Black Skies

32

Höddi lived in an old, rather run-down terraced house in the unsmart Breidholt district. There were two snowmobiles under covers parked on a small paved area in front of the garage, and a large, new-looking SUV and trailer in the street outside the house, in addition to a motorbike. Höddi’s repair shop must be doing well if he could afford toys like these. Sigurdur Óli had watched him finish work, go to the gym, then return home. But he had not seen anyone else around the house and had no idea if Höddi was a family man. Apart from one arrest three years ago for assault, for which the charges were dropped, he had no police record.

Sigurdur Óli was cold. He was sitting in his car a short distance from the house, trying to look inconspicuous and unsure how long he intended to stay or why exactly he was keeping tabs on Höddi. Other officers were keeping Thórarinn’s house under surveillance in case he came back, and his home phone was being monitored in case he made contact with his wife, since there was no mobile phone registered to her either.

Sigurdur Óli had not heard any more from Andrés and hardly knew where to begin when it came to tracking him down, or even if there was any value in doing so. As he sat in his chilly car he wondered why Andrés kept seeking him out. It was evident that he had something on his mind that was linked to the events of his childhood, events which were clearly unresolved from his point of view, however long ago they had happened. He was filled with bitterness, rage and unmitigated hatred towards those responsible. His silence about his mother was symptomatic. Everything he had said about Rögnvaldur had dripped with loathing. Sigurdur Óli wondered if Andrés had gone to see him and, if so, how the encounter had ended. How could anyone face a monster like that, who had inflicted such suffering over so long a period? Andrés had not given the impression that there would be any question of forgiveness.

Sigurdur Óli had wanted to bring Andrés back to the station with him, so Andrés could receive the help he needed and they could establish what exactly he wanted. It was impossible to guess from what he said, some of which had been incomprehensible. He was far gone with drink and neglect, had clearly not been looking after himself and was being tortured by his memories. Drink was his way of anaesthetising the pain. Sigurdur Óli had issued a notice to the state off-licences in the capital, asking them to alert the police if Andrés showed his face.

He had been touched by the boy in the film clip. It was a new experience, as he rarely felt any sympathy for the luckless individuals he came across in the line of duty, but there was something about the boy’s wretchedness, his anguish and defencelessness, that had moved him. His usual attitude was that these people were responsible for their own plight. He did his job and once he had left the office for the day it was over — he had done his duty and there was no need to think about work again until he returned to the station. Some of the other officers who worked on difficult cases let it get to them, especially new recruits and old-timers, but he regarded emotional involvement as an obstacle to performing one’s role. He had often been criticised for his cynicism and detachment but this meant nothing to him.

Apart from the obvious fact that a child had been abused, Andrés’s plight was having an inexplicably strong impact on him. The police were forever having to deal with cases like this but it was not often that Sigurdur Óli was presented with such clear evidence of the consequences of chronic abuse. Andrés straightforwardly blamed his past for what had become of him today. He had certainly experienced little joy in his life and was still consumed by grief and anger.

The car windows were misting up so he cracked one open to let in some fresh air. He did not know how long he should stay watching Höddi’s house. It was already past 10 p.m. and he had not seen any movement.

His phone rang. It was his mother.

‘Have you been to see your father?’ asked Gagga the moment he answered.

He said yes and told her that the operation had gone well; the old man was on good form and would be discharged soon.

‘Have you had yourself checked out?’ she shot back.

‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of time for that.’

‘You should get a move on,’ said Gagga. ‘There’s no point delaying.’

‘I’m going to,’ said Sigurdur Óli reluctantly, though he was unsure if he would ever actually get round to it. Not only because he dreaded this particular examination but because he had a long-standing phobia about doctors and could not face medical appointments. He could not bear the smell of the waiting rooms and surgeries, the waiting, and, worst of all, meeting the doctors — though dentists were top of the list. He could think of nothing worse than lying in a chair, gaping up at one of those millionaires, while he or she grumbled about the cost of living. Ear, nose and throat specialists came a close second. When he was a boy his mother had insisted that they take his tonsils out, blaming them for his constant ailments, the colds, runny noses, sore throats and earache, and he could still hardly bear to think about the anaesthetic, the foul taste in his mouth. And A amp;E was a chapter all to itself. Sigurdur Óli had once been involved in a fight while on a case and had to go to A amp;E: the endless wait had been the stuff of nightmares, on top of his horror of the reek of antiseptic and the old, thumbed magazines. He felt a special revulsion for those magazines. He had read somewhere that they did not actually carry any diseases, despite being fingered all day by sick people, but he found it hard to believe.

Having said all she wanted to, his mother ended the call. Five minutes later his phone rang again. This time it was Bergthóra.

‘How’s your father?’ she asked.

‘Fine,’ answered Sigurdur Óli, rather curtly.

‘Is everything OK?’

‘Yes. I’m working.’

‘Then I won’t bother you,’ said Bergthóra.

Höddi stepped out of his house as she spoke. He closed the door carefully behind him, testing the handle twice to make sure it was locked, then went over to the SUV and began detaching the trailer.

‘No, it’s OK,’ said Sigurdur Óli, trying not to sound too resentful, though he found it hard, recalling their last conversation. ‘Did I interrupt something last night?’

Höddi wheeled the trailer over to the snowmobiles and set it down, then climbed into his car and drove off. Sigurdur Óli allowed a few seconds to pass before starting his own engine and shadowing him at a distance.

‘Look,’ said Bergthóra. ‘I’ve been meaning to say that I met someone about three weeks ago and we’ve started seeing each other.’

‘Really?’

‘I was going to tell you the evening we met but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to.’

‘Who is he?’

‘No one you know,’ said Bergthóra. ‘At least, he’s not in the police. He works for a bank. And he’s very nice.’

‘I’m glad he’s nice,’ said Sigurdur Óli, finding it a challenge to follow Höddi’s SUV inconspicuously, while simultaneously talking to Bergthóra about things he really did not want to hear and not giving the fact away.

‘I can tell you’re busy,’ said Bergthóra. ‘Perhaps we should talk later.’

‘No, it’s all right,’ said Sigurdur Óli, turning on to the Breidholt dual carriageway behind Höddi, who was driving very fast. The temperature had dropped below freezing, the roads were as slippery as glass, and Sigurdur Óli still had summer tyres on his car. He struggled to maintain control. Höddi had opened up a lead and was storming north.

‘Did you call for any particular reason?’ asked Bergthóra.

‘Reason?’

‘When you called last night. You rang so late that I thought maybe something was wrong.’

‘No, I …’

Another turning, taken far too fast, through an amber light onto Bústadavegur. His tyres lost their grip momentarily. Höddi had disappeared over the hill by Bústadir Church. He was losing him, and sensed that he was losing Bergthóra too.

‘… just wanted to talk to you. I … I don’t know, I didn’t feel right about the way our meal ended. I just wanted to discuss it.’

‘Are you driving?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that a good idea? Talking on the phone?’

‘No, not really.’

Höddi turned up another road while Sigurdur Óli was faced with a red light. There was not much traffic, so after taking a quick glance around he shot the lights.

‘I know it’s none of your business really but I thought …’

‘What?’

‘I thought you seemed a bit … when you rang last night, you seemed so odd,’ said Bergthóra, as Sigurdur Óli watched Höddi cross the bridge over the Miklabraut dual carriageway. ‘Do you mind my seeing someone? Do you object?’

‘I …’ stammered Sigurdur Óli, wishing he could focus, ‘… I don’t have any right to object. You must do as you like.’

Bergthóra was silent, as if waiting for him to carry on. His tone of voice belied the words he had spoken. The silence became oppressive as he struggled mutely. He had rung her to find out if she was willing to see him again. It would be different from last time. He had meant to get a grip on himself, to listen to her point of view, to try not to be rigid and difficult. Not like his mother. But as he hurtled over the city’s icy roads, on summer tyres ill-equipped for the job, the right words eluded him.

‘I won’t take up any more of your time,’ said Bergthóra at last. ‘We’ll be in touch. Be careful — you shouldn’t use your phone while driving.’

All he wanted was to keep her talking, but his mind was blank.

‘OK,’ he said.

This could not have gone worse, thought Sigurdur Óli, as he watched Höddi disappear into the Vogar district and heard Bergthóra disconnect.