‘I wasn’t with Sverrir and Thorfinnur. As far as I know, Sverrir told the truth.’
‘Let’s change the subject then,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Where did the money come from?’
‘The money?’ repeated Arnar.
‘The money that you put into circulation for Alain Sörensen. Where did it come from? Why did Thorfinnur go ballistic about it? Sverrir refuses to talk and Knútur’s keeping shtum too. He told us to ask Sverrir. Where did the money come from?’
Again Arnar did not answer.
‘It’ll come out sooner or later,’ Sigurdur Óli said.
Arnar straightened his back, trying to sit upright on the mattress. Unlike Sverrir, he had not said a word about a lawyer.
‘Thorfinnur went mad when he found out and threatened to go straight to the police,’ he said suddenly. ‘Sverrir managed to pacify him, but not for long.’
He sighed heavily.
‘Sörensen just kept saying that we didn’t need to know where the money came from. Sverrir and I were perfectly happy with that, but after a while Thorfinnur started asking questions. He felt guilty. I think he just wanted out and was looking for an excuse. He was worried that we were profiting from drugs. But when we found out what was really behind it, he said it was ten times worse than drugs.’
‘So he threatened to talk?’
‘He wanted out and Sverrir said he’d started blabbing. I didn’t ask any questions. Sverrir said we had to do something — I must stress that he only said it to me, not to Knútur. We’d got him and Thorfinnur involved at the outset because we needed to spread the loans, the sums were too big. Thorfinnur was like Knútur, a bit of a kid really, but he wanted the money, he wanted to get rich; everyone wanted to get rich.’
‘So that’s the explanation, is it? Greed?’
‘Look, we seized the chance when it was offered to us. We could see what was going on around us and maybe we wanted a slice of the cake.’
Arnar looked up.
‘Sverrir hasn’t told me exactly what happened on the trip. You’ll have to ask him about it, though I have my suspicions. And so will you, of course, now that the whole thing has blown up in our faces.’
‘Why did they go to Svörtuloft? Because Sverrir knows it like the back of his hand?’
‘It was sort of a joke to him. Everything Sörensen said was spot on: the economy just keeps on expanding; the Central Bank has doubled interest rates since last year.’
‘Hang on a minute, what kind of joke?’
‘You know, it’s what people call the Central Bank — Svörtuloft, “the Black Fort”. Sverrir found it funny. He said he would show us the real Svörtuloft. I didn’t even know it existed.’
‘And you know nothing about Lína?’
‘No.’
‘So she didn’t pretend to have information on you? Didn’t threaten you?’
‘No. I don’t know her.’
‘But you recollect her from the glacier tour, don’t you? When Alain Sörensen came over and you took him on a trip into the interior? You remembered her the last time we spoke.’
Arnar thought about this. ‘She was the woman who organised the tour, right?’
‘Correct.’
‘I do vaguely remember her. Now I come to think of it, I have a feeling Knútur was interested in her.’
‘Knútur?’
‘Maybe I’m getting this wrong.’
‘Did Knútur sleep with Lína?’
Arnar did not answer. It was evident he wanted to get something off his chest and Sigurdur Óli waited patiently.
‘It was child porn,’ he said finally.
‘What?’
‘The money we laundered for Alain Sörensen. The dirty money. Some of it was from drugs, some from normal porn, but some from child porn.’
‘Child pornography?’
Arnar nodded. ‘We were involved in laundering money for a porn ring, including paedophiles who produced child porn. Thorfinnur — he just couldn’t live with that.’
50
Sigurdur Óli had Knútur brought up to his office. He meant to ask him about Lína, before heading home to get some sleep. It had been a long day but his curiosity would not allow him to give up quite yet. Finnur had already left. Sigurdur Óli did not know if he would take any notice of what he had said.
The door opened and Knútur was escorted into his office. He sat down, his youthful features betraying fear and anxiety. No doubt he would get little sleep that night, kept awake by thoughts of his wife and child, or Thorfinnur’s fate, or the origin of the money from which he had made a profit.
‘You knew where Alain Sörensen’s money came from, didn’t you?’ said Sigurdur Óli.
‘I’m not saying anything until I’ve spoken to a lawyer,’ Knútur replied. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I want a lawyer. I gather it’s my right. I’d like to go back to my cell now, please.’
‘Sure, and I want to go home,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘So let’s not waste any more time. There’s one matter I want to go over with you; it won’t take long. I understand you knew Lína rather better than you want to admit — the woman who was attacked in her home.’
While waiting for Knútur to be brought up, Sigurdur Óli had continued leafing through the transcripts of Höddi’s phone calls. The printout was still lying on the desk in front of him.
‘You were flirting with her during the tour that you lot went on with your friend Sörensen.’
‘Says who?’
‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you claimed not to know her. Until now I believe you’ve been telling the truth this evening, so why lie about her? Enlighten me.’
Sigurdur Óli fiddled with the papers on his desk, picking some up as if he were distracted and his question of incidental importance. He glanced over the printout, read a few words and turned the pages while Knútur looked on.
‘Was it because of your wife?’ Sigurdur Óli asked. ‘Was that the reason? If so, I can well understand that.’
‘I want a lawyer,’ Knútur said again.
‘There’s one thing you should know about Lína, though,’ Sigurdur Óli continued. ‘Sure, she was friendly and great fun, a sassy woman, but she had a special interest in married men. I haven’t been able to investigate it fully yet but it seems she found men more attractive if they were married. She had a rather unusual arrangement with her partner; an open relationship where they were both free to sleep around. It’s not for everyone but it suited them. I don’t know if she told you about that.’
Knútur listened.
‘This is what I think, and you’ll have to correct me if I’m wide of the mark. You slept with her, maybe after you got back to town. You may have slept together several times or only the once. Either way, it’s quite possible that she threatened you, that she had pictures of you together and threatened to send them to your wife. She was deceitful like that, unscrupulous. And you’d told her once when you were in bed together that — ’
‘That’s not true,’ protested Knútur.
‘- that you and your mates were involved in a clever scam that was going to make you stupidly rich. You didn’t tell her everything, but enough for her to go away and tell her partner about some scheme and that you lot had an incredible nerve.’
‘That’s just not true.’
‘You wanted to show off to her.’
‘No.’
‘Did she take pictures of you together?’
‘No.’
‘But you did sleep together?’
‘She didn’t take any pictures,’ said Knútur angrily. It was the first time Sigurdur Óli had seen him lose his temper. ‘And she didn’t threaten to tell my wife anything. I met her twice, both times in Reykjavík and — ’ Knútur broke off. ‘Does this have to come out?’
‘Just tell me what happened.’
‘I don’t want my wife to find out.’
‘Nor would I.’
‘It was the only time,’ Knútur said. ‘I’ve never done it b
efore — cheated, I mean — but I … she was very determined.’
‘And you blurted it out to her?’
‘She wanted to know all about my job. I think she was more intrigued that I worked for a bank than that I was married. We never discussed that.’
‘But you talked a lot about the bank? And you tried to make yourself sound important.’
‘I told her …’ Knútur hesitated. ‘I don’t know if I was trying to show off. She was very interested and kept asking about all the ways people found to dodge paying tax and so on. She wanted to know about tax havens and I may have told her about some guys I knew who were working on a fail-safe plan to make a killing. But I didn’t say who. And I mentioned all sorts of different scenarios. But … I may have hinted that I was involved.’
‘So you weren’t trying to big yourself up?’
Knútur did not answer.
‘And your colleagues, Arnar, Sverrir and Thorfinnur; did you tell them about this liaison?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I didn’t tell anyone anything.’
‘Did she want money?’
‘No.’
‘Did you send the boys round to shut her up?’
‘No. To shut her up? I didn’t have any reason to. I don’t know any “boys”.’
‘It was vital that your wife didn’t find out.’
‘Yes, but I’d never have harmed Lína.’
‘So you don’t know Thórarinn or Hördur?’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t send them round to persuade Lína to keep her mouth shut?’
‘No.’
‘Did she try to blackmail you when she found out what you and your friends were up to?’
‘No. She didn’t know because I didn’t tell her.’
‘I think you’re lying,’ said Sigurdur Óli, rising to his feet. ‘But we’ll go over it all in more detail tomorrow.’
‘I’m not lying,’ protested Knútur.
‘We’ll see about that.’
Knútur stood up as well. ‘I said I’m not lying.’
‘Did you know where Alain Sörensen’s money came from?’
‘No, not at first.’
‘But later?’
Knútur said nothing.
‘Was that why Thorfinnur died?’ Sigurdur Óli asked.
‘Get me a lawyer,’ said Knútur.
‘Is it not the case that you went up to Snaefellsnes with the intention of getting Thorfinnur back on side?’
‘I want a lawyer present.’
‘I suppose that might be best,’ said Sigurdur Óli and escorted him back to his cell.
He returned to his office to fetch his car keys and sat down briefly to go over his conversations with the three men. It looked as if they were going to play ball. But Sverrir was a tricky customer — unsurprisingly, as he probably bore the most responsibility. And he would have time to get his defence straight overnight.
Sigurdur Óli leafed through the printout of Höddi’s phone calls. He had not had a chance to read them properly and was not sure there was any point now. He noticed that Höddi was talking to someone who had been in contact before, someone who had come to his garage. The date of the call was recent.
SE: Will you do this for me?
HV: No problem, love.
SE: I can give you the fifty I mentioned.
HV: Consider it done.
SE: Thanks. Bye.
HV: Yeah, bye.
Sigurdur Óli stared at the printout. SE: Will you do this for me? The police knew the identities of Höddi’s callers; a list of their full names was appended to the printout. He looked up the initials and when he saw that his suspicion was correct a strange numbness spread through his body. One veil after another was stripped from before his eyes. He would have to apologise to Knútur for all manner of accusations he had just made. And he would have to apologise to Finnur, who had been right all along, whereas he had made a catastrophic blunder.
‘What were you thinking of?’ Sigurdur Óli whispered, carefully replacing the printout on his desk.
That same night he drove east, over the mountains, to the prison at Litla-Hraun to put a single question to Höddi. He knew he would not be able to sleep and dreaded what tomorrow would bring, but as much as he dreaded the inevitable, he would rather deal with it himself than leave it to someone else. After that he would resign from the case. Sigurdur Óli knew that he had been blind and was painfully aware why: he had believed himself to be sufficiently tough, sufficiently impartial and a sufficiently good policeman to resist being influenced, regardless of who was involved. But it had turned out that he was none of these.
Finding a guard he knew on duty, he talked him into waking up Höddi and bringing him to the interview room. The guard was very reluctant at first but let himself be persuaded by Sigurdur Óli’s repeated pleas that it was essential for the investigation.
As this was no formal interrogation they were alone in the interview room.
‘Have you lost the plot?’ asked Höddi, in a vile temper after being roused from a deep sleep.
‘Just one question,’ said Sigurdur Óli.
‘What the fuck? Why the hell do you have to wake me up in the middle of the night?’
‘How do you know Súsanna Einarsdóttir?’
51
They had a date at the cinema and he had asked to take his mother’s car to give her a lift.
‘Where are you going?’ Gagga had demanded, as she always did when he borrowed the car. He had only had his licence for a year and, although he had never had an accident, she did not entirely trust him.
‘The cinema,’ he answered.
‘Alone?’
‘With Patrekur,’ he lied, unwilling to admit the truth. That would come later, maybe, all being well.
‘Have you done your homework?’
‘Yes!’
He had scanned the listings and found that the American film she had mentioned was on at the Laugarás cinema. It was advertised as a romantic comedy, which should do. Something light, to make the experience less stressful, though hopefully not total dross.
He had met her at a school disco, the sort of gathering he usually made an effort to attend, especially if Patrekur was going too. In this case Patrekur had known about a party that was being held beforehand and had rustled up a litre of vodka, smuggled into the country by his cousin on the cargo ships.
Having drunk too much at the pre-party, Sigurdur Óli arrived to be met by a wall of heat, noise and people, and the alcohol immediately went to his head, making him dizzy. Sweat broke out on his brow and he flopped onto a chair, feeling queasy. Then suddenly she was there, trying to help, asking him if he was OK. He muttered something in reply. He knew she was at his school but had never talked to her, and did not know her name.
She helped him out into the lobby and propelled him into the Gents where he threw up until he thought he would never stop. In the end, the attendants whose job it was to make sure everyone behaved came across him there and chucked him out of the disco, so he crept home to his mother who greeted him with an uncharacteristic show of sympathy.
‘You shouldn’t drink, dear,’ he heard Gagga saying through the haze of alcohol. ‘You don’t have the head for it.’
Several days later he was standing in the school corridor when the girl who had helped him came up. The memory of her kindness was still clearly etched in his mind.
‘Feeling better?’ she asked.
‘Yes, actually,’ he said diffidently. ‘I don’t normally get so …’
He was going to say ‘pissed’ but felt it was hardly his style. The whole incident was an embarrassment to him.
‘I’m sure you don’t,’ she said and vanished into the nearest classroom.
Over the next few days he watched her from afar, and the following week he plucked up the courage to sit down next to her in the canteen where she was eating a sandwich and reading a discarded newspaper. He watched her b
efore making his move, telling himself: ‘I’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘Anything in the news?’ he asked.
‘It’s ancient,’ she said, looking up.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Have you got a free period?’
‘No, I’m skiving. I can’t stand my teacher — and he can’t stand me, so we’re quits.’
‘Is he …?’
‘Oh, he’s always showing off to us girls. Aren’t you the guy who runs the neocon magazine?’
‘Milton, yeah.’
‘You’re not exactly popular.’
‘Well, what do you expect? The school’s full of commies,’ said Sigurdur Óli with a shrug.
After that, whenever they bumped into each other they would stop for a chat. One day she came across him in the cloakroom where he was hunting for his anorak.
‘Are you doing anything tomorrow night?’ she asked directly. ‘Do you feel like coming to the cinema?’
‘What? Yes … sure, of course.’
‘Have you got a car or …?’
He thought quickly: it would mean having to bargain with Gagga but it was worth it.
‘I could pick you up,’ he said.
He drove up to her house and waited, feeling far too self-conscious to go and knock on the door and risk having to ask for her. Nor did he want to use the horn, which might easily be misinterpreted as rudeness. So he just sat and waited in patient silence. The minutes ticked by, one by one, until abruptly the front door opened and she hurried out.
‘Have you been waiting long?’ she asked, climbing into the passenger seat.
‘No.’
‘I was waiting for you to honk your horn.’
‘You didn’t keep me,’ he assured her.
The film was a disappointment and they could find little to say when they got back into the car afterwards. He headed towards the town centre, with the vague notion of doing a couple of circuits and maybe buying an ice cream. The late-night kiosks would still be open. They exchanged a few remarks about the female lead who she had found irritating, and he commented that the film had been seriously lacking in laughs. They bought ice creams and he paid, as he had paid for the cinema tickets and popcorn, then he drove slowly home. It was midweek and the streets were empty. Almost before he knew it they were outside her house again.
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