‘This is my paper,’ he said. ‘And I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Your paper?’ Sigurdur Óli broke in quickly. ‘You’re wrong there, mate; this is Gudmunda’s.’
Only now did he cast a glance into the lobby where the postboxes hung in rows, five across and three high, and saw the paper jutting out of Gudmunda’s postbox just as he had left it.
‘Shit!’ he swore as he got back into his car and shamefacedly drove away.
3
He was on his way to work on Monday morning when he heard the news that a body had been discovered in a rented flat in the old Thingholt district, near the city centre. A young man had been murdered, his throat slashed. The CID were quick to arrive on the scene and the rest of Sigurdur Óli’s day was spent interviewing the young man’s neighbours. At one point he ran into Elínborg, who was in charge of the case and appeared as calm and unflappable as ever; rather too calm and unflappable for Sigurdur Óli’s taste.
During the day he took a phone call from Patrekur reminding him that they had planned to meet, but as he had heard about the murder he said Sigurdur Óli should forget it. Sigurdur Óli told him it was all right; they could meet later that day at a cafe he suggested. Shortly afterwards he received another call, this time from the station, about a man who was asking after Erlendur and refused to leave until he was allowed to see him. The man had been informed that Erlendur was on leave in the countryside but would not believe it. Finally, he said he would talk to Sigurdur Óli instead, but eventually left after refusing to give his name or state his business. Lastly, Bergthóra rang and asked him to meet her the following evening, if he could spare the time.
Having spent the day at the crime scene, Sigurdur Óli went to meet Patrekur at five at the appointed cafe in the city centre. Patrekur was there first, accompanied by his wife’s brother-in-law, whom Sigurdur Óli knew vaguely from parties at his friend’s house. There was a beer in front of the man and he had apparently already emptied a shot glass.
‘Bit heavy for a Monday,’ Sigurdur Óli commented, looking at him disapprovingly as he took a seat at their table.
The man smiled awkwardly and glanced at Patrekur.
‘I needed it,’ he said and took a sip of beer.
His name was Hermann and he was a wholesaler, married to Súsanna’s sister.
‘So, what’s up?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.
He sensed that Patrekur was not his usual self and guessed that he was uncomfortable about having arranged this meeting without warning Sigurdur Óli that Hermann was coming along; as a rule he was the easy-going type, quick to smile and always cracking jokes. They sometimes went to the gym together early in the morning and grabbed a quick coffee afterwards, or to the cinema, and had even holidayed together from time to time. Patrekur was the closest thing Sigurdur Óli had to a best friend.
‘Are you familiar with the term “swinging”?’ Patrekur asked now.
‘No, what, you mean dancing?’
Patrekur’s lips twitched. ‘If only,’ he said, his eyes on Hermann, who was sipping his beer. Hermann’s handshake had been weak and moist when Sigurdur Óli greeted him. He had thin hair, small, regular features, and, in spite of being smartly dressed in a suit and tie, had several days’ stubble on his chin.
‘So you’re not talking about the swing — that forties dance?’ Sigurdur Óli asked.
‘No, not a lot of dancing goes on at the parties I’m talking about,’ Patrekur said quietly.
Hermann finished his beer and waved to the waiter to bring him another.
Sigurdur Óli looked at Patrekur. They had founded a neoconservative society known as Milton in the sixth form and produced an eight-page magazine of the same name, singing the praises of individual enterprise and the free market. They had booked well-known right-wing speakers to come to the school and address thinly attended meetings. Later, much to Sigurdur Óli’s surprise, Patrekur had turned against the magazine, developing left-wing sympathies and starting to speak out against the American base on Midnesheidi, calling for Iceland to leave NATO. This was around the time he met his future wife, so it probably reflected her influence. Sigurdur Óli had struggled on alone to keep Milton going but when the magazine dwindled to four pages and even the young conservatives no longer bothered to turn up to the meetings, the whole thing died a natural death. Sigurdur Óli still owned all the back issues of Milton, including the one containing his essay: ‘The US to the Rescue: Lies About CIA Involvement in South America’.
He and Patrekur had started university at the same time and even after Sigurdur Óli had abandoned his law degree in order to enrol at a police academy in the US, they continued to write to each other regularly. Patrekur had come out to visit him, bringing his wife Súsanna and their first child, while he was still on his engineering course, full of talk of soil mechanics and infrastructure design.
‘Why are we talking about swinging?’ asked Sigurdur Óli, who could not make head or tail of his friend’s hints. He flicked some dust off his new light-coloured summer coat that he was still wearing, in defiance of the onset of autumn. He had bought it in a sale and was rather pleased with it.
‘Well, I feel a bit awkward raising this with you. You know I never ask you favours as a policeman.’ Patrekur smiled uneasily. ‘But the thing is, Hermann and his wife are in a tight corner thanks to some people they hardly even know.’
‘What kind of tight corner?’
‘These people invited them to a swingers’ party.’
‘You’re on about swinging again.’
‘Let me tell him,’ interrupted Hermann. ‘We only did it for a short time and stopped after that. Swinging is another term for …’ He coughed in embarrassment. ‘… it’s another term for wife-swapping.’
‘Wife-swapping?’
Patrekur nodded. Sigurdur Óli gaped at his friend.
‘Not you and Súsanna too?’ he asked.
Patrekur hesitated, as if he did not understand the question.
‘Not you and Súsanna?’ Sigurdur Óli repeated in disbelief.
‘No, no, of course not,’ Patrekur hastily reassured him. ‘We weren’t involved. It was Hermann and his wife — Súsanna’s sister.’
‘It was just an innocent way of livening up our marriage,’ Hermann added.
‘An innocent way of livening up your marriage?’
‘Are you going to repeat everything we say?’ asked Hermann.
‘Have you been practising this for long?’
‘Practising? I don’t know if that’s the right word.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t know.’
‘We’ve stopped now but a couple of years back we experimented a bit.’
Sigurdur Óli glanced at his friend, then back at Hermann.
‘I don’t need to justify myself to you,’ Hermann said, bridling. His beer arrived and he took a deep draught, then, looking at Patrekur, added: ‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’
Patrekur ignored him. He was studying Sigurdur Óli with a sombre expression.
‘Please tell me you’re not involved in this,’ Sigurdur Óli said.
‘Of course not,’ Patrekur repeated. ‘I’m just trying to help them.’
‘Well, what’s it got to do with me?’
‘They’re in a spot of bother.’
‘What kind of bother?’
‘It’s all about having fun with strangers,’ Hermann chimed in, apparently revived by the beer. ‘That’s what makes it such a turn-on.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Sigurdur Óli again.
Hermann took a deep breath. ‘We got involved with con men.’
‘You mean they conned you out of a shag?’
Hermann turned to Patrekur. ‘I told you this was a mistake.’
‘Will you listen to him?’ Patrekur admonished Sigurdur Óli. ‘They’re in deep shit and I thought you might be able to help. Please just shut up and listen.’