Oblivion (17 page)

‘I’m looking for information about an old neighbour of yours, a girl called Dagbjört.’

The man continued to stare at him without saying a word. The house had no number on the door or name plate to say who lived there. There was a garage built onto it but no sign of a car. The small patch of garden at the front was as wild and untended as the section Erlendur had seen from the window of Dagbjört’s room. The air of neglect also extended to the two-storey building which clearly hadn’t seen any repairs for years. Rust streaked the wall from the iron railing of the upstairs balcony and there were further rust stains under the windows. Weeds sprouted from the blocked gutters. It was impossible to see inside the house because heavy curtains obscured all the grimy windows. Erlendur had discovered that there had once been two registered owners, a Danish woman called Margit Kruse, who had died about a quarter of a century ago, and her son, Rasmus. He was now the sole owner, and lived here alone, unmarried and childless, as far as Erlendur could ascertain.

‘Dagbjört?’ said the man at last, as if he dimly remembered the name and was trying to call it to mind.

‘Used to live next door to you,’ said Erlendur. ‘She went missing in 1953. You were living here then, weren’t you? In ’53?’

The man didn’t answer and it occurred to Erlendur that he was probably figuring out how to get rid of this stranger with the least effort. Which wasn’t necessarily abnormal or suspicious behaviour. It was commonplace for recluses like Rasmus to want to be left alone. Erlendur had some sympathy with them.

‘Do you remember her?’ he asked.

‘What are you … Why do you want to know?’

Erlendur explained briefly that Dagbjört’s aunt had sent him to try and solve the mystery of her niece’s disappearance. While he was talking, he studied Rasmus more closely. He was in his mid-fifties, about ten years older than Dagbjört would have been today. The greying hair was plastered to his skull with grease. There was a white pallor about his narrow face and the lips around his small, feminine mouth were so thin as to be almost invisible. They barely moved when he spoke, though occasionally they parted enough to reveal yellowish-brown teeth. He was dressed in threadbare black trousers, shiny at the knees, held up by braces over a creased brown shirt. On his feet he wore felt slippers. Most conspicuous of all, though, were the large eyes that bulged from his white face, hard and gleaming as two marbles. Erlendur wondered if the shifty eyes weighing him up now were those that had once peered across the back garden into Dagbjört’s window.

‘Anyway,’ Erlendur finished, ‘I thought maybe we could talk for a minute. You two were neighbours and –’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Rasmus. ‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid. Goodbye.’

He closed the door and Erlendur remained standing there for a moment, wondering whether to knock again. He decided to leave it. He would have to use other methods if he was going to induce this man to talk to him. Instead of returning to the street, Erlendur went into the garden and positioned himself where he could glimpse Dagbjört’s window through the fir trees. From the ground little of the room was visible except the ceiling. Erlendur turned and looked at Rasmus’s house. It had two large windows upstairs on the side facing Dagbjört’s house. From there it would naturally have been easy to see into her bedroom when the firs were smaller. Erlendur noticed the curtains twitching downstairs. Rasmus was watching him, apparently prepared to allow this rude act of trespass to take place without objection. Erlendur took out the diary pages. Read again the bewilderment in the girl’s comments about the bizarre behaviour of the man next door who lurked in the gloom, spying on her. Hid there in the shadows while she was getting ready for bed. He read again the question she had written down and concealed in the secret place in her room:
What’s he doing?

‘Would you mind getting out of my garden?’ He looked up and saw that Rasmus had opened the back door. ‘You’re trespassing.’

‘You must have known Dagbjört,’ said Erlendur.

‘That’s none of your business,’ said Rasmus. ‘Get out of my garden. Get out before I call the police!’

‘I
am
the police,’ said Erlendur.

‘What?’

‘I’m a detective. All I want is a few words with you about Dagbjört, though I have to say your attitude is very peculiar.’

‘How do you mean peculiar?’

‘Or perhaps I should return with backup, as well as a court order and an arrest warrant.’

‘Arrest warrant? What do you mean? For me? Backup?’

Erlendur nodded, feeling ashamed of himself. It was so easy to work on the recluse’s fears. To take advantage of the vulnerability that he detected in the man’s bulging eyes and flat, lifeless face; the solitude, which he couldn’t bear to have violated.

‘You were Dagbjört’s next-door neighbour,’ said Erlendur. ‘Her bedroom window faces your house. You could have watched all her comings and goings.’

Rasmus retreated into the house again.

‘Did you know her well?’ asked Erlendur.

Without another word, Rasmus Kruse closed the back door and pulled the curtain over it. Erlendur stayed where he was, showing no sign of leaving. Minutes passed until he saw the curtains stirring again, then the door opened and Rasmus’s head popped out.

‘I told you to get out of my garden,’ Rasmus called, sounding distressed. ‘Get out. Get out of here!’

Erlendur stood firm.

‘You’re not coming inside,’ cried Rasmus.

‘We can just as easily talk out here in the garden,’ said Erlendur, trying to sound amiable. ‘I don’t mind. I only want to ask you a few questions, that’s all. I don’t know why you’re reacting like this.’

‘I’m not used to visits,’ said Rasmus, a little less agitated now.

‘That’s obvious. And I do understand.’

‘Then won’t you please go away? I really don’t think I can help you.’

‘Do you remember Dagbjört well?’

‘Yes, I remember her.’

‘Couldn’t I talk to you about her for a moment?’ asked Erlendur. ‘It won’t take long.’

Rasmus stood in the doorway, paler than ever, considering this. Erlendur had no idea what he lived on but judging by his appearance and the state of the house he couldn’t be particularly well off.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Anything you can tell me.’

Rasmus thought again. ‘I noticed her as soon as Mother and I moved here,’ he said. ‘That was about two years before …’

‘Before she vanished,’ finished Erlendur.

Rasmus nodded. ‘She was always surrounded by life. She had lots of friends and they used to play music and go out, to parties and things. They had so much fun but Mama … my mother said they were –’ He broke off, apparently feeling he had said too much.

‘What did your mother say?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Didn’t she approve of Dagbjört?’

‘She didn’t like all the fun and games they had,’ said Rasmus. ‘That’s just the way it was. She had no time for that sort of thing, Mrs Kruse – my mother. Didn’t think it was appropriate for young girls to go out on the town so much. She wasn’t like that herself, you see. She saw things rather differently.’

‘But Dagbjört and her friends weren’t that young, were they?’ asked Erlendur.

‘Mother thought they were. She said they were tarts and sluts and forbade me to have anything to do with them.’

‘Did you have anything to do with them?’

‘No, never,’ said Rasmus emphatically. ‘I never did.’

‘Didn’t you and your mother have any contact at all with your neighbours?’

‘Yes … that is, we used to say hello, but my mother didn’t want too much contact. Mrs Kruse preferred to be left alone.’

‘So you never talked to Dagbjört?’

‘No. Not often.’

‘Were you and your mother the only ones living in this house at the time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just you and your mother?’

‘Yes. No, that is, my mother died about six months before that business with the girl.’

‘And you’ve lived alone here ever since?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about your father?’

‘They split up when I was a child. I can hardly remember him except as a guest in my mother’s house. Then we didn’t hear from him any more. My mother told me he’d moved abroad.’

‘Is he alive?’

‘Quite possibly. I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you have any interest in finding out?’

‘No. None at all. Are you done?’

‘Yes, almost,’ said Erlendur. ‘Were you at home the morning Dagbjört vanished?’

‘Ye-es,’ said Rasmus slowly.

‘Did you see her leave for school?’

‘No.’

‘Positive?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you sometimes saw her, didn’t you? Leaving for school?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘But not that morning?’

‘No.’

‘Is your memory that good? After all, it was a long time ago and –’

‘Yes. It’s not easy to forget. When people vanish like that.’

‘Did you know if she had a boyfriend?’

‘A boyfriend? No.’

‘Did you ever see anyone hanging around outside, watching her house in the evenings?’

‘No. I never saw anyone. Why, do you think …? Was someone watching the house? I never noticed.’

‘Did you ever see any of the youths from Camp Knox loitering in the street?’

‘No, I didn’t see … not that I noticed, but it’s such a long time ago and everything’s … you forget … and … and I didn’t know any youths from Camp Knox. Mrs Kruse wouldn’t allow it. She said they were no better than scum, the lot of them.’

‘What about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Were you interested in Dagbjört?’

‘Me? Oh, no. No, not at all.’

‘Did you see what she did in the evenings?’

‘In the evenings?’

‘Did you sometimes see her in the evenings?’

‘No, it … I … I wasn’t interested in her.’

‘Did you sometimes see her in the evenings when she was alone in her room?’

Rasmus seemed disconcerted by the question.

‘Do you think she spotted you?’ asked Erlendur. ‘Do you think she saw what you were up to?’

Rasmus had difficulty disguising his dismay when it suddenly dawned on him where all these questions had been leading. His prominent eyes bulged even wider and his face was aghast with surprise and fear. He retreated inside the house.

‘I haven’t got time for this,’ Erlendur heard him mutter, then add, on a low, pleading note, as the door closed: ‘Please, just go away and don’t ever come back.’

Some time later Erlendur stood on the pavement by a high wooden fence, looking into a playground and watching people coming to collect their children. Grandmothers in overcoats and headscarves, with handbags on their arms. Mothers in anoraks and peasant blouses. They lingered, maybe smoked a cigarette. There was the odd father too. Some of the children were playing with teenage helpers who joined them in the sandpit, on the swings or see-saw, aware that soon it would be closing time and they would be free to go home. He heard the sound of the mothers’ voices, the shrieking of the children, and watched the woman in charge comforting a little girl who had hurt herself falling off the see-saw. The woman dusted the dirt from her red waterproof trousers and told her she was all right, then took her to the sandpit and encouraged her to play with the children who were building a sandcastle there. The little girl, who was five years old, instantly forgot her woes and started patting sand into a green plastic bucket. He saw that the woman in charge was keeping an eye on her as if she didn’t want the girl to be left out. Erlendur had noticed that she had a tendency to wander about on her own.

He watched her pottering about in the sandpit for a while, then turned away and walked off with a heavy heart. He knew the little girl well but thought she was probably starting to forget him. He had only himself to blame. One day he hoped they could be friends, so he wouldn’t have to watch her from afar, like some kind of outcast. Every so often he stopped by, like now, but didn’t talk to anyone, especially not to the little girl, because he didn’t want to cause any trouble. Nor did he hang around long, for fear people would mistake him for some kind of pervert.

Erlendur hunched his shoulders against the cold and headed back to his car, thinking about the little girl and himself and what a mess he had made of things. One day he hoped he would have a chance to explain to his daughter who he was and why he’d had to leave.

WHEN ERLENDUR RETURNED
to the office in Kópavogur, he was informed that Marion wanted to see him. Marion was still ill in bed, and Erlendur had to get directions to the house since he hadn’t been there before. It was unusual for people to be invited round. At least, this was the first time Erlendur had heard of it and he didn’t know what to expect. He had always had the sense that, like him, Marion preferred to keep private life and work separate.

It was nearing supper time and Erlendur was starving since he hadn’t eaten lunch, so before heading over to Marion’s he swung by Skúlakaffi and bought a takeaway of salted lamb with potatoes and swedes. He was back in his car before it occurred to him that Marion might like something to eat too, so he returned and ordered a sandwich in a box. This offering seemed to meet with approval.

‘Thank you, you shouldn’t have,’ said Marion, accepting the box.

‘I thought you might like something to eat,’ said Erlendur. ‘The only sandwiches they had were prawn.’ He glanced around the flat and noticed an open bottle of port on the table. ‘Feeling any better?’

‘Getting there.’

As was evident from the bookshelves, Marion was an insatiable reader. Every wall was lined with books, from large foreign reference works in many volumes to slender collections of Icelandic verse that marked themselves out here and there by their tatty paper spines. Icelandic sagas rubbed shoulders with love stories; Icelandic folklore mingled with foreign biographies and translated detective stories, works on natural history and every kind of art form, from ballet to baroque music. Everything was neatly ordered on the shelves, the perfectly even rows a pleasure to the eye, testimony to the fact that Marion had once worked at the City Library. The overall effect was only enhanced by the myriad small figurines arranged in front of the books, some made of delicate painted porcelain, others of cruder pottery or carved wood, resulting in the most varied collection. Marion noticed Erlendur’s gaze pause on these knick-knacks.