Black Skies

7

Sigurdur Óli dropped into the police station on his way home to Framnesvegur and discovered that Elínborg had gone home some time earlier. There was a young man sitting on a bench out in the corridor. Forever in and out of trouble for violent behaviour and a variety of minor offences, he was the product of an abysmal home life; his father in prison, his mother a serious alcoholic. Reykjavík was full of such stories. The boy had been eighteen when he first came to Sigurdur Óli’s notice for a break-in at an electrical goods store. By then he already had a string of convictions to his name, and that had been several years ago now.

Still angry with himself for letting the debt collector slip through his fingers, Sigurdur Óli paused on the way into his office, his eyes on the youth, then went over and sat down beside him on the bench.

‘What is it this time?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ the youth said.

‘Breaking and entering?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Did you beat someone up?’

‘Where’s the twat who’s supposed to be interviewing me?’

‘You’re such a fucking idiot.’

‘Shut your face.’

‘You know what you are.’

‘Shut up.’

‘It’s not exactly complicated,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘Not even for a moron like you.’

The youth ignored him.

‘You’re nothing but a pathetic loser.’

‘Loser yourself.’

‘You’ll never amount to anything,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘And you know it.’

The boy sat there, handcuffed to the bench, shoulders hunched, head hanging, eyes on the floor, hoping to get the interview over with as soon as possible so that he could go. As police officers like Sigurdur Óli were all too aware, he was not alone in exploiting a system that specialised in releasing offenders as soon as their case had been solved, which meant he had only to admit to the crime in order to be released to go out and break the law again. Later, he would get a suspended sentence, or if he managed to tot up enough convictions during the period, he would be sent down for a few months, never any more, and even then he would only serve half his sentence because the prison authorities connived in the pampering, as Sigurdur Óli called it. The boy and his mates could tell any number of jokes about judges, probation officers and a life of leisure, courtesy of the Prison and Probation Administration.

‘I bet no one’s ever told you that before,’ Sigurdur Óli continued. ‘That you’re a loser, I mean. No one’s ever told you that to your face, have they?’

The youth did not react.

‘Even you’ve got to realise sometimes what a contemptible specimen you are,’ Sigurdur Óli went on. ‘I know you probably blame other people — you lot all do, you all feel sorry for yourselves and blame other people. Your mother must be high on the list; your father too, both benefits scroungers like you. And your mates and the school system and all the committees that have ever taken on your case. You’ve got a million excuses and I bet you’ve used them all one time or another. You never think about all the boys who’ve had a much tougher time than you, whose lives are total shit but who don’t waste time pitying themselves like you do, because they’ve got something inside them that helps them to rise above their circumstances and turn into decent members of society, not pathetic losers like you. But then they’ve actually got a grain of intelligence; they’re not complete morons.’

The youth remained impassive, as if he had not heard a word of Sigurdur Óli’s speech, keeping his eyes trained down the corridor in the hope that his interview would begin soon. Then he would be released from custody; yet another crime cleared up.

Sigurdur Óli rose to his feet.

‘I just wanted to make sure that for once in your life you heard the truth from someone who doesn’t need to dirty his hands with scum like you. Even if it’s only this once.’

The youth’s gaze followed him into his office.

‘Cunt,’ he whispered, looking down at the floor again.

Sigurdur Óli rang Patrekur. The attack on Lína had been the main item on the late-news bulletin and on all the online news sites. Patrekur had been watching TV but Sigurdur Óli had to tell him three times before he could grasp who was involved.

‘You mean it was her?’

‘It’s Lína,’ Sigurdur Óli confirmed.

‘But what … was she … is she dead?’

‘She’s still alive but it’s touch and go. I haven’t mentioned you or Hermann by name yet, or Súsanna and her sister, but I don’t know how much longer I can get away with it. I was outside the house when the attack took place. I was on my way to have a word with the woman on your behalf, so I’ve had to explain my presence and now I’m in the same shit as you, Patrekur.’

On the other end of the phone his friend was silent.

‘I shouldn’t have dragged you into this,’ he said at last. ‘I thought maybe you could sort something out, but I don’t really know what I was thinking of.’

‘What kind of guy is Hermann?’

‘What do you mean what kind of guy?’

‘Has he got any links to debt collectors — would he set someone like that on Lína and Ebbi?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Patrekur said thoughtfully. ‘I find it hard to imagine. I’m not aware that he knows any debt collectors.’

‘I know you wouldn’t do anything stupid like that.’

‘Me?’

‘Or the two of you together.’

‘I introduced you to him, that’s all I’ve done. You have to believe me. In fact, it’s probably best if you keep me out of the whole affair. Talk directly to Hermann if you need to speak to him again. I don’t want to go anywhere near this. It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Is there any particular reason to protect Hermann?’

‘You do as you think fit. I’m not going to try and influence your actions.’

‘Fine,’ Sigurdur Óli said. ‘Do you know any more about this than Hermann has told us? Do you know anything I don’t?’

‘No, nothing. It was my idea to come to you. I’m just the middleman. Was he a debt collector? The man who attacked her?’

‘We don’t know,’ Sigurdur Óli replied, being carefully non-committal, as he wanted to reveal as little as possible about the investigation. ‘What were they after? Kinky sex with strangers? What’s it all about?’

‘I don’t know. Súsanna and I got wind of it a couple of years back when her sister started dropping hints. It’s just some kind of game to them. It’s not something I have any experience or understanding of. I’ve never even discussed it with them — it’s none of my business.’

‘And Súsanna?’

‘She was shocked, naturally.’

‘How did Lína and Ebbi first make contact with Hermann when they started threatening him with the photos?’

‘I think Lína rang him. I couldn’t say exactly.’

‘So if we examine Lína and Ebbi’s phone records, it’s possible that Hermann’s name will crop up?’

‘I imagine so.’

‘All right, I’ll be in touch.’

On his way home, Sigurdur Óli stopped by intensive care at the National Hospital in the suburb of Fossvogur. A police officer was stationed outside Lína’s room. Her parents and brother were sitting in a small visitors’ lounge, waiting for news, but as yet no one had managed to reach Ebbi. Sigurdur Óli learned from the doctor on duty that Lína had not recovered consciousness and that the outlook was very uncertain. She had received two heavy blows to the head, one of which had fractured her skull, the other had crushed it, causing a brain haemorrhage. No other marks were visible on her body except on her right arm, which indicated that she had tried to protect her head with her arms.

There had been no progress yet in the hunt for her assailant, although the police had widened their net to cover the area around the mental hospital and nearby container port, as well as the Ellidavogur inlet and the residential districts above the coast road. The man had managed to get clean away, leaving nothing but the evidence in Lína’s house to help the police establish his identity.

Sigurdur Óli watched a baseball game for a while before going to bed. He thought about the incriminating photos that Lína and Ebbi were holding, which may well have been the attacker’s objective. If the man had been searching for the pictures, it seemed likely, from the violent treatment Lína had received, that she had not given up their whereabouts, which meant that the pictures were either still at the house or else in another safe place known only to Ebbi.

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.