Free Oblivion by Arnaldur Indridason Page A

if they needed to operate on the base, as in the affair of the brawling poker players.
    The Corolla was not much to look at, especially with all the air let out of the tyres. One wing was crumpled from a collision and there was an old dent in the passenger door. The back seat was littered with rubbish, newspapers, fast-food containers and empty beer and soft-drink cans which could only be obtained from the base. The boot contained two Icelandic wool blankets, a half-empty gallon bottle of American vodka and three packets of cigarettes. The spare tyre was lying untouched in its place. The registration papers were in the glove compartment. It appeared the car hadn’t been for an MOT for two years.
    It was impossible to guess how long or indeed why it had been parked there. The simplest explanation was that Kristvin had stopped off for a snack since many of the barracks had vending machines that sold items like cigarettes, canned drinks and chocolate. While he was inside, someone must have slashed his tyres and left him stranded. An alternative, less straightforward, explanation was that Kristvin had been visiting someone in this or a neighbouring barracks, in other words that he had an acquaintance here or had some business with a resident that involved not chocolate but vodka and cannabis.
    After leaving the prison, Marion and Erlendur had headed straight out to Keflavík, discussing the various scenarios as they drove and complaining about how utterly fed up they were of interrogating the brothers.
    ‘I suppose it’s hardly surprising the car should turn up here,’ said Erlendur, surveying the barracks. ‘It’s where Kristvin worked, after all.’
    Marion walked round the car and bent down to examine the gash in one of the front tyres. It was two centimetres long, made by the blade of a knife, possibly a penknife.
    ‘It all fits, more or less,’ said Marion. ‘Why do you think his tyres were slashed?’
    ‘I suppose there’s a faint chance someone did it for a laugh, but … given what we know happened to Kristvin, maybe it’s a bit more complicated than that. I think it’s much more likely he landed in some kind of trouble here.’
    ‘Which led to him turning up in the lagoon?’ said Marion, poking a finger into the slit in the rubber.
    ‘Why didn’t he fetch help?’ asked Erlendur. ‘Change the tyres? Drive away?’
    ‘He needed more than one tyre. He must have been planning to come back later and sort it out.’
    ‘Or he couldn’t do anything about it just then.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because he was in a hurry and didn’t have time,’ said Erlendur.
    ‘Why was he in a hurry?’
    ‘Because … he needed to get away? Somebody was after him?’
    ‘Because somebody was after him,’ repeated Marion. ‘He had to make an urgent getaway and didn’t have time to worry about the car.’
    ‘Who let down the tyres? The man or men who were after him?’
    Marion straightened up: ‘… who thought Kristvin might escape by car and wanted to prevent him.’
    ‘So Kristvin made a run for it? Are you implying he was killed here on the base?’ asked Erlendur.
    ‘I’m beginning to wonder. Though perhaps the tyres were slashed because the car was left here unattended and some vandals just happened to be passing. We can’t rule that out.’
    ‘But you don’t think it’s likely?’
    ‘No,’ said Marion, ‘I don’t. Kristvin worked on the base. And was involved in shady business here that could have got him into hot water. Doesn’t it all point to the same thing?’
    ‘Maybe,’ said Erlendur.
    ‘You’re not convinced.’
    ‘We’re not just talking about Icelanders any more, are we?’ said Erlendur. ‘His assailants, I mean?’
    ‘No, I think that’s clear.’
    The military police stood a little way off, watching Marion and Erlendur examine the car and listening to their conversation without understanding a word. Forensics had arrived to collect the Corolla for inspection at their workshop in