Arnaldur Indridason - The Draining Lake

Lothar was still a riddle to him, more so now than ever before. Who was this man? Had he been wrong about Lothar all the time, or was he the same arrogant and treacherous beast he had been in Leipzig?

“Go back home,” Lothar said. “Don’t think about it any more. It’s nothing to do with you. What happened in Leipzig isn’t connected with this.”

He did not believe him.

“What happened there? What happened in Leipzig? Tell me. What did they do to Ilona?”

Lothar cursed.

“We’ve been trying to get you Icelanders to work for us,” he said after a while. “It hasn’t worked. You all inform on us. Two of our men were arrested a few years ago and deported after they tried to get someone from Reykjavik to take photographs.”

“Photographs?”

“Of military installations in Iceland. No one wants to work for us. So we got Emil to.”

“Emil?”

“He didn’t have a problem with it.”

Seeing the look of disbelief on his face, Lothar started to tell him about Emil. It was as if Lothar was trying to convince him that he could trust him, that he had changed.

“We provided him with a job that allowed him to travel around the country without arousing suspicion,” Lothar said. “He was very interested. He felt like a genuine spy.”

Lothar cast a glance down at Emil’s body.

“Maybe he was.”

“And he was supposed to photograph American military installations?”

“Yes, and even work temporarily at places near them, like the base at Heidarfjall on Langanes or Stokksnes near Hofn. And in Hvalfjordur, where the oil depot is. Straumsnesfjall in the west fjords. He worked in Keflavik and took listening devices with him. He sold agricultural machinery so he always had a reason for being somewhere. We had an even bigger role lined up for him in the future,” Lothar said.

“Like what?”

“The possibilities are endless,” Lothar replied.

“What about you? Why are you telling me all this? Aren’t you one of them?”

“Yes,” Lothar said. “I’m one of them. I’ll take care of Emil. Forget all this and never mention it to anyone. Understood?! Never.”

“Wasn’t there a risk that he’d be found out?”

“He set up a cover,” Lothar said. “We told him it was unnecessary, but he wanted to use a fake identity and so on. If anyone recognised him as Emil he was going to say he was on a quick visit home, but otherwise he called himself Leopold. I don’t know where he dreamt up that name. Emil enjoyed deceiving people. He took a perverse pleasure in pretending to be someone else.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Sometimes we dispose of rubbish in a little lake south-west of the city. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I’ve hated you for years, Lothar. Did you know that?”

“To tell the truth I’d forgotten you, Tomas. Ilona was a problem and she would have been found out sooner or later. What I did is irrelevant. Totally irrelevant.”

“How do you know I won’t go straight to the police?”

“Because you don’t feel guilty about him. That’s why you should forget it. That’s why it never happened. I won’t say what happened and you’ll forget that I ever existed.”

“But…”

“But what? Are you going to confess to committing murder? Don’t be so childish!”

“We were just children, just kids. How did it end up like this?”

“We try to get by,” Lothar said. “That’s all we can do.”

“What are you going to tell them? About Emil? What will you say happened?”

“I’ll tell them I found him like this and don’t know what the hell happened. But the main thing is to get rid of him. They understand that. Now go away! Get out of here before I change my mind!”

“Do you know what happened to Ilona?” he asked. “Can you tell me what happened to her?”

He had gone to the door of the shed when he turned round and asked the question that had long tormented him. As if the answer might help him to accept those irreversible events.

“I don’t know much,” Lothar said. “I heard that she tried to escape. She was taken to hospital and that’s all I know.”

“But why was she arrested?”

“You know that perfectly well,” Lothar said. “She took a risk; she knew the stakes. She was dangerous. She incited revolt. She worked against them. They had experience from the 1953 uprising. They weren’t going to let that repeat itself.”

“But…”

“She knew the risks she was taking.”

“What happened to her?”

“Stop this and get out!”

“Did she die?”

“She must have,” Lothar said, looking thoughtfully at the black box with the broken dials. He glanced at the bench and noticed the car keys. A Ford logo was on the ring.

“We’ll make the police think he drove out of town,” he said, almost to himself. “I have to persuade my men. That could prove difficult. They hardly believe a word I tell them any more.”

“Why not?” he asked. “Why don’t they believe you?”

Lothar smiled.

“I’ve been a bit naughty,” Lothar said. “And I think they know.”

Erlendur stood in the garage in Kopavogur, looking at the Ford Falcon. Holding the hubcap, he bent down and attached it to one of the front wheels. It fitted perfectly. The woman had been rather surprised to see Erlendur again, but let him into the garage and helped him to pull the heavy canvas sheet off the car. Erlendur stood looking at the streamlining, the shiny black paint, round rear lights, white upholstery, the big, delicate steering wheel and the old hubcap that was back in place after all those years, and suddenly he was seized by a powerful urge. He had not felt such a longing for anything in a very long time.

“Is that the original hubcap?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Erlendur said, “we found it.”

“That’s quite an achievement,” the woman said.

“Do you think it’s still roadworthy?” Erlendur asked.

“It was, the last time I knew,” the woman said. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s rather a special car,” Erlendur said. “I was wondering… if it’s for sale…”

“For sale?” the woman said. “I’ve been trying to get rid of it ever since my husband died but no one’s shown any interest. I even tried advertising it but the only calls I got were from old nutters who weren’t prepared to pay. Just wanted me to give it them. I’ll be damned if I’d give them that car!”

“How much do you want for it?” Erlendur asked.

“Don’t you need to check whether it starts first and that sort of stuff?” the woman asked. “You’re welcome to have it for a couple of days. I need to talk to my boys. They know more about these matters than I do. I don’t know the first thing about cars. All I know is that I wouldn’t dream of giving that car away. I want a decent price for it.”

Erlendur’s thoughts turned to his old Japanese banger, crumbling from rust. He had never cared for possessions, did not see the point in accumulating lifeless objects, but there was something about the Falcon that kindled his interest. Perhaps it was the car’s history and its connection with a mysterious, decades-old case of a missing person. For some reason, Erlendur felt he had to own that car.

Sigurdur Oli had trouble concealing his astonishment when Erlendur collected him at lunchtime the following day. The Ford was entirely roadworthy. The woman said that her sons came to Kopavogur regularly to make sure it was still running smoothly. Erlendur had gone straight to a Ford garage where the car was checked, lubricated and rustproofed and the electrics were fixed. He was told that the car was as good as new, the seats showed little sign of wear, all the instruments were working and the engine was in reasonable condition despite hardly having been used.