Arnaldur Indridason - Oblivion

Erlendur reflected on the long-standing dispute about the army that was still simmering in the country as he drove with Marion through the military zone, past the Andrews Movie Theater and the Post Exchange store. Andrews showed the latest Hollywood films long before they reached the cinemas in Reykjavík. The PX store sold everything from stereos to household appliances at a far better price than could be had outside the wire. The car crawled past a large supermarket selling exclusively American goods, various fast-food outlets and clubs like Top of the Rock and Midnight Sun. Erlendur had the odd impression that he was driving through a small American town, sleepy and unprepossessing; the only discordant elements were the dreary weather and the strong-looking fences criss-crossing the area, with conspicuous warning notices banning entry to non-military personnel. Large barracks were under construction in preparation for the arrival of yet more consignments of troops. And new hangars were rising to house the air force’s F-16 fighter jets. On a stretch of open ground a group of armed, camouflage-clad marines were taking part in an exercise. The traffic in the streets, which had names like Air Force Avenue and West Lane, consisted of yellow school buses, grey army trucks, coaches with passengers on their way to the civilian air terminal and utility vehicles belonging to the Icelandic contractors. In the midst of all the asphalt and concrete there were glimpses of the inhospitable Icelandic landscape — windswept gravel plains and hardy vegetation — reminders of what Midnesheidi Moor had looked like before it was occupied by the superpower.

To Erlendur’s mind, everything that passed before his eyes was simultaneously Icelandic yet bizarrely alien. Marion apparently read his thoughts.

‘Weird place.’

‘Yes,’ said Erlendur. ‘Very weird.’

‘Why are you opposed to the army?’

‘How can you be anything else?’ said Erlendur, looking north to where a control tower loomed against the sky. Beyond, in the distance, he could see the mountains, Esja and Skardsheidi, which only enhanced the air of unreality.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ said Marion.

‘Because it doesn’t belong here.’

‘I didn’t think you were political.’

‘Political?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You’re against the army.’

‘That has nothing to do with politics,’ said Erlendur.

‘Really? Isn’t it all a question of Right versus Left, Yanks versus Russians, the Cold War? The Keflavík protest marches? Isn’t that political?’

‘I loathe politics.’

Icelandair handled all the international civilian air traffic that passed through Keflavík and had facilities for their planes in a large hangar that stood just to the north of the terminal building. Here, checks and maintenance were carried out on the fleet, and the company also serviced any planes belonging to overseas operators that landed in Keflavík and required inspection or other assistance.

Kristvin’s boss, who had been expecting a visit from the police, invited Marion and Erlendur into his office which was overflowing with all kinds of books and instruction manuals on the most obscure details of aircraft engineering. The two phones on his desk were practically buried. The walls were lined with grey filing cabinets, covered with yet more piles of papers. A window faced the hangar, where an Icelandair Boeing 727 passenger plane was parked. One of its engines had been opened up and men were swarming around the fuselage.

The boss’s name was Engilbert. His rather short, muscular body was clad in blue overalls and he had a bush of black hair combed back off his forehead. He offered them coffee that had been sitting in the jug all morning. They declined. Marion lit a cigarette. Engilbert poured himself a coffee, took a half-smoked cigar from an ashtray, lit it and blew out a stream of smoke.

‘It’s a shocker about poor old Kristvin,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s all about or what actually happened to him?’

‘No, not as yet,’ said Marion. ‘Are you aware of any problems he’d been having lately? Did he fall out with anyone at work? Get into a fight?’

‘No, nothing like that. Far as I know everything was fine,’ said Engilbert.

‘He hadn’t missed work or anything like that?’ asked Erlendur.

‘No, he was always very punctual, a good worker. Was a bit of a loner but got on fine with the rest of the crew here. Studied in the States. They’re the best, the guys who train over there.’

‘No problems with drink or drugs then?’ asked Erlendur.

‘Nope, none that I know of.’

‘He drove back to Reykjavík after work, didn’t he?’ said Erlendur. ‘Your men don’t stay on site?’

‘No, that’s right, he commuted every day. All the men do.’

‘Did he work in this hangar?’

‘Yes, mostly. Maybe you should talk to Venni — I reckon he knew him best out of all the mechanics. Full name’s Vernhardur — a good kid. I think they were mates.’

‘Do you know if Kristvin had any friends here on the base? Among the American servicemen, I mean?’

‘No, I wouldn’t know, but Venni might. I don’t think he had much contact with them, but it’s possible. After all, he lived in the States for a while. I didn’t get to know him that well.’

‘He’d parked his car by one of the barracks,’ said Marion. ‘Any idea what business he might have had with the residents?’

‘No, none.’

‘Know if he used to take cigarettes or vodka back to town with him?’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Engilbert.

‘Oh?’

‘No, lots of them do it, but it’s not like they’re involved in large-scale smuggling,’ said Engilbert awkwardly. ‘They just buy for their own use, you know.’

‘Is that what you do?’ asked Erlendur, noticing Engilbert’s discomfort.

‘Well, I have done, yes, I’m prepared to admit that. I hope I’m not confessing to a major crime here. I use the cigarette vending machines and so on, like you do; maybe take home a few cans of beer for my mates.’

‘What did you mean when you said Kristvin mostly worked in here?’ asked Erlendur. ‘Do you have facilities on another site?’

Engilbert stubbed out his cigar and nodded, relieved by the change of subject.

‘When we’ve got a rush on, we’re allowed to use the air-force facilities,’ he said.

‘Oh?’

‘When the planes are piling up, we’re given a bay in... Come on, I’ll show you.’

Engilbert stood up and went out into the hangar, with Erlendur and Marion on his heels. He walked through the massive doors that opened to the south, rounded a corner and pointed across the broad expanse of the runway to a colossal, box-like building plonked down in the middle of the featureless landscape.

‘What’s that?’ asked Marion.

‘Only one of the biggest buildings in the country,’ said Engilbert grandly. ‘Hangar 885, the pride of NAS Keflavík. You could fit two or three football pitches in there, apparently.’

‘Hangar 885,’ repeated Erlendur.

‘And Kristvin worked in there?’ said Marion.

‘Yes, now and then,’ said Engilbert. ‘We need extra space at peak times when the jobs are stacking up, and Kristvin would work there along with the rest of the crew. Part of the hangar’s closed for building work at the moment, but it’s due to finish soon, so—’

‘I meant, had he been working there recently?’ asked Marion. ‘Before he died?’

‘Yes, actually,’ said Engilbert, scratching his head. ‘We had a bit of a problem with an inbound plane from America. Didn’t have room for it ourselves so they let us service it in the big hangar.’

‘What was wrong with it?’ asked Erlendur.