Shortly before lunchtime Erlendur and Marion knocked on the door of a small basement flat. It was on Öldugata, in the west of town, in a rather dilapidated corrugated-iron-clad house that had once in its heyday been painted red. Little remained but flaking patches of colour, and the frames of the single-glazed windows were rotten from battling the elements without any help from the owners. A chimney poked up from the roof with a television aerial attached. The wire ran down to the first floor. From there another ran down to Rúdólf’s flat.
Erlendur rapped a second and a third time before finally he heard a noise and a man appeared in the doorway, still bleary-eyed with sleep. He looked as if he had stepped straight out of bed, standing there in nothing but his underpants and a duvet wrapped round his shoulders, below which protruded spindly legs and bare feet, with an ugly case of athlete’s foot on both big toes, Erlendur noticed.
‘What... what’s all this noise in aid of?’
‘Are you Rúdólf?’ asked Erlendur.
‘Yes, my name’s Rúdólf. Who are you?’
‘We’re from the police,’ said Erlendur. ‘We’d like a word, if we can come in.’
‘In here?’ said Rúdólf, as if he had never heard such a preposterous idea.
‘Or you could come with us, if you’d rather,’ said Erlendur. ‘Makes no odds.’
‘You what... am I under arrest?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Erlendur. ‘We just need to ask you a few questions about a story you were interested in a while back, to do with the NATO base at Keflavík.’
‘Hang on, I’ll pull on some clothes,’ said Rúdólf and moved out of sight. Before long he appeared in the doorway again, this time wearing a pair of tight green trousers and dragging a T-shirt over his head. He hadn’t bothered with socks. ‘Maybe you should come in,’ he said. ‘Sorry about the mess, I...’
His words trailed off. Erlendur told him not to worry and entered his lair. Marion followed, closing the door behind them. The flat was nothing but a bedsit with a tiny kitchenette and a desk with an old typewriter on it. The bathroom was out in the entrance hall. The mess Rúdólf had apologised for was unbelievable: a chaos of old newspapers and documents, interspersed with milk cartons and leftovers. A fetid odour of rotting food hung over the place, from rancid meat or sour milk. Rúdólf was apparently conscious of the smell since he hastily opened a couple of windows.
‘I’d make coffee but, you know, the machine’s kaput,’ he said, sitting down on the edge of his bed. There was a chair at the desk which Marion drew out. Erlendur, finding nowhere to sit, took up position by one of the windows in the hope of snatching a breath of fresh air. ‘So what’s this story you were talking about?’
‘We believe you knew Kristvin who was found—’
‘Krissi? Yeah. Are you here because of him?’
‘We hear you asked him to do you a favour since he worked on the base—’
‘Who told you that?’ asked Rúdólf. ‘Was it his sister? Did Nanna tell you that? Was she talking about me?’
‘We found a note among Kristvin’s belongings,’ improvised Erlendur, honouring his promise not to mention Nanna in her ex-boyfriend’s hearing. ‘What exactly did you ask him to do for you?’
‘A note? What kind of note?’
‘About a foreign airline that used the airport and—’
‘Is that why he was killed?’ asked Rúdólf, waking up slightly. He had obviously been drinking the night before and was struggling not only with the unexpected visit but a crippling hangover as well.
‘Just to be clear, Rúdólf,’ said Marion, ‘anything we discuss here is strictly confidential. We understand you’re a journalist, though you’re not employed at present, but you can’t use any of the information revealed in our conversation. I hope you appreciate that. If you do, it could compromise our investigation.’
‘Of course,’ said Rúdólf. ‘Hey, I used to handle the police news. I’m a pro,’ he added airily.
‘Good.’
‘I’ve got quite a lot on actually,’ Rúdólf continued, as if he felt compelled to justify himself. ‘I’m a freelance hack and write for various rags. The fishermen’s paper and so on. Besides, I heard they’re going to offer me my old job back; it’s only a question of time—’
‘A hack?’ queried Erlendur.
‘Yeah, hack.’
‘Is that...?’
‘Hack, man, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of that?’ said Rúdólf, waking up properly now.
‘You mean you’re some kind of pen for hire?’
Rúdólf clearly didn’t think this worthy of a reply. He retrieved a pair of socks from under the bed, sniffed them, then put them on. Marion asked if he knew anything about Kristvin’s relationships with women but Rúdólf said it was ages since he’d had any contact with him so he couldn’t help them on that score. Though did that mean Krissi had finally managed to get his leg over? Marion left this unanswered; the less information they gave this journalist the better. Exercising the same caution, Erlendur enquired about Kristvin’s purchase of cigarettes and alcohol from the base. Rúdólf admitted having enjoyed the perks while he was seeing Nanna, but said his friendship with Kristvin had ended as soon as he and Nanna split up. He seemed unaware of the drugs; at least he didn’t bring them up.
‘She has cancer,’ said Marion.
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Rúdólf. ‘Total bummer.’
‘And you split up.’
‘Not because of that — she didn’t say that, did she?’
‘No.’
‘It was just over between us, you know. Shit happens.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Marion. ‘So you don’t know if Kristvin was seeing a woman on the base?’
‘No. No idea.’
‘Did you know of any friends he had there? Icelandic or American?’
‘Nope. None.’
Marion steered the conversation back to the foreign airline. Rúdólf was looking much brighter. He had found a hip flask with some spirits left in the bottom and drained it, then tossed the flask on the bed.
‘Krissi told me about the Hercules transports the Icelandic crew serviced at NAS Kef,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘They land here fairly regularly, and if they require maintenance, they call on Krissi and his crew, you follow?’
‘Nass Keff?’ repeated Erlendur, puzzled.
‘Yeah, NAS Kef — Naval Air Station Keflavík. Come on, you must have heard the term? Don’t you understand anything? Are you from the countryside or—?’
‘Just keep talking,’ said Marion, signalling to Erlendur to lay off Rúdólf.
‘They claim these aircraft belong to a commercial company, so they’re treated as if they’re from an ordinary civilian operator,’ said Rúdólf, glaring at Erlendur. ‘That’s why the Yanks don’t handle the maintenance if they have to stop over here. Icelandair takes care of them just like all the other civilian aircraft that pass through Kef.’
‘And Kristvin thought there was something dubious about that?’ said Erlendur.
‘We used to debate these kinds of issues,’ said Rúdólf loftily. ‘I was with his sister at the time... You’ve talked to Nanna — did she ask after me at all?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t get it... just don’t get why she gave me the boot. I’ve never understood.’
‘It’s a mystery,’ said Erlendur, his eyes travelling round the squalid flat.