Арнальдур Индридасон - The Darkness Knows

‘Why did you summon me?’ Konrád asked now. ‘You have nothing to say. You’ve got absolutely nothing to offer but the same old crap.’

‘You’re the only one I can get through to. I know you. We sometimes used to talk about other stuff apart from bloody Sigurvin.’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘I thought we were friends.’

‘You were wrong about that.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so. We’re not friends and you know it. I have no idea what you’re trying to achieve but...’ Konrád broke off, seeing from Hjaltalín’s face that he’d hurt him.

‘You... you think you’re better than me?’ Hjaltalín croaked. ‘When you couldn’t even solve the simplest bloody cases.’

‘Look, let’s just call it a day. I hope you’re not in too much pain and that you recover your health. And I’m sorry to see you in such bad shape, but there’s nothing I can do for you. Sadly. So...’

‘Is that prick Leó still in the police?’

‘Leó?’ Konrád was wrong-footed. ‘Yes, why?’

‘He was an evil bastard. Did his best to break me down. Kept going on and on about me being a liar. Saying I was guilty.’

‘You called most of us evil bastards.’

‘Not you.’ Hjaltalín gave Konrád a long, searching look, his limpid blue eyes like oases in the desert of his haggard face. ‘I was thinking about your old man before you got here.’

‘You’re not seriously going to start on that again?’

‘They told me he was no angel. Remember? They said he was a real scumbag.’

Konrád smiled, determined not to rise to this. Hjaltalín had sometimes tried to drag his father into it when he was being interviewed at Sídumúli Prison. Someone had leaked the story to him, and after that Hjaltalín wouldn’t stop needling Konrád about it.

‘Nice how you’ve always taken such an interest in me,’ Konrád said drily.

‘You must have been shocked,’ Hjaltalín said. ‘It must have hit you hard. Were you close? Or was he a total shit like they said? The cops at Sídumúli, your mates — they said he used to knock your mother about. Is that true? Did you watch?’

Konrád didn’t answer.

‘They said he was a bastard.’

‘Don’t bother your head about him,’ Konrád said.

‘They said he probably deserved to be stabbed. Do you think he deserved it? Because of your mum?’

‘What are you trying to do, Hjaltalín?’

‘I’m hoping you’re not like him. I’m hoping you’re not a piece of shit like him.’

‘Right, I’m off,’ Konrád said, preparing to make a move. ‘I can’t be bothered to listen to this any more.’

‘What do you say to that, eh? Could anyone escape unscathed from contact with a man like him? From a background like that? Are you sure there isn’t a bit of him in you? A bit of a devil?’

‘Goodbye.’

‘You never found out who killed him, did you?’ Hjaltalín persevered. Clearly he had no intention of letting Konrád get off so lightly. ‘You must have been burning for revenge afterwards. So what happened when you got no answers? Did you lose interest? Didn’t it matter to you any more? Wasn’t he worth it? A lowlife scumbag like him.’

Konrád refused to let the other man’s needling get to him.

‘Was that it?’ Hjaltalín went on. ‘That he just wasn’t worth it?’

‘I’m going to hit the road,’ Konrád said. ‘You’re talking a load of shit like you always did.’

‘You’re my friend, Konrád. Oh, I know you deny it and you don’t want to be and you fight it, but you’re my only friend in this whole shitshow. You always were. You understand people like me; people like me and your dad. I’m not perfect, I admit it. But I didn’t kill Sigurvin. It wasn’t me!’

Exhausted by this speech, Hjaltalín sank down on the bed, but clearly he wasn’t finished with the subject of Konrád’s father, because he started asking again if Konrád had inherited his dad’s vicious side. In the end, Konrád had to repeat his threat of walking out. At that point, Hjaltalín relented.

‘I want to ask you to do something for me,’ he whispered. ‘In case I don’t have much time left. I want you to find the person who did it.’

‘They reckon they’ve found him.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ Hjaltalín repeated, his voice cracking with the strain. ‘I’d never go anywhere near a glacier, Konrád. Ask anyone. Never in a million years.’

‘You could have got someone else to do it for you,’ Konrád said. ‘Someone you’d dragged into the mess.’

Hjaltalín didn’t answer. The police hadn’t yet been able to establish whether Sigurvin had died in situ on the glacier or been dumped there after his death, though the former possibility was considered unlikely. Sigurvin hadn’t been known for his interest in the great outdoors or shown any enthusiasm for trips on the country’s ice caps, and no equipment had been found in his possession that pointed to that kind of hobby. Like many people in Reykjavík, he had owned a pair of skis but only used them on the slopes at Bláfjöll, just outside the city limits. He’d had a jeep too, but it wasn’t specially modified for travelling on ice, and he’d never owned a snowmobile. The alternative appeared much more likely: that Sigurvin’s body had been transported to the glacier after he was killed.

‘Why Langjökull?’ Konrád asked now. ‘Surely you could have found a better place if you wanted to get rid of him. Ice doesn’t destroy evidence, it preserves it. And it preserves bodies. I’ve seen Sigurvin. It’s like he’s been dead no time at all. The glacier didn’t destroy him — quite the reverse. It’s like time has stood still for thirty years.’

Hjaltalín smiled dully. ‘Please, will you do it for my sake?’

‘I’ve left the police,’ Konrád said. ‘I came here because you insisted and I was curious to see if you’d changed at all. But it was a total waste of my time.’

‘I want you to clear my name once and for all,’ Hjaltalín said, his voice so faint now that it was almost inaudible. ‘Can’t you see the state I’m in? Look at me! I want you to clear my name. Please! I didn’t lay a finger on him. You lot couldn’t pin it on me at the time and you can’t do it now either. I didn’t take him to the glacier. That was someone else. It wasn’t me.’ Hjaltalín reared up a little, his pale eyes fixed on Konrád. ‘It wasn’t me!’

‘Goodbye.’

‘If you ever find him, make him pay,’ Hjaltalín whispered, slumping down again. ‘Will you do that for me? Will you make him pay for what he’s done to me...?’

It was a relief to get back outside into the open air. Konrád had been filled with a growing sense of unease in the cell, and Hjaltalín’s sickly white face had done nothing to lessen it. He had delivered his report of their meeting to the waiting detectives, before leaving the building. Afterwards, he drove unhurriedly home, deciding to take the roundabout route via Selfoss rather than returning over the Threngsli pass. The weather was bright and sunny on the grassy lowlands around the River Ölfusá. But soon enough he was ascending the hairpin bends into the mountains again, passing the eternal columns of steam rising from the Hellisheidi geothermal power station, then on through the volcanic wastes until at last the city opened out below, surrounded on three sides by blue sea. Yet the landscape passed in a blur. All Konrád’s thoughts were taken up by the memory of his visit: the feeble voice, the stamp of death on Hjaltalín’s face, the reply of the prison officer when Konrád asked if Hjaltalín read the Bible.

‘Never seen him open it,’ the officer had said, in direct contradiction of Hjaltalín’s own claim. ‘He said it didn’t help.’