The Darkness Knows

7

Hjaltalín appeared to have fallen asleep. His eyes were closed and his breathing had slowed. Konrád sat quietly beside his bed, reflecting that the man couldn’t have long to live. He looked so weak, and the pallor of his almost chalk-white skin seemed a clear sign that his illness was gaining the upper hand.

‘Are you thinking back to those days?’ the threadbare voice whispered, though Hjaltalín didn’t open his eyes. ‘I often relive what it was like in prison. It wasn’t a good time.’

‘You seemed to take it in your stride,’ Konrád said. ‘They want to know how you transported Sigurvin’s body to the glacier. You were arrested two weeks after he vanished, which would have given you ample time to dispose of him.’

Hjaltalín opened his eyes and contemplated the ceiling for a while. Then he pushed himself upright, very slowly, until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He buried his face in his fingers for a moment and groaned, then rubbed a hand over his hairless scalp and looked Konrád in the eye.

‘I’ve never set foot on a glacier in my life,’ he whispered weakly. ‘You have to stop this, Konrád — you and your mates in the police. I haven’t got much time left.’

‘You used to own a four-by-four.’

‘So did everyone else. The police can’t do this to me. You were supposed to solve the case, Konrád. Look what you’ve done to me. You might as well have killed me. I haven’t had a proper life since then. Everyone looks at me like I’m a murderer. They all think I killed him. They stare at me and... What do you think it’s been like, Konrád? What do you think it’s been like, having to live with this? This hell on earth. It was your job to find the person who did it, you useless shit. How could you have been so fucking useless? You were all useless, the whole lot of you. A bunch of fucking losers.’

Seeing how exhausted Hjaltalín was, Konrád endured his tirade in silence. He felt sorry for the sick man. Knew what a tough time he’d had ever since he was first arrested on suspicion of murder.

‘The woman you said you were with — the married woman you refused to name...’

‘She’s not important.’

‘Because she never existed,’ Konrád said. ‘Why do you persist with this bullshit? You fell out with Sigurvin; you threatened him, followed him and spied on him, waited for the right moment, then attacked him up by the tanks on Öskjuhlíd.’

Hjaltalín shot him a glance. ‘You said you believed me.’

Konrád rose to his feet. He could see no point in prolonging this encounter. ‘I said I wasn’t entirely sure. I shouldn’t have said that. And you shouldn’t have taken it seriously. You’re still the only person in the picture. Nothing’s changed. And your extraordinary attempt to flee the country has done nothing to help your cause.’

‘But you said it.’

Thirty years ago, Hjaltalín had told Konrád repeatedly that they should direct their attention elsewhere. But the police had reckoned that they’d exhausted all other avenues. All the evidence pointed to Hjaltalín. Once, after a long day, Konrád had been so tired and out of sorts that he had raised the possibility, in Hjaltalín’s hearing, that the man could in fact be innocent; that maybe CID hadn’t done enough to investigate other lines of inquiry. Hjaltalín had seized on this.

‘Why did you summon me?’ Konrád asked now. ‘You have nothing to say. You’ve got absolutely nothing to offer but the same old crap.’

‘You’re the only one I can get through to. I know you. We sometimes used to talk about other stuff apart from bloody Sigurvin.’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘I thought we were friends.’

‘You were wrong about that.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so. We’re not friends and you know it. I have no idea what you’re trying to achieve but...’ Konrád broke off, seeing from Hjaltalín’s face that he’d hurt him.

‘You... you think you’re better than me?’ Hjaltalín croaked. ‘When you couldn’t even solve the simplest bloody cases.’

‘Look, let’s just call it a day. I hope you’re not in too much pain and that you recover your health. And I’m sorry to see you in such bad shape, but there’s nothing I can do for you. Sadly. So...’

‘Is that prick Leó still in the police?’

‘Leó?’ Konrád was wrong-footed. ‘Yes, why?’

‘He was an evil bastard. Did his best to break me down. Kept going on and on about me being a liar. Saying I was guilty.’

‘You called most of us evil bastards.’

‘Not you.’ Hjaltalín gave Konrád a long, searching look, his limpid blue eyes like oases in the desert of his haggard face. ‘I was thinking about your old man before you got here.’

‘You’re not seriously going to start on that again?’

‘They told me he was no angel. Remember? They said he was a real scumbag.’

Konrád smiled, determined not to rise to this. Hjaltalín had sometimes tried to drag his father into it when he was being interviewed at Sídumúli Prison. Someone had leaked the story to him, and after that Hjaltalín wouldn’t stop needling Konrád about it.

‘Nice how you’ve always taken such an interest in me,’ Konrád said drily.

‘You must have been shocked,’ Hjaltalín said. ‘It must have hit you hard. Were you close? Or was he a total shit like they said? The cops at Sídumúli, your mates — they said he used to knock your mother about. Is that true? Did you watch?’

Konrád didn’t answer.

‘They said he was a bastard.’

‘Don’t bother your head about him,’ Konrád said.

‘They said he probably deserved to be stabbed. Do you think he deserved it? Because of your mum?’

‘What are you trying to do, Hjaltalín?’

‘I’m hoping you’re not like him. I’m hoping you’re not a piece of shit like him.’

‘Right, I’m off,’ Konrád said, preparing to make a move. ‘I can’t be bothered to listen to this any more.’

‘What do you say to that, eh? Could anyone escape unscathed from contact with a man like him? From a background like that? Are you sure there isn’t a bit of him in you? A bit of a devil?’

‘Goodbye.’

‘You never found out who killed him, did you?’ Hjaltalín persevered. Clearly he had no intention of letting Konrád get off so lightly. ‘You must have been burning for revenge afterwards. So what happened when you got no answers? Did you lose interest? Didn’t it matter to you any more? Wasn’t he worth it? A lowlife scumbag like him.’

Konrád refused to let the other man’s needling get to him.

‘Was that it?’ Hjaltalín went on. ‘That he just wasn’t worth it?’

‘I’m going to hit the road,’ Konrád said. ‘You’re talking a load of shit like you always did.’

‘You’re my friend, Konrád. Oh, I know you deny it and you don’t want to be and you fight it, but you’re my only friend in this whole shitshow. You always were. You understand people like me; people like me and your dad. I’m not perfect, I admit it. But I didn’t kill Sigurvin. It wasn’t me!’

Exhausted by this speech, Hjaltalín sank down on the bed, but clearly he wasn’t finished with the subject of Konrád’s father, because he started asking again if Konrád had inherited his dad’s vicious side. In the end, Konrád had to repeat his threat of walking out. At that point, Hjaltalín relented.

‘I want to ask you to do something for me,’ he whispered. ‘In case I don’t have much time left. I want you to find the person who did it.’

‘They reckon they’ve found him.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ Hjaltalín repeated, his voice cracking with the strain. ‘I’d never go anywhere near a glacier, Konrád. Ask anyone. Never in a million years.’

‘You could have got someone else to do it for you,’ Konrád said. ‘Someone you’d dragged into the mess.’

Hjaltalín didn’t answer. The police hadn’t yet been able to establish whether Sigurvin had died in situ on the glacier or been dumped there after his death, though the former possibility was considered unlikely. Sigurvin hadn’t been known for his interest in the great outdoors or shown any enthusiasm for trips on the country’s ice caps, and no equipment had been found in his possession that pointed to that kind of hobby. Like many people in Reykjavík, he had owned a pair of skis but only used them on the slopes at Bláfjöll, just outside the city limits. He’d had a jeep too, but it wasn’t specially modified for travelling on ice, and he’d never owned a snowmobile. The alternative appeared much more likely: that Sigurvin’s body had been transported to the glacier after he was killed.

‘Why Langjökull?’ Konrád asked now. ‘Surely you could have found a better place if you wanted to get rid of him. Ice doesn’t destroy evidence, it preserves it. And it preserves bodies. I’ve seen Sigurvin. It’s like he’s been dead no time at all. The glacier didn’t destroy him — quite the reverse. It’s like time has stood still for thirty years.’

Hjaltalín smiled dully. ‘Please, will you do it for my sake?’

‘I’ve left the police,’ Konrád said. ‘I came here because you insisted and I was curious to see if you’d changed at all. But it was a total waste of my time.’

‘I want you to clear my name once and for all,’ Hjaltalín said, his voice so faint now that it was almost inaudible. ‘Can’t you see the state I’m in? Look at me! I want you to clear my name. Please! I didn’t lay a finger on him. You lot couldn’t pin it on me at the time and you can’t do it now either. I didn’t take him to the glacier. That was someone else. It wasn’t me.’ Hjaltalín reared up a little, his pale eyes fixed on Konrád. ‘It wasn’t me!’

‘Goodbye.’

‘If you ever find him, make him pay,’ Hjaltalín whispered, slumping down again. ‘Will you do that for me? Will you make him pay for what he’s done to me...?’

It was a relief to get back outside into the open air. Konrád had been filled with a growing sense of unease in the cell, and Hjaltalín’s sickly white face had done nothing to lessen it. He had delivered his report of their meeting to the waiting detectives, before leaving the building. Afterwards, he drove unhurriedly home, deciding to take the roundabout route via Selfoss rather than returning over the Threngsli pass. The weather was bright and sunny on the grassy lowlands around the River Ölfusá. But soon enough he was ascending the hairpin bends into the mountains again, passing the eternal columns of steam rising from the Hellisheidi geothermal power station, then on through the volcanic wastes until at last the city opened out below, surrounded on three sides by blue sea. Yet the landscape passed in a blur. All Konrád’s thoughts were taken up by the memory of his visit: the feeble voice, the stamp of death on Hjaltalín’s face, the reply of the prison officer when Konrád asked if Hjaltalín read the Bible.

‘Never seen him open it,’ the officer had said, in direct contradiction of Hjaltalín’s own claim. ‘He said it didn’t help.’

Konrád was still brooding on the visit when he got into bed not long after midnight. It started to pour with rain outside as if the heavens had opened. He had no idea who had been responsible for telling Hjaltalín about his father’s murder, back when he was detained in Sídumúli Prison thirty years ago. Hjaltalín had started asking Konrád about it, hesitantly at first, but the longer he was in custody, the more he pestered him, until in the end they could hardly meet without him bringing up the subject of Konrád’s father. He had found his jailer’s Achilles heel.

‘Why do you think he was killed?’ Hjaltalín used to ask. ‘Haven’t you ever tried to discover the reason, since you joined the police? What was your relationship like? Was he a good father? Did he treat you better than he did your mum?’

Konrád had tried to ignore his questions, but eventually he had given in and provided Hjaltalín with a brief account of his father’s murder, in the hope that it might help to loosen the prisoner’s tongue. Konrád had been eighteen at the time of his father’s death. He told Hjaltalín that his old man had been stabbed twice with a knife, and that neither the killer nor the weapon had ever been found. The murder had been all over the papers at the time and Konrád had read the coverage obsessively. But when Hjaltalín kept pushing for more information, like how Konrád had felt or why his parents had been separated at the time of the murder, Konrád had clammed up. By then, Hjaltalín’s time in custody was drawing to an end.

‘And then you go and become a cop yourself,’ Hjaltalín had said to him when he was released. ‘The son of that man. Isn’t there something warped about that? Does it add up?’

Konrád turned over restlessly, trying to banish these thoughts. But when he finally dropped off, sleep didn’t bring him any relief. Instead, he dreamt of Hjaltalín’s ashen face and pale blue eyes and woke with a gasp in the middle of the night, sweating and filled with that sick feeling of unease.

Shortly after their meeting at Litla-Hraun, the Supreme Court ruled that the police had no grounds to detain Hjaltalín in custody.

Two weeks later, Konrád learnt that he had died in the oncology ward at the National Hospital.

Hjaltalín had gone to his death, insisting to the last that he hadn’t killed Sigurvin.