Arnaldur Indridason - Oblivion

‘Are you positive he didn’t tell you where he got the drugs from?’ asked Marion.

‘He wanted to keep me out of it. Said the less I knew, the better it would be for both of us. Kristvin could be very stubborn like that. I stopped asking and he never told me anything.’

‘I’m afraid that doesn’t sound very plausible to us,’ said Marion. ‘I hope you understand that.’

‘I’m not lying. It’s how he wanted it.’

‘One would have thought you’d have been anxious to know what kind of risks your brother was running by scoring drugs for you. You don’t seem like the type to let him hide things from you. Even if he was only acting in your interests.’

‘I don’t know what else to say. It’s up to you whether you believe me or not. I... I’m trying not to think about the fact that he might have... that it might have been my fault he died in such a terrible way.’

‘You must understand how vital it is that you tell us the absolute truth.’

‘I do. Of course I do.’

‘Did your brother ever mention working in one of the American hangars, Hangar 885?’ asked Erlendur.

‘Yes, he mentioned it from time to time,’ said Nanna, thinking back. ‘They could use the facilities there when they had a lot on. They had a bay or something, but they had to keep to it. It was a controlled area. The army kept planes in there that they weren’t allowed anywhere near. They steered clear of them or it would have jeopardised Icelandair’s relations with the military. Nobody wanted that.’

‘So he didn’t snoop around at all?’

‘No... that is...’

‘What?’

‘No, I don’t suppose it’s relevant, it’s... it must have been about a year ago...’

‘What?’

‘There’s a man I used to know, a journalist,’ said Nanna, and from her expression it was clear she was reluctant to speak of him. ‘He and Kristvin were mates — at least until we split up. He was my boyfriend. A bit of a jerk, really. Rúdólf. He...’ Nanna shook her head.

‘What?’ prompted Marion.

‘It was my fault for getting into such a rubbish relationship. I didn’t see it until too late.’

‘What didn’t you see?’ asked Erlendur.

‘What a little shit he was. He made a quick exit when he heard about my cancer. I don’t know what I saw in him. We met at a disco and... anyway... His name’s Rúdólf, did I already mention that?’

Marion nodded.

‘He asked Kristvin to look into some business on the base for him. In that hangar, if I’m remembering this right. There was some airline Rúdólf wanted information about.’

‘Which airline?’

‘I’ve forgotten.’

‘Northern Cargo Transport?’ suggested Erlendur.

‘Something like that, yes, I’m not sure. Northern Cargo Transport. That sort of name. Rúdólf wanted Kristvin to take pictures for him and do a bit of digging around. But that was, you know, about a year ago, so I don’t think... Is it likely to be relevant at all?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Marion. ‘We may need to speak to this Rúdólf.’

‘Please don’t let on that I gave you his name. There’s no need, is there? I’d managed to wipe him from my memory. Completely. Oh God, he might start ringing again.’

‘We won’t say a word,’ promised Erlendur. ‘Do you know what he was after — Rúdólf, I mean?’

‘No. He was curious about this airline. I think Kristvin had mentioned it. That it was a bit fishy. Rúdólf thought there might be a story in it. Offered to get him a camera and everything.’

‘In what way fishy?’

‘I don’t know. But I don’t think Kristvin did anything about it. He was shit-scared of losing his job if he did what Rúdólf wanted, though that didn’t stop Rúdólf bugging him about it. Saw himself as some kind of... hotshot reporter — what do they call it?’

‘Investigative journalist?’

‘That’s it,’ said Nanna. ‘The pathetic little creep.’

‘Is it possible that your brother was in trouble because he owed money to someone on the base?’ asked Erlendur. ‘Did he ever drop any hints to that effect?’

‘No.’

‘There’s another matter we wanted to ask you about, regarding your brother’s activities on the base,’ said Marion.

‘Oh?’

‘I don’t know if you’re aware, at least you haven’t told us...’

‘Of what?’

‘Vernhardur reckons Kristvin had a woman there.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Do you know anything about that?’

‘A woman? No.’

‘Your brother didn’t go into any details but that was the impression he gave Vernhardur,’ said Erlendur.

‘Then it must have been very recent,’ said Nanna. ‘Or he’d have told me.’

‘Not necessarily that recent,’ said Marion. ‘Vernhardur found out, or at least your brother hinted as much, some time ago, when Kristvin accidentally mixed him up in one of his smuggling trips.’

‘Who’s the woman?’

‘She’s married, apparently,’ said Marion.

‘Married? No... no way. Really?’

‘So you didn’t know?’

‘No. Not a thing. This is the first I’ve heard of it. Married?’

‘To a member of the Defense Force,’ said Marion. ‘An American serviceman.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

‘Perhaps it was over straight away,’ said Erlendur, seeing how much the news had upset Nanna. ‘Just a quick fling he didn’t think it worth telling you about.’

Erlendur seemed to be going out of his way to excuse her brother and soften the blow. Marion wondered if it was a good or bad quality in a policeman to let oneself become involved in a case like this.

‘Anyway,’ intervened Marion, ‘it’s possible that the husband, this soldier, had a bone to pick with your brother.’

‘I just had no idea.’

‘No,’ said Marion. ‘Maybe there was more to your brother than met the eye.’

The following morning Marion tried to get hold of Caroline Murphy. She had given them her phone number at military police headquarters and Marion rang it several times without success. Meanwhile Erlendur was on the trail of Rúdólf. Nanna thought he had moved recently but didn’t know where. There was no reporter with that name listed in the phone book, so the obvious course was to ring the Association of Journalists. There Erlendur learned that Rúdólf was not at present employed, either by a paper or broadcaster. He had lost his job on an evening paper some time ago. The person who answered the phone was unable to divulge the reason, stating only that it was private, but gave Erlendur Rúdólf’s address and telephone number. He rang the number, only to discover that it had been disconnected.

Shortly before lunchtime Erlendur and Marion knocked on the door of a small basement flat. It was on Öldugata, in the west of town, in a rather dilapidated corrugated-iron-clad house that had once in its heyday been painted red. Little remained but flaking patches of colour, and the frames of the single-glazed windows were rotten from battling the elements without any help from the owners. A chimney poked up from the roof with a television aerial attached. The wire ran down to the first floor. From there another ran down to Rúdólf’s flat.

Erlendur rapped a second and a third time before finally he heard a noise and a man appeared in the doorway, still bleary-eyed with sleep. He looked as if he had stepped straight out of bed, standing there in nothing but his underpants and a duvet wrapped round his shoulders, below which protruded spindly legs and bare feet, with an ugly case of athlete’s foot on both big toes, Erlendur noticed.

‘What... what’s all this noise in aid of?’

‘Are you Rúdólf?’ asked Erlendur.