Black Skies

3

He was on his way to work on Monday morning when he heard the news that a body had been discovered in a rented flat in the old Thingholt district, near the city centre. A young man had been murdered, his throat slashed. The CID were quick to arrive on the scene and the rest of Sigurdur Óli’s day was spent interviewing the young man’s neighbours. At one point he ran into Elínborg, who was in charge of the case and appeared as calm and unflappable as ever; rather too calm and unflappable for Sigurdur Óli’s taste.

During the day he took a phone call from Patrekur reminding him that they had planned to meet, but as he had heard about the murder he said Sigurdur Óli should forget it. Sigurdur Óli told him it was all right; they could meet later that day at a cafe he suggested. Shortly afterwards he received another call, this time from the station, about a man who was asking after Erlendur and refused to leave until he was allowed to see him. The man had been informed that Erlendur was on leave in the countryside but would not believe it. Finally, he said he would talk to Sigurdur Óli instead, but eventually left after refusing to give his name or state his business. Lastly, Bergthóra rang and asked him to meet her the following evening, if he could spare the time.

Having spent the day at the crime scene, Sigurdur Óli went to meet Patrekur at five at the appointed cafe in the city centre. Patrekur was there first, accompanied by his wife’s brother-in-law, whom Sigurdur Óli knew vaguely from parties at his friend’s house. There was a beer in front of the man and he had apparently already emptied a shot glass.

‘Bit heavy for a Monday,’ Sigurdur Óli commented, looking at him disapprovingly as he took a seat at their table.

The man smiled awkwardly and glanced at Patrekur.

‘I needed it,’ he said and took a sip of beer.

His name was Hermann and he was a wholesaler, married to Súsanna’s sister.

‘So, what’s up?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.

He sensed that Patrekur was not his usual self and guessed that he was uncomfortable about having arranged this meeting without warning Sigurdur Óli that Hermann was coming along; as a rule he was the easy-going type, quick to smile and always cracking jokes. They sometimes went to the gym together early in the morning and grabbed a quick coffee afterwards, or to the cinema, and had even holidayed together from time to time. Patrekur was the closest thing Sigurdur Óli had to a best friend.

‘Are you familiar with the term “swinging”?’ Patrekur asked now.

‘No, what, you mean dancing?’

Patrekur’s lips twitched. ‘If only,’ he said, his eyes on Hermann, who was sipping his beer. Hermann’s handshake had been weak and moist when Sigurdur Óli greeted him. He had thin hair, small, regular features, and, in spite of being smartly dressed in a suit and tie, had several days’ stubble on his chin.

‘So you’re not talking about the swing — that forties dance?’ Sigurdur Óli asked.

‘No, not a lot of dancing goes on at the parties I’m talking about,’ Patrekur said quietly.

Hermann finished his beer and waved to the waiter to bring him another.

Sigurdur Óli looked at Patrekur. They had founded a neoconservative society known as Milton in the sixth form and produced an eight-page magazine of the same name, singing the praises of individual enterprise and the free market. They had booked well-known right-wing speakers to come to the school and address thinly attended meetings. Later, much to Sigurdur Óli’s surprise, Patrekur had turned against the magazine, developing left-wing sympathies and starting to speak out against the American base on Midnesheidi, calling for Iceland to leave NATO. This was around the time he met his future wife, so it probably reflected her influence. Sigurdur Óli had struggled on alone to keep Milton going but when the magazine dwindled to four pages and even the young conservatives no longer bothered to turn up to the meetings, the whole thing died a natural death. Sigurdur Óli still owned all the back issues of Milton, including the one containing his essay: ‘The US to the Rescue: Lies About CIA Involvement in South America’.

He and Patrekur had started university at the same time and even after Sigurdur Óli had abandoned his law degree in order to enrol at a police academy in the US, they continued to write to each other regularly. Patrekur had come out to visit him, bringing his wife Súsanna and their first child, while he was still on his engineering course, full of talk of soil mechanics and infrastructure design.

‘Why are we talking about swinging?’ asked Sigurdur Óli, who could not make head or tail of his friend’s hints. He flicked some dust off his new light-coloured summer coat that he was still wearing, in defiance of the onset of autumn. He had bought it in a sale and was rather pleased with it.

‘Well, I feel a bit awkward raising this with you. You know I never ask you favours as a policeman.’ Patrekur smiled uneasily. ‘But the thing is, Hermann and his wife are in a tight corner thanks to some people they hardly even know.’

‘What kind of tight corner?’

‘These people invited them to a swingers’ party.’

‘You’re on about swinging again.’

‘Let me tell him,’ interrupted Hermann. ‘We only did it for a short time and stopped after that. Swinging is another term for …’ He coughed in embarrassment. ‘… it’s another term for wife-swapping.’

‘Wife-swapping?’

Patrekur nodded. Sigurdur Óli gaped at his friend.

‘Not you and Súsanna too?’ he asked.

Patrekur hesitated, as if he did not understand the question.

‘Not you and Súsanna?’ Sigurdur Óli repeated in disbelief.

‘No, no, of course not,’ Patrekur hastily reassured him. ‘We weren’t involved. It was Hermann and his wife — Súsanna’s sister.’

‘It was just an innocent way of livening up our marriage,’ Hermann added.

‘An innocent way of livening up your marriage?’

‘Are you going to repeat everything we say?’ asked Hermann.

‘Have you been practising this for long?’

‘Practising? I don’t know if that’s the right word.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t know.’

‘We’ve stopped now but a couple of years back we experimented a bit.’

Sigurdur Óli glanced at his friend, then back at Hermann.

‘I don’t need to justify myself to you,’ Hermann said, bridling. His beer arrived and he took a deep draught, then, looking at Patrekur, added: ‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’

Patrekur ignored him. He was studying Sigurdur Óli with a sombre expression.

‘Please tell me you’re not involved in this,’ Sigurdur Óli said.

‘Of course not,’ Patrekur repeated. ‘I’m just trying to help them.’

‘Well, what’s it got to do with me?’

‘They’re in a spot of bother.’

‘What kind of bother?’

‘It’s all about having fun with strangers,’ Hermann chimed in, apparently revived by the beer. ‘That’s what makes it such a turn-on.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Sigurdur Óli again.

Hermann took a deep breath. ‘We got involved with con men.’

‘You mean they conned you out of a shag?’

Hermann turned to Patrekur. ‘I told you this was a mistake.’

‘Will you listen to him?’ Patrekur admonished Sigurdur Óli. ‘They’re in deep shit and I thought you might be able to help. Please just shut up and listen.’

Sigurdur Óli obliged his friend. Hermann and his wife had been involved in wife-swapping for a while two years previously, inviting people over for swingers’ parties and accepting invitations to similar gatherings at other people’s homes. They had an open relationship, which worked well for them, according to Hermann. The sex was exciting; they only went with ‘nice’ people, as he put it, and they soon became part of a club consisting of a small group of like-minded couples.

‘Then we met Lína and Ebbi,’ he said.

‘Who are they?’ Sigurdur Óli asked.

‘A couple of total shits,’ Hermann said, emptying his glass.

‘Not “nice” people, then?’

‘They took photos,’ Hermann said.

‘Photos of you?’

Hermann nodded.

‘Having sex?’

‘They’re threatening to post them on the Internet if we don’t pay up.’

‘Súsanna’s sister is in politics, isn’t she?’ Sigurdur Óli asked Patrekur.

‘Do you think you could talk to them?’ Hermann said.

‘Isn’t she an assistant to one of the cabinet ministers?’ Sigurdur Óli asked.

Patrekur nodded. ‘It’s a nightmare for them,’ he said. ‘Hermann was wondering if you could talk some sense into these people, get the pictures off them, scare them into coming clean and handing over everything they’ve got.’

‘What exactly have they got?’

‘A short video,’ Hermann said.

‘Of you having sex?’

Hermann nodded.

‘You mean you didn’t know you were being filmed? How could you fail to notice?’

‘I can’t really remember — it was two years ago,’ Hermann said. ‘They sent us a photo. It looks as if they had a camera installed in their flat that we didn’t spot. Actually, I do remember seeing a camera of some kind — a very small one — on a bookshelf in the sitting room where we were at the time, but it didn’t occur to me that it was switched on.’

‘It wouldn’t require a particularly sophisticated set-up,’ Patrekur pointed out.

‘Were you at their place?’

‘Yes.’

‘What sort of people are they?’

‘We don’t know them at all and haven’t seen them since. I expect they recognised my wife because she sometimes appears in the media, so they decided to try a little coercion.’

‘With considerable success,’ Patrekur put in, his eyes on Sigurdur Óli.

‘What do they want?’

‘Money,’ said Hermann. ‘Far more than we’ve got available. It was the woman who made contact with us. She told us to take out a loan and said we mustn’t talk to the police.’

‘Do you have any proof of their claim to have pictures of you?’

Hermann looked at Patrekur.

‘Yes.’

‘What is it?’

Hermann glanced around the cafe, then reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and took out a photo which he slid across to Sigurdur Óli. The quality was poor as it had apparently been run off on a home printer, but it showed a group of people having sex, two of them women whom Sigurdur Óli did not recognise from the grainy image, and Hermann, who was instantly identifiable. At the moment the photo was taken the party seemed to have reached its climax, so to speak …

‘And you want me to sort these people out?’ Sigurdur Óli asked, looking at his friend.

‘Before things turn nasty,’ Patrekur said. ‘You’re the only person we know who could possibly deal with scumbags like these.’