Black Skies by Arnaldur Indridason

Author:Arnaldur Indridason [Indridason, Arnaldur]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective
ISBN: 9781446485026
Google: zNlbZ2CaEzUC
Amazon: 184655540X
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2012-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

28

THEY HAD WATCHED him suspiciously when he went into the state off-licence to buy two bottles of Icelandic brennivín. He had made an effort to smarten himself up by hitching up his trousers, pulling on an anorak and donning a woolly hat to hide his dirty, unkempt hair and keep out the cold. Then he had walked the long distance to the off-licence on Eidistorg Square, on the Seltjarnarnes Peninsula at the westernmost end of the city. He had taken the decision to avoid visiting the same shop too often after noticing the glances of the staff when he went to the town centre off-licence, near Grettisgata. The branch in the Kringlan shopping centre was also out. He had been there recently too. He had had to pay using cash because he did not own a credit card, never had, which meant he sometimes had to go to the bank to withdraw money. His disability benefit was paid directly into his account and in addition to this he had some savings left over from his last job. Not that he needed much these days, because he hardly ate; the brennivín served as both food and drink.

The staff at the off-licence watched him as if he had committed a crime. Perhaps it was his appearance? He hoped so. What could they know, anyway? They knew nothing. Nor did they refuse to serve him; after all, his money was good, even if he didn’t exactly look like a banker. They avoided engaging with him, though; did not address a single word to him. Well, what did he care what they thought? They meant nothing to him. And anyway, what did he have to do with them? Not a thing. He was just there to buy a couple of bottles of spirits and that was all. He was causing no trouble; he was a customer, just like anyone else.

So why the hell were they gawping at him like that?

Was there a dress code for drinking brennivín?

He walked out of the off-licence, his mind churning, casting frequent glances behind him, as if he expected to be followed. Could they have called the cops? His pace quickened. The young man who had served him sat on his chair by the till, watching him through the glass frontage until he was out of sight.

He did not see any police officers but took the precaution of turning down a side street as soon as he could. From there he made his slow way back towards the centre of Reykjavík, heading for the old graveyard, instinctively picking the quietest back streets and alleyways. From time to time, when no one was looking, he stopped, removed one of the bottles from the bag and took a swig. When he finally reached the graveyard the bottle was nearly empty. He would have to go easy if the other one was to last.

The old cemetery on Sudurgata was a favourite refuge when he needed peace and quiet. He sat down now

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