Black Skies

13

Sigurdur Óli’s mother opened the door, her expression indicating that he was late. He did not have his own key because she said she would feel uncomfortable knowing that he could walk in on her whenever he liked. She had invited him for supper but had not waited for him before serving up, and now the food was growing cold on the table. Saemundur was nowhere to be seen.

His mother, known to all as Gagga, was on the wrong side of sixty and lived in a large detached house in the smart satellite town of Gardabaer, surrounded by fellow accountants, doctors, lawyers and other wealthy professionals, the kind of people who owned two to three cars apiece and hired professionals to look after their homes and gardens and put up their Christmas lights. Not that Gagga had always lived this well; she had been hard up when she met Sigurdur Óli’s father and in the period immediately after the divorce, although ‘the plumber’, as she insisted on calling her ex-husband, had offered to assist in any way he could. She had rented at first but was forever falling out with her landlords. Then there was nothing for it but to move on. It made no difference when Sigurdur Óli complained that he found it hard to keep changing schools. His mother had a talent for putting people’s backs up, including the teachers and principals of his schools, so in the end his father had to take over all communication about his education.

Gagga had studied business at college and was working as a bookkeeper when Sigurdur Óli was born, but subsequently improved her qualifications at university and gradually worked her way up to a good position in an accountancy firm that was eventually taken over by a large international corporation. She now occupied a managerial position at the company.

‘Where’s Saemundur?’ Sigurdur Óli asked, slipping off the winter coat he had bought the year before; bloody expensive it had been too, from one of the most exclusive clothing stores in the country. Bergthóra had shaken her head when he brought the coat home and accused him of being the worst label snob she knew. He recalled the way she used to say ‘you mean gaga’, whenever his mother came up in conversation.

‘He’s in London,’ Gagga said. ‘One of those bright young entrepreneurs who’s hit the big time abroad is opening an office there with the president in attendance and all that razzmatazz. Everything flown out by corporate jet; nothing less will do.’

‘They’ve done bloody well for themselves.’

‘It’s all on credit, you know. All they really own is debts which somebody will have to pay off in the end.’

‘Well, I think they’re doing a fantastic job,’ objected Sigurdur Óli, who had been taking a close interest in the success of Icelandic businessmen at home and abroad. He was impressed by their drive and enterprise, especially when it came to buying up household-name companies in Britain and Denmark.

They sat down at the table. His mother had made tuna lasagne, an old favourite of his.

‘Would you like me to heat it up for you?’ she asked, taking his plate and putting it in the microwave before he could reply. The oven pinged and Gagga passed the plate back to her son. He was still disturbed by his short conversation with Finnur about Lína’s death. Finnur had sounded quite worked up, angry even, and that anger had been directed at him. ‘What the hell were you doing at her place, Siggi?’ Finnur had asked. He loathed being called Siggi.

‘Have you heard from Bergthóra at all?’ asked his mother.

‘Saw her yesterday.’

‘Oh? And what’s she got to say for herself?’

‘She said you never liked her.’

Gagga was silent. She had not taken any food, despite having laid a place for herself, but now she picked up a spoon, helped herself to some lasagne, then got up and put it in the microwave. Sigurdur Óli was still feeling resentful about all the time he had wasted watching postboxes for her, and by the fact that she had interrupted the American football with her phone call the night before, but most of all because of what Bergthóra had said.

‘Why does she say that?’ his mother asked as she stood by the oven, waiting for the bell.

‘She’s adamant that it’s true.’

‘So she blames me for everything, does she? For what happened to your relationship?’

‘I don’t seem to remember you being particularly sad about it.’

‘Of course I was,’ his mother said, but did not sound very convincing.

‘Bergthóra’s never mentioned this before. But when I started thinking back, it occurred to me that you never used to come round and see us, and you had very little contact with her. Were you trying to avoid her?’

‘Of course not.’

‘She talked a lot about you yesterday. She was very honest, but then we don’t have anything to hide from each other any more. She said you didn’t think she was good enough for me and that you blamed her for the fact we couldn’t have children.’

‘What nonsense!’ Gagga exclaimed.

‘Is it?’

‘It’s ridiculous,’ his mother declared and sat down with her steaming plate, but did not touch her food. ‘She can’t say things like that, the silly girl. What utter nonsense.’

‘Did you blame her for not being able to have children?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, it is her fault! I didn’t need to blame her.’

Sigurdur Óli put down his fork.

‘And that was all the support she got from you,’ he said.

‘Support? I didn’t get any support when your father and I divorced.’

‘Oh, you generally manage to get your own way. And what do you mean by support? It was you who left him.’

‘Well, anyway, what now? What’s going to happen to you two now?’

Sigurdur Óli pushed away his plate and looked around him; at the spacious sitting room that opened off the kitchen, decorated in his mother’s impersonal style: white walls, heated floors covered in large black tiles, expensive new blocky furniture, and art that was pricey without necessarily being in good taste.

‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s over.’

Ebeneser had been weeping. He was still at the hospital when Sigurdur Óli went over later that evening to express his condolences. Ebeneser had been gone briefly that afternoon and by the time he returned Lína was dead. Now he was alone in the visitors’ lounge in a state of bewilderment, as if he did not know whether to go or stay. He had watched as they took her body away for an urgent post-mortem to establish the precise cause of death.

‘I wasn’t there,’ Ebeneser said after Sigurdur Óli had been sitting with him for a little while. ‘When she died, I mean.’

‘So I gather. I’m sorry,’ Sigurdur Óli said. He had been itching to talk to Ebeneser but had thought it best to give him some space to recover, though no longer than the time it took for him to visit Gagga.

‘She never woke up,’ Ebeneser continued. ‘Never opened her eyes. I didn’t realise it was that serious. When I came back she was gone. Dead. How … how the hell did this happen?’

‘We mean to find out,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘But you have to help us.’

‘Help you? How?’

‘Why was she attacked?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know who did it.’

‘Who knew she’d be alone at home?’

‘Knew …? I don’t know.’

‘Have you had any trouble before with violent types — debt collectors, for example?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, of course I’m sure.’

‘I don’t believe the man who attacked Lína was necessarily a burglar. It seems much more likely, judging from what I saw, that he was a debt collector, but we can’t be certain that he was acting on his own behalf. Do you follow me?’

‘No.’

‘It’s just as likely that he was working for someone else who sent him round to your place with the express intention of using violence against you, or against Lína. That’s why I’m asking: who knew that you would be out of town that day? And that Lína would be alone?’

‘I really have no idea. Look, do we have to discuss this now?’

They were facing one another; the hospital was silent all around them and the hands of the large clock over the door crawled round. Sigurdur Óli leaned forward and whispered: ‘Ebeneser, I know you and your wife were trying to blackmail people with photos.’

Ebeneser said nothing.

‘That sort of thing can be risky,’ Sigurdur Óli continued. ‘I know you did it because I know the people involved. Are you aware of who I’m talking about?’

Ebeneser shook his head.

‘All right,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘Have it your way. I don’t believe the people I know would have set that animal on you. In fact, I find the idea highly unlikely because I know them and it would have required a lot more initiative than I credit them with. I’d gone round to see Lína myself when she was attacked.’

‘You were there?’

‘Yes. My acquaintances asked me to persuade her, to persuade both of you, to abandon your attempt at blackmail and give me the photos.’

‘What … Can you …?’ Ebeneser did not know what to say.

‘Do you know who I’m talking about?’

Ebeneser shook his head again.

‘Please, can we talk about this another time?’ he asked, his voice so low that it was barely audible. ‘For Christ’s sake, Lína just died.’

‘I have reason to believe,’ Sigurdur Óli ploughed on, ‘that her attacker may have been at your house on the same errand as me. Do you follow?’

Ebeneser did not answer.

‘He must have been there for exactly the same reason; to try and dissuade Lína from persisting with the stupid course of action that you were both set on. Could I be right?’

‘I don’t know what motive he could have had,’ Ebeneser said.

‘Have you tried to blackmail anyone?’

‘No.’

‘Who knew that Lína would be alone at home?’

‘No one, everyone, I don’t know. Anyone. I haven’t a clue, I don’t keep a list.’

‘Don’t you want to try to solve this?’

‘Of course I do! What’s the matter with you? Of course I want this solved.’

‘Then who’s been threatening you — threatening to attack you and beat the hell out of you?’

‘No one. This is just some bullshit you’ve dreamt up.’

‘I’m almost certain that Lína’s death was an accident,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘A tragic accident. A mistake by someone who went too far. Don’t you want to help us find him?’

‘Of course, but could you please give me a break? I’ve got to go home. I’ve got to see Lína’s parents. I’ve got to …’

He seemed on the verge of tears again.

‘I want the photos, Ebeneser,’ said Sigurdur Óli.

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Where are they?’

‘I just can’t cope with this.’

‘I only know about one couple. Were there others? Who’s after you? What were you two up to?’

‘Nothing, leave me alone,’ said Ebeneser. ‘Leave me alone!’ He rushed out of the room.

As Sigurdur Óli was leaving the hospital, he passed a patient being pushed in a wheelchair. He had plaster casts on both arms, a bandage round his jaw, one of his eyes was closed by a large swelling and his nose was strapped up as if it had been broken. Sigurdur Óli failed to recognise him at first, then realised on closer inspection that it was the youth who had been sitting in the corridor at the police station; the one he had abused for being a pathetic loser and a waste of space. The boy, whose name he now remembered was Pétur, glanced up as they passed. Sigurdur Óli stopped him.

‘What happened to you?’ he asked.

The boy could not answer for himself but the woman pushing the wheelchair had no difficulty in doing so. Apparently he had been beaten senseless not far from the police station on Hverfisgata on Monday evening. She was taking him for yet another X-ray.

As far as she knew they had not yet caught the bastards who had given him such a vicious kicking. And he was not saying a word.