The Darkness Knows

47

The first time he had been involved in a stakeout, CID had still been under the authority of the Reykjavík Prosecutor’s Office. He and his colleague Ríkhardur had been sent to lie in wait for a man who had gone into hiding, suspected of smuggling large quantities of contraband spirits on one of the cargo ships. They had spotted him sneaking home, drunk, under cover of darkness, but had a hell of a job arresting him. Since that first time, Konrád had often taken part in similar operations, sitting outside premises in an unmarked police car, trying to catch people who had found themselves on the wrong side of the law. Not only was the waiting often long and mind-numbingly tedious, but there was something cringeworthy about it too, that made him feel as if he were taking part in a bad film.

And here he was again, on a self-appointed stakeout, in a foul mood and short on sleep. He had been sitting in his car for what felt like hours, watching the house without seeing any movement, and wondered now if he should risk edging a little closer. In an attempt to be inconspicuous, he had stopped some way down the street, where he was camouflaged among parked cars. Although he didn’t know much about Bernhard yet, he had established that he was the only person registered at the address. According to the information in the online telephone directory, he was a car mechanic.

Konrád knew he didn’t have much to go on. Even though the man was the same Bernhard as the boy who had been in the Scouts with Sigurvin, it wasn’t necessarily significant that he had been driving down Skúlagata with his wife on the evening Villi died.

After failing to get back to sleep, Konrád had decided early that morning to drive over and take a look. There had been no car parked outside the house when he arrived, although it was a Sunday. Konrád guessed Bernhard might work shifts, but he didn’t yet know where the man was employed. When he’d knocked on Bernhard’s door on Friday, it had been late afternoon and he had probably just come home from work. Then again, it was unlikely he would be working the night shift at the weekend. No doubt he had been out having fun and slept it off somewhere else. Or he could have gone out of town for the weekend.

Time crawled by. Konrád had brought along a thermos of coffee and two sandwiches to eat while he waited. Eventually he heard the distant sound of church bells. It had never occurred to him to go to a service.

When the urge to stretch his legs became too strong to ignore, he got out of the car — though this was against all the rules. It was a relief to get his circulation going again and, since he was on his feet, he decided he might as well take a discreet look at Bernhard’s house. The terrace lay at a right angle to the street, with an access path leading along it, but luckily Bernhard’s house was at the near end, almost on the road. The back garden was enclosed by a high fence, which made it impossible to see in.

Konrád returned to his car and got behind the wheel again. He’d started running through the lyrics of old Icelandic pop songs to kill the time when sleep finally claimed him.

When he woke up, there was a vehicle in front of Bernhard’s house. Not long afterwards, the door of the house opened and he saw Bernhard emerge and get into the car. Next minute, he was driving straight towards him. Konrád slid down low in his seat but Bernhard didn’t appear to notice him. Once the other man had gone past, Konrád started his car, turned round, and set off after him, careful to hang well back.

Bernhard headed in an easterly direction, and before Konrád knew it they had reached the slope of Ártúnsbrekka, after which the car turned off into the industrial area that lay down by the coast. Bernhard threaded the streets between garages and car showrooms before finally pulling up in front of what looked like yet another garage. Konrád stopped a little way off and watched as Bernhard went inside. There was a small sign above the door but Konrád couldn’t read it from where he was sitting. The cars parked in the yard outside appeared to be wrecks, good for nothing but spare parts.

Bernhard spent some minutes inside the garage before he came out carrying a part which Konrád couldn’t identify from a distance. He jumped into his car and drove away again, but this time Konrád decided against following him.

He got out and walked, rather stiffly, over to the workshop. It looked like any other garage, apart from being dirtier and more of a mess than most. The reason for this became apparent when he got close enough to read the sign above the door, which announced that it was a scrapyard, not a garage. A notice stuck to the door said: Used car parts for most models. Konrád looked around. There was a stack of old tyres against the wooden fence separating the yard from the neighbouring premises. Beside it was a pile of rusty wheel-rims, with an upturned front seat on top. A couple of car doors were propped against the wall of the workshop. Konrád turned his attention back to the door, which was also rusty and contained two windows, their glass obscured by grime. He tried to peer inside but couldn’t see a thing.

He surveyed his surroundings again and this time his gaze fell on a weathered tarpaulin that had once been green, which was spread over some large object in the corner by the workshop. Konrád went over and took hold of the tarpaulin, only to discover that it was firmly fastened. He took a quick glance around. He hadn’t been aware of anyone else in the area on that quiet Sunday morning apart from him and Bernhard. Turning back to the tarpaulin, he started trying to loosen it. This proved far from easy as the knots seemed to have been tied a long time ago, with no intention of their ever coming undone. Only with considerable patience could he work them loose, after which he was able to free the cover and pull it carefully off the large object underneath.

An old Wagoneer jeep, or what was left of it, was revealed. The worn, colourless chassis was propped up on stands — minus wheels, both front wings, and one of the back wings. Almost everything had been removed from the interior except the steering wheel. Seats, dashboard and gearbox had all gone.

Konrád walked around the jeep. He didn’t recognise the exact model but thought it could hardly be less than thirty years old. The front part was reasonably intact. The bonnet cover was still in place, though the bumper and grille were missing, leaving a large hole where the radiator had once been. The engine had gone too. Konrád knelt down and ran a finger over the metal behind where the bumper used to be, and reckoned he could see the impression where the cable from a winch had been attached.

He straightened up again. There was still no sound of traffic in the industrial estate but he thought he’d better get a move on, since for all he knew Bernhard might return any minute. He took hold of the tarpaulin and was about to drag it back over the wreck when his gaze fell on the bonnet. He bent down and ran his hand over the dented, rusty surface, peering at the little that was left of the faded paintwork.

Finally, not daring to stay a minute longer, he swung the cover over the wreck again and tried to secure it so there were no obvious signs that it had been tampered with. After wrestling with it for a while, he hurried back to his car.

On the way home he recalled the image of Bernhard standing in his doorway when he’d visited him on Friday. Konrád had rung the bell and waited a good while before the door had finally opened to reveal the houseowner. The man was quite tall, around the same age as Hjaltalín and Sigurvin, with thinning hair that was greying at the temples, big features, and thick lips under an impressive nose. He was short with strangers, if his behaviour towards Konrád was anything to go by. And he had claimed not to know anything about anything.

‘Bernhard?’ Konrád had said.

‘Who are you?’

‘I was hoping to speak to Bernhard. This is the right address, isn’t it?’

‘I’m Bernhard,’ the man had said curtly.

‘I’m here on a slightly strange errand,’ Konrád had begun. ‘I’m looking into a car accident that took place on Lindargata...’

‘An accident?’ the man said. ‘I don’t know anything about an accident.’

‘No, I wasn’t expecting you to. This was several years ago and they believe it was a jeep, so—’

‘Why are you asking me about this?’ the man interrupted.

‘I’m working for the sister of the man who was knocked down,’ Konrád said, ‘and I understand the police interviewed you about the incident at the time. You were in the area when it happened.’

‘Yes, they spoke to me,’ the man replied, ‘but I wasn’t involved in any accident.’

Konrád had gone on to question him about his wife, who had supposedly been in the car with him, and to ask whether he could confirm the fact.

‘Yes, she was with me,’ the man said. ‘Look, I told the police all this at the time.’

‘Is she in, by any chance?’

‘We’re divorced.’

‘Ah,’ Konrád said. ‘That’s—’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ the man said, preparing to close the door.

‘Do you still own the jeep you were driving that night?’ Konrád had asked quickly.

‘No. Sorry, I haven’t got time for this. I know nothing about the matter,’ the man had said and closed the door.

Konrád thought about the skeleton of the Wagoneer jeep under the tarpaulin. Although he had no idea who it had belonged to or how it had got there, he could hardly think of a better place to dispose of an incriminating vehicle than in a scrapyard.