Arnaldur Indridason - Oblivion

‘Why do you ask — was he thrown out of a plane or something?’

The man said it half jokingly. So far no details had leaked out about the state of the body or police speculation that the multiple fractures and unrecognisable face were the result of a fall from a great height. When Erlendur merely shrugged and gave no answer, the man stared at them both in disbelief.

‘Was he seriously thrown out of a plane?’ he exclaimed.

‘We have no evidence of that,’ said Marion.

‘But you’re considering the possibility?’

‘No, we’re not,’ said Erlendur firmly.

‘What made you think he might have worked for us?’

‘We may be talking about a manual worker of some kind, and given that he was found on your doorstep, it was only natural to enquire about your staff. You say you’re not missing anyone, but what about men who used to work for you? Have you had any trouble over the last few months or year? Anyone been given the sack? Anyone issued threats? Any tensions you can recall?’

‘No, I can’t remember any problems of that sort,’ said the man.

The diver reared up out of the water. Steam poured off him and he resembled some creature of the swamp as he waded towards them, his shape distorted by the oxygen tank and mask. He took out his mouthpiece when he reached the shore where they were standing.

‘I quit,’ he said. ‘I can’t find a thing in that bloody muck.’

‘Difficult to see?’ said Marion.

‘Difficult? It’s like diving in soup’

‘What’s the matter with him?’ interrupted Erlendur, his attention distracted by the sight of a uniformed officer hastening over the lava field towards them.

The officer and his partner had been sitting in a patrol car on the Grindavík road, guarding the crime scene, when they received an urgent alert over the radio, and had tossed a coin to decide who should abandon the warm interior and dash over to the lagoon with the message. He had lost.

Marion and Erlendur watched him scrambling over the jumbled rocks, and wondered what was up. The diver, who had started peeling off his wetsuit, stopped to follow what was going on.

‘What now?’ he said.

‘They want to talk to you!’ shouted the officer breathlessly when he was finally within earshot, gesturing to the patrol car up by the road.

‘What’s he bawling about?’ asked Marion.

‘Sounds like someone wants to talk to us,’ said Erlendur.

‘A woman rang in,’ called the officer, panting. ‘Her... brother’s missing and she thinks he might be... might be your man.’

The woman who stepped hesitantly into the morgue on Barónsstígur looked somewhat younger than her brother, in her late twenties perhaps. Observing her dismay, Erlendur reassured her that it was all right; she need do nothing that would distress or be too much for her. They could leave whenever she wanted to and she needn’t identify her brother unless she felt up to it. Others could do that now that the police had such a solid lead. She said she had never been here before and Erlendur replied that it was hardly surprising since most people only entered a morgue once and by then they were past caring. She was very grave but smiled faintly at this and he was relieved that his attempt to lighten her mood had not backfired. She had never seen a dead body before either. Erlendur did his best to warn her, since identifying her brother in his present state was bound to be a harrowing experience. But she was resolute, keen to know as soon as possible whether her fears had any basis in fact, desperately hoping they hadn’t. Marion, who was with them, stayed in the background.

They had already had a conversation at her flat. Nanna had phoned the police that lunchtime after failing to get hold of her brother for the past three days. She had seen the news about the body at Svartsengi but had not connected it to her brother until suddenly she started awake in the middle of the night with the thought: what if it’s him? She hadn’t slept a wink after that and had spent all morning plucking up courage to speak to the police. She had assumed she would have to come down to the station but was asked to wait in for the officers who would be round to see her shortly. A note was taken of her name, address and phone number. The police took her call very seriously: it was their first serious lead.

Nanna turned out to live in a comfortable basement flat in the Melar district in the west of town. She told them she had moved in after splitting up with the man she’d been living with, and that she was very happy here. She was petite and pretty, with short black hair. She wouldn’t have mentioned her recent break-up only she wanted to explain how kind her brother had been to her throughout the wretched business. He had helped her find a new place and make a fresh start.

‘There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me,’ she said, her gaze swinging from Marion to Erlendur as they sat facing her in the small sitting room. She had shown them a recent photograph of her brother. They could see at once that it was the man from the lagoon but kept the knowledge to themselves.

Her brother’s name, she told them, was Kristvin, and in a low, hesitant voice she began to go over the salient facts about him. He lived in Reykjavík but worked out at Keflavík. He was an air mechanic and two years ago, after completing his training in America, he had been taken on by Icelandair. He was unmarried, had no children and not many friends either; he had become a bit of a loner since returning home from abroad. He told her he had lost touch with most of his old mates while he was away. They didn’t have much family either: their mother was dead and their father had had little contact with them since he remarried and moved to Denmark.

‘When did you last hear from your brother?’ asked Marion.

‘About four days ago,’ answered Nanna. ‘He came over and we had a meal together.’

‘And was he his usual self?’

‘Yes, he was. He didn’t act any differently from normal.’

‘Do you see much of each other?’ asked Erlendur.

‘Yes, that’s the thing. We talk pretty much every day. He rings me or I ring him and we meet at his place or mine, or go to the cinema, that kind of thing. I tried to get hold of him — er — the day after he came round. Just rang him at home as usual but he didn’t answer. So I tried him again next day and then the next — rang several times — but he never answered. We’d arranged to meet up yesterday. The idea was that I’d go to his, then we’d maybe see a film. But when I went round he didn’t answer the bell. I have a spare key in case he locks himself out and I took it with me because I hadn’t heard from him and was worried he might be ill or something. So I went inside but there was nobody there. The flat smelt musty as if he hadn’t been home for a while. His bed wasn’t made, but that was nothing new. I opened the windows to air the place, then went home, feeling worried. Really worried, to be honest.’

‘Did you try him at work?’ asked Erlendur.

‘Yes, yesterday, before I went round to his flat. I phoned and they told me he hadn’t shown up at work for two days and they hadn’t heard from him. They said they’d called him at home but got no answer. They wanted me to tell him to get in touch if I heard from him.’

She drew a deep breath.

‘Then I saw the news about the body on Reykjanes but it didn’t cross my mind to connect it with him. They were treating it as murder and it didn’t occur to me that Kristvin could have... could have died like that. It was just too surreal. Perhaps I was subconsciously afraid, though, because I slept badly last night, then woke up suddenly, thinking it must be him. It had to be my brother, Kristvin.’