Oblivion (2 page)

‘God, it was a shock,’ she said. ‘You … you can’t imagine what a horrible shock it was. All alone out there in the pool.’

Half an hour earlier Erlendur had pulled on a pair of chest waders and splashed out to the body, accompanied by two members of the forensics team. Marion had watched from the shore, smoking. Fortunately, the Grindavík police, who had been first on the scene, had had the sense not to touch anything until the detectives from CID arrived. The technicians took photos of the body and its position, their camera flashes illuminating the surroundings. A diver had been called out to comb the lagoon bed. Erlendur bent over the body, up to his waist in water, trying to work out how it had been transported to this spot. Once forensics had seen enough, they lifted the body out and carried it ashore, discovering something odd about it as they did so. The limbs appeared to have sustained multiple fractures, the ribcage had collapsed into the spine and the spine itself was broken. The corpse hung like a rag doll from their arms.

It was evening by now and pitch dark but floodlights, powered by a diesel generator, had been set up around the site and in their harsh glare the battered state of the corpse became even more evident. The face was crushed and the shattered skull gaped open. From the clothes, they guessed it was male. He had no ID in his pockets and it was difficult to guess how long he’d been lying in the water. Clouds of hot vapour formed continually above the wide surface of the lagoon, enhancing the eeriness of the scene. It was too dark to conduct a proper search for tracks now; that would have to be postponed until first light tomorrow.

The corpse was covered up and carried by stretcher over the lava field to the Grindavík road. From there it would be conveyed to the National Hospital morgue on Barónsstígur in Reykjavík, where they would wash off the mud and conduct a post-mortem.

‘And that’s when you notified the police?’ Marion prompted, as the three of them sat in the car. The heater was on and condensation had formed inside the windows. Outside, beams of light played over them, there was a sound of voices and shadowy figures flitted past.

‘I ran across the lava to the car and drove straight to the police station in Grindavík. Then I brought them back here and showed them the place. Then more police cars turned up. And then you two. I won’t be able to sleep tonight. I don’t suppose I’ll be able to sleep for a long time.’

‘That’s only natural. It’s no fun at all experiencing something like this,’ said Marion. ‘You should ask a friend or relative to keep you company. Talk about what happened.’

‘So you didn’t notice any other people near the lagoon when you came here today?’ asked Erlendur.

‘No, no one. Like I said, I’ve never seen anyone else out here.’

‘And you don’t know of anyone who comes to bathe in the lagoon like you?’ asked Marion.

‘No. What can have happened to the man? Did you see the way he …? God, I couldn’t bear to look.’

‘No, that’s understandable,’ said Marion.

‘This skin disease, psoriasis – does it cause a lot of irritation?’ asked Erlendur.

Marion shot him a look.

‘They keep developing new drugs to suppress it,’ said the woman. ‘But it’s not comfortable. Though the itching’s not the worst part. The worst part’s the blemishes.’

‘And the lagoon helps?’

‘I think it does. It hasn’t been scientifically proven, but I think so.’

She smiled weakly at Erlendur. Marion asked the woman a few additional questions about the discovery, then let her go. They all got out of the car and the woman hurried off. Erlendur turned his back to the north wind.

‘Isn’t it obvious why his face and body are mashed up like that?’ he asked Marion.

‘Are you implying he was beaten up?’

‘Wasn’t he?’

‘All I know is he’s a mess. Perhaps that was the intention. So you’re thinking he met someone out here, they came to blows and he was supposed to disappear permanently in the lagoon?’

‘Something along those lines.’

‘It might look like that,’ said Marion, who had examined the body before it was taken away, ‘but I’m not convinced the man died as the result of a beating. No ordinary beating, anyway.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I’ve seen bodies smashed by a fall from a great height, and I have to say this reminds me of that. Or a serious car crash. But we haven’t been informed of any.’

‘If it was a fall, it must have been a pretty big one,’ said Erlendur, peering around, then up into the blackness overhead. ‘Unless he came from up there. Dropped out of the sky.’

‘Into the lagoon?’

‘Is that so absurd?’

‘I wonder,’ said Marion.

‘It doesn’t help that he’s clearly been in the water some time.’

‘True.’

‘So he can’t have been beaten to death on the scene,’ said Erlendur. ‘If it was a fall, as you say. Someone must have brought him out here so he wouldn’t be found straight away. His body must have been deliberately sunk in the pool. In this strange white mud.’

‘Not a bad hiding place,’ said Marion.

‘Especially if he’d sunk properly. Nobody comes out here. Except the odd psoriasis sufferer.’

‘Did you have to interrogate her about her condition?’ asked Marion, watching the woman’s car speeding away. ‘You’ve got to stop prying into people’s personal lives.’

‘She was upset. You saw that. I was trying to distract her.’

‘You’re a policeman, not a priest.’

‘The body would probably never have been found if it weren’t for that woman’s psoriasis,’ said Erlendur. ‘Don’t you find that … a bit …?’

‘Of a strange coincidence?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve known stranger. Bloody hell, it’s cold,’ said Marion, opening the car door.

‘What’s this place called, by the way? Do you know?’ asked Erlendur, surveying the power station with its billows of steam rising to the sky and dispersing into the night. The answer came back instantly.

‘Illahraun,’ said Marion, the know-all, getting into the car. ‘Formed during the eruption of 1226.’

‘Evil Lava?’ said Erlendur, opening the driver’s door. ‘That’s all we need.’

THE FOLLOWING DAY
the pathologist confirmed their suspicion that the man’s death had not been caused by a beating. He couldn’t count all the broken bones and calculated that the victim must have fallen at least twenty metres. The pattern of fractures indicated that he had not landed feet first, nor did the pathologist think he had tried to break his fall with his arms. All the indications were that he had landed face down on a very hard surface. After a preliminary examination, the pathologist expressed doubt that the man could have fallen off a cliff on the Reykjanes Peninsula. For one thing, the surface the man landed on appeared to have been smooth, and, for another, he could find no evidence to suggest the man had been on the seashore or in the mountains. Not from his clothes, at any rate. He was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, with only a shirt on underneath. On his feet he wore cowboy boots with heels, pointed toes and cut-out decorations.

‘What kind of mudbath did you pull the poor guy out of?’ asked the pathologist. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

He was a stooped, elderly figure nearing retirement, white-haired and gaunt, with a large pair of horn-rimmed glasses on his nose. He wore a white coat with an apron over the top. The cadaver lay on the table in the cold, unforgiving glare of the lights. There was a tray of scalpels and forceps beside it, and the room stank sickeningly of formalin, disinfectant and open human torsos. Erlendur was ill at ease; he would never get used to the smell of this place and its association with death. He tried not to look at the body more than absolutely necessary. Marion, who had thicker skin, was undisturbed by the sterile environment and the sight that confronted them on the pathologist’s slab.

‘He was found in the run-off lagoon from the power station at Svartsengi,’ said Marion. ‘That’s where all the mud comes from. It’s rumoured to have healing powers.’

‘Healing powers?’ repeated the pathologist, momentarily diverted.

‘It’s supposed to be effective against psoriasis,’ explained Erlendur.

‘You learn something new every day,’ said the pathologist.

‘Did you notice any sign of skin disease on the body?’

‘No, Marion. You can forget the idea that he was there because of psoriasis.’

‘Could he have fallen out of a plane?’

‘A plane?’

‘For example. Judging by the state of him, it must have been a fairly substantial drop.’

‘All I can say at this stage is that he must have fallen from a great height onto an extremely hard surface,’ said the pathologist. ‘I don’t know about a plane. Though I wouldn’t rule it out.’

‘Can you give us an idea how long he was in the water?’ asked Marion.

‘Not long. Two, maybe three days at the outside. I may need to take another look but that’s my provisional estimate.’

‘He’s not wearing a wedding ring,’ remarked Erlendur, darting a glance at the corpse. ‘There’s no mark left by one, is there?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ said the pathologist. ‘I didn’t find anything on him, no keys or wallet. Nothing that could tell you who he is. His clothes have already been passed on to forensics. He doesn’t have any major scars resulting from accidents or operations; no tattoos either.’

‘What about his age?’

‘We’re talking about a man in his prime, maybe thirtyish. Height just under one eighty; well proportioned, lean and muscular – or was, poor fellow. No one’s asked after him yet, have they?’

‘No,’ said Erlendur. ‘Nobody’s missed him. At least, the police haven’t been alerted.’

‘And no one saw him fall?’

‘No. We’ve nothing to go on at present.’

‘How about a traffic accident?’ asked Marion. ‘Any chance of that?’

‘No, out of the question – wrong sort of injuries,’ said the pathologist, raising his eyes from the body and pushing his glasses back up his nose. ‘I think we have to work on the assumption that he died as the result of a fall. And, as I pointed out, I can’t see any signs that he tried to break it in any way. He simply fell and landed in a horizontal, prostrate position. I don’t know if that means anything to you. It’s conceivable he wouldn’t have had time to raise his arms. Or didn’t want to. The drop was clearly a very long one and we’re talking about a high velocity at the moment of impact.’

‘If he didn’t stick his arms out, and landed flat on his face, as you say, are you … are you implying suicide?’ asked Erlendur.

‘It’s possible,’ said the pathologist, pushing his glasses up again. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps you shouldn’t discount it.’

‘Bit unlikely, isn’t it?’ said Marion. ‘If that was the case, why would someone have wanted to hide the body?’

‘I’m simply trying to interpret the pattern of fractures,’ said the pathologist. ‘I still have to conduct a more detailed analysis and the sooner you two get out of my hair, the sooner I’ll be able to get on with it.’

Forensics had a tricky job identifying the comings and goings over the lava field between the Grindavík road and the lagoon. The night after the body was found snow fell in the area, obscuring any tracks in the moss or beside the pool. The diver had been unable to find anything in the mud on the bottom. Conditions were challenging, the water was cloudy and visibility was virtually nil. The police put out an appeal for witnesses who had travelled along the Grindavík road in the days preceding the discovery of the body, in the hope that someone might have seen a vehicle in the area. No one came forward.

Erlendur was greeted by the head of the forensics team, a man in his early sixties, who was poring over the clothing that had been removed from the corpse: underwear, jeans, checked shirt, socks, leather jacket and the cowboy boots. The forensics lab was located on the top floor of CID headquarters. Following the recent creation of the State Criminal Investigation Department, they had been moved from Borgartún in Reykjavík and found themselves plonked in the middle of a semi-industrial zone in the neighbouring town of Kópavogur.

Erlendur, who had risen from the ranks of the regular police and only been with CID for two years, was still learning the ropes and getting acquainted with the other staff. He worked for the most part with Marion Briem, one of the longest-serving detectives, who had originally been responsible for encouraging him to apply for promotion to CID. Erlendur had dragged his feet for several years but eventually, tiring of interminably circling town in a patrol car, he had decided to go for it and got in touch with Marion.

‘About time,’ Marion had said. ‘You knew you’d end up here one day.’

Erlendur couldn’t deny that the role of detective appealed to him. He had already had a brief insight into what it involved when he had taken it upon himself, while still a uniformed officer, to conduct a private investigation into the drowning of a Reykjavík tramp in the old peat diggings on Kringlumýri. The police had dismissed the man’s death as an accident, but Erlendur, who had encountered the victim on his beat, eventually established that he had been murdered. Impressed by the way he had solved the case entirely on his own, with no assistance from CID, Marion had invited him to get in touch if he ever felt like doing more of this kind of work. It took Erlendur a while to make the transition, but Marion’s reaction when he finally did was quite right: Erlendur had known all along that he would end up a detective.

The sediment from the lagoon had been painstakingly washed off the dead man’s clothes and everything adhering to the fabric, such as hairs and dirt, had been subjected to close analysis.

‘It’s mostly just residue,’ said the head technician. ‘I’m guessing he was probably dumped in that mud hole to hide something.’

‘Something on the body?’

‘Yes. We won’t find much now. But the clothes can tell us a thing or two. For example, it looks to us as though they all come from the States. The jeans are a famous brand. So’s the leather jacket. The shirt doesn’t have a label, though, and could just as well have been bought at Men’s Clothing on Hverfisgata. The underwear’s an American make. We don’t know about the socks. Black. Hardly worn. The leather jacket’s seen the most wear and tear, as you can tell by the elbows.’ The technician held up the garment for Erlendur to inspect.