Arnaldur Indridason - Oblivion

‘Yes, that’s right. I saw it among my brother’s papers. It didn’t help us at all, as you probably know.’

‘You didn’t notice if there were any pages missing, any she’d torn out?’

‘There could well have been. The diary’s a sort of file with loose pages, so it’s impossible to say. You can take them out or add them in as you like. If she removed any, they must have been lost long ago.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Of course, the biggest puzzle was that boy from Camp Knox,’ Svava added after a brief pause.

‘The one her friend mentioned?’

‘Yes. Dagbjört was in the habit of taking a detour, to avoid the old army barracks — she wasn’t the only one. There was often bad feeling between the kids from the camp and the ones living in the houses nearby. As far as her parents were aware, she didn’t know any boys from Camp Knox. So it would’ve had to have been a recent development. Naturally they tried to track the boy down and asked around about him, but he never came forward. So I don’t know if there was any truth to the story. They questioned the residents of the camp and searched some of the huts — there were a lot of lowlifes living there, as you’d expect. But nothing came out of it.’

‘Was she seeing any other boys?’ asked Erlendur.

‘No — if you mean boyfriends, we didn’t know of any and neither did her friends. We thought this girl had probably misunderstood or misheard something Dagbjört said about a boy from Camp Knox. But maybe you should talk to her yourself.’

Erlendur nodded. ‘I was planning to. Was Dagbjört actively scared of walking through the camp then?’

‘Well, she wasn’t keen on it and I know Helga warned her not to go there — she’d heard tales about drunkenness and so on. There were single mothers with three or four kids, some of the poorest people in Reykjavík, and men in all kinds of states trying to crawl into their huts at night. I remember her telling us — one of the mothers we met when we were looking for Dagbjört. She was complaining about it to the policemen with us. Asked why it was that louts and thugs were allowed to run riot in the camp and nothing was done about it. Those poor women and their children had a very raw deal. The kids were bullied at school too. One of the other mothers told us her two daughters had been driven out of school by a gang of boys and said they were never going back. I seem to recall one of them was actually beaten up. That sort of thing was bound to make the camp children stick together.’

Svava looked Erlendur in the eye and spoke firmly.

‘I’m aware I might be prejudiced,’ she said, ‘and it can’t be helped, but I don’t believe Dagbjört had met a boy from the camp. I think it’s quite out of the question. I just can’t picture it. Can’t picture it at all.’

‘Because...?’

‘Because she had her head screwed on,’ said Svava. ‘That’s why. I know I shouldn’t talk like this but it’s a fact. It’s what I feel and I should be allowed to speak my mind. I don’t believe she was seeing a boy from the camp, and anyway it was never proved. No one in the huts was aware of any relationship or recognised Dagbjört.’

‘Couldn’t she have been seeing this boy anyway, in spite of the fact no one saw them together?’

‘We went over it endlessly day in, day out,’ said Svava. ‘Did he exist? If so, who was he? Did he know what happened? Did she meet him that morning?’

‘But you don’t think he existed?’

‘No, I don’t. Though my brother disagreed. All I can say is that if there was a boy, he never gave himself up. He knew we were looking for Dagbjört. He’d have heard about our search and would have told us if he knew anything.’

‘Unless he was involved?’ said Erlendur. ‘Since he didn’t come forward, doesn’t that point to a guilty conscience?’

‘Of course, if you look at it that way,’ said Svava. ‘My brother talked a lot along those lines; Helga too. They were sure this mystery boy must have played some part in her disappearance. Convinced of it.’

‘The police put out an appeal in the camp for him or any witnesses who might know something about Dagbjört’s movements or their relationship to come forward.’

‘Yes.’

‘But nothing came of it.’

‘No. Nothing. Apart from two or three false leads the police followed up that turned out to have nothing to do with her disappearance. That was all.’

Kristvin’s flat was a typical bachelor pad, located on the top floor of a four-storey block in the Upper Breidholt district, with a fine view north to Mount Esja. The small kitchen had a table with two chairs, a large fridge, a few plates and glasses in the cupboards. There was little to eat apart from bread that was going mouldy and a few bumper packs of chocolate that looked to Marion as if they came from the base, and some Rio Coffee in its signature blue-striped packets. There was a fixture for a bin bag on the door of the cupboard under the sink but no bag, and Marion guessed Kristvin must have taken the rubbish with him the last time he left home and chucked it in the chute on the landing. An automatic coffee machine on the worktop next to the cooker, a box of American breakfast cereal beside it. A plate and spoon in the sink. Kristvin’s last breakfast, Marion thought.

The bedroom was furnished with a single bed and a small bedside table on which lay two thick American paperbacks. Science fiction, judging by the covers. The bed was unmade and the sheets had not been changed in a while. The half-empty wardrobe contained a couple of pairs of jeans and checked shirts, a leather jacket, a dark suit, and a wide assortment of T-shirts. At the bottom of the wardrobe were two pairs of cowboy boots, one as good as new, the other scuffed from heavy wear.

There were more sci-fi novels on the bookshelves in the sitting room, a few pieces of shabby furniture — sofa, table and an old chest of drawers on which stood a newish stereo, and two large speakers in the corners. Beside the stereo was a stack of records, mostly American rock. Marion pictured Kristvin listening to music the evening before he went to work for the last time. There were a couple of posters on the sitting-room walls — the Rolling Stones and Neil Young. The drawers in the chest turned out to contain bills, tax returns and some letters his sister had sent him in America.

Marion was struck by how austere it was; how little it gave away about the occupant, apart from his taste for science fiction and American rock. Nothing unusual in that. His years spent studying in the States had left their mark. There was no sign that he had received any guests during the last days of his life, nor any evidence to suggest he had been involved with a woman.

The only surprise was the contents of the fridge. The forensics team had subjected the flat to a meticulous examination, taking photographs and samples, searching for any clues as to how Kristvin had died. They found some dog ends in an ashtray in the sitting room, then told Marion to look in the fridge. It was at this point that Erlendur turned up.

‘Where have you been?’ said Marion, holding the fridge door open and peering inside.

‘I got held up,’ said Erlendur, hoping he would get away without elaborating. No such luck.

‘How come?’ asked Marion. ‘What were you up to?’

‘I had a meeting in connection with a matter I’m looking into.’

‘What are you looking into?’

‘A case you’re aware of — I’ve told you about it.’

‘Which one?’

‘The Camp Knox case.’

Marion regarded him in surprise. ‘You mean the girl from the Women’s College?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re finally doing something about it?’