The Fine Art of Invisible Detection

by Robert Goddard

  Wada pushed the door open just far enough to slip inside, glancing along the walkway as she did so. There was no one in sight.

  The flat wasn’t small by Japanese standards, but Wada suspected that to an Icelander it was tiny. There was a vestibule area, a kitchen no more than one person could comfortably enter at a time, a closed door that presumably led to the bathroom and one other room that appeared to serve as lounge, study and bedroom all rolled into one. Dark blue paint on the walls didn’t make it seem any larger.

  Erla had taken off her anorak and hung it on a hook. She was standing in the doorway of the lounge. Wada could see herself over Erla’s shoulder, reflected in a high, narrow wall-mirror.

  ‘Welcome,’ said Erla.

  ‘Hæ,’ came another, male voice. A man, even taller and thinner than Erla, swung his legs off the bed, where he’d evidently been lying, and stood up, the top of his head coming close to brushing the ceiling. He was clearly older than Erla, maybe by ten years, but he had the loose-limbed casual look of the perpetual student about him.

  ‘This is Kristjan Einarsson,’ said Erla. ‘Kristjan, this is Umiko.’

  Kristjan had light brown hair tied back in a ponytail and a wispy beard that accentuated the narrowness of his face. He fixed Wada with a sapphire gaze. ‘You’re Japanese, right?’ he asked, with no hint of politeness.

  ‘Right,’ said Wada. ‘And you’re Icelandic.’

  ‘Sure. For every generation backwards.’

  ‘Do you both know Martin Caldwell?’

  ‘Yeah. We both know him. How do you know him?’

  ‘We were supposed to meet. In London. He didn’t show up.’

  ‘And you came all the way here to find him?’

  ‘It was an important meeting.’

  Erla murmured something in Icelandic. Kristjan nodded. ‘Martin said he was going back to England to meet a Japanese woman. That’s you, I guess. Though he never gave us your name.’ The glance he exchanged with Erla then left Wada questioning whether that was true.

  ‘Can you help me find Martin Caldwell?’

  ‘Can you help us find him?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe we can help each other.’

  ‘Yeah. But that means we have to trust each other first. And I don’t trust you … Umiko.’

  ‘My friends just call me Wada.’

  ‘Was Martin your friend?’

  ‘No. I have never met him.’

  ‘We’re ahead of you there. But we don’t know where he is. It seems he hasn’t left Iceland. Beyond that …’ Kristjan shrugged.

  ‘What was your business with him?’

  ‘Why should we tell you?’ Erla cut in. ‘Give us a reason.’

  Wada weighed her options. The pair were clearly suspicious, maybe with good reason. She’d come to Iceland to learn whatever she could. She wasn’t going to learn much without taking a few chances. It was time to take one of those chances. ‘Martin Caldwell was expecting to meet a woman called Mimori Takenaga. But she could not leave Japan. She sent me instead. I work for a private detective. Mr Caldwell told Mrs Takenaga he could give her information about an Englishman who worked for her father at the time of his death – supposedly by suicide – in London in 1977. As far as I have discovered, the man was a student with Mr Caldwell named Peter Ellery. But Mrs Takenaga knew him as Peter Evans. And now it seems he’s known as Peter Driscoll.’

  ‘Who’s the private detective you work for?’ asked Kristjan.

  ‘Kazuto Kodaka. I must tell you he was killed – hit-and-run – after I left Tokyo. And Mrs Takenaga has been placed in a psychiatric clinic by her family.’

  ‘And Martin’s disappeared.’ Kristjan shook his head. ‘That’s a shitload of bad news, Wada.’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘What do you know about Peter Driscoll?’

  ‘He runs a deal-brokering company called Quartizon, part-owned by the Nishizaki Corporation.’

  ‘What sort of deals does he broker?’

  ‘I am not sure. Maybe you know.’

  ‘Maybe we do.’ Kristjan said something to Erla in Icelandic. She opened a drawer in a cabinet by the bed, took out some cigarette papers and a sachet of what Wada assumed wasn’t tobacco and started rolling a couple of spliffs. Kristjan sat down on the edge of the bed and frowned at Wada. ‘If your boss is dead and your client’s been put away, why haven’t you given up the case?’

  ‘I liked my boss. And I am not sure I really have a choice. I am not sure I would be allowed to give up.’

  ‘You’re in big trouble, Wada.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bigger than us.’ Erla handed Kristjan his spliff. They both lit up. ‘You want one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A drink, maybe? There’s vodka.’

  ‘Nothing for me. Except answers.’

  Kristjan exchanged another look with Erla, which seemed to settle something. ‘OK,’ he said, waving away a cloud of cannabis-scented smoke. ‘I write a blog about foreign ownership of land in Iceland. Under-the-radar buyouts of farms and estates. There’s a lot of it going on and some of us don’t like it. I named Quartizon as broker for many of the transactions. There are rumours they have options on hundreds, maybe thousands, of parcels of land. They’ve been on my case ever since. Threats, injunctions, the full legal heavy stuff. Plus some non-legal threats to my personal safety. Erla’s also.’

  ‘Quartizon are frightening,’ said Erla quietly. ‘I wish I’d never heard of them.’

  ‘Some of my blogs were in Icelandic, some in English. Martin had read one of the English ones. He contacted me. I told him I was getting serious aggravation from Quartizon. He offered to help. He said he had information about Peter Driscoll that might get them off our backs. But he wanted our help too. To find out what exactly Quartizon’s plan was. The big picture, he called it. There’s no reason their land-buying operations should be limited to Iceland. And Quartizon’s strings are being pulled by Nishizaki in Japan. So, what’s really going on?’

  ‘I believe the Nishizaki Corporation has criminal connections,’ said Wada. ‘I believe investigating them is what got Kodaka killed.’

  ‘We should leave this alone,’ said Erla. She looked appealingly at Kristjan. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  Kristjan scowled. ‘Let them get away with it? Fuck no. We’re Icelanders, Erla. This is our land. They have no right to do any of this.’

  ‘But we can’t stop them.’

  ‘Maybe we can. With Wada’s help. She’s Japanese.’

  ‘Why is that important?’ Wada asked.

  ‘Quartizon opened an office in Reykjavík last year. Very small, very low key. I know someone who works there. He doesn’t like what they’re doing – even the things he actually knows about – but they pay well, so … he just does his job. But he likes to drink. And when he drinks … he tells me things.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Recently, Quartizon have leased bigger premises right in the centre of the city. It’s opened as some kind of art gallery, but according to my friend it’s a front for something big that’s in the pipeline. The company’s running a hush-hush project he’s frozen out of called Emergence. He’s no idea what it’s about. He’s not approved for access to the files. Only the Japanese staff – and there are only a few of them – are in the know. Plus Driscoll, obviously.’

  ‘Is Driscoll here, in Reykjavík?’

  ‘We think so. Preparing for the launch of whatever the fuck Emergence is. If we could find out what it’s about …’

  Erla grabbed his arm and began talking rapidly in Icelandic. Wada caught the names Quartizon, Driscoll and Caldwell as Erla went on. The expression on Kristjan’s face suggested he wasn’t really listening to her. When she’d finished, he rolled his eyes.

  ‘We either do something or we do nothing,’ he said after a moment. ‘And I’m not going to do nothing while Driscoll sells bits of my country off like fillets of fish. From what my friend’s told me, Wada, you might be the person we
need. The Emergence files are all in Japanese, so he couldn’t understand them even if he opened them. But you could, couldn’t you?’

  ‘You said he did not have access.’

  ‘He’s not approved for access. But I’m pretty sure he could get in if he wanted to. That would be some kind of breach of company rules. It could mean dismissal. And it’s not worth the risk if he can’t read what’s in the files. But with you it is worth the risk. He knows what they’re doing at Quartizon is bad for Iceland. I think he’ll cooperate. We just have to persuade him. What do you say?’

  Wada didn’t have to think long. ‘Yes. I say yes.’

  ‘Great. I’ll call him now. Try to set up a meeting.’

  Kristjan grabbed his phone. Wada watched Erla rubbing her hands together nervously. She didn’t like what they were doing. Maybe she knew Kristjan’s friend only too well. A few moments passed.

  ‘He’s not picking up,’ said Kristjan. ‘I’ll text him.’

  ‘Have you met this man, Erla?’ Wada asked as Kristjan thumbed out his message.

  Erla nodded. When she spoke, it was in an undertone. It seemed to Wada she was hoping Kristjan wouldn’t listen to what she said. ‘Ragnar’s like the stool in my kitchen.’

  ‘And what is that like?’

  ‘It wobbles.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Kristjan, finishing the text and grinning thinly at Wada. ‘Ragnar’s a wobbly stool. But he’s our wobbly stool.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ asked Erla.

  ‘I told him we have someone he’s absolutely got to meet. As soon as possible. For his sake, our sake, everyone’s sake.’

  A brief silence fell. It was as if they were all waiting for Ragnar to respond. But Wada hadn’t stopped thinking about what they were up against. ‘Where does Driscoll stay when he’s in Iceland?’

  ‘The Borg, I expect,’ said Kristjan. ‘It’s our classiest hotel. But I don’t actually know.’

  ‘You’ve seen him, though?’

  ‘No. Not with my own eyes. He comes. He goes. Some guy in a suit in a limo with tinted windows and a private jet waiting at Reykjavík airport. Our lines don’t cross, Wada. He’s part of the international capitalist set. I’m … one of the little people.’ There was a beep from his phone. ‘Hold on.’ He looked down. ‘Ragnar’s come back.’

  ‘What does he say?’ asked Erla anxiously.

  ‘We’re on. Jarđfræđingur, ten o’clock.’ Kristjan looked at Wada. ‘It’s a bar. It’ll be noisy. But that’s good. No one will hear what we say.’

  ‘He’ll be drunk by ten,’ said Erla dolefully.

  ‘That’s not so bad,’ said Kristjan. ‘We need him a bit drunk to agree to do this.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll be more than a bit drunk.’

  ‘Give the guy a chance. Give us a chance. And you don’t need to come anyway. But you’ll come, won’t you, Wada?’

  Wada nodded. They had to try this. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind. Though as to the result … there was nothing but doubts wreathed around that. ‘I will come.’

  Perhaps because she was feeling completely relaxed after her Tuscan holiday, Kate took the news of Nick’s imminent departure for Iceland with greater equanimity than he’d expected and even failed to query his logic that he’d assumed she wouldn’t want to go with him because she’d only just got back from a trip herself. She went on to surprise him by saying she’d never been entirely convinced the conveniently dead Geoff Nolan was his father. This sounded to Nick like one of her characteristic pieces of wisdom after the event, but he let it ride, grateful she wasn’t more curious than she was about the identity of his real father. ‘This is obviously something you have to do,’ she declared, as if that explained everything, although … ‘Whatever you find out about him, you will be back by the end of the week, won’t you? Don’t forget Mummy’s invited us to Easter lunch.’

  So, there it was. He had to be back in time for Easter lunch. Nothing else mattered, apparently. And between then and that cosy lunch party … some kind of truth would be uncovered. Nick was determined to make sure of that.

  Wada had arranged to meet Kristjan at nine forty-five, at the west front of Hallgrímskirkja, the vast concrete Gothic church that dominated Reykjavík’s skyline. The drizzle had persisted, blurring the floodlights that bathed the church, but there were still a few tourists admiring its imposing architecture. Wada tried to do some admiring herself, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was early for the rendezvous, having fretted away the early part of the evening at her hotel. Now she paced around, trying to keep warm in the deepening chill, hoping Kristjan would be early as well.

  He wasn’t. But someone else, it transpired, had guessed Wada might show up before she strictly needed to. Wada’s phone rang and the caller – Erla – asked her to walk across to the shadowy southern side of the square surrounding the church.

  She set off. And Erla stepped out of a deep shadow to greet her.

  ‘Nervous?’ Erla asked, pulling on a cigarette with every appearance of nervousness herself.

  ‘I thought you were not coming with us,’ said Wada.

  ‘I’m not. I’m here to warn you.’

  ‘You do not think Ragnar is reliable. I know.’

  ‘He could be worse than unreliable.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He works for Quartizon. Maybe he’s just pretending to have doubts about them. Maybe this is a trap.’

  ‘But we asked to meet him. How can it be a trap?’

  ‘If Driscoll knows we’ve been asking questions, then he could be ready for you.’

  ‘Kristjan thinks Ragnar is on our side.’

  ‘He wants to think that.’

  ‘He knows him better than you do.’

  ‘And I know Kristjan better than he knows himself. This is a bad idea.’

  ‘You have a better one?’

  Erla had no answer to that beyond several fretful puffs on her cigarette.

  ‘Well then …’

  ‘Don’t believe everything Ragnar says, that’s all. Shit.’ She glanced past Wada. ‘I think I see Kristjan coming. Don’t tell him I was here.’

  Wada looked over her shoulder and spotted a tall, rangy figure on the far side of the square wearing a long, flapping coat. When she looked back, Erla was gone, with only the scent of her cigarette smoke hanging in the air to prove she’d ever been there.

  Wada shrugged and started walking back towards the church. Erla might be right to have her doubts about Ragnar. But Kristjan might be right about him too. And Wada already knew she wasn’t going to make much progress without taking some risks.

  ‘You look even smaller out here than in Erla’s apartment,’ was Kristjan’s bemusing greeting.

  ‘Is my size important?’

  ‘No. I just— Forget it.’

  ‘Are we far from the bar?’

  ‘No. Ten minutes tops.’

  ‘Let’s go, then.’

  ‘OK.’

  Kristjan led the way, setting a stiff pace thanks to his long, loping stride. Wada had to hurry to keep up with him.

  ‘You ought to know Ragnar doesn’t like the Japanese guys he works with,’ Kristjan went on. ‘So, you might not be his … cup of tea.’

  ‘It is not necessary for him to like me.’

  ‘I guess not, but, just to play safe, don’t give him your real name.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Less for him to follow up if he gets twitchy later. Or talkative.’

  ‘Very well. I will be … Abe.’

  ‘Like your prime minister?’

  ‘It is a common name.’

  ‘OK. Abe it is.’

  Jarđfræđingur was loud and dark and very busy. It favoured some kind of Icelandic heavy metal music. Wada possessed excellent hearing, which she’d often found as much a disadvantage as an advantage. She also had no ear for music, to which she was either indifferent or, as in this case, profoundly averse.

  Not that it mattered. Kristjan insisted on buying her a bottl
e of the same lager he was drinking, then grabbed her hand – either to imply to other customers they were together or simply to make sure she didn’t get lost – and piloted her through a couple of crammed side rooms with rough-hewn walls, where stray darts of strobe lighting revealed a ruck of mostly leather-clad drinkers. The men sported large beards and tattoos, the women long hair and tattoos of their own.

  The last room they came to was marginally less crowded and slightly less noisy on account of its distance from the sound system. It also featured some low leather couches, on one of which a fat, pale-skinned young man was almost lying flat, supporting a bottle and an iPhone on the dome of his stomach. He had dark, receding hair and an incipient double chin, but no beard, which made him conspicuous in these surroundings, as did his choice of denims and T-shirt. He and Kristjan exchanged a glance and several phrases of Icelandic.

  ‘This is Ragnar,’ said Kristjan. ‘Ragnar, this is Abe.’

  ‘Hæ,’ growled Ragnar. He didn’t smile as he looked up at Wada. ‘Konnichi wa.’

  ‘I was told you did not speak Japanese,’ said Wada. ‘Was I misinformed?’

  Kristjan laughed. Ragnar didn’t. He went on looking at Wada, with no sign that what he saw impressed him. ‘Thanks for meeting us,’ said Kristjan brightly.

  ‘No problem,’ said Ragnar slowly.

  Kristjan followed up with something in Icelandic. He sat down beside Ragnar and signalled for Wada to sit down on the other side of him. As she did so, the depression in the couch caused by Ragnar’s weight threatened to pull her down against him. She had to anchor herself to the arm to prevent that happening.

  Ragnar took a swig from his bottle and looked at them each in turn. ‘Why am I meeting some middle-aged Japanese woman on a Saturday night in Reykjavík, Kristjan?’ he asked. ‘I get enough of her kind all week in the office.’

  Kristjan leant in close to answer. He spoke at what would have been normal pitch anywhere else, but counted as a whisper in the booming confines of Jarđfræđingur. ‘You said yourself you’d need to be able to read Japanese to make sense of those files, Ragnar. So I’ve brought you someone who can read Japanese. Because she is Japanese. But she doesn’t work for Quartizon.’