Arnaldur Indridason - Oblivion

‘You people don’t much care for us being here, do you?’ he said.

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Marion. ‘Depends who you ask.’

Martinez nodded and said that when he first arrived here, he had soon learned that many Icelanders were opposed to the American presence in Iceland and that the issue split the nation down the middle. The military zone was securely fenced off and communications with the locals were kept to a minimum. But a large number of Icelandic civilians worked inside the area during the day, since all construction and maintenance projects on the site, from the building of accommodation or hangars to the upkeep of roads, were in the hands of Icelandic entrepreneurs who had no scruples about lining their pockets at the military’s expense. Martinez said he couldn’t get his head round the double standards.

‘People here disapprove of the military and find fault with everything it does but somehow it’s OK to make money out of it,’ he said, lighting a cigarette.

Marion had no answer to this.

‘Hey, I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole,’ Martinez added. ‘Sorry. I’m quitting the marines when I finish my tour over here. Going home to New Mexico. It’s about time. Want another beer? I’ll get this one.’

He was back at the bar before Marion could respond and returned with two beers.

‘You don’t happen to know a man who used to drink here, an Icelander called Kristvin?’ asked Marion. ‘He worked on the base. Flight mechanic.’

‘Who’s he? Is he the man who was murdered?’

‘We don’t know if he was murdered,’ said Marion. ‘Do you remember him in here? He was known as Kris.’

‘Kris? No, I don’t recall anyone by that name. How did he die?’

‘We don’t know the circumstances,’ said Marion. ‘We’re trying to piece them together and find out who he associated with on the base, what he did here and what he was working on before he died. It’s just part of our routine investigation. Caroline’s working with us because the military police need to be kept in the picture.’

‘I see.’

‘There’s another thing. I don’t know how to put this so I’ll just ask you straight out. If I wanted to score marijuana here, who would I go to?’

‘Marijuana?’ repeated Martinez warily.

‘I’m not trying to insinuate that you or anyone else in here’s involved in dealing.’

‘I don’t know. Was your man mixed up in that?’

‘Possibly. These are the kinds of questions we’re grappling with, you see, and we hardly know where to begin. We know so little about the set-up here. If I were an Icelander who purchased drugs regularly from someone on the base, who would I be dealing with? Enlisted men? Officers? Pilots? Where would the deal take place? At their homes? In a public place? Say I owe someone money and I’m in trouble because I can’t pay up. Do you have any idea who might be after me in a situation like that?’

Marion ploughed on with the questions, though Martinez was clearly ill at ease.

‘I’m not the right man to help you with this,’ he said cautiously. ‘I’m not into that scene.’

‘How about Wilbur Cain?’ asked Marion. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Never heard of him,’ said Martinez. ‘Wilbur Cain? Who’s he?’

Marion could only reply that the investigation was focusing on this bar because the Icelander used to drink here and that the name Wilbur Cain had cropped up in connection with Kristvin, but so far they had failed to track the man down. Martinez listened attentively.

‘There’s a woman who works here, Joan. Maybe you should ask her about the dope,’ he muttered in a low voice.

‘Joan? Who works here?’

‘I shouldn’t... Is Caroline in some kind of danger?’ asked Martinez.

‘Hopefully no more than you’d expect in her line of work,’ said Marion, worried now about having gone too far and blurted out too much information in a soldiers’ bar.

‘The thing is, she didn’t turn up to bowling practice this evening,’ said Martinez. ‘I called her at home but no one answered. Then you show up and say you’re waiting for her. I’m getting kind of worried. That’s all.’

‘What about Joan? Can she supply drugs?’

‘I know her husband does. But you didn’t hear that from me.’

‘Does he sell to Icelanders?’

‘That’s what I heard. She works here and people gossip, you know how it is. I don’t like to spread rumours but if it might help Caroline...?’

‘Don’t worry about Caroline,’ said Marion. ‘Have you any idea where I might find her?’

‘No, she’s kind of reticent, doesn’t talk about herself much.’

‘Is she happy here?’

‘Yes, I think so. Plenty of people are. In spite of the weather.’ Martinez grinned. ‘Actually, she told me she goes to the movies a lot. I think there’s something going on between her and Bill. Or that’s what a little bird told me recently.’

‘Bill?’

‘He runs the movie theatre.’

‘The movie theatre? You mean the Andrews cinema?’

‘Yes. It’s the only one on the base.’

Having thanked Martinez for the beer, Marion left the bar, got back in the car and headed for the cinema. Taking out the scrap of paper with the phone number Caroline had given them that had turned out to be for Andrews, Marion wondered if she had in fact been directing them there all along.

Marion was now assailed by doubts, by the fear of having revealed too much at the bar. Had mentioning Wilbur Cain by name been a mistake? On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to make their presence felt and shake people up a bit. Perhaps word would get back to Cain that a detective had been asking questions about him. How would he react? Make a run for it? Leave the country? The Icelandic police were powerless to prevent him, Marion thought. The Americans could do what they liked in the military zone.

‘They can throw us off the base any time they want,’ Marion muttered aloud in the car, then caught sight of the Andrews cinema ahead.

Rósanna was a single mother of three, who lived in a basement flat in the Laugarnes area. A flight of stairs led down to the front door, and Erlendur was on the bottom step when the door flew open and the eldest boy, who had answered the phone earlier, appeared, took one look at Erlendur and yelled to his mother as he shot past and up the steps: ‘That old bloke’s here.’

Erlendur was disconcerted. Never, to his knowledge, had he been described as an old bloke before; he was only thirty-three. He watched the boy’s retreating figure, wondering if that was how he looked to him. When he turned back, Rósanna had come to the door. She was quite short, looked careworn, and was regarding Erlendur with an enquiring expression.

‘I expected you to be older,’ she said.

‘Ah, is that... was that your son?’

‘Is there someone else with you?’

‘What? No, I’m alone.’

He saw that she was trying to suppress a smile. She invited him in, apologising for the mess. She’d been working late and had had no time for housework all week. ‘The kids don’t lift a finger,’ she added. Erlendur said he quite understood and they chatted for a while, mostly about her friends at the Women’s College and what had become of them. This led her to talk about herself and what she had been up to in the intervening years. She was not in the least shy, took a matter-of-fact view of her circumstances and had not an ounce of self-pity. She ran a small shop near the top of Skólavördustígur which stocked a variety of health foods, though she said that business was slow. The Icelanders were only interested in red meat and stodgy sauces but she had taken a gamble on health food being the future. Erlendur admitted that he ate little but fatty meat in gravy and fermented fish with melted dripping, but pretended to be interested in improving his diet. This provoked another smile.