Black Skies (6 page)

‘Are you planning to leave town again?’ Sigurdur Óli asked, eyeing the man’s footwear once they were seated in the visitors’ lounge. Given the circumstances he had been prepared to treat Ebeneser with sympathy and understanding, but was not sure if he and his wife really deserved such consideration.

‘What? These? No, not for the moment. I just like wearing boots, even in town.’

‘We’ve received confirmation that you were on your way back from the highlands when your wife was attacked,’ Sigurdur Óli said.

‘I find it bizarre that you should think I did it,’ Ebeneser retorted.

‘Whether something’s bizarre or not has no bearing as far as we’re concerned. Were you and your wife seriously in debt?’

‘No more than most people. And we’re not married. We’re living together.’

‘Any children?’

‘No, none.’

‘Were you in debt to parties who might be prepared to resort to violent methods to recover their money? Like debt collectors, for example? Anyone like that?’

‘No,’ Ebeneser said.

‘So you’re not short of money?’

‘No.’

‘And you haven’t been involved with debt collectors before?’

‘No. I don’t know any debt collectors myself and I don’t know anyone who’s in contact with them. Wasn’t it just an ordinary burglar?’

‘Did he take anything?’

‘I gather he was interrupted by a cop.’

‘I’ve never come across a burglar who began by smashing up the house he was intending to burgle, then hit the owner over the head with a baseball bat,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘I suppose such a thing may have happened some time, some place, but I’m not aware of it.’

Ebeneser was silent.

‘Did anyone know you’d be out of town yesterday evening?’

‘Yes, lots of people. But they’re all people I know, who would never do anything like this, if that’s what you mean.’

‘And you don’t have money troubles?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I should know.’

‘What about your sex life – is that good?’

Ebeneser had been sitting opposite him in the visitor’s lounge, legs crossed, swinging his free foot gently up and down, evincing little interest in Sigurdur Óli’s questions. But at this he stopped, sat up in his chair and leaned forward.

‘Our sex life?’

‘Your sexual relations with other people,’ Sigurdur Óli clarified.

Ebeneser stared at him. ‘What … are you joking?’

‘No.’

‘Sexual relations with other people?’

‘Let me spell it out for you: do you think that the attack on Lína can have had anything to do with the fact that you both have sex with other people?’

Ebeneser was flabbergasted. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he replied.

‘No, of course not,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘So you’ve never heard of swingers’ parties either?’

Ebeneser shook his head.

‘Where swinging is another word for wife-swapping.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re on about,’ said Ebeneser.

‘So you and Lína have never taken part in wife-swapping?’

‘That’s disgusting,’ Ebeneser said. ‘We’ve never done anything like that. How dare you!’

‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘You give me the
photos
that you and Lína took of yourselves having sex with other people and I’ll try to pretend I never heard anything about it.’

Ebeneser did not respond.

‘Other people,’ Sigurdur Óli said, as if struck by a new idea. ‘Who were these other people? I only know of the one couple but of course you’ve been blackmailing people all over town, haven’t you?’

Ebeneser stared at him again.

‘Someone’s had enough of your shitty little games and meant to intimidate you with a debt collector. Is that it, Ebbi?’

Ebeneser decided not to put up with this any longer. He stood up.

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said and stormed out of the visitors’ lounge, back down the corridor to Lína’s room.

Sigurdur Óli watched him go. Ebeneser needed time to absorb how much he knew and to consider his offer. Sigurdur Óli smiled grimly to himself. He was a pretty experienced police officer but could not immediately recall having met such a consummate liar before – nor one more adept at getting himself into deep water.

10

BERGTHÓRA HAD ALREADY
arrived and was sitting at the table, reading the menu, when Sigurdur Óli turned up a few minutes late. She had chosen an Italian restaurant in the centre of town and he headed straight there after spending the day assisting Elínborg, who was bearing the brunt of the inquiry into the Thingholt murder. He would have liked to have gone home first for a shower and a change of clothes but there had been no time. Although he usually enjoyed eating out, he was rather dreading this encounter.

He kissed her on the lips and took a seat. Bergthóra looked tired. The last few months had been hard on her. The IT company she ran, in which she owned a large stake, had recently gone through a rocky patch, resulting in a great deal of extra work for her. Their separation had taken its toll too, on top of their failure to have children.

‘You look well,’ she said to Sigurdur Óli as he sat down.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘Oh, fine. Meeting in restaurants like this feels like dating again. I can’t get used to it. You should have come round to mine; I could have made us something.’

‘Yes, it does feel a bit like the old days,’ Sigurdur Óli agreed.

They pored over the menus. It was not like the old days and they both knew it. They were weighed down by the awareness of their failed relationship, of the wasted years, of the feelings that were no more, of the shared life that had unravelled. They were like weary receivers winding up a bankruptcy; all that remained was to tie up the loose ends and settle the final claims. Because Bergthóra had a tendency to become emotional about the way things had turned out, Sigurdur Óli had chosen to meet her at a restaurant.

‘How’s your father?’ she asked, her eyes on the menu.

‘OK.’

‘And your mother?’

‘Fine.’

‘Is she still with that bloke?’

‘Saemundur? Yes.’

They chose what they were going to eat and agreed to share a bottle of Italian red. There were few other midweek diners. Soothing music emanated from somewhere over their heads, interspersed with the sounds of clattering and laughter from the kitchen.

‘How’s life on Framnesvegur?’

‘OK, though the flat’s still half empty,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘Has anyone been round to view our place?’

‘There were three viewings today. One man said he’d get in touch. I’ll miss the flat.’

‘Naturally. It’s a great flat.’

Neither of them spoke. Sigurdur Óli wondered if he should tell her about Hermann and his wife, and decided to give it a go in the hope that it would lighten the atmosphere. So he told her about his meeting with Patrekur who had unexpectedly brought along his brother-in-law Hermann, and described how the couple’s former hobby had landed them in trouble. Then he described the attack
on
Lína, the man with the baseball bat and Ebbi in his hiking boots, feigning ignorance.

‘He was literally stunned,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘Ebbi’s a guide,’ he added with a grin. ‘He could do with some guidance right now.’

‘Do people really get up to that sort of thing?’ Bergthóra sighed.

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘I don’t know anyone who goes in for that – wife-swapping, I mean. They must be mad. And to get into such a mess.’

‘Well, this is a bit of a one-off.’

‘It must be hard for Súsanna’s sister, what with her being in politics. To have this come back to haunt them.’

‘Yes, but what kind of idiot is she to put herself in that position in the first place? Especially when she’s in politics. Don’t start feeling sorry for them.’

‘You’re not big on sympathy, are you?’ Bergthóra said.

‘What do you mean?’ Sigurdur Óli demanded.

They were interrupted by the friendly middle-aged waiter who brought over the bottle of red wine, and after showing Sigurdur Óli the label, poured some into his glass. Sigurdur Óli watched him.

‘You’ve already uncorked the bottle?’

The waiter did not understand the question.

‘You’re supposed to do it in front of me,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘How do I know how long ago this bottle was opened or what you’ve been doing with it behind the scenes?’

The waiter looked at him in surprise.

‘I’ve only just opened it,’ he mumbled apologetically.

‘Well, you’re supposed to uncork it here at the table, not in some back room.’

‘I’ll fetch another bottle.’ The waiter hurried away.

‘He’s doing his best,’ Bergthóra objected.

‘He’s an amateur,’ Sigurdur Óli said dismissively. ‘We pay a lot to eat here and they’re supposed to know what they’re doing.
Anyway
, what did you mean when you said I’m not big on sympathy?’

Bergthóra looked at him. ‘All that just now,’ she said. ‘It’s typical.’

‘The poor service, you mean?’

‘You’re just like your mother.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re both so … cold. Such snobs.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake …’

‘I was never good enough for you,’ Bergthóra went on, ‘and she used to make sure I knew it. Whereas your father was always such a sweetheart. I don’t understand how a woman like her could ever have stooped so low as to get involved with a plumber, or how on earth he put up with her for so long.’

‘I’ve often wondered that myself,’ Sigurdur Óli admitted. ‘But Mum really likes you. She told me so. There’s no need to bad-mouth her.’

‘She never showed me any support when we lost … when we had our problems. Never. I got the impression she felt it had nothing to do with her. I felt as if she blamed it all on me – ruining things for you by not being able to have children.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because it’s true.’

‘You’ve never mentioned this before.’

‘Sure I have; you just didn’t want to listen.’

The waiter returned with a new bottle, showed Sigurdur Óli the label and began to remove the cork under his nose. Then he poured some and Sigurdur Óli tasted and approved the wine. The waiter filled their glasses and left the bottle on the table.

‘You’ve never wanted to listen to a word I say,’ Bergthóra said.

‘That’s not true.’

She looked at him, her eyes filling with tears, then picked up a napkin.

‘All right,’ she said, changing tack. ‘Let’s not quarrel. It’s over and done with and we can’t change anything.’

Sigurdur Óli looked down at his plate; he found scenes hard to cope with. Happy as he was to subject criminal lowlifes to a tirade of abuse, he would do anything to keep the peace when it came to his home life. He had once asked himself if it stemmed from the role he played as a boy during his parents’ divorce, when he had tried to keep everyone happy and discovered that it was impossible.

‘I feel as if you often forget that it was hard for me too,’ he said carefully. ‘You never asked how I felt. It was all about you. And you insisted on adoption, you never really asked my opinion. You were just determined to go ahead. We’ve been over this so often, I really don’t want to discuss it this evening.’

‘No,’ Bergthóra agreed, ‘let’s not talk about it. I didn’t mean to either. Let’s drop it.’

‘I’m surprised to hear you say that about Mum,’ Sigurdur Óli said after a pause. ‘Though I know what she can be like. I seem to remember warning you about her when we first got together.’

‘Yes, you told me not to let her get to me.’

‘And I hope you didn’t.’

There was a long silence. The wine was from Tuscany, smooth and mellow on the palate; the music over their heads was Italian too, and the food they were waiting for. Only the silence between them was Icelandic.

‘I don’t want to adopt,’ Sigurdur Óli said.

‘I know,’ Bergthóra answered. ‘You’ll find another woman and have your own babies with her.’

‘No,’ Sigurdur Óli said, ‘I don’t think I’d make a good father.’

When he got home he turned on the television and started watching the baseball but the Red Sox put in an atrocious performance which
did
nothing to cheer him up after his dinner with Bergthóra. Then his phone started ringing on the kitchen table where he had left it. Sigurdur Óli did not recognise the number and was about to turn it off when curiosity got the better of him.

‘Yes?’ he answered with unnecessary brusqueness. It was a tactic he had developed long ago for dealing with unknown callers. After all, it might be a charity. His name was marked with a red cross in the telephone directory, indicating that he was not to receive any cold calls, but there was always the odd one that slipped through the net and the caller was immediately made to regret it.

‘Sigurdur?’ said a female voice.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Is this Sigurdur Óli?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Eva.’

‘Eva?’

‘Eva Lind. Erlendur’s daughter.’

‘Oh. Hi.’

There was no warmth in his voice. Sigurdur Óli was well aware of who she was; he and Erlendur had been colleagues for years, and he had encountered her professionally too. Eva Lind had led an unruly life that had brought her into contact with the police on more than one occasion. Indeed, her life as an addict had caused her father untold grief.

‘Have you heard from him at all?’ Eva Lind asked.

‘Your father? No, nothing. All I know is that he took some leave and was intending to head to the East Fjords for a few days.’

‘Oh. Didn’t he take his phone with him? He’s only got the one mobile number, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘He hasn’t got any other phone? Because he’s not picking up.’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘If he gets in touch, could you tell him I was asking after him?’

‘Sure, but …’

‘What?’

‘I’m not expecting to hear from him,’ Sigurdur Óli said, ‘so …’

‘No, me neither,’ Eva Lind said. ‘We …’

‘Yes?’

‘We went for a drive the other day; he wanted to look at some lakes around Reykjavík. He was …’

‘What?’

‘He seemed so down.’