Authors: Arnaldur Indridason
He had been touched by the boy in the film clip. It was a new experience, as he rarely felt any sympathy for the luckless individuals he came across in the line of duty, but there was something about the boy’s wretchedness, his anguish and defencelessness, that had moved him. His usual attitude was that these people were responsible for their own plight. He did his job and once he had left the office for the day it was over – he had done his duty and there was no need to think about work again until he returned to the station. Some of the other officers who worked on difficult cases let it get to them, especially new recruits and old-timers, but he regarded
emotional
involvement as an obstacle to performing one’s role. He had often been criticised for his cynicism and detachment but this meant nothing to him.
Apart from the obvious fact that a child had been abused, Andrés’s plight was having an inexplicably strong impact on him. The police were forever having to deal with cases like this but it was not often that Sigurdur Óli was presented with such clear evidence of the consequences of chronic abuse. Andrés straightforwardly blamed his past for what had become of him today. He had certainly experienced little joy in his life and was still consumed by grief and anger.
The car windows were misting up so he cracked one open to let in some fresh air. He did not know how long he should stay watching Höddi’s house. It was already past 10 p.m. and he had not seen any movement.
His phone rang. It was his mother.
‘Have you been to see your father?’ asked Gagga the moment he answered.
He said yes and told her that the operation had gone well; the old man was on good form and would be discharged soon.
‘Have you had yourself checked out?’ she shot back.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of time for that.’
‘You should get a move on,’ said Gagga. ‘There’s no point delaying.’
‘I’m going to,’ said Sigurdur Óli reluctantly, though he was unsure if he would ever actually get round to it. Not only because he dreaded this particular examination but because he had a long-standing phobia about doctors and could not face medical appointments. He could not bear the smell of the waiting rooms and surgeries, the waiting, and, worst of all, meeting the doctors – though dentists were top of the list. He could think of nothing worse than lying in a chair, gaping up at one of those millionaires, while he or she grumbled about the cost of living. Ear, nose and
throat
specialists came a close second. When he was a boy his mother had insisted that they take his tonsils out, blaming them for his constant ailments, the colds, runny noses, sore throats and earache, and he could still hardly bear to think about the anaesthetic, the foul taste in his mouth. And A&E was a chapter all to itself. Sigurdur Óli had once been involved in a fight while on a case and had to go to A&E: the endless wait had been the stuff of nightmares, on top of his horror of the reek of antiseptic and the old, thumbed magazines. He felt a special revulsion for those magazines. He had read somewhere that they did not actually carry any diseases, despite being fingered all day by sick people, but he found it hard to believe.
Having said all she wanted to, his mother ended the call. Five minutes later his phone rang again. This time it was Bergthóra.
‘How’s your father?’ she asked.
‘Fine,’ answered Sigurdur Óli, rather curtly.
‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes. I’m working.’
‘Then I won’t bother you,’ said Bergthóra.
Höddi stepped out of his house as she spoke. He closed the door carefully behind him, testing the handle twice to make sure it was locked, then went over to the SUV and began detaching the trailer.
‘No, it’s OK,’ said Sigurdur Óli, trying not to sound too resentful, though he found it hard, recalling their last conversation. ‘Did I interrupt something last night?’
Höddi wheeled the trailer over to the snowmobiles and set it down, then climbed into his car and drove off. Sigurdur Óli allowed a few seconds to pass before starting his own engine and shadowing him at a distance.
‘Look,’ said Bergthóra. ‘I’ve been meaning to say that I met someone about three weeks ago and we’ve started seeing each other.’
‘Really?’
‘I was going to tell you the evening we met but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to.’
‘Who is he?’
‘No one you know,’ said Bergthóra. ‘At least, he’s not in the police. He works for a bank. And he’s very nice.’
‘I’m glad he’s nice,’ said Sigurdur Óli, finding it a challenge to follow Höddi’s SUV inconspicuously, while simultaneously talking to Bergthóra about things he really did not want to hear and not giving the fact away.
‘I can tell you’re busy,’ said Bergthóra. ‘Perhaps we should talk later.’
‘No, it’s all right,’ said Sigurdur Óli, turning on to the Breidholt dual carriageway behind Höddi, who was driving very fast. The temperature had dropped below freezing, the roads were as slippery as glass, and Sigurdur Óli still had summer tyres on his car. He struggled to maintain control. Höddi had opened up a lead and was storming north.
‘Did you call for any particular reason?’ asked Bergthóra.
‘Reason?’
‘When you called last night. You rang so late that I thought maybe something was wrong.’
‘No, I …’
Another turning, taken far too fast, through an amber light onto Bústadavegur. His tyres lost their grip momentarily. Höddi had disappeared over the hill by Bústadir Church. He was losing him, and sensed that he was losing Bergthóra too.
‘… just wanted to talk to you. I … I don’t know, I didn’t feel right about the way our meal ended. I just wanted to discuss it.’
‘Are you driving?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that a good idea? Talking on the phone?’
‘No, not really.’
Höddi turned up another road while Sigurdur Óli was faced with a red light. There was not much traffic, so after taking a quick glance around he shot the lights.
‘I know it’s none of your business really but I thought …’
‘What?’
‘I thought you seemed a bit … when you rang last night, you seemed so odd,’ said Bergthóra, as Sigurdur Óli watched Höddi cross the bridge over the Miklabraut dual carriageway. ‘Do you mind my seeing someone? Do you object?’
‘I …’ stammered Sigurdur Óli, wishing he could focus, ‘… I don’t have any right to object. You must do as you like.’
Bergthóra was silent, as if waiting for him to carry on. His tone of voice belied the words he had spoken. The silence became oppressive as he struggled mutely. He had rung her to find out if she was willing to see him again. It would be different from last time. He had meant to get a grip on himself, to listen to her point of view, to try not to be rigid and difficult. Not like his mother. But as he hurtled over the city’s icy roads, on summer tyres ill-equipped for the job, the right words eluded him.
‘I won’t take up any more of your time,’ said Bergthóra at last. ‘We’ll be in touch. Be careful – you shouldn’t use your phone while driving.’
All he wanted was to keep her talking, but his mind was blank.
‘OK,’ he said.
This could not have gone worse, thought Sigurdur Óli, as he watched Höddi disappear into the Vogar district and heard Bergthóra disconnect.
33
HE HAD LOST
Höddi’s car but dared not drive any faster in these treacherous conditions. Turning into the street he thought Höddi had taken, he drove to the end, only to discover that it was a cul-de-sac, so he turned round, looking out for the SUV, and drove into the next street where he came to a junction. With no idea where to go, he decided to try left – home lay in that direction anyway and he was ready to give up. Then he caught sight of Höddi’s SUV parked outside a takeaway.
He cruised past, noting the sizeable queue and that Höddi was halfway along it, staring up at the illuminated pictures of the dishes. Sigurdur Óli parked at a safe distance and waited. The decision to follow Höddi had been entirely his own, the result of a sudden hunch. Usually he would not have been shadowing a suspect alone like this; there would have been other officers involved and the operation would have been carefully planned. But with nothing to go on but Höddi’s objectionable attitude, he had acted single-handedly, as he could not be certain of receiving the go-ahead. Yes, the man had undeniably set Sigurdur Óli’s teeth on edge, but that
did
not necessarily mean that he deserved to be put under twenty-four-hour surveillance.
Meanwhile, the takeaway queue inched forward. Sigurdur Óli assumed that Höddi was probably taking himself and the SUV for a drive, picking up a burger from his favourite place on the way. He certainly looked capable of putting away any number of cheeseburgers.
Hungry now himself, Sigurdur Óli imagined all the sizzling hamburgers in the joint, and this did nothing to strengthen his resolve. He had just decided to give up and go home, stopping on the way at some other greasy burger bar, when Höddi reappeared carrying a takeaway bag and climbed into his car.
He drove out of the neighbourhood and came to a junction where he crossed the coast road, heading east, down towards the Ellidavogur inlet. There he took a right, drove past a row of workshops and small business premises, and stopped outside one of them. Stepping out of his car, he went over to a workshop and opened the door with a key. No lights came on. Sigurdur Óli could not immediately see what the place was called but remembered how Thórarinn had escaped in the direction of the Kleppur mental hospital, then south towards the Ellidavogur inlet. Could he have ended up here? Was this where he had been hiding since he attacked Lína?
Knocking at the door did not seem a very sensible option, given that he was not sure how he would shape up against two debt collectors. But nor did he want to call for backup, since he had no proof that Toggi ‘Sprint’ was hiding inside. It was perfectly possible that Höddi had some legitimate business here; given his vehicle collection, he must have plenty of repair jobs on. Sigurdur Óli opted to wait in his car at a discreet distance, keeping an eye on the door.
Half an hour later, without any lights being switched on in the workshop, the door opened and Höddi emerged, no longer carrying
the
takeaway bag. Looking neither left nor right, he got into his car and drove away.
Sigurdur Óli allowed a decent interval to pass before easing himself out of his car and walking over to the building. He laid his ear to the door and listened. Nothing. When he looked up, he saw a sign: Birgir’s Auto Repair Shop. Next he went round behind the building, having to walk the length of the row before he could get round the back, then had to calculate how far along the repair shop was before he could establish that there was no exit on that side.
He walked softly back to the front of the workshop, gently tried the handle and discovered that the door was locked. He aimed three blows at it, and the large, sliding door of the adjoining garage entrance boomed loudly each time. Pressing his ear close again, he listened, but there was no sound. He banged the door with even greater force, but there was no reaction, apart from what sounded like a low rumble that stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
Sigurdur Óli could see only two alternatives: either to break in somehow, or to wait for the staff to come to work the following morning. He looked at his watch: it would be a long night. He peered round for some sort of implement – even a rock would do. There were four small panes of glass in the door and he could see no sign that the building was alarmed. It probably did not contain anything worth stealing.
After hunting around he found a length of discarded piping nearby, weighed it in his hand, then used it to smash one of the panes. Then, having cleared the shards, he inserted his arm carefully, located the lock and opened the door. If questioned he would mention an anonymous tip-off and claim that the workshop had been like this when he arrived.
He closed the door behind him and tiptoed into the repair shop, groping for a light switch near the entrance and finding three in a row. A dim light came on somewhere up in the rafters at the back
of
the room where car tyres were piled. He remained motionless while getting his bearings. The place looked like any other garage in town and Sigurdur Óli wondered who this Birgir was and whether he was either a relative of Höddi’s or otherwise connected to Thórarinn – if indeed he was hiding here.
‘Hello!’ Sigurdur Óli called out but received no response. ‘Thórarinn!’ he shouted. ‘Are you in here?’
He walked past a small glass booth containing a reception desk, two chairs and a pile of grubby magazines on a table. The office presumably. Behind it he detected a faint smell of coffee and opened a door to a staffroom, which contained a table and seats for three people, a grimy coffee machine and any number of dirty mugs. In the bin he noticed the bag that Höddi had brought and a box containing a half-eaten burger and chips. Sigurdur Óli’s gaze lingered on the bin: could Höddi have been so desperate to eat his burger in peace that he had taken it to an empty garage on Ellidavogur, late at night?
‘Thórarinn! This is the police. We know you’re in here. We need to talk to you.’
There was no answer.
Sigurdur Óli walked back into the workshop.
‘Stop wasting my time!’ he called.
He was keen not to linger, feeling idiotic enough as it was, shouting like this in the hope that Toggi was hiding among the spare parts or heaps of tyres. If it turned out that he was not, Sigurdur Óli would feel a complete fool.
As he crossed the workshop, it occurred to him that something was missing. Over the years he had had a variety of cars, some good, others not so good, and he had often had occasion to go to repair shops and if the job was small hang around, or else hitch a lift home, or in the worst case call a taxi, though he tried to avoid that unless he had no other option. Generally he tried to get the mechanics to
finish
the job while he waited in the office or went for a stroll, so he reckoned he knew a thing or two about auto repair shops and in his estimation Birgir’s equipment was not exactly state-of-the-art.