Arnaldur Indridason - Oblivion

‘What exactly did he say? And stop trying to meddle in my private life.’

‘He reckoned Earl was supplying drugs to Icelanders,’ said Marion. ‘What if Kristvin bought the marijuana from him?’

‘And slept with his wife?’

‘Hadn’t we better have another word with her?’

‘Yes. Bitch though she is.’

‘What about the weapons? Ought we to take a quick look round while we’re here? See if we can find anything from Greenland? From Thule?’

‘I very much doubt they’d be stored in here if they’re trying to cover up their presence,’ whispered Caroline, starting to move towards the door. ‘Far too many people coming and going. They could be anywhere on the base. Come on, we need to get the hell out of here.’

Mensalder stood in the lee of the garage shop and stole a nervous look at Erlendur. He had finally revealed the secret he had not dared to breathe a word about for more than a quarter of a century.

‘She never showed up,’ he repeated, as if it was vital to make this understood. The most vital aspect of the whole story.

Erlendur could see how difficult this was for him, how he stood, shoulders bowed, by the wall, hardly daring to raise his eyes from the tarmac. The other attendant appeared round the corner.

‘Mensi!’ he called in a hectoring tone. ‘Hurry up and serve these customers. I can’t do everything.’ He glared at them both, then disappeared back into the shop.

‘Coming,’ said Mensalder wearily, eyes flickering to Erlendur’s face, then away again. ‘You’ve got to believe me. She never showed up.’

‘When do you knock off?’ asked Erlendur.

‘In an hour or so.’

‘I’ll stick around,’ said Erlendur. ‘I need you to show me where you waited for her. Will you do that?’

Mensalder nodded and looked over at the pumps. Three cars were waiting to be served.

‘I didn’t touch her,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t think I did.’

‘I’ll talk to you in an hour.’

Erlendur got back in his car to wait for the garage to close up. He switched on the heater, chilled to the bone from running about after Mensalder in the icy northern blast, and listened to the radio news. The search for the missing men up north continued. A spokesman for the rescue team was quoted as saying that conditions on the Eyvindarstadir Moors were much improved. The snow had drifted over any tracks so it was difficult to guess where the two friends had gone, but now at least the wind had dropped and there was a bright moon.

Erlendur watched Mensalder dealing with the cars. His movements seemed even more ponderous than before, he no longer exchanged pleasantries with the drivers, and carefully avoided looking in Erlendur’s direction. As closing time approached, the traffic thinned out and eventually the lights by the pumps went out and Erlendur saw Mensalder’s colleague shutting up for the night. The two men emerged from the garage shop together and said goodnight, and after a brief hesitation Mensalder headed over to where Erlendur was sitting in the car. Erlendur wound down the window.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘Do we have to do this?’ said Mensalder. ‘Haven’t I told you enough?’

‘You haven’t told me anything,’ said Erlendur. ‘Let’s get this over with. The sooner the better.’

‘But nothing happened and... I don’t know what it is you want,’ whimpered Mensalder. ‘She never came and I don’t know—’

‘Have you got a car?’

‘Yes.’

‘Leave it here. Come on, hurry up. You’re not getting out of this, Mensalder. You’ve done that for far too long.’

Mensalder still hung back. But when it finally came home to him that Erlendur was not planning to give up, he walked round the front of the car and got into the passenger seat. Erlendur set off, heading for the west of town. They drove in silence the whole way, except when Mensalder gave directions, and in no time they had reached the place where he claimed to have waited in his car for Dagbjört that fateful morning. It wasn’t far from the Vesturbær swimming pool, where Camp Knox had once stood. The wind had dropped and hot veils of steam rose from the open-air pool, reminding Erlendur of the time he had stood beside the milky-blue lagoon on Reykjanes, watching the clouds of vapour dispersing above the power station.

‘Stop,’ said Mensalder. ‘It was around about here. All these houses have been built since then, and the pool too, of course, but this is where I parked and waited for her.’

‘Why didn’t you just go round to her house?’ asked Erlendur, turning off the engine. ‘Why all the secrecy?’

‘She didn’t want me to. She didn’t want her parents to know — that she was wasting money on records. She was going to say she’d borrowed them. Anyway, what I was doing was black-marketeering and I wasn’t keen to draw attention to the fact. I’d spent the night in town and was on my way back to Keflavík that morning, so it suited me fine.’

‘Did she suggest this spot?’

‘Yes, I think... from what I can remember.’

‘Tell me what happened.’

Mensalder was still wearing his petrol-station jacket but had taken down the hood and removed his baseball cap, and Erlendur now saw that he looked much older than his years. It was the drooping cheeks and greying hair but most of all the deep creases around his mouth and eyes that created this impression. Mensalder lowered his gaze and rubbed his hands as he told again how he had needed the records back urgently because he had promised them to someone else, and that Rósanna had suggested he fetch them himself from her friend Dagbjört; she was sure it would be OK. So he had gone to her house and picked them up and had a quick chat with Dagbjört. She was alone at home and asked if he would be able to get her some records. She wanted American jeans too, if he came across any. She told him her size. But mainly it was the latest hits she was after. He remembered well the artists she mentioned: Billie Holiday, Nat King Cole, Frankie Laine.

Not long afterwards he had acquired two Billie Holiday records from a corporal he sometimes did business with, and a Frankie Laine from one of the army stores. He’d had less success with the jeans. He had taken his dollars to the shops on the base and found a pair that were slightly larger than Dagbjört wanted. Although the size was wrong, he had taken them anyway as he knew he could easily find another buyer in town. At the same time he had bought a nice coat as a birthday present for his mother.

Dagbjört had given him her number and answered the phone herself when he rang. He said he could drop by her house that evening but it turned out she was busy, and besides, would prefer to keep their dealings away from home. When he said he had to return to the base early next morning, she asked if she could meet him outside the Women’s College. He felt this would be a bit too conspicuous, so they agreed to meet closer to her house, near Camp Knox, and that he would give her a lift the rest of the way to school.

He had arrived earlier than intended and parked the Morris as arranged, in a spot which at the time had been slightly off the beaten track. Nowadays, of course, it was surrounded by houses. He had the records with him, and the jeans as well, even though they were the wrong size. He meant to offer them to Rósanna if Dagbjört rejected them.

Time passed and there was no sign of Dagbjört. He thought back over their conversation in case he had misunderstood her or was waiting in the wrong place. He didn’t know the area very well as he had grown up in the east of town, but her directions had been so straightforward and clear that he was sure this was the spot. Fifteen minutes after the appointed time, he started the Morris and drove away.