Black Skies (26 page)

He could breathe easily again. Down in the mouth. He had not experienced a moment’s happiness since coming to live with his mother. Instead his life was an unrelieved nightmare. He dreaded going to school and having to answer questions such as why he was so unhappy, why he did not have any clean clothes to wear, why he had not brought a packed lunch. He dreaded attracting attention, dreaded waking up because the moment he did so the memories flooded back. He dreaded going to sleep because he never knew when Rögnvaldur would come for him in the night. And he dreaded the coming of day because then he was alone in the world.

His mother knew what was going on, although she was never home when it happened. He knew she knew, because he had once heard her beg Rögnvaldur to leave the boy alone. She had been drunk as usual.

‘Mind your own business,’ Rögnvaldur had snapped.

‘It’s gone far enough,’ his mother had said. ‘And why do you have to film the whole thing?’

‘Shut your mouth,’ had come the reply.

He used to threaten her too and hit her sometimes.

Then one day Rögnvaldur was gone – the projector, the films, the camera, his clothes, shoes, boots, and shaving things from the bathroom, his hats, coats – all gone one day when he woke up. Rögnvaldur had sometimes disappeared before for short periods but he had always left his belongings behind. Now, however, it seemed that he did not intend to come back; he had vanished, taking everything he owned.

The day passed. Two days. Three days. There was no sign of Rögnvaldur. Five days. Ten days. Two weeks. Still no sign. He woke up in the night, thinking Rögnvaldur was prodding him, but it was not him, he was not there. Three weeks. Andrés kept pestering his mother.

‘Is he coming back?’

The answer was always the same.

‘How the hell should I know?’

A month.

A year.

By then he had learned to deaden the pain; it was strange how good sniffing glue could make him feel.

As far as he could, he avoided opening the door to the room where the blood still ran down the walls.

And Rögnvaldur did not come back.

He gazed up at the gloomy grey sky.

Strange, how contented he felt in the graveyard. He was sitting with his back against a lichened old stone, oblivious to the cold. He must have dozed off. Twilight was falling over the city and the rumble of traffic carried to him from beyond the wall, beyond the tall trees that overshadowed the long-forgotten graves. He was surrounded on every side by tranquil death.

Time had ceased to pass.

It had no business here.

41

SIGURDUR ÓLI WAS
unsure how far to trust Andrés and what had emerged during their last conversation. Despite its confused, rambling nature, Andrés had seemed to be claiming that he had somehow got his hands on Rögnvaldur, and his allusion to a mask tallied with the scraps of leather that Sigurdur Óli had seen in his kitchen. Andrés had called with the express intention of giving him this information but had been unwilling to go any further and his hesitation implied that he was not sure what he wanted to achieve. From the state of his flat it was clear that he was not living at home, indeed had not for a long time. Sigurdur Óli had tried to establish the identity and address of the Rögnvaldur that Andrés had mentioned but there were only a handful of men in the capital area whose name and age fitted and none of these had been reported missing. But Andrés’s stepfather had used an alias before – more than one in fact – and could still be doing so, which would make it even harder to find him. Was it possible that Andrés had attacked him? Or was this simply the confused fantasy of a man far gone in alcoholism? Should he take him at his word? Should any claims
from
such a troublesome man with a long record of vagrancy and substance abuse be taken seriously?

These and many more questions preoccupied Sigurdur Óli as he drove to his mother’s house after his meeting with Bergthóra. In spite of everything, he thought that Andrés ought to be believed, at least to a degree. He had in no way come to terms with the demons of his youth, which still oppressed his soul nightmarishly. He needed help, and he was making a plea, though he had gone about it in a strange manner. The film footage and their meeting in the graveyard were enough to convince Sigurdur Óli to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Andrés haunted Sigurdur Óli; his thoughts kept returning to him, triggered by random sights or sounds. What had Andrés said about his mother? ‘Don’t ask me about her. I don’t want to talk about her.’ What had Bergthóra said about Sigurdur Óli? ‘You can be so like your mother sometimes.’ After all their problems Bergthóra had been the one to end their relationship. It was over, they were going their separate ways and now he did not know what to think. He regretted losing Bergthóra. At last it had come home to him that he wanted to try again, to do his best, but it had been too late. He had lost his temper and she had talked of emotional coldness, of his and his mother’s snobbery. Yet he could not remember uttering a single critical word about Bergthóra at any point in their years together.

Tired and depressed, Sigurdur Óli would have preferred to go home to bed but there were questions he wanted to ask his mother on two unrelated topics; one as his mother, the other as an accountant unimpressed by the so-called ‘New Vikings’ and sky-high rates of return.

Gagga was somewhat surprised to receive a visit from her son so late at night. As Sigurdur Óli took a seat in her kitchen he heard the sound of the television from the sitting room and asked if
Saemundur
was home. Yes, Gagga said, he was watching some programme. Was he going to say hello? Sigurdur Óli shook his head.

‘You were talking about the banks the other day. Do you know much about how they operate?’ he asked.

‘What do you need to know?’

‘Why have they got so much money all of a sudden? Where does it all come from? And what might bankers be doing that wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny? Any ideas?’

‘I don’t know,’ Gagga replied. ‘You hear so many stories. Some people say we’re heading for a crash if we go on like this. The incredible expansion we’ve been witnessing is based almost entirely on foreign credit and there are various signs that these sources are either going to be blocked soon, or just dry up. If this global recession they talk about does happen, the banks will be in big trouble. The risk is that instead of trimming their sails and being more cautious they’ll simply up the ante. Only yesterday I heard that they’re planning to get their hands on more foreign currency by launching deposit accounts in other European countries. At least I gather that there are plans afoot. Are you investigating the banks now?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Maybe some people connected to them.’

‘Icelandic tycoons who have acquired large holdings in the banks via their companies are taking loans from them, which is unethical, of course, quite apart from being risky if practised to excess. They’re using the banks, which are public limited companies, for their own profit. And having carved up all the biggest companies in the country between them, they’re now busy buying anything they can lay their hands on abroad, all funded by cheap borrowing. Not to mention all the games they play to boost the value of their companies, which is often based on nothing more than an illusion. On top of that they make inroads into public companies by selling their own assets to them at inflated prices. Meanwhile the bank executives award
themselves
options worth hundreds of millions if not billions of kronur, and then gamble by taking out loans to buy shares in the banks themselves.’

‘We’re always hearing about that sort of thing.’

‘That’s how they’re paid for cooperating with the owners,’ Gagga explained. ‘Then there are the cross-holdings. It’s always the same handful of people doing these deals, giving and taking loans. The danger is of course that if one link is broken, the whole edifice will come tumbling down like a house of cards.’

Sigurdur Óli stared thoughtfully at his mother. ‘Is this all legal?’

‘Why don’t you talk to your colleagues in the fraud squad? Or have you already?’

‘I may need to soon,’ he said, his thoughts going to Finnur.

‘I don’t think Icelandic law has adequate provisions to cover half of what these people are up to. Parliament is a joke – they’re thirty years behind what’s happening here. All they ever talk about is the price of agricultural products – they’re completely powerless. Meanwhile the government controls everything and they’re encouraging this madness, making a fuss of the New Vikings and bankers being flown all over the shop in their corporate jets. Bank debt is approaching twelve times GDP but no one’s doing a thing about it. But what exactly are you investigating?’

‘I haven’t a clue,’ said Sigurdur Óli, ‘I don’t even know if there’s much in it, but it involves four bankers who went on a trip to Snaefellsnes from which only three returned. The fourth fell over a cliff. Nothing suspicious about that. His body was found months later and it’s impossible to tell if anything untoward happened. But a year on, a secretary from a major accountancy firm, who had invited the four men on a glacier tour organised by herself and her husband, was attacked. As it happens, the secretary, Lína, was in a mess – both financially and in her private life. The kind of hopeless case who’s forever coming unstuck.’

‘In other words, you need to know what four bankers might have been up to that cost one of them his life, then led to this woman’s death a year later?’

Sigurdur Óli frowned. ‘Or maybe just two. They weren’t all necessarily involved in fraud.’

‘What kind of fraud?’

‘Look, I’ve said too much. You mustn’t breathe a word about this to anyone, OK? If you do, I’m dead meat. I’m in big enough trouble as it is. Anyway, I expect I’m blowing the whole thing out of proportion; it’s probably nothing but a straightforward drugs debt. And we’ve got two brainless thugs in custody who are almost certainly responsible for the woman’s death.’

‘Well, it’s hard to exaggerate when it comes to banking,’ Gagga said. ‘One of the things they say is that the financiers are shifting hundreds of millions, even billions of kronur, to tax havens to avoid paying their share of tax here in Iceland. They set up holding companies which they then use to do business that involves all kinds of secret accounts. It’s almost impossible to find out what’s going on because of the confidentiality laws in the tax havens.’

‘What about money laundering?’

‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

‘Maybe they were embezzling from the bank – the four men, that is.’

‘It’s not unheard of.’

‘That would be the most obvious assumption, if I was going to suspect them of illegal conduct. All I’ve heard is that they had an incredible nerve and were operating some sort of scheme.’

‘A scheme?’

‘Yes, something illegal. Two or more of them were in on it.’

‘So it needn’t necessarily be connected to their bank?’

‘No. I’ve spoken to one of them.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing doing. He could hardly find the time to talk to me. Too busy booking a chamber orchestra to play at his dinner party.’

Sigurdur Óli heard Saemundur cough from the other room and hoped he was not going to come through.

‘I saw Bergthóra,’ he said. ‘We’ve sorted matters out, once and for all.’

‘Really? What do you mean, once and for all?’

‘It’s over.’

‘Hasn’t it been over for ages? And you’re taking it badly?’

‘I am, actually.’

‘You’ll find someone else. Was it her who broke it off in the end?’

‘Yes, she’s started a new relationship.’

‘Typical,’ said Gagga.

‘What do you mean?’

‘She doesn’t hang about.’

‘You never could stand her.’

‘No,’ his mother replied. ‘You’re probably right. And don’t start having regrets about losing her. It’s a waste of time.’

‘How can you say that? Just admit it, as if it were nothing?’

‘Would you rather I lied to you? You were far too good for Bergthóra. That’s my opinion and I’m not going to hide it.’

A question that had long been nagging at him rose to Sigurdur Óli’s lips.

‘What did you see in Dad?’

His mother looked as if she did not understand the question.

‘Why did you ever get together?’

‘What are you raking up now?’ asked Gagga.

‘You’re so different,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘You must have realised. But … what was it?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t start harping on about that again.’

‘You had more to gain from it, didn’t you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He paid your way through university.’

‘Look, dear: people get together and break up for no particular reason and the same applies to me and your father. The mistake was probably mine, I admit. Now stop going on about it.’

He was worried that it was too late when he rang the doorbell, as he did not want to drag him out of bed. There was an interminable wait and he was about to steal away when someone took hold of the handle and the door opened.

‘Is that you, Siggi?’ asked his father.

‘Were you asleep?’

‘No, no. Come in, son. Is Bergthóra with you?’

‘No, I’m alone,’ said Sigurdur Óli.

His father was wearing an old blue dressing gown with a narrow plastic tube dangling below the hem. He noticed Sigurdur Óli’s eyes fasten on the tube.

‘I’ve got a catheter,’ his father explained. ‘For the urine. They’re taking it out tomorrow.’

‘Ah, right. So, how are you?’

‘Fine. I’m sorry I haven’t got any food to offer you, Siggi. Are you hungry?’

‘No. I just wanted to look in on my way home, to see if there was anything you needed.’

‘I’m all right. Do you mind if I lie down?’

Sigurdur Óli took a seat. His father lay down on the sofa in the sitting room and closed his eyes: he looked very tired and could probably have done with a longer stay in hospital but thanks to the never-ending cuts, they were sending patients home at the earliest opportunity. Sigurdur Óli looked around at the bookcase and chest of drawers, the old TV set and the framed ‘Master Plumber’ certificate. There were two photos of himself on the table, and
a
thirty-year-old picture of Gagga and his father. Sigurdur Óli remembered the occasion well; it had been his birthday, the last one at which they had all been together.