The Darkness Knows

Ingibergur was halfway down his third beer. He had red hair, a ruddy complexion, and a coarse beard that he kept stroking as he talked. He still worked on building sites, he said, having been taken on by a contractor three years previously after a spell of unemployment. He had also done a stint working on the construction of sports facilities in Akureyri for several months, but hadn’t got on with the harsh northern winters.

It was Herdís who had put Konrád in touch with Ingi. She knew the name of the building contractor her brother had worked for; and, although he’d subsequently gone bankrupt, he remembered Villi and Ingibergur well. He’d directed her to another contractor, who said he thought Ingi was in Akureyri, and gave her his unlisted phone number. When Herdís called it, Ingi had answered after three rings. It turned out he was back in Reykjavík.

Ingibergur told Konrád he’d gone over that evening so many times that much of his and Villi’s last trip to the sports bar was indelibly imprinted on his memory. Certain details, like the final score in the match or what they’d been talking about beforehand, were crystal clear, but most of what had happened after his failed attempt to approach the three women was hazy.

‘I should never have gone over to talk to them,’ he muttered into his glass, as if still troubled by guilt at having abandoned his friend.

‘But you didn’t talk to them, did you?’

‘No, I lost my nerve. I took a seat in the corner over there,’ Ingibergur said, pointing. ‘Sat there drinking while Villi was talking to that bloke. I was... pretty wasted, to be honest.’

‘Villi too.’

‘Yes, he was. They did a blood test.’

‘He was pissed out of his mind,’ Konrád said, to ease Ingibergur’s conscience. ‘What can you tell me about the man he was talking to?’

‘Nothing,’ Ingibergur said. ‘I didn’t get a good look at him. He was hunched over the bar. But I do know that I didn’t recognise him and I don’t think Villi did either. It wasn’t someone who worked with us or anything like that. Just some bloke at the bar who Villi got talking to. He was like that, Villi. He could chat to people when he’d had a bit to drink. But I think I’ve already told you that.’

The barman who’d been working that night hadn’t been able to give the police a very detailed description of the man who’d been talking to Villi, though he had noted that he wasn’t a regular, and that he’d been wearing a bulky anorak, like most of the other customers, because of the weather. Some had taken their coats off but he hadn’t. He’d been wearing a baseball cap too, so the barman had never got a proper look at his face. The police had appealed for information about the man, on the basis of the few details Ingibergur and the barman had been able to provide, but no one had come forward.

‘I know you’ve heard these questions many times,’ Konrád said, ‘but do you think they could have left together?’

Ingibergur had often wondered about this over the years, and wished he could recall the evening more clearly, especially towards the end. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know what had happened to his friend. He had been totally unsuspecting, as he was blown home by the blizzard, that Villi was lying in a pool of blood on Lindargata.

Ingibergur shook his head.

‘Did they have an argument?’

‘I don’t know what they were talking about.’

‘Is it possible he was trying to sell Villi something? Dope, for instance?’

‘I don’t know. Villi wasn’t into drugs. So... I hardly... I don’t...’ Ingibergur trailed off.

‘Is it possible they could have fallen out, even if it didn’t turn into a shouting match? Could Villi have pissed him off somehow?’

‘Why do you think the man in the bar knew something? He was just a stranger.’

‘I know, but I’m grasping at straws here,’ Konrád said. ‘That’s the worst part — we’ve got so little to go on. This man might be able to help fill in the picture if only we could track him down. He won’t necessarily know anything, but I think it’s important to talk to him anyway.’

‘Is Villi’s sister still trying to find out what happened?’

‘Yes.’

‘She was very nice to me when she called.’

‘Is there any reason why she wouldn’t have been?’

‘She’s never blamed me for anything,’ Ingibergur said. ‘It was his idea to go to the bar.’ He paused. ‘Then he goes and gets himself killed.’

‘The man he was talking to was wearing an anorak,’ Konrád said. ‘Did you notice any logo on it? Or on his baseball cap?’

He had phoned the bartender and put the same questions to him. But the man had served more customers than he could count that evening, as he had on so many others, and had long ago stopped noticing individuals. As far as he was concerned, they’d just morphed into one seething mass of people who didn’t want to be kept waiting and had to be served as fast as possible. Besides, he’d been playing online poker in the quieter moments, so his attention had been taken up with that.