get  the old hooter painted and  I'll  be in business,  I dare say. Although, come   to  think   of  it,  I  shouldn't  think  my  beak's  straight enough.'

'How'd you get it?' I'd  been wondering that since we met. He  tapped it with  a knuckle  and  grinned.  'Awful, isn't  it?

Trouble is, I've  got this high threshold  of pain.  Bust it in the first  ten  minutes playing  serum-half for Cambridge, didn't realise, and   went  on  and  played  the  whole  damned  game. Terrible mess.'

'Well, I've  got this high threshold  of nerves and that bird of yours  was giving  me the evil eye. Hence  the sock.'

'Poor little  chap. No word from Solrun, I don't  suppose?'

'Not  a cheep.'

'Actually,' he said,  drawing the word out  to four times its normal length, 'actually, I believe old Ivan's scooped you. Isn't that  what  you chaps  call it?'

'I call  it  a damned  nuisance,' I said,  wondering  if it was

anything that  might bounce back on me. 'You wouldn't happen to know what  it is?'

'Well, I was wondering about  the ethics of that,'  he said, his

dark  face gleeful at all this mystery.

'The ethics  are that you tell me about  Ivan's  stories, but not the other way round. How does that sound?'

Nothing would've stopped  him anyway,  he was so pop-eyed with  the fun of it all. He'd  called at Ivan's room and found the door   standing ajar.   And  he   ad somehow  been  unable  to prevent himself hearing what Ivan was saying down the telephone.

A man  had  been found dead in the Tjornin.

'Name?'

'Heavens, Sam,  I wasn't  eavesdropping, you know.'

'I know,  and  while you  weren't  eavesdropping  you didn't happen to hear  any  more, did you?'

A  crafty   grin  curved   under   his  crooked  nose.  'All  Brits together,  eh? I did actually. He said something about it being a Russian  embassy  official.’

'Something. I'm  not quite sure what,  that's all.'

'My  nephew  Matt  keeps  his in  his  study  at  Eastbourne College.'

I looked up wondering what on earth  he was talking about. He was stroking the puffin's back. 'He finds it restful,' he said, with a gap-toothed  smile.

'Anything  else?'

'Yes, sort of. He seemed to be suggesting that this person had met a violent end.'

'Whoever he was, he was in step with the spirit of our times,'

I said, sitting up and reaching for my jacket. 'I think I'll go and take a look.'

'Can  I come?'

'Why not? By the way,' I said, as casually as I could manage,

'I didn't  know you counted Russian in your apparently endless repertoire of languages.'

'Only  a smidgin,'  he said, apologetically.  'Only  about  the

pen-of-your-aunt  level.'

The bird didn't say a word as we left. If it had, Christopher would probably  have replied. In fluent puffin.

I'd always had my doubts  about  him. Now I was beginning to assemble an entirely new set ...

44

All  that  was  left  at  the  lakeside  was  a  wet  patch   on  the pavement where they'd dragged  the body out. But there  were still  some  loitering  spectators   around,  and   still  with   that slightly festive air that sudden  death  often inspires  in people.

I was just thinking we were too late when I spotted  a lanky youth from the local morning  paper.  Luckily,  he was familiar with the pass-it-on principle that  governs most media work.

'Found by a workman  early this morning,' he said.

through the pages of a notebook  the size of a gravestone. 'Police called. Ambulance. Body recovered and identified. Are you the journalist from  London?'

'That's right.  Identified, did you say?'

'Any  chance of me getting a job there?'

'Not  a chance.'

'Why  not?'

'You  look  honest,  intelligent and  you  can  probably spell. Who was the drowned bloke?'

'Everyone  knows  him  around  town.   He  was  a  bit  of  a hoodlum,  as   the   Americans  say.   In   a  small   way.  They recognised  him as soon as they saw the tattoos  on his arms.'

'Palli?  It was Palli?'

'Yes, Palli Olafsson.' He was surprised I knew him. 'He  was a friend?'

'In a way, I think  he was.'

'And  was he drowned?' It was Christopher who asked  that question. Either  it was a very silly question, when a body  has just been heaved out of several  thousand gallons of water, or an unusually clever one. By the look on this chap's face, it wasn't so foolish.