Arnaldur Indridason - Oblivion

‘I don’t suppose you remember me but we spoke several years ago about a homeless man who was found in the old peat diggings in Kringlumýri.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, does that ring any bells?’

‘You mean... do you mean Hannibal?’

‘Yes, Hannibal.’

‘Didn’t someone drown him?’

‘Yes, that’s right. A nasty business. Feel like a coffee or a bite to eat inside? Warm up a bit?’

Vilhelm subjected Erlendur to a suspicious, magnified gaze.

‘What... what do you want from me?’

‘I want a chat about the old days,’ said Erlendur.

‘The old days? What do you mean?’

‘I want to talk to you about Camp Knox,’ said Erlendur. ‘I know you grew up there and I wanted to ask a few questions about the old barracks neighbourhood.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Vilhelm. ‘Like anyone’s interested in Camp Knox. Who cares about Camp Knox nowadays?’

‘I had a chat with your mother — with Baldvina — the other day. She told me about life in the camp. Said you might be able to help me.’

‘You spoke to my mother? Why the hell would you do that? What did you want? What did you have to go and do that for?’

‘I’m gathering information. I’ve spoken to her and various other people and now I’d like to sit down for a chat with you. It won’t take long.’

‘I don’t know... I wouldn’t mind a coffee but I doubt I can help you with anything to do with the camp. I’ve forgotten all that, not that there was anything to remember. Nothing you’d want to remember.’

Erlendur escorted him into the bus station cafe and chose a table as far from the other customers as possible since Vilhelm gave off a foul odour that came into its own indoors. He was wearing rubber waders laced up his calves, a coat tied around him with a belt, and several layers of jumpers. Erlendur had read descriptions of the old vagrants who used to tramp the Icelandic countryside, travelling from farm to farm, often welcome visitors for the news they carried which livened up the monotony of life. Vilhelm reminded him of these old gentlemen of the road.

‘How is she then?’ Vilhelm asked when Erlendur returned with a large mug of coffee and a tasty-looking Danish pastry which he placed before him. There was a chaser of brennivín that Vilhelm had asked him to buy. Vilhelm downed it in one and wiped his mouth.

‘Who?’

‘Thought you said you’d talked to my old mum.’

‘Oh, yes. I had a good chat with her. She’s a tough old bird,’ said Erlendur.

‘Yes, she always knew how to fend for herself,’ said Vilhelm. ‘I haven’t... haven’t been to see her in ages.’

‘You should go round,’ said Erlendur.

‘It’s coming back to me now,’ said Vilhelm. ‘You’re a cop, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Erlendur. ‘That’s right.’

‘What does a cop want with Camp Knox? I thought everyone’d forgotten about that shithole.’

‘I don’t know if you recall but back when you were living there with your mother, a young girl, a pupil at the Women’s College, went missing on her way to school and was never found. Her name was Dagbjört and her route to school in the mornings passed by the camp. There was a rumour she knew a boy who lived in the huts but he never came forward and in spite of inquiries he was never found. Baldvina told me you might know about a boy who moved out of the camp at around the same time. His mother was called Stella.’

While Erlendur was speaking, Vilhelm sipped his hot coffee impassively. Then he extracted a dirty rag from his coat, wrapped the Danish pastry in it and returned it to his pocket. Saving it for later, no doubt.

‘So what if he moved out?’ said Vilhelm. ‘Nothing odd about that, is there?’

‘Do you know why he left?’

‘People moved out of Camp Knox because they’d found something better, I can tell you that for nothing. From there you could only move up in the world.’

‘Do you remember Dagbjört’s disappearance?’

‘Yes, I do, as it happens,’ said Vilhelm.

‘And Stella’s son?’

‘Stella had three sons,’ said Vilhelm, brushing his hand over the shot glass. ‘One drowned in Skerjafjördur. He was only thirteen. Fell in the sea. His name was Tobbi. Bloody good lad. Used to play together all the time. Same age as me. He was an ace footballer. That was before the thing you’re talking about. Then there was Haraldur, known as Halli. Couldn’t swear to it, but I think he became a baker. At least he used to talk about it enough and he was a fat bastard, always stuffing his face — I’ve never known anyone as cunning at shoplifting from bakeries. Haven’t seen him for donkey’s years. Then there was the eldest. I didn’t know him as well. They used to call him Silli, and you’re quite right, he moved away. I think it was to somewhere out of town.’

‘Any idea what his full name was?’

‘Sigurlás.’

‘Were they full brothers? Do you know who their father was?’

‘Stella was a single mother. Tobbi and Halli shared the same dad, far as I can remember. Silli was their half-brother. Had a different dad. Don’t know who he was, though.’

‘You don’t know what became of Silli? Or why he left Camp Knox right around then?’

‘No. Never heard any particular reason. People were generally keen to clear out of there as soon as they could.’

The heavy glasses had slipped down Vilhelm’s nose. He pushed them up again and fixed the domed lenses on Erlendur.

‘Why are you asking about that girl now?’ he asked.

‘Her aunt’s still looking for her.’

‘Isn’t that a lost cause?’

‘They know she can’t still be alive, if that’s what you mean. They just want to try and solve the mystery of why she vanished.’

‘But why now? Is there some new evidence?’

‘No, it’s just that time’s passing and soon it’ll be too late. What did the residents of the camp think of the search? Did they know Dagbjört? Did they know about the lad she was supposedly seeing?’

‘I remember that lots of them took part in the search and it was talked about at the time, but I don’t think the camp people felt it had anything to do with them. Or that any of them were likely to have harmed her. At least I don’t recall any mention of it. I’m not sure anybody knew her.’

‘Was it unusual for a lad from the camp to get involved with a girl from outside?’

‘How should I know?’ said Vilhelm. ‘We were no worse than anyone else. Don’t think that. Prejudice is prejudice, whichever way you look at it. OK, there were a few ugly customers around like anywhere else, I’m not trying to make excuses for that, but on the whole we were no worse than other people. I never knew a harder-working woman than my mother.’

Vilhelm nudged the shot glass meaningfully towards Erlendur.

‘How’s she doing, by the way?’

‘She said a lot of people went off the rails. But that it was the children who always came off worst.’

‘Did she talk about me at all?’ asked Vilhelm. ‘Did she mention my name? I haven’t seen her in ever such a long time.’

‘I got the impression it was you she was talking about,’ said Erlendur carefully, taking hold of the shot glass.

Vilhelm gave Erlendur a long look, then rose to his feet, saying he couldn’t hang about any longer, he had to be off. He was sorry he couldn’t help, he added, then knotted his coat more tightly around himself and said goodbye. Erlendur pursued him to the door of the cafe.

‘Thanks for agreeing to talk to me,’ he said.

‘No problem.’

‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

‘Offend me? I’m not offended. Don’t know what you’re on about. So long.’

‘Just a minute, Vilhelm, one last thing. Did you know where Dagbjört lived?’