Black Skies

19

Sigurdur Óli had no interest whatsoever in learning how Kristján had gone off the rails. He had heard countless similar sob stories, used either as an excuse for a career of criminality, or as proof of the mess the welfare state was in. It was enough for him to know that Kristján had messed up to the point where he was up to his neck in debts, mostly drugs-related, and owed money all over town, even, in two instances, to individuals based in other parts of the country. Kristján was not much of an earner either; he managed to score casual jobs here and there, as there were more than enough to go round these days, but for the most part he loafed about, idle and shiftless. He scrounged loans for as long as he could get away with it, particularly from banks and savings institutions, managing to amass an array of debit and credit cards, which had now been passed on as bad debts to official debt-collection agencies. But it was the thought of another kind of debt collector that made Kristján nervous.

He had broken the law and got away with it, though he was not prepared to go into details for Sigurdur Óli, and had a history of using girls, sucking them dry financially before they eventually got wise to him. One prospective father-in-law, a former championship-winning footballer, had beaten him to a pulp when he discovered that Kristján had stolen valuables from his house and pawned them.

Some of this information had been supplied by his sister Sara; the rest Kristján explained to Sigurdur Óli down at the station on Hverfisgata.

For it seemed that Kristján was not averse to talking, now that he was in the hands of the police. Of course, it helped that he was suspected of being party to a murder and was therefore anxious to clear his name, but Sigurdur Óli thought that this was not the only reason. It was as if Kristján had never spoken to anyone about his life and after some initial vacillation and awkwardness, the floodgates opened and out poured episodes from his past and encounters with people who had led him astray. To begin with, his account was incoherent but gradually he managed to impose some order on the tale and one name began to crop up repeatedly, that of a certain Thórarinn who drove a delivery van for a living.

If Kristján’s word was anything to go by, Thórarinn was both a dealer and a debt collector, a common arrangement, which made for efficiency. Kristján did not think he imported drugs on any large scale but he was a hard man with little tolerance for people who owed him money, which was how Kristján had ended up in his hands. Since Kristján was seldom able to pay for his habit, and no amount of threats or beatings did any good, Thórarinn had started to use him instead for small jobs in part payment for the drugs. These ranged from being sent out to buy alcohol or groceries to picking up new consignments from smugglers or cannabis farmers, since Thórarinn avoided undertaking such errands personally. Nor did Thórarinn touch drugs himself, though he could drink anyone under the table, according to Kristján. A former athlete and now a family man with a wife and three children, he was careful to stay under the radar and often claimed that the drugs money was his pension and that he would quit the business once he had raised enough. Kristján frequently had to do jobs for him in the van and his wages went towards paying off his debts.

Sigurdur Óli studied Kristján as he sat facing him in the interview room, a miserable, hunched figure. He was inclined to take his statement with a pinch of salt, though he was prepared to believe that this feckless boy was effectively a slave to his dealer. His request to smoke had been met with a flat refusal, and he had received short shrift from Sigurdur Óli when he asked if he had anything for him to eat. Finally, he asked if he could go to the Gents but that was refused as well.

‘You can’t ban me from that,’ Kristján objected.

‘Oh, shut up,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘So, what happened on Monday evening?’

‘He didn’t want to use the van,’ Kristján said. ‘So he asked me to get hold of a car. Ordered me, more like. I told him I didn’t own one and he said to talk to my sister. I’d mentioned her to him, you see, and he knew she had a car.’

‘Did he tell you what he was going to do with it?’

‘No, he was just going to return it to me later that evening.’

‘You didn’t go with him?’

‘No.’

‘Did he go alone?’

‘Yes, I think so. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about it.’

‘Is he always that careful? Taking the precaution of obtaining a car specially?’

‘He’s very careful,’ Kristján confirmed.

‘Have you met him since he borrowed the car?’

‘I … he dropped into Bíkó the next day,’ Kristján said after a pause. ‘Only for a minute. He told me where he’d left the car and that I wasn’t to mention to anyone that he’d borrowed it and that we mustn’t be in touch for the next few weeks or months or whatever. Then he just walked out. I spoke to Sara and told her where the car was. She went ballistic.’

‘Did this Thórarinn tell you what business he had with the woman in the house?’

‘No.’

‘Did he go to see her for reasons of his own or was he acting for someone else?’

Kristján stared at him, and Sigurdur Óli realised that he had lost concentration. This had happened several times during their conversation, especially when Sigurdur Óli’s questions were too convoluted. Kristján would gawp at him with incomprehension and Sigurdur Óli would have to rephrase his question more concisely. He did so again, trying not to speak too quickly.

‘Did Thórarinn know the woman?’

‘The one he attacked?’ Kristján asked knowledgeably. ‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t know. He didn’t mention it.’

‘Was he calling in a drugs debt?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Have you any idea what he wanted with her?’

‘No.’

‘Does Thórarinn know the woman’s partner? His name’s Ebeneser.’

‘I’ve never heard him mention anyone called Ebeneser. Is he a foreigner?’

‘Would you say that Thórarinn was a violent man?’

Kristján thought. He wondered if he should tell them about the time Thórarinn had battered him for being behind on his debts, or the time he had broken his middle finger. He had held his finger and bent it slowly but inexorably backwards until something inside it snapped. The pain had been unbearable. But Thórarinn could be OK; that is, once he had come to terms with the fact that he would never get any money out of Kristján except by making him work. After that they had become mates of sorts, though he did not think that Thórarinn could have many friends, at least not that he knew of. He had heard how he spoke to his wife as well and it was not pretty; he had once seen her with a bump on her forehead and a split lip. The way Thórarinn talked about her was not pretty either, though he was good to his kids. But he was no barrel of laughs; indeed he had never really seen Thórarinn in a good mood, and he had warned Kristján on numerous occasions that if he squealed to the police he would kill him. Without hesitation. Just take him out.

‘What did you say?’ asked Kristján, having forgotten the question.

Sigurdur Óli sighed in exasperation and repeated himself.

‘He certainly can be,’ Kristján replied. ‘I don’t think his wife has a very good time.’

‘And you claim that Thórarinn is a debt collector?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know that for sure? Have you witnessed it?’

‘He came after me for money,’ Kristján said. ‘And there are others I know about. He’s not a guy to mess with when he’s calling in his own debts. And he works for other people too.’

‘What people?’

‘Other dealers. Anyone, really.’

‘Does he use a baseball bat?’

‘No question,’ said Kristján without hesitation. But then he had never heard of a debt collector who did not use a baseball bat.

‘When were you last in contact with him?’

‘When he came to see me, the day after it happened.’

‘Do you know where he is now?’

‘I expect he’s at home. Or at work.’

‘You don’t think he’s gone into hiding?’

Kristján shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘Where would he go in that case?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

Sigurdur Óli continued to grill Kristján with some success. In spite of the countless death threats he had received, the boy held nothing back. It turned out that like so many other members of Reykjavík’s benighted underworld, Thórarinn had a nickname that explained a lot to Sigurdur Óli. Toggi ‘Sprint’.