Oblivion

19

After Vernhardur had left, Erlendur and Marion drove into Reykjavík and went for a meal at Skúlakaffi. It was nearing supper time and Skúlakaffi offered a range of traditional Icelandic dishes, such as salted lamb and boiled haddock, at affordable prices. It was patronised by labourers and lorry drivers who knew they could be sure of a quick, substantial meal there, followed by coffee and kleinur. Though no one would claim that the cafeteria, with its worn lino and grubby canteen atmosphere, represented exactly haute cuisine, you could hardly find a more loyal or satisfied clientele anywhere in Reykjavík.

Erlendur and Marion sat down at a quiet table. One of the dishes of the day was the traditional winter delicacy of fermented skate with melted dripping, and Marion was worried that the fish’s uniquely putrid stench — a gross combination of decay and urine — would cling to their clothes. But Erlendur couldn’t care less and asked for a generous helping of skate with a good dollop of dripping and thickly buttered rye bread on the side. He set to with such gusto, ravenous after his long day, that it was almost impossible to get a word out of him between mouthfuls. Marion, more fastidious, sedately ate a hamburger with gravy, potatoes and redcurrant jelly, and reflected that it would be necessary later to air one’s clothes on the balcony and rinse the stench of skate out of one’s hair.

Marion remarked that members of the 57th Fighter Squadron at Keflavík had once been quoted as describing Iceland as a ‘hardship post’: few servicemen stayed longer than a year, though some stayed two or three, especially if they had their families in tow, and most were only too glad to leave once their tour of duty was over. As a result there was a fairly quick turnover of personnel.

‘They complain that most of their time here’s spent running for cover from the weather,’ Marion added.

‘Hardship post?’ echoed Erlendur, carving into the congealed fat and shovelling it into his mouth with his knife. ‘We’re just one big barracks slum to them, aren’t we? One big... Camp Knox.’

Marion smiled. There was some indefinable quality about Erlendur — defensiveness, perhaps — that made him seem tiresomely pig-headed to many, but which Marion found almost charming. Unlike the weather-battered Americans, Erlendur would never use words like ‘hardship’ or ‘inhospitable’ to describe a barely habitable wasteland like Midnesheidi.

Marion watched Erlendur wolf down the fermented skate, carefully scraping up the last of the dripping and eating it with relish. He was in his element. But no one who worked with him could have failed to notice that he had been unusually morose of late. Marion put it down to what people had been gossiping about in the office, though not in Erlendur’s hearing: his recent divorce.

‘I also discovered,’ said Marion, pushing away the plate, ‘that Hangar 885 was originally built in the fifties for B-36 Peacemakers, the biggest bombers ever made, with a range halfway round the world. That’s why it’s so vast.’

‘Do you think Kristvin could have fallen from the roof in there?’

‘The impact injuries the pathologist described imply as much, but the question is what was he doing climbing about up there?’

‘Perhaps he threw himself off. Killed himself.’

‘And the blow to the back of his head?’

‘Banged it on the rafters.’

‘And afterwards some person or persons unknown took his body and disposed of it off base?’

‘They didn’t want to draw attention to the hangar,’ said Erlendur. ‘It’s a base for spy planes, isn’t it?’

‘What reason would he have had for killing himself?’

‘His sister’s got an incurable illness.’

‘Yes, but he’s helping her. Surely he’s not going to abandon her just when she needs him most?’

‘All right, you’ve got a point. So it’s not suicide.’

‘Perhaps he saw something he shouldn’t have in the hangar.’

‘In addition to which, he was involved in smuggling and acquired the goods from a party we know nothing about, and to cap it all he’s got a woman on the base who’s married to a soldier. Presumably one of those airmen of yours, who’s found out for himself just what kind of hardship post Iceland can be...’

‘And attacked Kristvin?’

‘Maybe he owed the guy money? He was buying dope regularly from some soldier and maybe he’d got into debt. Then the guy gets wind of the fact he’s on the base that evening and pays him a visit.’

‘It’s as good a guess as any other,’ acknowledged Marion.

‘Well, I don’t know, I haven’t the foggiest about what happened in there,’ said Erlendur.

Marion shrugged and took out a packet of cigarettes.

‘Any news of Camp Knox?’

‘No, not much,’ said Erlendur. ‘I talked to Dagbjört’s friend who was the source for the boyfriend and she’s sticking to her story. Insists there was a boy. She’s convinced he’s still out there and might know something. Might even have been responsible for doing away with Dagbjört.’

‘Yes, that’s an old theory,’ said Marion.

‘Quite.’

‘Do you think it’s too late to visit Kristvin’s sister?’ asked Marion, looking at the clock on the wall.

‘Shall we go and find out?’

‘By the way,’ said Marion, standing up, ‘is it right what I hear, that you’ve just got divorced? Not that it’s any of my business.’

‘No, you’re right,’ said Erlendur, pushing away his plate. ‘It’s none of your business.’