Into Oblivion

by Arnaldur Indridason

‘Well, what about tomorrow, then?’ said Rósanna. ‘No, come to think of it, I’m quite busy tomorrow, and after that it’s my son’s birthday …’

  ‘Maybe I will come over, if that’s all right,’ said Erlendur, unwilling to lose this chance. ‘It won’t take long.’

  ‘Right, good,’ said Rósanna, and gave him the address. ‘See you soon, then.’

  Acting quickly, Erlendur told reception that he was expecting a phone call and wanted it forwarded to the place where he was going. It was absolutely vital. Then he ran down the stairs, drawn to this encounter with the past, a past that had got its hooks into him so tightly that everything else had to take second place.

  38

  Marion surveyed the bar known as the Zoo. Things were unusually slow, if the nickname was anything to go by. A few tables and bar stools were occupied by enlisted men in uniform or men in civilian dress, some with a beer glass in front of them, others with something stronger. Country music was playing quietly from invisible speakers. Cigarette smoke curled up from the tables. All the customers looked American to Marion; one was actually wearing a cowboy hat. The only women were the two waitresses, one blonde and one brunette, who were chatting to the older guy behind the bar. He cracked a joke and they shrieked with laughter, then quickly scanned the room in case anyone needed a drink.

  Marion sipped at a beer: it tasted like watered-down Pilsner. Either the entrance policy was unusually lax or they didn’t take the need for an American escort seriously here. At least there was no doorman and no one had asked for a sponsor. The bartender probably assumed Marion belonged to the horde of civilian contractors, inspectors, engineers and technicians who worked for the army and lived on the base for a while. More likely he simply couldn’t be bothered with an interrogation, though no one could have failed to notice that Marion stuck out like a sore thumb from the regulars.

  Marion had asked the blonde waitress about Joan and learned that it was her evening off. The woman turned out to be acquainted with Caroline too and said she dropped in from time to time. Apparently she was a red-hot bowler and belonged to the number-one team on the base. That explained her choice of venue for her meeting with Marion the other day. The waitress was also able to supply the information that Caroline was single, not very open or chatty, and a bit of a loner.

  A man rose from one of the tables and walked over to the bar, casting a glance at Marion as he did so. He was fleshy, wore a workman’s checked shirt, jeans and sneakers, and his dark hair and skin gave him a Latino appearance. He grinned at some comment of the blonde’s, then approached the table where Marion was sitting.

  ‘You Icelandic?’

  Marion admitted as much.

  ‘Mind if I take a seat?’ he asked, and without waiting for an invitation pulled up a chair. ‘Haven’t seen you around here before. Do you work on the base?’

  ‘I’m waiting for a friend,’ said Marion.

  ‘You mean Caroline?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know Caroline,’ said the man with a grin. ‘The name’s Martinez. Carlos Martinez, from New Mexico. Me and Caroline go bowling together. They told me at the bar you were asking questions about her. How do you know Caroline, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘She’s been helping us with our inquiries in connection with a man who used to work here,’ said Marion. ‘I’m with the Icelandic police.’

  ‘She doesn’t talk about work much. We heard about the death … that you think the Icelandic man whose body was found in the lava field was killed here on the base. Is that true?’

  ‘The matter’s under investigation and we can’t –’

  ‘No, sure. I understand. Been here before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How do you like it?’

  ‘I feel as if I’m in Texas,’ said Marion. ‘Though I’m only fifty kilometres from home.’

  Martinez laughed. ‘This is the liveliest bar,’ he said, grinning. He seemed a very good-natured, talkative man. ‘I don’t go anywhere else if I can help it.’

  ‘Do you get many Icelanders in here?’ asked Marion.

  ‘Yeah, sometimes. I know a few. They’re usually pretty fun, lively guys and I have to say you have some real good bands who come and play in the clubs. Real good musicians.’

  It soon emerged that Martinez had been on a duty tour in the Philippines before coming to Keflavík; he’d been in the marines for three years, eight months of which had been spent in Iceland. He knew nothing about the country other than it was cold, bleak and remote; still hadn’t ventured outside the military zone and wasn’t sure he wanted to. He’d been very happy in the Philippines and couldn’t imagine two more different countries. It had been warm and sunny there; good weather every day, beautiful girls, friendly locals. Here it was freezing and dark and the wind never stopped howling. Coming from a hot climate himself, Martinez couldn’t take the arctic temperatures. It hadn’t been his decision to come to Iceland: he’d been posted here.

  ‘You people don’t much care for us being here, do you?’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Marion. ‘Depends who you ask.’

  Martinez nodded and said that when he first arrived here, he had soon learned that many Icelanders were opposed to the American presence in Iceland and that the issue split the nation down the middle. The military zone was securely fenced off and communications with the locals were kept to a minimum. But a large number of Icelandic civilians worked inside the area during the day, since all construction and maintenance projects on the site, from the building of accommodation or hangars to the upkeep of roads, were in the hands of Icelandic entrepreneurs who had no scruples about lining their pockets at the military’s expense. Martinez said he couldn’t get his head round the double standards.

  ‘People here disapprove of the military and find fault with everything it does but somehow it’s OK to make money out of it,’ he said, lighting a cigarette.

  Marion had no answer to this.

  ‘Hey, I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole,’ Martinez added. ‘Sorry. I’m quitting the marines when I finish my tour over here. Going home to New Mexico. It’s about time. Want another beer? I’ll get this one.’

  He was back at the bar before Marion could respond and returned with two beers.

  ‘You don’t happen to know a man who used to drink here, an Icelander called Kristvin?’ asked Marion. ‘He worked on the base. Flight mechanic.’

  ‘Who’s he? Is he the man who was murdered?’

  ‘We don’t know if he was murdered,’ said Marion. ‘Do you remember him in here? He was known as Kris.’

  ‘Kris? No, I don’t recall anyone by that name. How did he die?’

  ‘We don’t know the circumstances,’ said Marion. ‘We’re trying to piece them together and find out who he associated with on the base, what he did here and what he was working on before he died. It’s just part of our routine investigation. Caroline’s working with us because the military police need to be kept in the picture.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘There’s another thing. I don’t know how to put this so I’ll just ask you straight out. If I wanted to score marijuana here, who would I go to?’

  ‘Marijuana?’ repeated Martinez warily.

  ‘I’m not trying to insinuate that you or anyone else in here’s involved in dealing.’

  ‘I don’t know. Was your man mixed up in that?’

  ‘Possibly. These are the kinds of questions we’re grappling with, you see, and we hardly know where to begin. We know so little about the set-up here. If I were an Icelander who purchased drugs regularly from someone on the base, who would I be dealing with? Enlisted men? Officers? Pilots? Where would the deal take place? At their homes? In a public place? Say I owe someone money and I’m in trouble because I can’t pay up. Do you have any idea who might be after me in a situation like that?’

  Marion ploughed on with the questions, though Martinez was clearly ill at ease.

  ‘I’m not t
he right man to help you with this,’ he said cautiously. ‘I’m not into that scene.’

  ‘How about Wilbur Cain?’ asked Marion. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ said Martinez. ‘Wilbur Cain? Who’s he?’

  Marion could only reply that the investigation was focusing on this bar because the Icelander used to drink here and that the name Wilbur Cain had cropped up in connection with Kristvin, but so far they had failed to track the man down. Martinez listened attentively.

  ‘There’s a woman who works here, Joan. Maybe you should ask her about the dope,’ he muttered in a low voice.

  ‘Joan? Who works here?’

  ‘I shouldn’t … Is Caroline in some kind of danger?’ asked Martinez.

  ‘Hopefully no more than you’d expect in her line of work,’ said Marion, worried now about having gone too far and blurted out too much information in a soldiers’ bar.

  ‘The thing is, she didn’t turn up to bowling practice this evening,’ said Martinez. ‘I called her at home but no one answered. Then you show up and say you’re waiting for her. I’m getting kind of worried. That’s all.’

  ‘What about Joan? Can she supply drugs?’

  ‘I know her husband does. But you didn’t hear that from me.’

  ‘Does he sell to Icelanders?’

  ‘That’s what I heard. She works here and people gossip, you know how it is. I don’t like to spread rumours but if it might help Caroline …?’

  ‘Don’t worry about Caroline,’ said Marion. ‘Have you any idea where I might find her?’

  ‘No, she’s kind of reticent, doesn’t talk about herself much.’

  ‘Is she happy here?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Plenty of people are. In spite of the weather.’ Martinez grinned. ‘Actually, she told me she goes to the movies a lot. I think there’s something going on between her and Bill. Or that’s what a little bird told me recently.’

  ‘Bill?’

  ‘He runs the movie theatre.’

  ‘The movie theatre? You mean the Andrews cinema?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the only one on the base.’

  Having thanked Martinez for the beer, Marion left the bar, got back in the car and headed for the cinema. Taking out the scrap of paper with the phone number Caroline had given them that had turned out to be for Andrews, Marion wondered if she had in fact been directing them there all along.

  Marion was now assailed by doubts, by the fear of having revealed too much at the bar. Had mentioning Wilbur Cain by name been a mistake? On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to make their presence felt and shake people up a bit. Perhaps word would get back to Cain that a detective had been asking questions about him. How would he react? Make a run for it? Leave the country? The Icelandic police were powerless to prevent him, Marion thought. The Americans could do what they liked in the military zone.

  ‘They can throw us off the base any time they want,’ Marion muttered aloud in the car, then caught sight of the Andrews cinema ahead.

  39

  Rósanna was a single mother of three, who lived in a basement flat in the Laugarnes area. A flight of stairs led down to the front door, and Erlendur was on the bottom step when the door flew open and the eldest boy, who had answered the phone earlier, appeared, took one look at Erlendur and yelled to his mother as he shot past and up the steps: ‘That old bloke’s here.’

  Erlendur was disconcerted. Never, to his knowledge, had he been described as an old bloke before; he was only thirty-three. He watched the boy’s retreating figure, wondering if that was how he looked to him. When he turned back, Rósanna had come to the door. She was quite short, looked careworn, and was regarding Erlendur with an enquiring expression.

  ‘I expected you to be older,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, is that … was that your son?’

  ‘Is there someone else with you?’

  ‘What? No, I’m alone.’

  He saw that she was trying to suppress a smile. She invited him in, apologising for the mess. She’d been working late and had had no time for housework all week. ‘The kids don’t lift a finger,’ she added. Erlendur said he quite understood and they chatted for a while, mostly about her friends at the Women’s College and what had become of them. This led her to talk about herself and what she had been up to in the intervening years. She was not in the least shy, took a matter-of-fact view of her circumstances and had not an ounce of self-pity. She ran a small shop near the top of Skólavördustígur which stocked a variety of health foods, though she said that business was slow. The Icelanders were only interested in red meat and stodgy sauces but she had taken a gamble on health food being the future. Erlendur admitted that he ate little but fatty meat in gravy and fermented fish with melted dripping, but pretended to be interested in improving his diet. This provoked another smile.

  ‘People are more interested in their health than they used to be,’ Rósanna said optimistically. She hadn’t gone on to higher education after leaving school but had met a man and got married instead. Her husband had set up a small company and she’d worked for him until their children were born and she became more involved in running their home. But over time the company had started losing money and they’d ended up badly in debt. Then her husband had fallen ill. It transpired that he had pancreatic cancer and he died within the year. She had sold the company, their house and two cars, which left her largely debt-free, and moved into this basement flat with her children.

  ‘I wasn’t the one who knew Dagbjört best,’ she said, thinking back, ‘but of course I remember what a shock it was for us girls in her class when it happened. We couldn’t believe it. We thought she must have gone off somewhere without telling anyone and that she’d turn up at school next day and it would all have been a misunderstanding. Of course that didn’t happen. I was a bit taken aback when Silja rang and then you.’

  ‘There are no new developments,’ said Erlendur. ‘I don’t know if Silja explained but Dagbjört’s aunt wants to know if it’s possible to draw any conclusions, although it was a long time ago, and I agreed to look into it. It’s a last-ditch attempt, I suppose.’

  ‘It must have been devastating for the family. We were all given the third degree by the police at the time. But I don’t know if I can add anything, and I really don’t see what it’s got to do with my cousin.’

  ‘It’s just one among a number of details that have cropped up,’ said Erlendur, trying to reassure the woman. ‘At the time it was rumoured that Dagbjört had a boyfriend. Were you aware of that?’

  ‘You mean the boy from Camp Knox? Wasn’t that just idle gossip?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I remember people talking about it but I can’t tell you if it was true or not. We weren’t that into boys at the time. One or two of the girls may have been in relationships – I really can’t remember.’

  ‘What about Camp Knox? Did she ever talk about it?’

  ‘She may have done but if so I’ve forgotten. I lived on the opposite side of town and didn’t know the west end. Though of course I knew about life in the camps. It certainly wasn’t easy. One of my mother’s sisters lived in Múli Camp.’

  ‘I gather your old class still keeps in touch,’ said Erlendur.

  ‘Yes, we do. We have a reunion at least once a year and I know it’s probably a bit morbid but we always raise a toast to Dagbjört. She’s never far from our thoughts. Then we play popular hits from the time. Dean Martin and so on.’

  ‘Doris Day?’

  ‘Yes, and Doris Day,’ said Rósanna, smiling.

  ‘I know it’s a long time ago, but did you ever hear Dagbjört mention her next-door neighbours?’

  ‘No, not that I recall.’

  ‘The thing is, I spoke to one of them the other day and he told me he’d bumped into Dagbjört shortly before she went missing and that she’d been talking about wanting some new records from America. She mentioned your cousin. Said he worked out on the air-force base and supplied you with the la
test hits, Doris Day and so on. You were going to bring some to her birthday party. Does that jog your memory? Do you know if Dagbjört ever got in touch with your cousin?’

  Rósanna listened intently, trying to cast her mind back to what had been said and done in the lead-up to the tragic event.

  ‘Wouldn’t she have had to go through you?’ asked Erlendur. ‘If she wanted to contact your cousin?’

  ‘I only have one cousin who worked on the base,’ said Rósanna thoughtfully. ‘Our fathers are brothers. He’s about ten years older than me. His name’s Mensalder. I’m trying to think if Dagbjört ever asked me about him or if I gave her his phone number. My mind’s a blank. At least I wasn’t aware that they ever met or spoke to each other. Mensalder lived out at Keflavík and worked for the army; he was always bringing home stuff he bought there or picked up for free. Cigarettes, turkey, steak, jeans. They were real luxuries in those days because you couldn’t get them for love or money in Reykjavík. It was a way for him to earn a bit on the side. But he mostly gave us things or my dad paid a token amount. Mensalder always had dollars and the latest records and I clearly remember borrowing three or four from him for Dagbjört’s party. It’s quite possible I gave her his number. Or perhaps she got it from someone else. But I never heard if she rang him.’

  ‘So you didn’t act as go-between?’

  ‘No. I didn’t order anything for her, if that’s what you mean. But … it was … hang on a minute …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I do believe he took them round himself.’

  ‘The records?’

  ‘No, he picked them up from hers the next day. That was it. I remember now. He lent me the records and wanted them straight back because he’d already sold them to somebody else, but I forgot them at Dagbjört’s house and didn’t have time to fetch them, so I told him where she lived and he was going to drop round for them. That was it, if I’m not mistaken. He was in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘So they would have met?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And it’s possible she asked him if he could get her some stuff from the base?’