The Draining Lake (13 page)

It could only have been a coincidence that Hannes was expelled after their argument, and a misunderstanding on Hannes's part to link it to their meeting. Surely he could not think that it was Tómas's fault he was not allowed to finish his course. He hadn't done anything. He hadn't told anyone except his friends. Wasn't the man being paranoid? Could he seriously believe this?

Emil was in the room with him, and he showed him the note. Emil snorted. He thoroughly disliked Hannes and everything he stood for, and did not conceal it.

'He's nuts,' Emil said. 'Take no notice of it.'

'But why does he say that?'

'Tómas,' Emil said. 'Forget it. He's trying to blame his own mistakes on someone else. He should have been out of here long ago.'

Tómas leapt to his feet, grabbed his coat, put it on rushing down the corridor, ran all the way to Ilona's digs and banged on the door. Her landlady answered and showed him in to Ilona. She was putting on a cap and already had her jacket and shoes on. She was going out. Clearly surprised to see him, she realised that he was very agitated.

'What's wrong?' she asked, moving towards him.

He closed the door.

'Hannes thinks I had something to do with him getting expelled and deported. Like I gave something away!'

'What are you saying?'

'He blames me for his expulsion!'

'Who did you talk to?' Ilona asked. 'After you met Hannes?'

'Just you and the others. Ilona, what did you mean the other day when you were talking about young people in Leipzig? The ones who agreed with Hannes? Who are they? How do you know them?'

'You didn't talk to anyone else? Are you sure?'

'No, only Lothar. What do you know about young people in Leipzig, Ilona?'

'Did you tell Lothar what Hannes had said?'

'Yes. What do you mean? He knows all about Hannes.'

Ilona stared at him thoughtfully.

'Please tell me what's going on,' he asked her.

'We don't know exactly who Lothar is,' Ilona said. 'Do you think anyone followed you here?'

'Followed me? What do you mean? Who doesn't know who Lothar is?'

Ilona stared at him with a more serious expression than he had ever seen before, a look almost of terror. He had no idea what was going on. All he knew was that his conscience was gnawing him about Hannes, who thought he was to blame for all that had happened. But he had done nothing. Nothing at all.

'You know the system. It's dangerous to say too much.'

'Too much! I'm not a child, I know about the surveillance.'

'Yes. Of course.'

'I didn't say anything, except to my friends. That's not illegal. They're my friends. What's going on, Ilona?'

'Are you sure no one followed you?'

'No one followed me,' he said. 'What do you mean? Why should anyone follow me? What are you talking about?' Then he thought about it: 'I don't know whether anyone followed me. I wasn't watching for that. Why should I be followed? Who would be following me?'

'I don't know,' Ilona said. 'Come on, let's go out the back door.'

'Go where?' he said.

'Come with me,' she said.

Ilona took him by the hand and led him out through the little kitchen where the old woman was in a chair, knitting. She looked up and smiled, and they smiled back and said goodbye. They came out in a dark backyard, climbed over a fence and ended up in a narrow alleyway. He had no idea what was happening. Why was he chasing behind Ilona on a dark evening, looking over his shoulder to check whether anyone was following them?

She took detours, stopping every so often and standing still to listen for footsteps. Then she continued on, with him in pursuit. After a long trek they emerged in a new residential quarter where blocks of flats were being built on an otherwise empty site a fair distance from the city centre. Some of the buildings had no windows or doors but people had moved in to others. They went inside one of the partially occupied blocks and ran down to the basement. Ilona banged on a door. Voices could be heard on the other side: they fell silent suddenly at the knock. The door opened. About ten people were in a small flat, looking out at them in the doorway. They scrutinised him. Ilona walked in, greeted them and introduced him.

'He's a friend of Hannes,' she said, and they looked at him and nodded.

A friend of Hannes, he thought in astonishment. How did they know Hannes? He was caught completely off his guard. A girl stepped forward, held out her hand and welcomed him.

'Do you know what happened?' she asked. 'Do you know why he was expelled?'

He shook his head.

'I have no idea,' he said. He surveyed the group. 'Who are you?' he asked. 'How do you all know Hannes?'

'Did anyone follow you?' the girl asked Ilona.

'No,' Ilona said. 'Tómas doesn't know what's going on and I wanted him to hear it from you.'

'We knew they were watching Hannes,' the girl said. 'After he refused to work for them. They were just waiting for a chance. Waiting for the opportunity to expel him from the university.'

'What did they want him to do?'

'They call it serving the communist party and the proletariat.'

A man came over to him.

'He was always so careful,' the man said. 'He made sure never to say anything that could get him into trouble.'

'Tell him about Lothar,' Ilona said. The tension had eased slightly. Some of the group sat back down. 'Lothar is Tómas's
Betreuer
.'

'Nobody followed you?' someone else from the group asked, casting an anxious look at Ilona.

'No one,' she said. 'I told you. I made sure of that.'

'What about Lothar?' he asked, incredulous about all that he heard and saw. He looked around the little flat, at the people staring at him in fear and curiosity. He realised that he was at a cell meeting, but in reverse. This was not like when the young socialists met back in Iceland. It was not a meeting to campaign for socialism but a clandestine gathering of dissidents. These people met in secret for fear of being punished for anti-socialist behaviour.

They told him about Lothar. He had not been born in Berlin as he claimed. He was from Bonn and had been educated in Moscow, where Icelandic was one of the subjects he studied. His mission was to recruit young people at the university into the communist party. He made a particular effort with foreign students in places such as Leipzig who could conceivably be of use when they went home. It was Lothar who had tried to get Hannes to work for him. It was without doubt Lothar who had eventually played a part in his expulsion.

'Why didn't you tell me that you knew Hannes?' he asked Ilona, perplexed.

'We don't talk about this,' Ilona said. 'Not to anyone. Hannes never mentioned it to you either, did he? Otherwise you would have leaked it all to Lothar.'

'To Lothar?' he said.

'You told him about Hannes,' Ilona said.

'I didn't know . . .'

'We have to guard what we say all the time. You certainly didn't help Hannes by talking to Lothar.'

'I didn't know about Lothar, Ilona.'

'It needn't be Lothar,' Ilona said. 'It could be anyone. You can never tell. You never know who it is. That's how the system works. That's how
they
work.'

He stared at Ilona and knew she was right. Lothar had used him, taken advantage of his anger. What Hannes had written in his message was right. He had said something to someone that should have remained unspoken. No one had warned him. No one had talked about secrets. But he also knew in his heart that no one should have needed to tell him. He felt awful. Consumed by guilt. He was well aware how the system worked. He knew all about interactive surveillance. He had let his rage lead him astray. His naivety had helped them take Hannes.

'Hannes had stopped hanging around with the rest of us Icelanders,' he said.

'Yes,' Ilona said.

'Because he . . .' He did not finish the sentence.

Ilona nodded.

'What's going on?' he asked. 'What's really going on here? Ilona?'

She glanced around the group as if waiting for a response. The man who had spoken earlier nodded to her and she revealed that they had contacted her on their own initiative. One member of the group – Ilona pointed to the girl who had greeted him with a handshake – was studying German with her at the university and wanted to know details of what was happening in Hungary, dissent against the communist party there and fear of the Soviet Union. After cautious overtures to probe her views, and once she was convinced that Ilona was in favour of the uprising in Hungary, she asked her to come and meet her companions. The group held clandestine meetings. Surveillance was being stepped up considerably and people were urged increasingly to notify the security police if they became aware of anti-socialist behaviour or attitudes. This was connected with the 1953 uprising and was to some extent a reaction to the situation in Hungary. Ilona had met Hannes at her first meeting with the young activists in Leipzig. They wanted to know about Hungary and whether similar resistance could be built up in East Germany.

'Why was Hannes in this group?' he asked. 'How does he come into all this?'

'Hannes was completely brainwashed, just like you,' Ilona said. 'You must have strong leadership in Iceland.' She looked towards the man who had spoken before. 'Martin and Hannes are friends from engineering,' she said. 'It took Martin a long time to get Hannes to understand what we were saying. But we trusted him. We had no reason not to.'

'If you know all this about Lothar, why don't you do something?' he asked.

'We can't do anything except avoid him, which is difficult because he's trained to be friends with everyone,' a man said. 'What we can do if he gets too inquisitive is to lead him astray. People don't cotton on to him. He says what we want to hear and agrees with our views. But he's false. And he's dangerous.'

'Wait a minute,' he said, looking at Ilona. 'If you knew about Lothar, didn't Hannes know who he is?'

'Yes, Hannes knew,' Ilona said.

'Why didn't he say anything? Why didn't he warn me? Why didn't he say anything?'

Ilona went up to him.

'He didn't trust you,' she said. 'He didn't know where you stand.'

'He said he wanted to be left alone.'

'He did want to be left alone. He didn't want to spy on us or his fellow countrymen.'

'He called after me when I walked out on him. He was going to say something else but he . . . I was angry, I stormed out. And bumped straight into Lothar.'

He looked at Ilona.

'So that wasn't a coincidence?'

'I doubt it,' Ilona said. 'But it was sure to have happened sooner or later. They were keeping a close watch on Hannes.'

'Are there more people like Lothar at the university?' he asked.

'Yes,' Ilona said. 'But we don't know who they are. We only know about some of them.'

'Lothar is your
Betreuer
,' said a man sitting in a chair who had been listening to the proceedings without saying a word.

'Yes.'

'What's your point?' Ilona said to the man.

'Liaisons are supposed to watch the foreigners,' the man said, standing up. 'They're supposed to report everything about the foreigners. We know that Lothar is also meant to get them to collaborate.'

'Tell him what you want to say,' Ilona said and took a step closer to the man.

'How do we know we can trust this friend of yours?'

'I trust him,' Ilona said. 'That's enough.'

'How do you know Lothar is dangerous?' he asked. 'Who told you that?'

'That's our business,' the man said.

'He's right,' Tómas said, looking towards the man who had doubted his integrity. 'Why should you trust me?'

'We trust Ilona,' came the reply.

Ilona smiled awkwardly.

'Hannes said you'd come round eventually,' she said.

He looked at the faded sheet of paper and read the old message from Hannes. Soon it would be evening and the couple would walk past his window. He thought about that night in the basement flat in Leipzig and how it had changed his life. He thought about Ilona and about Hannes and Lothar. And he thought about the terrified people in the basement.

It was the children of those people who had turned Nikolaikirche into their fortress and had rushed out onto the streets when, decades later, the situation finally reached boiling point.

Valgerdur was not with Erlendur at Sigurdur Óli's barbecue, nor was her name mentioned. Elínborg barbecued delicious loins of lamb which she had marinated in a special spicy sauce with shredded lemon peel, but first they ate a shrimp dish that Bergthóra made which Elínborg praised highly. The dessert was a mousse by Elínborg; Erlendur did not catch what was in it but it tasted good. He had never intended to go to the barbecue, but eventually gave in after relentless badgering by Sigurdur Óli and Bergthóra. It was not as bad as Elínborg's book launch, however. Bergthóra was so pleased he had come that she allowed him to smoke in the living room. Sigurdur Óli's face fell a mile when she brought him an ashtray. Erlendur watched him with a smile and felt he had earned his reward.

They did not discuss work, apart from one occasion when Sigurdur Óli began wondering why the Russian equipment had been kaput before it went into the lake with the body. Erlendur had told them about the forensics results. The three of them were standing together on the patio. Elínborg was preparing the grill.

'Doesn't that tell us something?' she asked.

'I don't know,' Erlendur said. 'I don't know whether it matters whether it worked or not. I can't see the difference. A listening device is a listening device. Russians are Russians.'

'Yes, I guess so,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'Maybe it was damaged in a struggle. Fell to the floor and smashed.'

'Conceivably,' Erlendur said. He looked up at the sun. He did not really know what he was doing out there on the terrace. He had not been to Sigurdur Óli and Bergthóra's house before even though they had worked together for a long time. It did not surprise him to find everything neat and tidy there: designer furniture, objets d'art and smart flooring. Not a speck of dust to be seen. Nor any books.

Indoors, Erlendur perked up when he learned that Teddi, Elínborg's husband, knew about Ford Falcons. Teddi was a chubby car mechanic who was in love with Elínborg's cooking, like most people who knew her. His father had once owned a Falcon and he was a great admirer of the model. Teddi told Erlendur that it had been very smooth to drive, with a bench for the front seat, automatic gearbox and a big ivory steering wheel. It was a smaller family car than other American models from the 1960s, which tended to be huge.

'It didn't do too well on the old Icelandic roads,' Teddi said as he scrounged a cigarette from Erlendur. 'Maybe it wasn't built strongly enough for Icelandic conditions. We had a lot of bother when the axle broke once out in the countryside. Dad had to get a lorry to transport it back to town. They weren't particularly powerful cars, but good for small families.'

'Were the hubcaps special in any way?' Erlendur asked, lighting Teddi's cigarette.

'The hubcaps on American cars were always quite flashy, and they were on the Falcon too. But they weren't really distinctive. Mind you, the Chevrolet . . .'

For small families, Erlendur thought to himself, and Teddi's voice faded out. The missing salesman had bought a nice car for the small family he intended to have with the woman from the dairy shop. That was the future. When he disappeared, one hubcap was missing from his car. He may have taken a bend too quickly or struck the kerb. Or maybe the hubcap was simply stolen outside the coach station.

'. . . Then came the oil crisis in the 1970s and they had to manufacture more economical engines,' Teddi ploughed on, sipping his beer.

Erlendur nodded absent-mindedly and stubbed out his cigarette. He saw Sigurdur Óli opening a window to let the smoke out. Erlendur was trying to cut down but always smoked more than he intended. He was thinking about giving up worrying about cigarettes. It had not done any good so far. He thought about Eva Lind, who had not been in touch since she left rehab. She didn't worry about her health. He looked out onto the little patio behind Sigurdur Óli and Bergthóra's townhouse, and watched Elínborg barbecuing; she seemed to be warbling a song to herself. He looked into the kitchen where Sigurdur Óli kissed Bergthóra on the back of the neck as he walked past her. He cast a sideways glance at Teddi relishing his beer.

Maybe that was enjoying life. Maybe it was that simple when the sun was shining on a pleasant summer's day.

Instead of going home that evening he drove out of the city, past Grafarholt in the direction of Mosfellsbaer. He took a slip road towards a large farmhouse and turned off it nearer the sea until he reached the land that Haraldur and his brother Jóhann had farmed. Haraldur had given him only limited directions and had tried to be as unhelpful as possible. He refused to tell Erlendur whether the old farm buildings were still standing, claiming to know nothing about them. His brother Jóhann had died suddenly from a heart attack, he said. Not everyone's as lucky as my brother Jói, he added.

The buildings were still standing. Summer chalets had been built here and there on the old farmland. Judging from the trees growing around some of them, they had been there some time. Others were recent. Erlendur saw a golf course in the distance. Although it was late in the evening, he could see a few souls hitting balls, then strolling after them in the warm sun.

The farm buildings were dilapidated. A small farmhouse and sheds near it. The house was clad with corrugated iron. At one time it had been painted yellow, but the colour had almost entirely faded. Rusty corrugated-metal sheets were hung on the outside of the house; others had surrendered to the wind and weather and fallen to the ground. Most of the roofing sheets had been blown out to sea, Erlendur imagined. All the windows were broken and the front door was missing. Nearby stood the ruins of a small toolshed adjoining a cattle shed and barn.

He stood in front of the ruined farmhouse. It was almost like his childhood home.

Stepping inside, he entered a small hallway, then a narrow corridor. On the right was a kitchen and a laundry room, and a little pantry was to the left. An antiquated Icelandic cooker was still in the kitchen, with three hotplates and a small oven, rusted through. At the end of the corridor were two bedrooms and a living room. The floorboards creaked in the quiet of the evening. He did not know what he was looking for. He did not know why he had come there.

He went down to the sheds. Looking along the row of stalls in the cattle shed and into the barn, he could see a dirt floor. When he walked around the corner he could make out traces of a dung heap behind the cattle shed. A door hung on the toolshed, but when he pulled at it, it came off its hinges, fell to the ground and broke with what sounded like a heavy groan. Inside the toolshed were racks with little compartments for screws, nuts and bolts, and nails on the walls to hang tools from. The tools were nowhere to be seen. The brothers had doubtless taken everything serviceable with them when they moved to Reykjavík. A broken workbench was propped at an angle against the wall. A tractor bonnet rested on a heap of indeterminate iron objects on the floor. A felloe from the rear wheel of a tractor lay over in one corner.

Erlendur walked farther inside the toolshed. Did he come here, the driver of the Falcon? Or did he take a coach to some rural destination? If he did come here, what was he thinking? It had been late in the day when he'd left Reykjavík. He'd known that he did not have much time. She would wait for him in front of the dairy shop and he did not want to be late. But he did not want to rush the brothers. They were interested in buying a tractor from him. It would not take much to clinch the sale. But he did not want to give the impression of being pushy. It could jeopardise the deal if he appeared overexcited. Yet he was in a hurry. He wanted to get it all finished.

If he did come here, why didn't the brothers say so? Why should they be lying? They had no vested interests. They did not know the man in the least. And why was one hubcap missing from his car? Had it fallen off? Was it stolen outside the coach station? Was it stolen here?

If he was the man in the lake with a broken skull, how did he end up there? Where did the device tied to him come from? Was it relevant that he sold tractors and machinery from the Eastern bloc? Was there a connection?

Erlendur's mobile rang in his pocket.

'Yes,' he answered curtly.

'You leave me alone,' said a voice he knew well. He knew the voice particularly well when it was in this state.

'I intend to,' he said.

'You do that, then,' the voice said. 'You leave me alone from here on. Just stop interfering in my life for—'

He rang off. It was more difficult to switch off the voice. It echoed in his head: stoned, angry and repulsive. He knew that she must be in a den somewhere with someone whose name might be Eddi and was twice her age. He tried not to think about the life she led in too much detail. He had repeatedly done everything in his power to help her. He did not know what else to try. He was completely at a loss about his junkie daughter. Once he would have tried to locate her. Run off and found her. Once he would have persuaded himself that when she said 'leave me alone' she actually meant 'come and help me'. Not any more. He did not want to any more. He wanted to tell her: 'It's over. You can take care of yourself.'

She had moved in with him that Christmas. By then, after a short break when she'd had a miscarriage and been confined to hospital, she had begun taking drugs again. In the New Year he could sense her restlessness and she would disappear for varying lengths of time. He went after her and took her back home, but the next morning she would be gone. It went on like that until he stopped chasing her, stopped pretending that it made any difference what he did. It was her life. If she chose to live it in that way, that was up to her. He was incapable of doing more. He had not heard of her for more than two months when she hit Sigurdur Óli on the shoulder with the hammer.

He stood out in the yard looking over the ruins of a life that once had been. He thought about the man who owned the Falcon. About the woman who was still waiting for him. He thought about his own daughter and son. He looked into the evening sun and thought about his dead brother. What had he been thinking about in the blizzard?

How cold it was?

How nice it would be to get back home into the warm?

The next morning, Erlendur went back to the woman waiting for the man who drove the Falcon. It was a Saturday and she was not working. He rang in advance and she had coffee ready for him, even though he had specifically asked her not to go to any trouble for him. They sat down in her living room as before. Her name was Ásta.

'Of course, you always work weekends,' she said, adding that she worked in the kitchen at the City Hospital in Fossvogur.

'Yes, things are often busy,' he said, taking care not to answer her in too much detail. He could have taken this weekend off. But the Falcon case had piqued his curiosity and he felt a strange, pressing need to get to the bottom of it. He did not know why. Perhaps for the sake of the woman sitting opposite him who had done menial work all her life, who still lived alone and whose weary expression reflected how life had passed her by. It was just as if she thought that the man she had once loved would come back to her, as he had before, kiss her, tell her about his day at work and ask how she had been doing.

'The last time we came you said you didn't believe that another woman was involved,' he said cautiously.

On the way to see her, he had had second thoughts. He did not want to ruin her memories. He did not want to destroy anything she clung to. He had seen that happen so often before. When they arrived at the home of a criminal whose wife just stared at them, unable to believe her own eyes and ears. The children behind her. Her fortress crumbling all around her. My husband! Selling drugs? You must be mad!

'Why are you asking about that?' the woman said, sitting in her chair. 'Do you know more than I do? Have you found out something? Have you uncovered something new?'

'No, nothing,' Erlendur said, flinching inwardly when he sensed the eagerness in her voice. He described his visit to Haraldur and how he had located the Falcon, still in good shape and stored away in a garage in Kópavogur. He also told her that he had visited an abandoned farm near Mosfellsbaer. Her partner's disappearance, however, remained as much a mystery as ever.

'You said you had no photographs of him, or of you together,' he said.

'No, that's right,' Ásta said. 'We'd known each other for such a short time.'

'So no photograph ever appeared in the papers or on television when he was declared missing?'

'No, but they gave a detailed description. They were going to use the photo from his driving licence. They said they always kept copies of licences, but then they couldn't find it. Like he hadn't handed it in, or they'd mislaid it.'

'Did you ever see his driving licence?'

'Driving licence? No, not that I remember. Why were you asking about another woman?'

The question was delivered in a harder tone, more insistent. Erlendur hesitated before he opened the door on what, to her mind, would surely be hell itself. Maybe he had proceeded too quickly. Certain points needed closer scrutiny. Maybe he should wait.

'There are instances of men who leave their women without saying goodbye and start a new life,' he said.

'A new life?' she said, as if the concept was beyond her comprehension.

'Yes,' he said. 'Even here in Iceland. People think that everyone knows everyone else, but that's a long way from the truth. There are plenty of towns and villages that few people ever visit, except perhaps at the height of summer, maybe not even then. In the old days they were even more isolated than today – some were even half cut-off. Transportation was much worse then.'

'I don't follow,' she said. 'What are you getting at?'

'I just wanted to know if you'd ever contemplated that possibility.'

'What possibility?'

'That he got on a coach and went home,' Erlendur said.

He watched her trying to fathom the unfathomable.

'What are you talking about?' she groaned. 'Home? Home where? What do you mean?'

He could see that he had overstepped the mark. That despite all the years that had gone by since the man disappeared from her life, an unhealed wound still remained, fresh and open. He wished he had not gone so far. He should not have approached her at such an early stage. Without having anything more tangible than his own fantasies and an empty car outside the coach station.