The Darkness Knows

48

Sunday passed somehow. That evening, Konrád went round to his son’s house for supper. Noticing how distracted he was, Húgó asked if it was the Sigurvin case that was weighing so heavily on him. Konrád changed the subject. He didn’t stay long, making the excuse that he wanted an early night.

In fact, the night was long and restless. Konrád lay there, wide awake, trying to piece together what he knew about Sigurvin’s fate, as he had so often before. He was sick to death of all the complications in the case that had dominated his life for so long. He kept trying to spot a new angle, new gaps, things that he had overlooked or overinterpreted or undervalued. He thought about the sequence of events from the point of view of each of the players in turn, trying to work out their role, what they had to gain and where their stories overlapped with those of others connected to the case.

But despite considering one scenario after another, he was still none the wiser when finally, mercifully, he dropped off and managed to sleep for a few hours.

The following day, Konrád drove the short distance from his house to the industrial estate on the other side of the big Vesturland road, and parked in front of Bernhard’s scrapyard. The tarpaulin was still in place over the wreck of the jeep and Konrád reckoned he must have replaced it convincingly enough for the owner not to notice that it had been touched. The big doors to the workshop were closed but there was a smaller door beside them, which Konrád now opened. He found his way blocked by a reception desk that prevented visitors from coming any further inside. A couple of minutes passed. He stood by the desk, looking round the spare parts store, which was as filthy and cluttered as the yard outside. There were racks of engine parts and other odds and ends running the length of the workshop. From the ceiling hung exhaust pipes and silencers. The windows at the far end presumably faced west but they were so grimy that it was impossible to see out.

‘Hello!’ Konrád called.

There was no answer. He waited a short while, then went round the desk, saw a small kitchen and stuck his head inside, but it was empty. Off the kitchen was a tiny office in which he caught sight of a computer screen. The background was an image of a sunny tropical island.

He went back out and called again.

‘Yes, just a minute,’ said a voice, and Bernhard appeared almost immediately with an engine part in his hands and a pair of ear protectors round his neck. He recognised Konrád at once.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I just wanted to talk to you about that accident I mentioned. I was going to—’

‘No, I have nothing to say. I know nothing about it, as I’ve already told you. Will you please leave me alone.’ Bernhard turned to go back into the parts store.

‘Is that your old jeep outside? Under the tarpaulin?’

The mechanic turned back to him. ‘Please could you leave, mate,’ he said, his tone serious. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’

‘Am I right that you used to be in the Scouts with a boy called Sigurvin? Does that ring a bell?’

‘Just get out.’ Bernhard started to advance, as if he meant to throw Konrád out physically if he wouldn’t leave of his own accord.

‘I’m sure you’ve heard of him,’ Konrád persisted, not budging an inch. ‘He’s connected to a famous criminal case. Sigurvin’s frozen body was recently found on Langjökull. You must have heard the news.’

Bernhard hesitated. First it had been an accident on Lindargata, now the body in the ice. ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,’ he said.

‘Do you remember Sigurvin from the Scouts?’

‘Who did you say you were?’

‘I’m working for the sister of the man who was knocked down on Lindargata. I believe the two cases are linked. So does she.’

‘You aren’t a cop, then?’

‘I investigated Sigurvin’s disappearance thirty years ago but I’m not a policeman any more, no. I’ve retired.’

Bernhard’s expression didn’t change.

Konrád smiled. ‘It happens to all the best people.’

But Bernhard wasn’t amused. ‘I have nothing to say to you. I have no idea what you’re wittering on about. None of this means anything to me.’

‘A witness saw a man talking to Villi in a sports bar the evening he died. That was the victim’s name, incidentally — Vilmar, known as Villi. Do you remember meeting him? Do you recognise the name?’

Bernhard shook his head.

‘Did you follow him to Lindargata?’

Next minute, Bernhard was right in Konrád’s face, shoving him towards the door.

‘What the fuck has it got to do with you what I did or didn’t do?’ he swore, opening the door. ‘Get out of here! You’re mixing me up with somebody else. You should do your job better. I’ll call the police if you don’t stop harassing me. I don’t want to see your face here again.’

Konrád was outside in the yard now. He had been more or less expecting this kind of reaction. Bernhard was standing in the doorway, blocking it. Konrád pointed over at the tarpaulin.

‘Was it originally silver or grey?’ he asked, but by then Bernhard had shut the door and vanished back inside. Konrád remained where he was.

‘Did you seriously never get rid of the wreck?’ he muttered under his breath, before heading back to his own car.

Konrád hadn’t noticed anything unusual or distinctive about Bernhard during that brief encounter, apart from his lack of care for his surroundings and one oddly anachronistic detail of his appearance. It had struck Konrád more forcibly this time than it had on the first occasion he met the mechanic. Although the eighties were a distant memory, Bernhard had hung on to his mullet.