The Darkness Knows

37

There was a meeting in progress at the Scout Hut. Konrád took a seat while he waited for it to finish. To kill time, he rang Marta, who slipped him a couple of details about the investigation as if he were still a fully paid-up member of the police.

Linda had been questioned about the cash found hidden in Sigurvin’s kitchen and had sworn that it was the first she’d heard of it. She couldn’t imagine why Sigurvin would have kept large sums of money at home. She had no idea if he and Hjaltalín could have been mixed up in some illegal business together and fallen out over the cash. She added that she couldn’t think what Sigurvin could have been intending to use it for. According to her, neither man had been into drugs. Hjaltalín drank, at times to excess, and so did Sigurvin, but Linda didn’t believe he could have been taking drugs without her knowledge. Nor could she remember him being involved in any business venture that would have provided cash on the side. News of the discovery also came as a big surprise to Sigurvin’s sister, Jórunn.

Although it had all happened a long time ago, the two men’s names were run by the network of police informants in the drugs world, in case either of them could be linked to old rumours about dealing. This angle had been thoroughly explored thirty years ago without producing any results, but in spite of that Marta felt it was worth trying again.

‘Hello, Konni, what are you doing hanging around out here?’

There weren’t many people who used Konrád’s nickname. He rose to his feet and greeted the man. ‘I was told you were in a meeting,’ he said.

‘What do I want with all these meetings?’ asked the man, whose name was Hólmsteinn. He was a cousin of Erna’s, a tall, handsome, dapper man who wore his age well. He had held various leadership positions in the Scouts, though Konrád was hazy about the exact titles, and he had achieved a great deal within the movement. Judging by the banter he and Konrád exchanged whenever they met at family parties, he had also been careful all his life to sleep with the window open. It was the only Scout law Konrád knew and he made a habit of teasing Hólmsteinn about it.

‘But that’s the Scouts for you,’ Hólmsteinn said, once they were ensconced in the office. ‘It’s all about being part of one great brotherhood.’ He jerked his chin towards the room where the meeting was still in progress. It was clear from his furrowed brow that he was rather puzzled by this visit, since Konrád had never dropped in before. Konrád’s explanation that he had some questions regarding Sigurvin’s time in the Scouts did nothing to lessen Hólmsteinn’s astonishment.

‘Actually, I’m looking into the death of another man,’ Konrád went on, surveying the photos of all the former Scout Masters smiling down at him from the walls. ‘You see, this woman came to me for help, wanting to know if the two cases could be linked. I agreed to try and find out. Then, the other day, Sigurvin’s sister told me something I hadn’t known before — that he’d joined the Scouts as a boy but dropped out after a year or so.’

‘Sigurvin?’

‘Yes.’

The old Scout Master swung round to the computer on the desk in front of him.

‘I don’t remember him,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t mean anything. Let’s see. We digitalised all the membership lists a few years ago. I should be able to find something about him there.’

Konrád glanced at his watch. He had nothing better to do and, anyway, he always enjoyed catching up with Hólmsteinn.

The old Scout Master grew briefly earnest, explaining what an excellent preparation for life the movement was, as if Konrád were a boy applying to join. Konrád nodded to humour him. He couldn’t ever remember experiencing the slightest desire to become a Scout.

‘Here we are,’ Hólmsteinn said, bringing his nose closer to the computer screen. ‘Of course,’ he said, realisation dawning, ‘that’s when I was in Norway. I lived there for three miserable years. Did you and Erna never visit me? I was bored out of my mind the whole time.’

‘Can you see Sigurvin’s name?’ Konrád prompted.

‘Yes, he was eleven when he joined. For many kids that’s the best age to be in the Scouts, but I suppose he must have decided it wasn’t for him. According to the information here, he dropped out two years later.’

‘Is there any other information about him?’

‘No, just that.’

‘Did the rest carry on?’ Konrád asked. ‘The ones who started at the same time as him? Did they go on to become patrol leaders or whatever they’re called?’

‘Yes, there was a big intake at that time, including lots of promising lads. One of them later became a committee member, I see: Lúkas. A fine young man. I don’t know if you’ve spoken to him. He left Reykjavík and moved east over the mountains — to Selfoss, I think. I don’t know if he’s still there. He might remember the boy, though. I’ll print out the membership lists for you from that period. I assume it’s OK for me to do that.’

‘Were boys that young ever taken on glacier tours?’ Konrád asked. ‘Would their activities have included that sort of thing?’

‘No,’ Hólmsteinn said, reaching out to switch on the printer. ‘Are you asking because of Sigurvin?’

Konrád nodded.

‘No,’ Hólmsteinn repeated. ‘We didn’t organise any trips of that kind. Not that I remember.’

‘OK. That was all, then.’

‘How are you doing, by the way?’ Hólmsteinn asked.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t find retirement boring?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘But perhaps you haven’t completely retired?’

‘Oh, I have.’

‘It’s never too late to get involved with the Scouts,’ Hólmsteinn said with a grin. ‘There’s always plenty going on here.’

‘Thanks but no thanks,’ Konrád said.

Konrád was initially amused to learn that the meteorologist he went to see later that day was called Frosti. His amusement quickly faded, however, when he discovered that the young man in question was not only arrogant but astonishingly unfriendly. Luckily, the meteorologist didn’t recognise his name or connect it to the police, but he did start grilling Konrád about things that were none of his business, like who he was working for and why he wanted the information.

‘Who am I working for?’ Konrád asked, taken aback. ‘No one. I’m here on my own behalf. Isn’t that enough?’

‘What are you intending to do with the information?’ Frosti demanded bossily.

‘Nothing in particular. I just need some information about weather conditions during a specific period. I didn’t realise they were a state secret. Perhaps I should bother someone else with my request.’

‘Weather conditions during a specific period,’ Frosti echoed impatiently. ‘Have you tried online? You can find information about weather conditions for every month going back to 1997. Don’t you have the internet?’

‘The period I’m interested in is earlier.’

‘Earlier?’

‘Look, do you want me to pay you? It’s no problem if you do.’

‘No,’ Frosti sighed with a put-upon air as he sat there in his cramped, stuffy office. He started muttering about members of the public who thought they could just wander in off the street, expecting to find out anything they wanted, free of charge. ‘What period are you talking about?’ he asked grudgingly.

Konrád was on the verge of telling Frosti to go and stick his head where the sun don’t shine, but another part of him was rather tickled by the man’s grumpiness. It wasn’t often that he encountered a professional who couldn’t care less what other people thought of them and behaved exactly as they liked.

Konrád gave him the date of Sigurvin’s disappearance and Frosti entered it into the computer.

‘I could look it up in our weather logbooks but it’s probably been put on the system by now,’ Frosti said, more to himself than Konrád. ‘You are talking about Reykjavík, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Konrád said. ‘To start off with.’

‘What, is there more?’

‘Have you got the information?’

‘Good weather for February,’ Frosti said. ‘Minus three, gentle wind — almost a calm, very good visibility, no precipitation. Excellent winter weather, in other words. Is that enough for you?’

‘What about the Langjökull area? Could you check that for me?’

‘Langjökull?’

‘Yes, that day and the following one. No, let’s say for the next couple of days.’

‘Which stations would those be?’ Frosti muttered to himself, frowning as he tried to remember the locations of the observation stations around the ice cap. After a moment’s thought, he entered the information into the computer, then sighed and tutted. ‘I don’t know why they had to adopt metres per second for measuring wind speed,’ he said suddenly. ‘Why go and change a perfectly good system?’

Konrád didn’t know what to say. It was many years since the new metric system had replaced the Beaufort scale in Iceland. He vaguely remembered some criticism of the decision at the time but didn’t feel qualified to comment.

‘Dire,’ Frosti said.

‘Dire?’

‘Yes.’

‘You mean the decision to go over to metric?’

‘No.’ Frosti gave Konrád a look of profound irritation. ‘Conditions on the glacier were dire,’ he enunciated slowly and clearly, as if talking to an idiot.