Arnaldur Indridason - Oblivion

‘A serviceman, you mean?’

Erlendur shrugged. ‘Don’t forget the international airport’s located in the military zone. Our man could have flown in from anywhere in the world. We can’t take it for granted he’s an Icelander. And we can’t be certain he wasn’t thrown out of a plane over the lagoon. A plane from a domestic airport like Reykjavík. Though it could equally have come from the base.’

‘Where are you going with this?’ asked Marion.

‘Maybe we should start by checking all flights over the area in the last few days. We’re probably talking light aircraft. The question is, should we submit a request to the base as well and find out if the Defense Force are missing one of their men?’

‘On the basis of the cowboy boots?’

‘All his clothes — nearly all of them — had American labels. Though of course most of them could have been bought in Reykjavík, so that doesn’t tell us much per se.’

‘No. What else do we have?’

‘The proximity to the base.’

‘So you want to link the American clothing to the naval base and conclude from this that we’re dealing with a soldier? Isn’t it a bit of a long shot?’

‘Maybe,’ said Erlendur. ‘But when you take into account the clothing and the proximity, it hardly seems unreasonable to send an inquiry to the military authorities. If the man had been found on the other side of the country in Raufarhöfn, I wouldn’t be considering this angle. But it might just turn out that the army are missing one of their men.’

‘They’re under no obligation to inform us if so.’

‘But at least we’d have checked the possibility.’

‘Won’t they have heard about the discovery of the body by now?’

‘Presumably.’

‘Surely they’d have got in touch if they suspected he was one of theirs?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Erlendur. ‘I don’t know how their minds work. Seems to me that lot go their own sweet way without taking too much notice of us.’

‘ That lot ? Are you opposed to the army?’

‘Is that relevant?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Marion. ‘Are you?’

‘I’ve always been opposed to the army,’ said Erlendur.

He was standing in a stiff northerly breeze near the place where Camp Knox used to be during the Second World War, when the country was occupied, first by the British, then by the Americans. The site was now buried beneath the Vesturbær swimming pool and other buildings, mostly residential. Nothing remained of the old army barracks. Named after Frank Knox, the then US Secretary of the Navy, and originally serving as the American naval operating base in Iceland, Camp Knox had been one of the largest of the eighty such camps constructed in and around Reykjavík during the Allied occupation. The camps had all gone now, though they had enjoyed a remarkable afterlife as a solution to the post-war housing shortage. Once the soldiers had departed, Icelanders from the countryside had moved in their droves into the prefab Quonset and Nissen huts with their curving roofs and walls; in their heyday as many as three thousand people had lived in the former camps.

Erlendur remembered the last gasp of these barracks slums. They had been slowly but surely coming to the end of their existence when he first moved to the city. He remembered Múli Camp and another big one on Skólavörduholt near the modern town centre. There he had encountered the worst poverty he had ever seen. The huts, which were constructed from corrugated iron, flimsy fibreboard and even cardboard, had never been intended as civilian housing and offered hopelessly inadequate protection against the Icelandic climate. Drainage and sewage disposal were primitive at best, rat infestations were endemic, and although plenty of decent, respectable people lived there, the camps were notorious for their grim conditions and colourful occupants. The residents were sneeringly referred to as ‘Campies’ and said to stink of the camp.

If the police report was to be believed, the girl’s route to school in the mornings would have passed the old barracks. During the search for her, particular stress had been laid on finding out if she had entered the camp. A number of the huts were searched, along with the ramshackle sheds and lean-tos they had spawned, and the residents were questioned about whether they had seen the girl. Many of them assisted in the search. But this proved no more successful than any of the other efforts to find her.

The reason Camp Knox had been subjected to particular scrutiny was that, shortly before she went missing, the girl had confided in a friend that she had met a boy from the camp, and the friend had interpreted her words as meaning that she had fallen for him.

The boy’s identity never came to light.

It was past midnight and Marion Briem had fallen asleep on the office sofa when the desk phone suddenly started ringing. All the other staff had gone home and the shrill sound repeatedly shattered the deep silence in the building. Marion awoke, rose from the sofa and snatched up the receiver.

‘What the hell? What time is it?’

‘Marion?’

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry... is it very late?’

It was the pathologist. Marion sat down at the desk, checking the clock.

‘Couldn’t it wait till morning?’

‘What, oh, yes, of course,’ said the pathologist. It was well known that Marion liked to nap on the office sofa and would sometimes spend the night there. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. What time is it anyway?’

‘Twelve minutes past midnight.’

‘Oh, that late? Sorry, I didn’t realise. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I should be off home myself. I am sorry, I had no idea how late it was.’

Marion knew that the pathologist, Herbert, had lost his wife several years ago and now lived alone. They’d had no children, and once she was gone, he had only an empty house to return to. It didn’t cross his mind to try and meet another woman. Marion had once raised the possibility with him when they were down at the morgue but his reaction had been lukewarm.

‘What’s up?’ asked Marion, feeling more awake. ‘Any news?’

‘Hadn’t we better leave it till tomorrow?’

‘No, come on, out with it. You’ve woken me up now. The damage is done.’

‘He bit his nails.’

‘The man from the lagoon?’

‘Bit them down to the cuticles. Probably an old habit from childhood. That doesn’t help us, unfortunately.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, we might have been able to find some residual traces under his nails — if he’d been in a fight, for example.’

‘Ah, I’m with you.’

‘I get the impression he worked with his hands. Did some job involving a workshop. The lagoon cleaned them to some extent but I found traces of dirt, grease and oil around his fingernails, or what’s left of them. It’s all I can think of. A garage. Machine shop. Something along those lines.’

‘Grease?’

‘Yes, and it’s not just the dirt.’

The pathologist explained to Marion that he’d noticed the man’s hands were covered in small cuts or abrasions, old and new, as well as being calloused from manual labour. He recognised the signs since his own brothers were both mechanics. It was this that had led him to suspect that the body was that of a tradesman or labourer. He was no more than thirty-five years old and enough of his teeth were still intact for them to be compared to dental records if he couldn’t be identified by other means.

‘Do you think the lagoon was supposed to conceal this?’ asked Marion. ‘The dirt on his hands? The small cuts?’

‘I think the lagoon was intended to conceal his body, that’s all. But of course it’s not my place to express an opinion.’