The Darkness Knows

Konrád had been mulling over his options and decided he needed to dig up more information on the man before involving Marta or giving Bernhard another opportunity to show him the door. It didn’t concern him that the man might get wind of the fact that questions were being asked about him in connection with Sigurvin or Vilmar. If he had a guilty conscience, with any luck he would lose his nerve and make a mistake, inadvertently giving himself away.

It occurred to Konrád to go and visit Bernhard’s ex-wife, whose name was Jóhanna, and after a bit of detective work he discovered that she was now living in a council flat in Efra-Breidholt, a downmarket suburb on the eastern edge of the city. He drove up there and parked in front of a large block of flats that was badly in need of maintenance. The blue paint had weathered to grey, streaks of rust ran down the walls from the windows and balcony railings, and the window frames looked battered.

The door to the staircase wasn’t locked, so Konrád walked straight in and climbed up to the first floor where he pressed a bell. Hearing no sound of ringing from inside, he pressed the bell again. Then, since it was obviously broken, he tried knocking. He waited a good while, then knocked again and this time heard a rustling sound on the other side of the door. Someone coughed, then the door opened at last.

An obese, rather seedy-looking woman stood there staring at him. She was in her fifties, her hair stuck up in tufts, and she was regarding him with a look of perplexity, as if she had never expected another visit in her life.

‘Good afternoon,’ Konrád said.

‘Who are you?’ the woman asked bluntly.

‘My name’s Konrád. I’m trying to find out some information about your ex-husband, Bernhard.’

‘Bernhard?’

‘Yes.’

‘Find out what...?’

‘Information.’

‘What... what kind of information? What do you mean?’

Konrád got the impression he’d woken her up. ‘You were married, weren’t you? You and Bernhard?’

‘Who did you say you were?’ Jóhanna asked, her voice slurring a little.

‘I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about your ex-husband, if that’s all right,’ Konrád said. He found himself feeling sorry for this shabby-looking woman and wished he could do something to help her, though he didn’t know what. ‘It’s about an accident that happened several years ago on Lindargata,’ he added. ‘A pedestrian was knocked down.’

‘Eh?’ said the woman. ‘What accident?’

‘A young man died after being hit by a car. I’m working for his sister. Could I maybe talk to you for a minute?’

‘Does Bernhard know you’re here?’

‘Bernhard? No.’

Jóhanna stared at him. ‘Have you met him?’

‘He won’t talk to me,’ Konrád said.

Jóhanna wavered. ‘Come in,’ she said at last, turning and going back inside the flat, leaving the door open for him to follow. Konrád slipped through and closed it behind him.

‘Excuse the mess,’ Jóhanna said.

She picked up a few things in a desultory way, as if that would achieve anything, but it was an empty gesture. It was one of the most chaotic and squalid flats Konrád had ever seen — despite all his years in the police, during which he’d been inside plenty of dumps. The place was littered with clothes and other possessions, cardboard boxes and newspapers, bits of furniture and kitchen utensils, dirty plates, saucepans coated with cooking residues, used glasses and empty wine bottles. A sour fug filled the air. As Konrád took in the chaos, he thought of Bernhard. If slovenliness had been one of the reasons for their divorce, it was hard to see who had been more to blame.

He could hardly bring himself to enter the cluttered room and, besides, he didn’t want to disturb the poor woman any more than necessary, so he paused in the doorway.

‘I never seem to have time to tidy up,’ Jóhanna said, looking helplessly around the room.

‘No,’ Konrád said, groping for something to say. ‘It tends to get left to last.’

‘We’re not friends, you know, Bernhard and me.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know how I put up with him all those years. I told him. Often. But he never listened. Never listened to a word I said. He was depressed. I reckon that must have been it. You couldn’t get a word out of him for days on end, but if you did something he didn’t like, he’d fly into such a violent sulk that he wouldn’t talk to you for days — weeks, even. Who would put up with that kind of behaviour for long? No one. No one would put up with it.’

‘Did he drink?’

‘Yes, that too. Oh, yes. But then he went into rehab and I don’t think he’s touched a drop since.’

‘Did he used to hang out in bars a lot?’

‘No, not much, except to watch the football. He didn’t want to fork out for the sports channels. He was crazy about football; he just didn’t want to pay for it. So... yes, he used to go out to watch matches. It gave him an excuse to drink too. I thought maybe you were from social services. You aren’t, are you?’

‘No, I’m here about the accident I mentioned.’