Arctic Chill (18 page)

'What are you scared of?'

'I've just never imagined that I would adopt a child. I've never needed to give the matter any thought. It's a completely new and alien concept for me. I understand that it isn't for you, but it is for me.'

'I know it's a big step.'

'Maybe too big,' Sigurdur Óli said.

'What do you mean by that?'

'Maybe it's not for everyone. Adoption.'

'You mean maybe it's not for you?'

'I don't know. Can't we sleep on it?'

'That's what you always say.'

'I know.'

'Go to bed then!'

'Look, we've been quarrelling about this for far too long. Babies, adoption . . . '

'I know.'

'I go around with a knot in my stomach all day long.'

'I know.'

'Can't we just forget it?'

'No,' Bergthóra said, 'we can't.'

The block of flats was still under police guard. Erlendur spoke briefly to the officer on duty on the staircase. He had nothing to report. The residents had trickled home from work towards evening and a variety of cooking smells began to permeate the landing. Sunee had been at home all day. Her brother was with her.

It was late. Erlendur was on his way home but still had a few calls to make. The first was to the morgue on Barónsstígur. He saw at once that something terrible had happened. Two bodies covered in white sheets were carried into the building on stretchers. People were gathering, Erlendur did not know why, until he was informed that a serious accident had occurred on the main road out of town, near Mosfellsbaer. He had not heard the news. Three people had lost their lives in a five-car pile-up, an elderly woman and two teenage boys, one of whom had only recently passed his driving test. An ambulance pulled up, bringing the last body. The families of the deceased were standing around in a state of shock. There was blood on the floor. Someone threw up.

Erlendur was about to make his escape when he ran into the pathologist. He was acquainted with him through work. The man sometimes indulged in gallows humour, which Erlendur guessed was his method of coping in a pretty grim profession. He was in no mood for jokes now, however, as he stared at Erlendur in momentary confusion. Erlendur said he would call back another time.

'Your boy's in there,' the pathologist said, nodding towards a closed door.

'I'll come back later,' Erlendur repeated.

'I haven't found anything,' the pathologist said.

'It's all right, I—'

'There was dirt under his fingernails but I don't think that's anything out of the ordinary. Two of his nails were broken. We found traces of fibres. There must have been a struggle. That's obvious from the bad rip in his anorak too. Didn't the mother say it had been in good condition? I assume you'll be able to make some kind of connection if you can trace the article of clothing. Your forensics team is analysing the fibres to find out what type of material they come from, though of course they could be from his own clothes.'

'And the stab wound?'

'Nothing new there,' the pathologist said, opening the door. 'The wound penetrated the liver and the boy would have bled to death relatively quickly. The incision is not particularly large, the instrument that inflicted it would have been fairly broad but needn't have been especially long. I simply can't work out what kind of instrument it was.'

'A screwdriver?'

The pathologist frowned. He paused in the doorway. He was needed elsewhere.

'I hardly think so. Something sharper. It's really a very neat incision.'

'He wasn't stabbed through his anorak?'

'No, his anorak was unzipped. He was stabbed through a cheap sweater and vest. They were the only obstacles, his only protection.'

'Would there have been splashes of blood?'

'Not necessarily. It's a single straightforward stab wound which caused massive internal haemorrhaging. The blood wouldn't necessarily have splashed his assailant, but he might have had to clean himself up.'

The pathologist closed the door. Erlendur walked over to the body and lifted the sheet that covered it. Looking at the neat little stab wound, he pondered the possibility which had occurred to him earlier that day: that the same instrument had been used to stab the boy as the one used to scratch Kjartan's car. The incision in his side was so small as to be barely visible but it was in precisely the right place to inflict irreversible damage. A few centimetres either way and Elías might have survived the attack. Erlendur had already discussed this detail with the pathologist who would not commit himself but admitted that it was conceivable the attacker knew what he was doing.

As he draped the sheet over Elías's body again, he wondered how Sunee must feel, knowing that her son was in this grim place. Surely she must start cooperating with the police soon; the alternative was unthinkable. Maybe she believed her son was in danger. Maybe she was protecting Niran from the furore that had raged in society since his brother's death. Maybe she did not want pictures of him in the press and on television. Maybe she did not want all that attention. And maybe, just maybe, Niran knew something that had forced Sunee to send him into hiding.

The cold had intensified by the time Erlendur drove away, his eyes reflecting the frozen grief at the morgue.

Sunee met him at the door. She assumed that he was bringing news of the investigation but Erlendur said straight away that nothing new had emerged. She was still up; her brother Virote was asleep in her room and he sensed that she was glad of the company. He had not spoken to her before without the presence of either her brother or the interpreter. She invited him into the living room, then went into the kitchen to make tea. When she returned she sat down on the sofa and poured out two cups.

'All people come outside,' she said.

'We don't want that kind of violence,' Erlendur said. 'Nobody does.'

'I thank everything,' Sunee said. 'It was so beautiful.'

'Will you trust me with your son?' Erlendur asked.

Sunee shook her head.

'You can't hide him for ever.'

'You find murderer,' she said. 'I look after Niran.'

'All right'

'Elías good boy. Not do nothing.'

'I don't believe he was attacked because of anything he did. But it's possible he was attacked because of what he was. Do you understand?'

Sunee nodded.

'Have you any idea who might have wanted to attack him?'

'No,' Sunee said.

'Are you quite sure?'

'Yes.'

'The kids at school?'

'No.'

'One of the teachers?'

'No. No one. All good to Elías.'

'What about Niran? He doesn't seem very happy.'

'Niran good boy. Just angry. Not want to live in Iceland.'

'Where is he?'

She didn't answer.

'All right,' Erlendur said. 'It's up to you. Think about it. Maybe you'll tell me tomorrow. We need to talk to him. It's very important.'

Sunee looked at him in silence.

'I know it's difficult for you and that you want to do what you feel is right. I understand that. But you must also understand that this is a sensitive murder investigation.'

Sunee remained mute.

'Did Niran mention anything about the Icelandic teacher, Kjartan?'

'No.'

'Nothing about a quarrel between them?'

'No.'

'What did he say to you?'

'Not much. He just scared. Me too.'

Sunee glanced over at the small corridor leading to the bedrooms, where her brother now appeared. She held out her hand to him.

'Do you mind if I take a quick look in Elías's room?' Erlendur asked, rising to his feet.

'Okay,' Sunee said.

She met his eye.

'I want to help,' she said. 'But I look after Niran too.'

Erlendur smiled and went through the little corridor to the boys' room. He switched on a small desk lamp that cast a feeble glow over the room.

He didn't know exactly what he was looking for. The police had already searched the room without finding any clues as to where Niran might be hiding. He sat down on a chair and recalled that he and his brother Bergur had shared a room like this in the old days at home in the east.

As Erlendur examined the room, he reflected on the brutal act that had cut short Elías's life. He tried to fit it into the criminal landscape that he knew so well but was completely at a loss. No mercy had been shown to Elías when he fell wounded on the path. No one had been there to help him in his pathetic struggle to reach home. No one had been there to warm him when he froze to the icy ground behind the block of flats.

He looked around. Model dinosaurs of every shape and size trooped round the room. Two pictures of dinosaurs were Blu-Tacked to the wall above the bunks. In one a menacing tyrannosaurus bared its teeth above its prey.

He noticed an exercise book on Elías's bunk and reached for it. On the cover was written 'Story Book' and Elías's name. It contained creative-writing exercises and drawings. Elías had written about 'Space' and illustrated it with a colour drawing of Saturn. He had also written about 'A Trip to the Shopping Mall' that he had made with his mother. And one piece was entitled 'My Favourite Movie', about a recent fantasy film that Erlendur had not heard of. He read the stories, which were written in an attractive, childish hand, and turned the pages to the point Elías had reached in the book. He had written the title of the most recent exercise at the top of the page but had got no further.

Closing the exercise book, Erlendur replaced it on Elías's bed and stood up. What had he wanted to be? A doctor, maybe. A bus driver. Or a cop. The possibilities were infinite, the world a new and exciting place. His life had barely begun.

He went back to join Sunee in the living room. Her brother was in the kitchen.

'Do you know what he wanted to be when he grew up?' Erlendur asked.

'Yes,' Sunee said. 'He say often. Big word, I learn it.'

'What was it?'

'Palaeontologist.'

Erlendur smiled.

'It used to be a cop,' he said, 'or a bus driver.'

On his way out he again asked the police officer on the staircase if he had been aware of any suspicious comings and goings on or near the landing but the answer was negative. He asked about the neighbour, Gestur, who lived in the flat opposite Sunee's, but the officer had not been aware of him.

'No one's had any reason to come up here,' the officer said,
and Erlendur said goodbye and left.

Although it was fairly late by now, Erlendur still had one last visit to make. He had phoned the man that afternoon and arranged to go round to his house. The man answered the door promptly when Erlendur rang the bell, and invited him in. Erlendur had felt uneasy during his previous visit; he could not put his finger on the exact reason. It was something about the atmosphere, something about the owner of the house.

The man had been watching television but he switched it off and offered him coffee. Erlendur declined, looked at his watch and said he would not stay long. He did not apologise for the lateness of his visit. His gaze fell on a photo of the couple on the table. They were both smiling. They had gone to a photographer before the wedding reception and had their picture taken in all their finery. She was holding a small bouquet.

'Not very popular with your exes, are you?' Erlendur said. 'I've been hearing what they have to say.'

'Tell me something I don't know,' the man said.

Erlendur could see why women fell for him if they happened to like the type. He was a slim, neat man with a friendly face, dark hair, brown eyes, an attractive, olive complexion and elegant hands. He dressed with a good taste that was completely foreign to Erlendur. His home was furnished with handsome, trendy furniture, a magnificent kitchen and expensive flooring. Graphic prints decorated the walls. All that was lacking was the faintest sign that anyone actually lived there.

Erlendur wondered if he should tell him about the phone calls he had received, which were in all probability from his wife. The man had a right to know about them. If Erlendur's suspicions were correct, his wife was alive and the news would surely bring him joy. Erlendur did not really know why he didn't tell him everything. There was something ugly about this case that he could not quite fathom.

'No, of course,' Erlendur said. 'One of them claimed you threatened to kill her.'

He said it matter-of-factly, as if remarking on the weather, but the man did not bat an eyelid. Perhaps he was expecting it.

'Silla's not right in the head,' he said after a moment's pause. 'She never has been.'

'So you know the episode I'm referring to?'

'It's just something you say, you've probably said it yourself some time. You don't mean anything by it.'

'That's not what she says.'

'Are you focusing your investigation on me now? You think I've done something to her? To my own wife?'

'I don't kn—'

'She's gone missing!' the man interrupted. 'I didn't touch her. It's just a normal missing-person case!'

'I've never heard of a "normal missing-person case" before,' Erlendur said.

'You know perfectly well what I mean. Stop twisting everything I say.'

Erlendur did know what he meant. A normal missing-person case. He wondered if there was any other country in the world where they talked about 'a normal missing-person case'. Perhaps history had taught the Icelanders not to make too much of a fuss when people went missing.

'There's nothing normal about her disappearance,' Erlendur said.

He paused a moment. The case was heading in a direction from which there would be no turning back. From now on the nature of the inquiry would be different and more serious.

'Did you threaten to kill her?' Erlendur asked.

The man glared at him.

'Are you investigating it as a murder now?' he asked.

'Why did she leave home?'

'I've told you over and over again, I don't have a clue what happened. I came home and she wasn't here! That's all I know. You have to believe me. I've done nothing to hurt her and I find it abhorrent that you should imply anything else!'

He took a step towards Erlendur.

'I mean it,' he said. 'Abhorrent!'

'We have to examine all the possibilities,' Erlendur said. 'You must understand that. We've carried out a very thorough search for her, combed the beaches, advertised in the papers and on television. She's not going to come forward. She may be dead. When people disappear like this it's generally a sign that they're unhappy, so unhappy that they're capable of doing something stupid. Was your wife unhappy? Why? Was it something you did to her? Did she reproach herself? Did she regret the whole thing? Did she regret the affair, the divorce, the marriage? Did she regret losing her children? Was the whole thing a fatal mistake?'

'You've been talking to her friends, haven't you?' the man said.

Erlendur did not answer. Up to now he had spared the man the third degree, but the phone calls had changed that.