The Draining Lake

20

Later that day they requested a meeting at the German embassy, stating the reason to give the staff time to gather information about Lothar Weiser. The meeting was arranged for later in the week. They told Erlendur about what the meeting with Patrick Quinn had revealed, and discussed the possibility that the man in the lake was an East German spy. A number of signs pointed to that, they felt, notably the Russian device and the location. They agreed that there was something foreign about the murder. Something about the case that they had seldom, if ever, seen before. Admittedly it was ferocious, but all murders were ferocious. More importantly, it appeared to have been carefully planned, skilfully executed, and had remained covered up for so many years. Icelandic murders were not generally committed in this way. They were more coincidental, clumsy and squalid, and the perpetrators almost without exception left a trail of clues.

“If he didn’t just fall on his head,” Elinborg said.

“No one falls on their head before being tied to a spying device and thrown into Kleifarvatn,” Erlendur said.

“Making any progress with the Falcon?” Elinborg asked.

“None at all,” Erlendur said, “except that I’ve been putting the wind up Leopold’s girlfriend, who can’t understand what I’m going on about.” Erlendur had told them about the brothers from outside Mosfellsbaer and his half-baked hypothesis that the man who owned the Falcon might even still be alive or, for that matter, living in another part of Iceland. They had discussed this idea before and regarded it in much the same way as the missing man’s girlfriend — they had nothing substantial to support it. “Too far-fetched for Iceland,” Sigurdur Oli said. Elinborg agreed. “Perhaps in a city of a million people.”

“Funny that this guy can’t be found anywhere in the system, though,” Sigurdur Oli said.

“That’s the point,” Erlendur said. “Leopold, as he called himself — that much we do know — is quite a mysterious figure. Niels handled the case originally and never looked into his background properly, he never found any records. It wasn’t investigated as a criminal matter.”

“No more than most missing persons in Iceland,” Elinborg chipped in.

“Only a few people had that name then and they can all be identified. I did a quick check. His girlfriend said he had spent a lot of time abroad. He may even have been born abroad. You never know.”

“Why do you think he was called Leopold in the first place?” Sigurdur Oli asked. “Isn’t that a rather odd name for an Icelander?”

“It was the name he used, at least,” Erlendur said. “He may well have used another name elsewhere. That’s quite likely actually. We know nothing about him until he suddenly surfaces selling bulldozers and farm machinery and as the boyfriend of a woman who somehow becomes the victim in the whole affair. She knows precious little about him but is still in mourning for him. We have no background. No birth certificate. Nothing about his schooling. We just know that he travelled widely, lived abroad and might have been born there. He lived abroad for so long that he spoke with a slight foreign accent.”

“Unless he just killed himself,” Elinborg said. “The only foundation for your theory about Leopold’s double life is in your own fantasies.”

“I know,” Erlendur said. “The overwhelming odds are that he took his own life and that’s the only mystery there is to it.”

“I think you were bloody crass, trying out that ludicrous idea on the woman,” Elinborg said. “Now she thinks he might be alive.”

“She’s believed that herself the whole time,” Erlendur said. “Deep down. That he just walked out on her.”

They stopped talking. It was late in the day. Elinborg looked at her watch. She was testing a new marinade for chicken breasts. Sigurdur Oli had promised to take Bergthora to Thingvellir. They were going to spend a summer night at the hotel there. The weather was at its best for June: warm, sunny and with the scent of flowers in the air.

“What are you doing tonight?” Sigurdur Oli asked Erlendur.

“Nothing,” Erlendur said.

“Maybe you’d like to come to Thingvellir with me and Bergthora,” he said, making a bad job of concealing the answer he wanted to hear. Erlendur smiled. Their concern for him could get on his nerves. Sometimes, like now, it was merely politeness.

“I’m expecting a visitor,” Erlendur said.

“How’s Eva Lind doing?” Sigurdur Oli asked, rubbing his shoulder.

“I haven’t heard much from her,” Erlendur said. “I just know she completed rehab, but I’ve hardly heard anything else.”

“What were you saying about Leopold?” Elinborg suddenly said. “Did he speak with a foreign accent? Did you say that?”

“Lothar was bound to have had an accent,” Sigurdur Oli said.

“What do you mean?” Erlendur said.

“Well, the guy at the US embassy said that this German, Lothar, spoke fluent Icelandic. But he must have spoken it with an accent.”

“We’ll have to bear that in mind, of course,” Erlendur said.

“That they’re the same man?” Elinborg said. “Leopold and Lothar?”

“Yes,” Erlendur said. “I don’t think it’s an abnormal assumption to make. At least they both disappeared the same year, 1968.”

“So Lothar called himself Leopold?” Sigurdur Oli said. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Erlendur said. “I have no idea what was going on. Not the faintest.”

“Then there’s the Russian equipment,” Erlendur said after a long silence.

“And?” Elinborg said.

“Leopold’s last business was at Haraldur’s farm. Where would Haraldur have got a Russian listening device to sink him in the lake with? You could begin to understand it if Lothar had been involved, if he was a spy and something happened that ended with his body being dumped in the lake. But Haraldur and Leopold are worlds apart.”

“Haraldur flatly denies that the salesman ever went to his farm,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Whether his name was Leopold or Lothar.”

“That’s the point,” Erlendur said.

“What is?” Elinborg said.

“I think he’s lying.”

Erlendur went to three video rental shops before he found the western to take for Marion Briem. He had once heard Marion describe it as a favourite because it was about a man who faced a looming peril alone when the community, including all his best friends, turned its back on him.

He knocked on the door, but no one answered. Marion was expecting him, because Erlendur had telephoned in advance, so he opened the door, which was unlocked, and let himself in. Not planning to stay, he only intended to drop the video in. He was awaiting a visit that evening from Valgerdur, who had moved in with her sister.

“So you’re here?” said Marion, who had fallen asleep on the sofa. “I heard you knock. I feel so tired. I’ve slept all day. Do you mind pushing the oxygen tank over to me?”

Erlendur placed the cylinder by the sofa and an old memory of a lonely and absurd death suddenly crossed his mind when he saw Marion’s hand reach for the oxygen.

The police had been called to a house in Thingholt. He had gone with Marion. He had only been in the CID a few months. Someone had died at home and it was classified as accidental death. A large elderly woman was sitting in an armchair in front of her television. She had been dead for a fortnight. Erlendur was almost overpowered by the stench in the flat. The woman’s neighbour had called the police because of the smell. He had not seen her for some time and eventually noticed that her television could be heard softly through the wall around the clock. She had choked. A plate of salted meat and boiled turnips was on the table beside her. A knife and fork lay on the floor by the chair. A large lump of meat was lodged in her throat. She had not managed to get out of the deep armchair. Her face was dark blue. It turned out that she had no relatives who called on her. No one ever visited her. No one missed her.

“I know we all have to die,” Marion had said, looking down at the body, “but I don’t want to die like that.”

“Poor woman,” Erlendur said, covering his nose and mouth.

“Yes, poor woman,” Marion said. “Was that why you joined the police force? To look at things like this?”

“No,” Erlendur said.

“Why, then?” Marion asked. “What are you doing this for?”

“Have a seat,” he heard Marion say through his thoughts. “Don’t stand there like a dickhead.”

He returned to himself and sat down in a chair facing Marion.

“You don’t have to visit me, Erlendur.”

“I know,” Erlendur said. “I brought you another film. Starring Gary Cooper.”

“Have you seen it?” Marion asked.

“Yes,” Erlendur said. “Ages ago.”

“Why are you so glum, what were you thinking about?” Marion asked.

“”We all have to die, but I don’t want to die like that.””

“Yes,” Marion said, after a short pause. “I remember her. That old girl in the chair. And now you’re looking at me and thinking the same thing.”

Erlendur shrugged.

“You didn’t answer my question, “Marion said.” And you still haven’t.”

“I don’t know why I joined the police force,” Erlendur said. “It was a job. A cushy office job.”

“No, there was something more to it,” Marion said. “Something more than just a cushy office job.”

“Don’t you have anyone?” Erlendur asked, trying to change the subject. He di dnot know how to phrase it. “Anyone who can take care of things after… when it’s all over?”

“No,” Marion said.

“What do you want done with you?” Erlendur asked. “Don’t we have to discuss that some time? The practical stuff. You’re bound to have arranged it all, if I know you.”

“Are you starting to look forward to it?” Marion asked.

“I never look forward to anything,” Erlendur said.

“I’ve spoken to alawyer, a young solicitor, who will sort out my affairs, thank you. Perhaps you could handle the practical side. The cremation.”

“Cremation?”

“I don’t want to rot in a coffin,” Marion said. “I’ll have myself cremated. There won’t be aceremony. No fuss.”

“And the ashes?”

“You know what the film’s really about?” said Marion, clearly trying to avoid giving an answer. “The Gary Cooper film. It’s about the witch hunts against communists in 1950s America. An outlaw gang arrives in town to attack Cooper and his friends turn their backs on him. He ends up alone and defenceless. High Noon. The best westerns are much more than just westerns.”

“Yes, you said that to me once.”

It was well into the evening but the sky was still bright. Erlendur looked out of the window. It would not get dark, either. He always missed that in the summer. Missed the darkness. Yearned for the cold black of night and the deep winter.

“What’s this thing you’ve got about westerns?” Erlendur asked. He could not resist asking. He knew nothing of Marion’s passion for westerns before. In fact he knew very little about Marion at all, and when he started to think about it, sitting in the living room, he recalled only very rarely ever having spoken to Marion on a personal level.

“The landscapes,” Marion said. “The horses. The wide open spaces.”

Silence crept over the room. Marion appeared to be dozing off.

“The last time I was here I mentioned Leopold, the man who owned the Ford Falcon and went missing from the coach station,” Erlendur said. “You told me you’d telephoned his girlfriend to tell her there was no record anywhere of a man by that name.”

“Does that matter? If I remember correctly, that twat Niels was trying to avoid telling her. I’d never heard anything so stupid.”

“What did she say when you raised it?”

Marion’s mind drifted back in time. Erlendur knew that despite old age and various ailments, Marion Briem’s memory was still infallible.

“Naturally she wasn’t very pleased. Niels was handling the case and I didn’t want to interfere too much.”

“Did you give her any hope that he could still be alive?”

“No,” Marion said. “That would have been ridiculous. Totally absurd. I hope you haven’t got that kind of bee in your bonnet.”

“No,” Erlendur said. “I haven’t.”

“And don’t let her hear it!”

“No,” Erlendur said. “That would definitely be ridiculous.”

Eva Lind called him when he got home. He had been away from his office almost all day, then went to buy some food. He had put a ready meal in the microwave, which rang at the same moment as the telephone. Eva Lind was much calmer now. Although she would not tell him where she was, she said she had met a man in rehab whom she was staying with for the time being, and told her father not to worry about her. She had met Sindri at a cafe in town. He was looking for a job.

“Is he going to live in Reykjavik?” Erlendur asked.

“Yes, he wants to move back to the city. Is that a bad thing?”

“Him moving to the city?”

“You seeing more of him.”

“No, I don’t think it’s a bad thing. I think it’s good if he wants to move back. Don’t always think the worst of me, Eva. Who is this man you’re staying with?”

“No one,” Eva Lind said. “And I don’t always think the worst of you.”

“Are you doing drugs together?”

“Doing drugs?”

“I can hear it, Eva. The way you talk. I’m not reproaching you. I can’t be bothered any more. You can do as you please, but don’t lie to me. I won’t have you lying.”

“I’m not… what do you know about the way I talk? You always have to…”

She hung up on him.

Valgerdur did not come as they had planned. She called to say that she had been delayed at work and had just got back to her sister’s.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “We’ll talk later.”

He went into the kitchen and took the meal from the microwave: meatballs in gravy with mashed potatoes. He thought about Eva and Valgerdur, and then about Elinborg. He threw the package, unopened, into the rubbish bin, and lit a cigarette.

The telephone rang for the third time that evening. He watched it ringing, hoping it would stop and leave him in peace, but when it didn’t, he answered it. It was one of the forensics experts.

“It’s about the Falcon,” he said.

“Yes, what about the Falcon? Did you find anything?”

“Nothing but dirt from the streets,” the forensics man said. “We analysed it all and found substances that could have come from cow dung or the like, from a cattle shed. No blood anywhere.”

“Cow dung?”

“Yes, there’s all kind of sand and muck like in most cars, but cow dung too. Didn’t this man live in Reykjavik?”

“Yes,” Erlendur said, “but he did a lot of travelling in the country.”

“It’s nothing to go by,” the technician said. “Not after all that time and so many owners.”

“Thank you,” Erlendur said.

They exchanged goodbyes and an idea crossed Erlendur’s mind. He looked at the clock. It was past ten. No one goes to sleep at this time, he thought to himself, uncertain whether to go ahead. Not in the summer. Yet he held back. Eventually he made a move.

“Hello,” answered Asta, Leopold’s girlfriend. Erlendur grimaced. He could tell at once that she was not accustomed to receiving telephone calls so late in the evening. Even though it was the middle of summer. After he had introduced himself she asked in surprise what he wanted and why it couldn’t wait.

“Of course it can wait,” Erlendur said, “but I’ve just found out that there was cow dung on the floor of the car. I had a sample taken. How long had you and Leopold owned the car when he went missing?”

“Not long — only a few weeks. I thought I told you that.”

“Did he ever drive it out into the countryside?”

“The countryside?”

The woman considered this.

“No,” she said, “I don’t think so. He’d owned it such a short time. I also remember him saying that he didn’t want to waste it on the country roads, which were in such bad condition. He was just going to use it to drive around town to begin with.”

“There’s another thing,” Erlendur said, “and forgive me for disturbing you so late at night, this case is just… I know the car was registered in your name. Do you remember how he paid for it? Did Leopold take a loan? Did he have any savings? Do you remember, by any chance?”

Another silence followed on the line while the woman went back in time and tried to recall details that few people would ever commit to memory.

“I didn’t pay any of it,” she said eventually. “I remember that. I think he already had most of what it cost. He’d been saving up when he was working on the ships, he told me. What do you want to know that for? Why did you telephone me so late? Has anything happened?”

“Do you know why he wanted to have the car in your name?”

“No.”

“Didn’t you find that odd?”

“Odd?”

“That he didn’t register the car in his own name? That would have been the normal procedure. The men bought the cars and were registered as the owners. There were very few exceptions to that rule in those days.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Asta said.

“He could have done it to cover his tracks,” Erlendur said. “If the car had been registered in his name it would have meant providing certain information about himself, which he might not have wanted to do.”

There was a long silence.

“He wasn’t in hiding,” the woman said at last.

“No, perhaps not,” Erlendur said. “But he might have had a different name. Something different from Leopold. Don’t you want to know who he was? Who he really was?”

“I know perfectly well who he was,” the woman said, and he could hear that she was on the verge of tears.

“Of course,” Erlendur said. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I didn’t notice the time. I’ll let you know if we find anything out.”

“I know perfectly well who he was,” the woman repeated.

“Of course,” Erlendur said. “Of course you do.”