The Draining Lake (20 page)

When Erlendur got home from the office that evening, Sindri Snaer was waiting for him in his flat. He was sleeping on the sofa but when Erlendur came in he woke up.

'Where have you been hiding?' Erlendur asked.

'Around,' Sindri Snaer said, sitting up.

'Have you had anything to eat?'

'No, it's okay.'

Erlendur took out some rye bread, lamb pâté and butter, and made coffee. Sindri said he was not hungry but Erlendur noticed how he wolfed down the pâté and bread. He put some cheese on the table and that vanished too.

'Do you know anything about Eva Lind?' Erlendur asked over a cup of coffee when Sindri Snaer's hunger seemed to have been satisfied.

'Yes,' he said, 'I spoke to her.'

'Is she all right?'

'Sort of,' Sindri said and produced a packet of cigarettes. Erlendur did likewise. Sindri lit his father's cigarette with a cheap lighter. 'I think it's been a long time since Eva was all right,' he said.

They sat smoking and not speaking over their black coffee.

'Why is it so dark in here?' Sindri asked, looking into the living room where the thick curtains kept the evening sun at bay.

'It's too bright outside,' Erlendur said. 'In the evenings and at night,' he added, after a short pause. He did not go into the matter any further. He did not tell Sindri that he much preferred short days and pitch darkness to perpetual sunshine and the endless light it radiated. He did not know himself the reason for it. Did not know why he felt better in dark winters than during bright summers.

'Where did you dredge her up?' he asked. 'Where did you find Eva?'

'She texted me. I phoned her. We've always kept in touch, even when I was away from the city. We've always got on well.'

He stopped talking and looked at his father.

'Eva's a good soul,' he said.

'Yes,' Erlendur said.

'Seriously,' Sindri said. 'If you'd known her when she was . . .'

'You don't have to tell me anything about it,' Erlendur said, not realising how curt he sounded. 'I know all about that.'

Sindri sat in silence, watching his father. Then he stubbed out his cigarette. Erlendur did the same. Sindri stood up.

'Thanks for the coffee,' he said.

'Are you leaving?' Erlendur said, standing up too and following Sindri out of the kitchen. 'Where are you going?'

Sindri did not answer. He took his scruffy denim jacket from the chair and put it on. Erlendur watched him. He did not want Sindri to leave in a temper.

'I didn't mean to . . .' he began. 'It's just that . . . Eva's so . . . I know you're good friends.'

'What do you think you know about Eva?' Sindri asked. 'Why do you reckon you know anything about Eva?'

'Don't make a martyr out of her,' Erlendur said. 'She doesn't deserve it. And she wouldn't want you to either.'

'I'm not,' Sindri said, 'but don't kid yourself that you know Eva. Don't think that. And what do you know about what she deserves?'

'I know she's a bloody junkie,' Erlendur snarled. 'Is there anything else I need to know? She does nothing about sorting herself out. You know she had a miscarriage. The doctors said it was a mercy after all the dope she took during her pregnancy. Don't get on a high horse about your sister. That idiot's lost the plot yet again and I can't be bothered to go through all that crap any more.'

Sindri had opened the door and was halfway out onto the landing. He paused and looked back at Erlendur. Then he turned round, went back into the flat and closed the door. He walked over to him.

'Put myself on a high horse about my sister?' he said.

'You have to be realistic,' Erlendur said. 'That's all I'm saying. For as long as she doesn't want to do anything to help herself, there's bugger all we can do.'

'I remember Eva well when she wasn't on drugs,' Sindri said. 'Do you remember her?'

He had gone right up close to his father and Erlendur could see the anger in his movements, his face, his eyes.

'Do you remember Eva when she wasn't doing drugs?' he repeated.

'No,' Erlendur said. 'I don't. You know that perfectly well.'

'Yes, I know that perfectly well,' Sindri said.

'Don't start preaching any bollocks to me,' Erlendur said. 'She's done plenty of that.'

'Bollocks?' Sindri said. 'Are we just bollocks?'

'Jesus Christ,' Erlendur groaned. 'Stop it. I don't want to argue with you. I don't want to argue with her and I certainly don't want to argue
about
her.'

'You don't know anything, do you?' Sindri said. 'I saw Eva. The day before yesterday. She's with a bloke called Eddi who's ten, fifteen years older than her. He was out of his head. He was going to stab me because he thought I was a thug. Thought I'd come to collect a debt. They both deal but they do a lot of stuff too, then they need more and the heavies come round for the money. People are after them now. Maybe you know this Eddi, since you're a cop. Eva didn't want to tell me where she's crashing – she's scared shitless. They're in some den near the city centre. Eddi supplies her with dope and she loves him. I've never seen such true love. Get it? He's her dealer. She was dirty – no, she was
filthy
. And you know what she wanted to know?'

Erlendur shook his head.

'She wanted to know if I'd seen you,' Sindri said. 'Don't you think that's weird? The only thing she wanted to know was if I'd seen you. Why do you think that is? Why do you think she's worried about that? Amongst all that squalor and misery? Why do you think that is?'

'I don't know,' Erlendur said. 'I stopped trying to work Eva out long ago.'

He could have mentioned that he and Eva had been through thick and thin together. That although their relationship was difficult and fragile and by no means free from friction, it was a relationship nevertheless. Sometimes it was even a very good one. He thought back to Christmas when she was so depressed about the baby she had lost that he thought she might attempt something stupid. She spent the Christmas and New Year with him and they discussed the baby and the guilt about it that tormented her. Then, one morning in the New Year, she was gone.

Sindri stared at him.

'She was worried about how you were getting on. How
you
were getting on!'

Erlendur said nothing.

'If only you'd known her the way she used to be,' Sindri said. 'Before she got into dope, if you'd known her like I did, you'd have been shocked. I hadn't met her for a long time and when I saw her, the way she looked . . . I . . . wanted to . . .'

'I think I did all I could to help her,' Erlendur said. 'There are limits to what can be done. And when you feel there's no real desire to do anything in return . . .'

His words faded away.

'She had ginger hair,' Sindri said. 'When we were kids. Thick ginger hair that Mum said she must have got from your side of the family.'

'I remember the ginger,' Erlendur said.

'When she was twelve she had it cropped and dyed black,' Sindri said.

'Why did she do that?'

'Her relationship with Mum was tough a lot of the time,' Sindri said. 'Mum never treated me the way she did Eva. Perhaps because she was older and reminded her too much of you. Maybe because Eva was always up to something. She was definitely hyperactive. Ginger-haired and hyperactive. She got on the wrong side of her teachers. Mum sent her to another school but that really just made things worse. She was teased for being the new kid, so she pulled all sorts of pranks to get attention. And she bullied others because she thought that would help her fit in. Mum went to millions of meetings at school about her.'

Sindri lit a cigarette.

'She never believed what Mum said about you. Or she said she didn't believe it. They fought like cat and dog and Eva was brilliant at using you to wind Mum up. Said it was no surprise you left her. That no one could live with her. She defended you.'

Sindri scouted around with the cigarette in his hand. Erlendur pointed to an ashtray on the coffee table. After taking a drag, Sindri sat at the table. He had calmed down and the tension between them eased. He told Erlendur how Eva had invented stories about him when she was old enough to ask sensible questions about her father.

Erlendur's children could sense their mother's animosity towards him, but Eva did not believe what she said and pictured her father as she felt fit, images completely different to the ones her mother presented. Eva had run away from home twice, at the ages of nine and eleven, to look for him. She lied to her friends, saying that her real Dad – not the ones who used to hang around her mother – was always abroad. Whenever he came back he brought her wonderful presents. She could never show them any of the presents because her father did not want her boasting about them. Others were told that her father lived in a huge mansion where she sometimes went to stay and could have whatever she fancied because he was so rich.

When she began to grow up her tales about her father became more mundane. Once their mother said that as far as she knew he was still in the police force. Through all her troubles at school and at home, when she started smoking tobacco and hash, drinking at the age of thirteen or fourteen, Eva Lind always knew that her father was somewhere in the city. As time wore on she grew unsure about whether she wanted to find him any longer.

Maybe, she said to Sindri once, it's better to keep him in your head. She was convinced he would turn out to be a disappointment, like everything else in her life.

'No doubt I did,' Erlendur said.

He had sat down in his armchair. Sindri took out his cigarette packet again.

'And she didn't make a good impression with all those studs in her face,' Erlendur said. 'She always falls into the same old rut. Never has any money, latches on to some dealer and hangs around with him, and no matter how badly they treat her, she always stays.'

'I'll try to talk to her,' Sindri said. 'But what I really think is that she's waiting for you to come and rescue her. I think she's on her last legs. She's often been bad, but I've never seen her like that before.'

'Why did she cut her hair?' Erlendur asked. 'When she was twelve.'

'Someone touched her and stroked her hair and talked dirty to her,' Sindri said.

He said this straightforwardly, as if he could search his memory for such incidents and find a whole hoard of them.

Sindri looked along the bookshelves in the living room. There was almost nothing but books in the flat.

Erlendur's expression remained unchanged, his eyes cold as marble.

'Eva said you were always looking into missing persons,' Sindri said.

'Yes,' Erlendur said.

'Is it because of your brother?'

'Perhaps. Probably.'

'Eva said you told her you were her missing person.'

'Yes,' Erlendur said. 'Just because people disappear doesn't mean they're necessarily dead,' he added, and into his mind came the image of a black Ford Falcon outside Reykjavík coach station, one hubcap missing.

Sindri did not want to stay. Erlendur invited him to sleep on the sofa but Sindri declined and they said goodbye. For a long while after his son had left, Erlendur sat in his chair wondering about his brother and Eva Lind – the little he remembered of her from when she was small. She was two when they separated. Sindri's description of her childhood had struck a nerve and he saw his strained relationship with Eva in a different, sadder light.

When he fell asleep, shortly after midnight, he was still thinking about his brother and Eva and himself and Sindri, and he dreamed a bizarre dream. The three of them, him and his children, had gone out for a drive. The kids were in the rear and he was behind the wheel, and he could not tell where they were because there was bright light all around them and he couldn't make out the landscape. Yet he still felt the car was moving and that he needed to steer it more carefully than usual because he could not see. Looking in the rear-view mirror at the children sitting behind him, he could not distinguish their faces. They looked as if they might be Sindri and Eva, but their faces were somehow blurred or wreathed in fog. He thought to himself that the children could not be anyone else. Eva did not look more than four years old. He saw that they were holding hands.

The radio was on and a seductive female voice was singing:

I
know tonight you'll come to me
...

Suddenly he saw a gigantic lorry heading for him. He tried to sound the horn and slam on the brakes but nothing happened. In the rear-view mirror he noticed that the children had gone and felt an indescribable sense of relief. He looked out at the road ahead. He was approaching the lorry at full speed. A crash was inevitable.

When it was all too late, he felt a strange presence beside him. He glanced across at the passenger seat and saw Eva Lind sitting there, staring at him and smiling. She was no longer a little girl but grown up and looking terrible in a filthy blue anorak with clumps of dirt in her hair, rings under her eyes, sunken cheeks and black lips. He noticed that, in her broad smile, some of her teeth were missing.

He wanted to say something to her but could not get the words out. Wanted to shout at her to throw herself from the car, but something held him back. Some kind of calmness about Eva Lind. Total indifference and peace. She looked away from him to the lorry and began to laugh.

An instant before they struck the lorry he started from sleep and called his daughter's name. It took him a while to get his bearings, then he laid his head back on the pillow and a strangely melancholic song crept up on him and ushered him back to a dreamless sleep.

I
know tonight you'll come to me
...

Níels did not remember Haraldur's brother Jóhann very clearly or really understand why Erlendur was making a fuss that he went unmentioned in the reports about the missing person. Níels was on the telephone when Erlendur interrupted him in his office. He was talking to his daughter who was studying medicine in America – a postgraduate course in paediatric medicine, as a matter of fact, Níels said proudly when he got off the telephone, as if he had never told anyone this before. In fact he hardly spoke about anything else. Erlendur could not have cared less. Níels was approaching retirement and dealt mainly with petty crimes now, car theft and minor burglaries, invariably telling people to try to forget it, not press charges, that it was just a waste of time. If they found the culprits they would make a report, but to no real purpose. The offenders would be released immediately after interrogation and the case would never go to court. In the unlikely event that it did, when enough petty crimes had been accumulated, the sentence would be ridiculous and an insult to their victims.

'What do you remember about this Jóhann?' Erlendur asked. 'Did you meet him? Did you ever go to their farm near Mosfellsbaer?'

'Shouldn't you be investigating that Russian spying equipment?' Níels retorted, took a pair of nail clippers from his waistcoat pocket and began manicuring himself. He looked at his watch. It would soon be time for a long and leisurely lunch.

'Oh yes,' Erlendur said. 'There's plenty to do.'

Níels stopped trimming his nails and looked at him. There was something in Erlendur's tone that he disliked.

'Jóhann, or Jói as his brother called him, was a bit funny,' Níels said. 'He was backward, or a halfwit as you used to be allowed to say. Before the political-correctness police ironed out the language with all their polite phrases.'

'Backward how?' Erlendur asked. He agreed with Níels about the language. It had been rendered absolutely impotent out of consideration for every possible minority.

'He was just dim,' Níels said and resumed his manicure. 'I went up there twice and talked to the brothers. The elder one spoke for them both – Jóhann didn't say much. They were completely different. One was nothing but skin and bone with a whittled face, while the other was fatter with a sort of childish, sheepish expression.'

'I can't quite picture Jóhann,' Erlendur said.

'I don't remember him too well, Erlendur. He sort of clung on to his brother like a little boy and was always asking who we were. Could hardly talk, just stammered out the words. He was like you'd imagine a farmer from some remote valley with straw in his hair and wellington boots on his feet.'

'And Haraldur managed to persuade you that Leopold had never been to their farm?'

'They didn't need to persuade me,' Níels said. 'We found the car outside the coach station. There was nothing to suggest that he'd been with the brothers. We had nothing to work with. No more than you do.'

'You don't reckon the brothers took the car there?'

'There was no indication of that,' Níels said. 'You know these missing-persons cases. You would have done exactly the same with the information we had.'

'I located the Falcon,' Erlendur said. 'I know it was years ago and the car must have been all over since then, but something that could be cow dung was found in it. It occurred to me that if you'd bothered to investigate the case properly, you might have found the man and been able to reassure the woman who was waiting for him then and has been ever since.'

'What a load of old codswallop,' Níels groaned, looking up from trimming his nails. 'How can you imagine anything so stupid? Just because you found some cow shit in the car thirty years later. Are you losing it?'

'You had the chance to find something useful,' Erlendur said.

'You and your missing persons,' Níels said. 'Where are you going with this, anyway? Who put you on to it? Is it a real case? Says who? Why are you reopening a thirty-year-old non-case which no one can figure out anyway, and trying to make something of it? Have you raised that woman's hopes? Are you telling her you can find him?'

'No,' Erlendur said.

'You're nuts,' Níels said. 'I've always said so. Ever since you started here. I told Marion that. I don't know what Marion saw in you.'

'I want to make a search for him in the fields out there,' Erlendur said.

'Search for him in the fields?' Níels roared in astonishment. 'Are you crackers? Where are you going to look?'

'Around the farm,' Erlendur said, unruffled. 'There are brooks and ditches at the bottom of the hill which lead all the way out to sea. I want to see whether we can't find something.'

'What grounds have you got?' Níels said. 'A confession? Any new developments? Bugger all. Just a lump of shit in an old heap of scrap!'

Erlendur stood up.

'I just wanted to tell you that if you plan to make a song and dance about it, I must point out how shoddy the original investigation was because there are more holes in it than a—'

'Do as you please,' Níels interrupted him with a hateful glare. 'Make an arse of yourself if you want to. You'll never get a warrant!'

Erlendur opened the door and went out into the corridor.

'Don't cut your fingers off,' he said and closed the door behind him.

Erlendur had a brief meeting with Sigurdur Óli and Elínborg about the Lake Kleifarvatn case. The search for further information about Lothar Weiser was proving slow and difficult. All enquiries had to go through the German embassy, which Erlendur had managed to offend, and they had few leads. As a formality they sent an inquiry to Interpol and the provisional answer was that it had never heard of Lothar Weiser. Quinn from the US embassy was trying to persuade one of the Czech embassy officials from that period to talk to the Icelandic police. He could not tell what these overtures would deliver. Lothar did not seem to have associated with Icelanders very much. Enquiries among old government officials had led nowhere. The East German embassy's guest lists had been lost a long time ago. There were no guest lists from the Icelandic authorities for those years. The detectives had no idea how to find out whether Lothar had known any Icelanders. Nobody seemed to remember the man.

Sigurdur Óli had requested help from the German embassy and Icelandic ministry of education in providing a list of Icelandic students in East Germany. Not knowing which period to focus on, he started by asking about all students from the end of the war until 1970.

Meanwhile, Erlendur had ample time to absorb himself in his pet topic, the Falcon man. He realised full well that he had almost nothing to go on if he wanted a warrant to mount a full-scale search for a body on the brothers' land near Mosfellsbaer.

He decided to drop in on Marion Briem, whose condition was improving slightly. The oxygen tank was still at the ready but the patient looked better, talking about new drugs that worked better than the old ones and cursing the doctor for 'not knowing his arse from his elbow'. Erlendur thought Marion Briem was getting back on form.

'What are you doing sniffing around here all the time?' Marion asked, sitting down in the chair. 'Don't you have anything better to do?'

'Plenty,' Erlendur said. 'How are you feeling?'

'I'm not having any luck dying,' Marion said. 'I thought I might have died last night. Funny. Of course that can happen when you're lying around with nothing to do but wait for death. I was certain it was all over.'

Marion sipped from a glass of water with parched lips.

'I suppose it's what they call astral projection,' Marion said. 'You know I don't believe in that crap. It was a delirium while I dozed. No doubt brought on by those new drugs. But I was hovering up there,' Marion said, staring up at the ceiling, 'and looked down on my wretched self. I thought I was going and was completely reconciled to it in my heart. But of course I wasn't dying at all. It was just a funny dream. I went for a check-up this morning and the doctor said I was a bit brighter. My blood's better than it's been for weeks. But he didn't give me any hope for the future.'

'What do doctors know?' Erlendur said.

'What do you want from me anyway? Is it the Ford Falcon? Why are you snooping around on that case?'

'Do you remember if the farmer he was going to visit near Mosfellsbaer had a brother?' Erlendur asked on the off chance. He did not want to tire Marion, but he also knew that his old boss enjoyed all things mysterious and strange.

Eyes closed, Marion pondered.

'That lazy bugger Níels talked about the brother being a bit funny.'

'He says he was a halfwit, but I don't know what that means, exactly.'

'He was backward, if I remember correctly. Big and strong but with the mind of a child. I don't think he could really speak. Just babbled nonsense.'

'Why wasn't this investigation pursued, Marion?' Erlendur asked. 'Why was it allowed to peter out? It would have been possible to do so much more.'

'Why do you say that?'

'The brothers' land should have been combed. Everyone took it for granted that the salesman never went there. No doubts were ever raised. It was all cut and dried; they decided the man committed suicide or left the city and would come back when it suited him. But he never did come back and I'm not certain that he killed himself.'

'You think the brothers killed him?'

'I'd like to look into that. The backward one's dead but the elder brother's at an old people's home here in Reykjavík and I reckon he'd have been capable of attacking someone on the slightest pretext.'

'And what would that be?' Marion asked. 'You know you have no motive. He was going to sell them a tractor. They had no reason to kill him.'

'I know,' Erlendur said. 'If they did, it was because something happened out there when he called on them. A chain of events was set in motion, perhaps by sheer coincidence, which led to the man's death.'

'Erlendur, you know better than that,' Marion said. 'These are fantasies. Stop this nonsense.'

'I know I have no motive and no body and it was years ago, but there's something that doesn't fit and I'd like to find out what it is.'

'There's always something that doesn't gel, Erlendur. You can never balance all the columns. Life's more complicated than that, as you of all people ought to know. Where was the farmer supposed to have got the Russian spying equipment to sink the body in Kleifarvatn?'

'Yes, I know, but that might be another, unrelated case.'

Marion looked at Erlendur. There was nothing new about detectives becoming absorbed in cases that they were investigating and then getting completely obsessed by them. It had often happened to Marion, who knew that Erlendur tended to take the most serious cases to heart. He had a rare sensitivity, which was both his blessing and his curse.

'You were talking about John Wayne the other day,' Erlendur said. 'When we watched the western.'

'Have you dug that up?' Marion said.

Erlendur nodded. He had asked Sigurdur Óli, who knew about all things American and was a mine of information about celebrities.

'His name was Marion too,' Erlendur said. 'Wasn't it? You are namesakes.'

'Funny, isn't it?' Marion said. 'Because of the way I am.'