The Darkness Knows

45

Her name was Pálína, she used to work as a taxi driver, and she’d been picked up for drunk driving on Frakkastígur the evening Villi was killed. Two years later she had lost her licence after knocking down a pedestrian and leaving him lying injured in the road. Shortly afterwards, she had been caught at home by the police and confessed to the whole thing. Her blood alcohol level had turned out to be way over the limit. As a result, she had gone into rehab and hadn’t touched a drop since.

This was the story she told Konrád, sounding proud that it had taken only this one kick for her to conquer her addiction, pretty much on her own. She had never gone to AA meetings — well, to a couple at most — and had hardly any contact with her sponsor during that time. Admittedly, she still got the odd craving — which was only human — but it had never seriously occurred to her to start drinking again.

Despite her willingness to talk, she didn’t go into what had caused her alcohol use to spiral out of control in the first place, but then it wasn’t any of Konrád’s business. No doubt time and habit had combined to undo her. But she did describe the drinking culture she had grown up with, back when beer was illegal and there had been nothing on offer but strong spirits. The streets of Reykjavík used to be heaving with people smashed out of their skulls at weekends.

‘Of course, it wasn’t healthy,’ Pálína said, thinking back. ‘Our Icelandic drinking culture.’

‘It’s not exactly healthy now,’ Konrád replied.

‘I always thought I had it under control — thought I was in charge — but the first thing you learn when you go into rehab is that drinking is completely out of your control. You’re not in charge of anything. I mean, I drove a taxi! You know? Sometimes under the influence. I just thought I could get away with it. Christ, what idiots we can be!’

Pálína was the fourth person Konrád had spoken to since Marta had rung him with the information he had requested about Leó’s investigation. She had compiled a list of the people who had been seen in the vicinity of the Shadow District the night Villi was killed. Konrád had promised to keep it absolutely hush-hush and thanked her from the bottom of his heart. He hadn’t updated Marta on his enquiries recently, conscious that she had enough on her plate and unwilling to bother her with every minor detail he unearthed. All he had promised her was that he would let her know if he came across anything really significant.

The first man Konrád went to see had stolen his son’s car on the evening in question and narrowly avoided an accident on Hverfisgata. The other vehicle had been driven by a couple returning from a party, who had been forced to swerve onto the pavement to avoid a collision. Despite the thickly falling snow, they had managed to get his registration and reported him for dangerous driving. The man, whose name was Ómar, had continued on his way without stopping, but had been picked up later that night at the central bus station. He had no memory of having driven along Lindargata.

He had demanded to know why Konrád was raking up the incident all these years later. But as soon as Konrád tried to explain, Ómar refused to listen, angrily retorting that it was a load of bloody nonsense and slamming the door in Konrád’s face. Konrád was almost sure he’d caught a whiff of booze on his breath.

The second man had been equally unwilling to chat. He had treated Konrád with suspicion, repeatedly asking what he wanted. Konrád had explained that he was trying to track down a driver in connection with an accident on Lindargata seven years ago. He was asking on behalf of the sister of the man who had died in the accident — if it had been an accident. The driver of the car had never been found. He himself was following up a new lead and wanted to re-interview all those who had been spoken to in the course of the original inquiry.

‘So you’re not with the police, then?’ the man had asked. His name was Tómas and he lived on Ingólfsstræti, a long street which crossed the bottom of Lindargata near the city centre. A neighbour had seen him get into his jeep in the middle of the night and drive off in the direction of the Shadow District, looking as if he was in a hurry. When Leó had spoken to Tómas, he had claimed he was visiting a woman in the east end of town. He’d provided the woman’s name and she had confirmed his statement. In addition to this, there had been no suspicious marks on his jeep.

‘No, it’s more in the nature of a... private investigation,’ Konrád said, ‘but I was with the police for a long time, if that makes any difference.’

‘So I don’t have to talk to you.’

‘No, not unless you want to.’

‘Goodbye then,’ the man said.

‘You owned a jeep—’

‘Goodbye,’ the man repeated, and pushed the door almost to.

‘Why, have you got something to hide?’ Konrád asked, a little surprised by the man’s reaction as he stood there in the stairwell of a rundown block of flats, talking to him through a crack in the door. But before he could say anything else, the man had shut the door in his face.

He had got a similar reception from the third man he talked to, though this one wasn’t quite as rude. His name was Bernhard, he lived in a terraced house, and he was also in when Konrád rang the bell. When the man learnt that Konrád was asking about an accident on Lindargata, he explained that he had provided a statement at the time and knew nothing about the incident, then said a polite but firm goodbye. Konrád could understand. He would have reacted the same if a complete stranger had come to his door, asking questions about a serious incident. Bernhard had been seen driving east along Skúlagata. A witness, who had been trying to hitch a lift home in the blizzard, had come forward to say that a car had passed him, driving fast, and hadn’t stopped. The witness hadn’t been able to get a good look inside the vehicle and so couldn’t be sure if the driver had been alone, but he had remembered part of the number plate because it contained three sevens. Bernhard had told the police that his wife had been in the car with him, and that they hadn’t been mixed up in any accident.

The conversation with Pálína was quite different. She was positively welcoming, said she could perfectly understand why Konrád was asking about that evening, and readily answered his questions. She had never gone in for sports bars, never owned a jeep, it was out of the question that she had ever knocked anyone down on Lindargata, and she had never been a member of the Scouts or a rescue team. She was, on the other hand, extremely inquisitive and kept asking what it was Konrád was after. He deftly dodged her questions, rather taken aback by her nosiness, but soon got an explanation, which was as simple as it was understandable.

‘You see, I’m a huge fan of crime fiction,’ Pálína told him, ‘and I rarely get the chance to meet a real detective.’

‘Right, I see,’ Konrád said, without enthusiasm.

‘So, the thing is... it’s quite a thrill for me to meet you, and... weren’t you in charge of the case — the Sigurvin inquiry — the first time round?’

They were the only people in the cafeteria of the haulage company where Pálína was employed. She worked in the office; she’d given up driving, she explained. Konrád had accepted her offer of coffee but declined the custard creams. They didn’t have much time to talk as things were busy, and one of the drivers, who should have set off by now for Höfn í Hornafirdi on the other side of the country, was waiting for Pálína in reception.

‘That’s right,’ Konrád said.

‘Is that why you’re here?’

‘No, this is about a different matter,’ Konrád said, and for all he knew it could be true.

‘A mysterious case,’ Pálína said. ‘The man you’re looking for — was he out on the road at the same time as me?’

‘That’s one theory.’

‘I remember very little about the hit-and-run on Lindargata,’ Pálína said, frowning thoughtfully. ‘It must have been all over the news. But of course I drank in those days. Worse than ever.’

‘Did you notice anyone driving around town that evening that you happen to remember? Anyone behaving erratically? Or recklessly?’

‘No, I don’t remember anything like that. But then that period of my life is a bit of a blur.’

Konrád smiled.

‘I’m afraid that’s just the way it was,’ Pálína said with a sigh, then started telling him the plot of a crime novel she had recently finished reading, about a mysterious murder in the Swedish countryside. She didn’t seem to notice Konrád’s complete lack of interest.

Konrád left the lights blazing in the kitchen, sitting room and bedroom when he went to bed. He had been feeling oddly spooked and unsettled all evening, sensing that he had missed something, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. He mentally reviewed his visits that day, to the four people and the receptions they had given him. His thoughts lingered on the third man, the man in the terraced house who had turned him away. There was something familiar about his name but he couldn’t work out what it was.

Bernhard, he was called.

Bernhard.

He was sure he’d heard or seen that name before. Recently, too. But he simply couldn’t recall the context.

Eventually he gave up racking his brains and, as often happened before he fell asleep, he found himself aching with loss for Erna. He remembered a bright summer’s evening with her, many years ago, and could almost sense her presence in the room as drowsiness stole over him.

‘Who is he?’ He heard a low whisper in his ear. ‘Who is this man?’

‘I can’t remember,’ he replied. ‘Can’t remember.’

She was lying in bed beside him in a light-coloured summer dress that she had bought just after they met. He caught the faint scent of her perfume: of sunshine and flowers and the soft sand in Nauthólsvík Cove. He turned his head and gazed at her as she lay beside him, young and beautiful, as she always was in his dreams.

‘I’ve come across that name somewhere,’ he told her, ‘I’m sure of it. But I’ve forgotten where... I never write anything down.’

Seeing that she was smiling, he reached out to her, longing to stroke her lips, longing to really have her beside him, to touch her one last time.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry...’

Konrád opened his eyes to be met by dreary reality. He was lying alone in his cold bed, his arm stretched out across the duvet, and he knew that he had tried to catch hold of a dream.