Oblivion

13

A spell in custody had done nothing to soften up Ellert and Vignir, or make them any more amenable. They were as insolent and insufferable as the day they had been locked up in Sídumúli Prison, and still stubbornly denied any wrongdoing. They had much in common, although it wasn’t obvious from their appearance that they were brothers. One was stocky and ungainly, with a thick head of hair; the other tall, lanky and almost totally bald. They lived together — always had — and were described as very close. Vignir, the ungainly one, was the elder, and acted as spokesman for them both, as far as the police could gather. Ellert was a more shadowy figure who kept a low profile and stayed in the background. Perhaps that was why he was known as ‘the Old Lady’. But, according to police informants, he was the real mastermind behind the brothers’ business and on the rare occasions he showed his hand you would go far to find another thug as vicious as him. He was aware of his nickname and thin-skinned about it. There was a story doing the rounds that a man who used it to his face had spent the next two months in intensive care; he claimed to have been hit by a car, never fully recovered and left the country after a spell in rehabilitation. Whether it was true or not, nobody could say.

Towards midday Ellert was conducted to the interview room and took a seat across from Marion and Erlendur, wearing the same sullen expression that hadn’t left his face since he was apprehended. He had made no attempt to resist arrest, any more than his brother, but insisted he hadn’t committed any criminal offence and wished to register a protest about the unlawful way in which he was being treated. The fine phrases had been picked up from the TV cop shows he and Vignir spent their lives glued to.

‘When are you going to let us go?’ asked Ellert, lounging in his chair. ‘It’s ridiculous banging us up like this. We haven’t done anything.’

It was the same refrain his brother opened his interviews with, intended to demonstrate that neither was going to betray the slightest hint of weakness or help the police in any way with their inquiries. Ignoring this, Erlendur and Marion began instead to grill him about the goods he and his brother imported, about their associates, smuggling routes, expenses and profit margin, and what they did with the profits. And further, about the identity of their customers and how the deals were organised. Ellert either didn’t answer at all or gave deliberately fatuous replies, repeatedly protesting his innocence and claiming he didn’t even understand half the questions. The interrogation ground on like this for three-quarters of an hour until Marion began to nudge the conversation round towards the naval base at Keflavík. The gallon bottles of vodka and cigarette cartons in Kristvin’s fridge had been American, from the same producers and in the same kind of packaging as those the police had confiscated during the raid on the brothers’ premises, and although there was nothing to indicate any link between the brothers and Kristvin, Marion didn’t want to dismiss the possibility out of hand.

‘Have you got contacts on the base?’ asked Marion.

‘On the base?’ echoed Ellert.

‘At Keflavík? On the naval base? Do you have any business out there?’

Ellert sat up in his chair, looking at them both in turn.

‘What kind of business?’

‘Do any of your goods come from there?’

‘From the base?’

‘You heard me.’

‘In the first place I’m not aware of any goods,’ said Ellert, ‘and in the second place I don’t know what you’re on about. Why are you asking about the bloody naval base?’

‘Who do you buy from down there?’ asked Marion.

‘We don’t buy anything there,’ said Ellert. ‘Weren’t you listening? We don’t buy anything full stop. The stuff you found isn’t ours. None of it belongs to us!’

‘Is it the quartermasters who supply you?’ Marion persisted doggedly. ‘Or the guys who run the clubs? Or the stores? The air crews? Marines?’

Ellert didn’t answer.

‘How’s it smuggled off base?’ asked Erlendur. ‘By the soldiers? Or is it the contractors? Do you use Icelandic workers as go-betweens?’

‘Does the name Kristvin mean anything to you?’ asked Marion when Ellert remained obstinately mute.

‘Who’s he?’ asked Ellert. He received little news of the outside world in his cell.

‘A customer of yours,’ said Marion.

‘Never heard of him,’ said Ellert. ‘And we don’t have any customers. Why are you asking me about this bloke? Who is he?’

‘We found the same kind of goods at his place as you two deal in. It occurred to us that he might have bought them from you.’

‘Unless he was smuggling for you and your brother?’ suggested Erlendur. ‘Is that it? Was he working for you?’

‘Why don’t you cut the crap? I don’t know the guy.’

During the drive to the prison Marion had been reflecting on the fact that it was only a decade since the police first started arresting people in Iceland for drugs-related offences. The incidents frequently had some connection to the military installation and international airport at Keflavík. Passengers were caught carrying cannabis or LSD, and the proximity of the naval base made it easy for Icelanders to get hold of narcotics imported by members of the Defense Force. The Americans were also a good source of hard currency for purchasing drugs abroad, which was otherwise difficult to come by in Iceland due to the currency restrictions. It had all begun on a small scale, mostly for recreational use at parties, but over time the number of users had grown and some people had spotted an opening for making money by importing drugs themselves. People like Ellert and Vignir.

Vignir was as intransigent as his brother. He denied everything and professed himself as surprised as Ellert when the questions began to touch on the Defense Force and naval base. He tried to fish for more information from the detectives, with little success.

‘Who is this guy?’ he asked. ‘What did he do?’

‘It occurred to us that he might have been a rival of yours,’ said Erlendur. ‘If he was selling the same kind of goods maybe you and your brother didn’t like the competition.’

‘What... why... did something happen to him?’

‘Or that he was a customer of yours,’ continued Marion, ‘and was planning to snitch on you.’

‘Then there’s a third possibility — that he was smuggling stuff on your behalf and helped himself to some of it,’ said Erlendur.

‘Who the fuck is this guy? What’s his name?’

‘Kristvin,’ said Erlendur.

‘Kristvin? I’ve never heard of any Kristvin. Who is he? Why are you asking about this bloke? Are you implying we did something to him?’

‘Tell me about the cannabis you and Ellert deal in: does any of that come from the base?’ asked Erlendur, leaving Vignir’s question unanswered.

‘Now you’ve lost me.’

‘Where do you get the currency to import your goods?’ asked Erlendur.

Vignir shook his head.

‘From the Yanks?’ asked Marion. ‘We know you’ve been dealing in currency on the base.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Vignir. ‘Not a clue. As usual.’

A little later, as Marion and Erlendur were leaving, a prison officer came running after them.

‘They’ve found some car you’re trying to trace... a Corolla,’ he said, reading from a scrap of paper on which he had taken down the message. ‘It’s out at Keflavík. Parked by one of the barracks on the base and...’ The prison officer tried to decipher his own scribble. ‘... and, oh yes, the tyres have been slashed.’