‘So, how’s life in the force?’ asked Patrekur, one of the engineers, who had been standing beside him during Guffi’s speech. He and Sigurdur Óli had been friends since sixth form.
‘So-so,’ Sigurdur Óli replied. ‘You must be run off your feet, what with the economy booming and all those hydroelectric projects.’
‘We’re literally up to our eyes,’ Patrekur said, with a more serious air than usual. ‘Look, I was wondering if we could meet up sometime soon. There’s something I’d like to discuss.’
‘Sure. Will I have to arrest you?’
Patrekur did not smile.
‘I’ll be in touch on Monday, if that’s OK,’ he said, before moving away.
‘Yeah, do,’ Sigurdur Óli replied, nodding to Patrekur’s wife, Súsanna, who, though partners did not usually show up, had accompanied him. She returned his smile. He had always liked her and regarded his friend as a lucky sod.
‘Still upholding the law?’ asked Ingólfur, coming over, beer glass in hand. One of the two vicars in the group, he was descended from priests on both sides of his family and had never harboured any other ambition than to serve the Lord. Not that he was the sanctimonious type; quite the opposite: he liked a drink, had an eye for the ladies and was already on his second marriage. He used to argue with the other vicar in the class, Elmar, a very different kettle of fish; so pious that he bordered on the puritanical, a fundamentalist who was deeply opposed to change, especially when it involved homosexuals wanting to overturn the country’s deep-seated Christian traditions. Ingólfur, on the other hand, could not care less what kind of human flotsam washed up on his doorstep, adhering to the one rule his vicar father had impressed upon him: that all men were equal before God. He enjoyed riling Elmar, however, and was always asking him when he was going to form his own breakaway sect, the Elmarites.
‘And you? Still preaching?’ Sigurdur Óli asked.
‘Of course. We’re both indispensable.’ Ingólfur grinned.
Guffi appeared and gave Sigurdur Óli a hearty slap on the back.
‘How’s the cop?’ he boomed, full of his new importance.
‘Fine.’
‘Never regretted quitting your law studies?’ Guffi went on, conceited as ever. He had put on quite a bit of weight over the years: his bow tie was now gradually disappearing under an impressive double chin.
‘No, never,’ Sigurdur Óli retorted, though actually he did occasionally wonder if he should leave the police and go back and complete his degree so that he could get a proper job. But there was no way he was going to admit this to Guffi, or the fact that Guffi was something of an inspiration to him when he was in this state of mind: after all, he often reasoned, if a buffoon like Guffi could understand the law, then anyone could.
‘You’ve been marrying queers, I see,’ said Elmar, joining the group and giving Ingólfur a reproachful look.
‘Here we go,’ said Sigurdur Óli, searching for an escape route before he got caught up in a religious debate.
He turned to Steinunn who was walking past with a drink in her hand. Until recently she had worked for the tax office and Sigurdur Óli used to call her from time to time when he ran into difficulties with his tax return. She had always been very obliging. He knew she had got divorced several years ago and was now happily single. It was partly on her account that he had made the effort to come this evening.
‘Steina,’ he called, ‘is it true that you’ve left the tax office?’
‘Yes, I’m working for Guffi’s bank now,’ she said with a smile. ‘These days my job consists of helping the rich to avoid paying tax — thereby saving them a fortune, according to Guffi.’
‘I guess the bank pays better too.’
‘You’re telling me. I’m earning silly money.’
Steinunn smiled again, revealing gleaming white teeth, and pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over one eye. She was blonde, with curly shoulder-length hair, a rather broad face, attractive dark eyes and brows that she dyed black. She was what the kids would call a MILF and Sigurdur Óli wondered if she was aware of the term. No doubt; she had always known that sort of thing.
‘Yeah, I gather you lot are not exactly starving,’ he said.
‘What about you? Not dabbling yourself?’
‘Dabbling?’
‘In the markets,’ Steinunn said. ‘You’re that kind of guy.’
‘Am I?’ Sigurdur Óli asked, grinning.
‘Yes, you’re a bit of a gambler, aren’t you?’
‘I can’t afford to take any risks,’ he said, grinning again. ‘I stick to safe bets.’
‘Like what?’
‘I only buy bank shares.’
Steinunn raised her glass. ‘And you can’t get safer than that.’
‘Still single?’ he asked.
‘Yes, and loving it.’
‘It’s not all bad,’ Sigurdur Óli conceded.
‘What’s happening with you and Bergthóra?’ Steinunn asked bluntly. ‘I heard things weren’t going so well.’
‘No,’ he replied, ‘it isn’t really working out. Sadly.’
‘Great girl, Bergthóra,’ said Steinunn, who had met his former partner once or twice at similar occasions.
‘Yes, she was … is. Look, I was wondering if you and I could maybe meet up. For a coffee or something.’
‘Are you asking me out?’
Sigurdur Óli nodded.
‘On a date?’
‘No, not a date, well, yes, maybe something like that, now you come to mention it.’
‘Siggi,’ Steinunn said, patting him on the cheek, ‘you’re just not my type.’
Sigurdur Óli stared at her.
‘You know that, Siggi. You never were, never will be.’
Type?! Sigurdur Óli spat out the word as he sat in his car in front of the flats, waiting to ambush the newspaper thief. Type? What did that mean? Was he a worse type than anyone else? What did Steinunn mean by her talk of types?
A young man carrying a musical-instrument case went inside, took the paper from the postbox without breaking his stride and proceeded to open the door to the staircase with a key. Sigurdur Óli just made it into the lobby in time to shove his foot in the door as it was closing, and pursued him into the stairwell. The young man was astonished when Sigurdur Óli grabbed him as he started up the stairs and yanked him back down, before relieving him of the newspaper and whacking him over the head with it. The man dropped his instrument case, which banged into the wall, lost his balance and fell over.
‘Get up, you idiot!’ Sigurdur Óli snapped, trying to drag the man to his feet. He assumed that this was the layabout who lived two floors up from his mother’s friend; the waster who called himself a composer.
‘Don’t hurt me!’ cried the composer.
‘I’m not hurting you. Now, are you going to stop stealing Gudmunda’s paper? You know who she is, don’t you? The old lady on the first floor. What kind of loser steals an old lady’s Sunday paper? Or do you get some sort of kick out of picking on people who can’t stand up for themselves?’
The young man was on his feet again. Glaring at Sigurdur Óli with a look of outrage, he snatched the paper back from him.