Arnaldur Indridason - Black Skies

Just before he fell asleep, Sigurdur Óli remembered that a man had been asking for him again down at the station. He had appeared around supper time and the duty officer had recognised him, though the man had obstinately refused to reveal his name or business. From what the officer could recall, the man’s name was Andrés and he used to be a regular among the Reykjavík down-and-outs, picked up by the police at various times for theft and affray.

He had not prepared himself with any great thoroughness, nor did he know exactly how he would go about it, only that the timing had to be right. He had some idea of what he wanted to achieve by the attack but none at all about how he was going to manage it. In the end it was the hatred, so long impotent, that had spurred him on.

The police wanted to talk to the old man; he had dropped hints to them about him last winter but the case had come to nothing. It had been sheer coincidence that their paths had crossed — he had not even been on the lookout for him, just happened to see him one day, out of the blue. It was decades since the bastard had disappeared from his life but then there he was, walking through his neighbourhood. It turned out that the bastard lived there, in his very neighbourhood! After all these years he had moved in virtually next door.

It was hard to find words for the tumult of emotions he experienced when it dawned on him who this was. Surprise, certainly, since he had long ago concluded that there was no chance of their ever meeting again. And the old fear too, for he still dreaded the brute more than anything in the world. But then rage had flared up inside him, for he had forgotten nothing, in spite of all the years that had passed. All these emotions churned within him when he spotted the man in the distance. The bastard may have been old and bent but he still had the power to fill him with fear, with the terror that came crawling out of its hiding place to claw at his heart.

Perhaps it was an ingrained reaction, but from the beginning he took care that the man should not see him. He kept an eye on him but did not have the nerve to do more, did not know what to do with his knowledge. When the police had started asking questions, his instinct had been to say as little as possible, to be enigmatic and contradictory, for his relationship with the police had been at best an unhappy one. In reality, though, he did not have any very clear recollection of what had happened because he had been out of his mind on booze and drugs at the time. Since then he had pulled himself together and come up with a plan for revenge. After learning that the police had been asking after him, the old man was keeping a low profile and had moved house, hiding himself away in the basement flat on Grettisgata.

The last thing he wanted was to feel self-pity. He could never and would never do that. He took full responsibility for his crimes — not the ones that others wanted to pin on him but his own. No, he would not feel sorry for himself, though it was fair to say that he had never known any happiness in his life because of what happened. His parents had been a dead loss; his drink-sodden father used to beat the living daylights out of the kids for the most minor misdemeanours, not that he even needed that excuse. He would use a leather belt for the hidings, and used to beat their mother mercilessly too.

He avoided dwelling on that, could not bear to think about the years before their family was finally broken up and he was sent to live with strangers in the countryside. There, in spite of himself, he had been content. Not that he was ever really happy; he did not know what happiness was. He had a perpetual knot of anxiety in his stomach, a feeling of fear that he could never shake off. Perhaps he clung to it because it was all he knew, and he would be at a loss as to what to put in its place.

One night he had stood out of sight of the house on Grettisgata, thinking that it was time to stop spying on him like this; wearing out his eyes staring at the basement all night but doing nothing about it. He reckoned he could easily take the bastard on, reckoned he could overpower him without much difficulty. He remembered the adventure stories he would read as a boy, all those tales of heroics, and recalled how important it was to take one’s enemy by surprise. There was no question of attacking the old bastard outside in the street; it would have to be done in his house. But it would hardly do to knock on his door in the middle of the night when nobody was about — that would immediately put him on his guard. The attack would have to come when he least expected. First thing in the morning would probably be the best time, when he emerged to go for his swim.

The morning he broke into the flat the weather was cold and damp, there was a stiff northerly breeze and he was frozen to the bone after lurking outside for hours, his shabby anorak and woollen hat offering little protection. Not a soul had passed along the street all night. As morning approached, he inched his way towards the house and was within a stone’s throw when suddenly the basement door opened. Reacting quickly, he raced down the short flight of steps and met the old man just as he was closing the door, swimming bag in hand. Without hesitating, he shoved him back indoors, into the little hallway, and shut the door behind him. He heard the man objecting and received a knock on the head from the swimming bag. Grabbing hold of it, he tore it away. Realising the situation was hopeless, the man tried to flee into the sitting room, but he caught him, knocked him to the floor and flung his weight on top of him.

Bringing the bastard down proved much easier than he had anticipated.

Hermann wanted to avoid meeting Sigurdur Óli at work, where he managed a business supplying machinery and other equipment to the building industry. Instead, they agreed to talk at the cafe where they had met the day before with Patrekur. Sigurdur Óli understood the reasons for Hermann’s wariness but had no intention of treating him with kid gloves. If Hermann knew anything about the attack on Lína, he would get it out of him.

Her condition remained unchanged; she was still lying in a coma in intensive care and the doctors were not optimistic. Ebeneser had turned up, however. He had returned home that night, walking straight into the forensics team who were still at work in his house, and had become extremely distressed when he heard what had happened. They had taken him to the hospital where he was still sitting beside his wife. Finnur had gone to take his statement and learned that Ebbi worked as a guide in the highlands and had been out with a small group of French tourists at the Landmannalaugar hot springs. Another guide had taken charge of the party at Hótel Rangá in the evening and Ebbi had driven back to town. Finnur had his alibi checked and received immediate confirmation. Ebbi claimed that he had no idea why anyone would hurt Lína or who her attacker could possibly have been, but thought a burglar the most likely explanation. He was so distraught that the police decided to postpone his interview.

It was eleven fifteen when Hermann entered the cafe and took a seat beside Sigurdur Óli. They had agreed to meet at eleven.

‘Do you think I have nothing better to do than hang around waiting for you in cafes?’ Sigurdur Óli asked irritably, looking pointedly at his watch.

‘There was something I had to finish,’ Hermann said. ‘What do you want?’

‘The woman who’s trying to extort money from you came this close’ — Sigurdur Óli held up his pinched thumb and forefinger — ‘to dying last night. Even if she survives, she may never be more than a vegetable. Someone smashed her skull in.’

‘Was that the incident that was all over this morning’s papers?’