Read Online Oblivion by Arnaldur Indridason - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Arnaldur Indridason
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‘When are you going to let us go?’ asked Ellert, lounging in his chair. ‘It’s ridiculous banging us up like this. We haven’t done anything.’
It was the same refrain his brother opened his interviews with, intended to demonstrate that neither was going to betray the slightest hint of weakness or help the police in any way with their inquiries. Ignoring this, Erlendur and Marion began instead to grill him about the goods he and his brother imported, about their associates, smuggling routes, expenses and profit margin, and what they did with the profits. And further, about the identity of their customers and how the deals were organised. Ellert either didn’t answer at all or gave deliberately fatuous replies, repeatedly protesting his innocence and claiming he didn’t even understand half the questions. The interrogation ground on like this for three-quarters of an hour until Marion began to nudge the conversation round towards the naval base at Keflavík. The gallon bottles of vodka and cigarette cartons in Kristvin’s fridge had been American, from the same producers and in the same kind of packaging as those the police had confiscated during the raid on the brothers’ premises, and although there was nothing to indicate any link between the brothers and Kristvin, Marion didn’t want to dismiss the possibility out of hand.
‘Have you got contacts on the base?’ asked Marion.
‘On the base?’ echoed Ellert.
‘At Keflavík? On the naval base? Do you have any business out there?’
Ellert sat up in his chair, looking at them both in turn.
‘What kind of business?’
‘Do any of your goods come from there?’
‘From the base?’
‘You heard me.’
‘In the first place I’m not aware of any goods,’ said Ellert, ‘and in the second place I don’t know what you’re on about. Why are you asking about the bloody naval base?’
‘Who do you buy from down there?’ asked Marion.
‘We don’t buy anything there,’ said Ellert. ‘Weren’t you listening? We don’t buy anything full stop. The stuff you found isn’t ours. None of it belongs to us!’
‘Is it the quartermasters who supply you?’ Marion persisted doggedly. ‘Or the guys who run the clubs? Or the stores? The air crews? Marines?’
Ellert didn’t answer.
‘How’s it smuggled off base?’ asked Erlendur. ‘By the soldiers? Or is it the contractors? Do you use Icelandic workers as go-betweens?’
‘Does the name Kristvin mean anything to you?’ asked Marion when Ellert remained obstinately mute.
‘Who’s he?’ asked Ellert. He received little news of the outside world in his cell.
‘A customer of yours,’ said Marion.
‘Never heard of him,’ said Ellert. ‘And we don’t have any customers. Why are you asking me about this bloke? Who is he?’
‘We found the same kind of goods at his place as you two deal in. It occurred to us that he might have bought them from you.’
‘Unless he was smuggling for you and your brother?’ suggested Erlendur. ‘Is that it? Was he working for you?’
‘Why don’t you cut the crap? I don’t know the guy.’
During the drive to the prison Marion had been reflecting on the fact that it was only a decade since the police first started arresting people in Iceland for drugs-related offences. The incidents frequently had some connection to the military installation and international airport at Keflavík. Passengers were caught carrying cannabis or LSD, and the proximity of the naval base made it easy for Icelanders to get hold of narcotics imported by members of the Defense Force. The Americans were also a good source of hard currency for purchasing drugs abroad, which was otherwise difficult to come by in Iceland due to the currency restrictions. It had all begun on a small scale, mostly for recreational use at parties, but over time the number of users had grown and some people had spotted an opening for making money by
‘When are you going to let us go?’ asked Ellert, lounging in his chair. ‘It’s ridiculous banging us up like this. We haven’t done anything.’
It was the same refrain his brother opened his interviews with, intended to demonstrate that neither was going to betray the slightest hint of weakness or help the police in any way with their inquiries. Ignoring this, Erlendur and Marion began instead to grill him about the goods he and his brother imported, about their associates, smuggling routes, expenses and profit margin, and what they did with the profits. And further, about the identity of their customers and how the deals were organised. Ellert either didn’t answer at all or gave deliberately fatuous replies, repeatedly protesting his innocence and claiming he didn’t even understand half the questions. The interrogation ground on like this for three-quarters of an hour until Marion began to nudge the conversation round towards the naval base at Keflavík. The gallon bottles of vodka and cigarette cartons in Kristvin’s fridge had been American, from the same producers and in the same kind of packaging as those the police had confiscated during the raid on the brothers’ premises, and although there was nothing to indicate any link between the brothers and Kristvin, Marion didn’t want to dismiss the possibility out of hand.
‘Have you got contacts on the base?’ asked Marion.
‘On the base?’ echoed Ellert.
‘At Keflavík? On the naval base? Do you have any business out there?’
Ellert sat up in his chair, looking at them both in turn.
‘What kind of business?’
‘Do any of your goods come from there?’
‘From the base?’
‘You heard me.’
‘In the first place I’m not aware of any goods,’ said Ellert, ‘and in the second place I don’t know what you’re on about. Why are you asking about the bloody naval base?’
‘Who do you buy from down there?’ asked Marion.
‘We don’t buy anything there,’ said Ellert. ‘Weren’t you listening? We don’t buy anything full stop. The stuff you found isn’t ours. None of it belongs to us!’
‘Is it the quartermasters who supply you?’ Marion persisted doggedly. ‘Or the guys who run the clubs? Or the stores? The air crews? Marines?’
Ellert didn’t answer.
‘How’s it smuggled off base?’ asked Erlendur. ‘By the soldiers? Or is it the contractors? Do you use Icelandic workers as go-betweens?’
‘Does the name Kristvin mean anything to you?’ asked Marion when Ellert remained obstinately mute.
‘Who’s he?’ asked Ellert. He received little news of the outside world in his cell.
‘A customer of yours,’ said Marion.
‘Never heard of him,’ said Ellert. ‘And we don’t have any customers. Why are you asking me about this bloke? Who is he?’
‘We found the same kind of goods at his place as you two deal in. It occurred to us that he might have bought them from you.’
‘Unless he was smuggling for you and your brother?’ suggested Erlendur. ‘Is that it? Was he working for you?’
‘Why don’t you cut the crap? I don’t know the guy.’
During the drive to the prison Marion had been reflecting on the fact that it was only a decade since the police first started arresting people in Iceland for drugs-related offences. The incidents frequently had some connection to the military installation and international airport at Keflavík. Passengers were caught carrying cannabis or LSD, and the proximity of the naval base made it easy for Icelanders to get hold of narcotics imported by members of the Defense Force. The Americans were also a good source of hard currency for purchasing drugs abroad, which was otherwise difficult to come by in Iceland due to the currency restrictions. It had all begun on a small scale, mostly for recreational use at parties, but over time the number of users had grown and some people had spotted an opening for making money by
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