The police investigation was still focusing on the immediate vicinity, the school and the estate. It transpired that a repeat offender lived in a block of flats not far from Elias’s. He had been brought in for questioning that night but, paralytic with drink, he had assaulted the officers and was detained in custody. Towards morning a search warrant was obtained for his flat, but so far nothing had been found that could be linked to Elias’s murder. The police also investigated several of the usual suspects, who might conceivably be connected with stabbings — debt collectors and people who had been picked up by the police due to clashes with immigrants or even tourists.
Niran had not spoken a word since he was found. A child psychologist had been called in that night and a social worker from the Child Welfare Agency, but Niran remained wrapped in a blanket and said nothing, no matter how they pressed him. He was repeatedly asked where he had been that day and whether he knew about his brother’s fate, whether he knew what had happened, who could have committed the deed, when he had last seen his brother, what they had talked about. While all these questions rained down on him, especially from his mother, Niran never opened his mouth, sitting instead in silence in his blanket and staring into space. It was as if he had withdrawn into a closed world; into a sanctuary that he alone knew.
Eventually Erlendur told the experts to leave and went home himself, leaving Sunee and Niran in peace. Sigridur had left by then and the interpreter had also gone home, but Sunee’s brother stayed behind with the mother and son in the flat.
It did not seem to be common knowledge that Sunee had a lover. Gudny told Erlendur that she had no idea what he was talking about; she had never heard any mention of the man. Sunee’s ex-mother-in-law was equally in the dark. It was not until Erlendur asked Sunee’s brother Virote that he received a positive response. He knew about a man in his sister’s life but the relationship had not been going on for long, and he said he had never met the man and did not know who he was. Not wanting to disturb Sunee now that she had reclaimed Niran, Erlendur told Virote to ask her for details about the man and then get in touch. He had not done so as yet.
Erlendur soon found the woodwork teacher’s silver-grey car. He knocked on the driver’s window and the man wound it down. A cloud of cigarette smoke escaped into the winter air.
“Can I join you?” Erlendur asked. “I’m from the police.”
The woodwork teacher grunted. He gave a reluctant nod, as if doubting that he could avoid having to talk to Erlendur. He clearly disliked being disturbed during his smoking break. Unruffled, Erlendur sat down in the passenger seat and took out a pack of cigarettes.
“Egill, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I smoke too?” Erlendur asked, waving a cigarette.
A grimace formed on Egill’s face, which Erlendur found difficult to interpret.
“No peace anywhere,” the woodwork teacher said.
Erlendur lit up and the two men sat in silence for a little while, enjoying their tobacco.
“You’re here about the boy, of course,” Egill said at last. He was a large, fat man aged about fifty, who did not fit particularly comfortably into the driver’s seat. Big-boned, bald as a coot, he had a large nose, high, protruding cheekbones and a beard. When his huge hand raised the cigarette to his mouth it almost disappeared inside. On top of his bald head, towards the front, was a large, pink lump that Erlendur stole occasional glances at when he thought Egill would not notice. He did not know why, but the lump fascinated him.
“Was he good at woodwork?” Erlendur asked.
“Yes, reasonably,” Egill said, stretching out his big paw to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray. It creaked under the strain. “Do you have any idea what happened?”
“No, none,” Erlendur said, “except that he was stabbed close to the school here.”
“This society’s going to the dogs,” Egill grunted. “And you lot can’t do a thing about it. Is it a distinctively Icelandic trait, being so lax towards criminals? Can you tell me that?”
Erlendur was not sure what the teacher was getting at.
“I read in the papers the other day,” Egill went on, “that some jerks had broken into someone’s house to collect a minor debt, smashed the place to pieces and mutilated the owner. They were caught in the act but the whole gang were released after questioning! What kind of bollocks is that anyway?”
“I—”
Erlendur could not get his answer in.
“They ought to take those men and throw them straight into jail,” Egill continued. “When they’re caught or confess, they ought to be sentenced immediately. They shouldn’t see the light of day until they’ve spent at least ten years inside. But you let them go as if nothing had happened. Is it surprising that everything here’s going to hell? Why do repeat offenders always get such ridiculously light sentences? What is it in our society that produces such a submissive attitude towards criminal scum?”
“It’s the law,” Erlendur said. “It always operates in that lot’s favour.”
“Change it then,” Egill said, agitated.
“I understand you’re against immigrants too,” Erlendur said, accustomed to hearing tirades against Iceland’s lenient sentencing and peculiarly soft treatment of criminals.
“Who says I’m against immigrants?” Egill asked in a surprised voice.
“No one in particular,” Erlendur said.
“Is it because of the meeting the other day?”
“What meeting?”
“I took the liberty of siding with Jonas Hallgrimsson. At a parents” meeting for one of the years here someone proposed singing a few lines of his poem “Iceland, Prosperous Land” with the children. They’d been learning about the poet. Sometimes they teach a bit of sense in this school. A couple of parents started finding fault with the idea, saying that the school was a multicultural society. Like it was racist to sing Icelandic songs. There was a bit of a debate and I spoke up to ask if these people were soft in the head. I think I might have used those very words. Of course, some of them complained to the principal about me. Felt I was being rude. The poor old sod was shaking in his shoes when he talked to me about it. I told him to go ahead and fire me. I’ve taught here for more than a quarter of a century and I’d welcome it if someone would be kind enough to kick me out. I don’t have the balls to get myself out of here.”
Another cigarette appeared in Egill’s huge hand and when Erlendur darted a glance at the lump on his bald head it seemed to be turning red. He took it as a sign that Egill was becoming angry at the very thought of the parents” meeting. Or perhaps it was the quarter century that he felt he had wasted teaching woodwork at the school.
“I’ve got nothing against immigrants,” Egill said, lighting his cigarette. “But I’m against changing everything that’s traditional and Icelandic just to pander to something called multiculturalism, when I don’t even know what it means. I’m against the conservatives too. I’m also against having to sit out here in this wreck of a car to smoke. But what say do I have?”
“It was more than just poetry, I’m led to believe,” Erlendur said. “You made remarks about Asian women that upset people. If I understand correctly you expressed strong antipathy against these women coming to Iceland.”
The bell rang to signal the end of break and the children started to file back into the school. Instead of making a move, Egill sat tight, inhaling the toxic fumes of his cigarette.
“Strong antipathy!” he mimicked Erlendur. “I’ve got nothing against immigrants! Those buggers started arguing with me and I told them what I thought. We’re still allowed to have opinions at least. I said I thought it was terrible, the circumstances under which many of those women come to Iceland. They generally appear to be fleeing appalling poverty and think they can find a better life here. I said something along those lines. I didn’t criticise those women. I respect self-reliance in any form and I think they’ve got on very well in Iceland.”
&n
bsp; Clearing his throat, Egill reached forward to the ashtray with difficulty and stubbed out his cigarette.
“I think that applies to all these races who come to settle in Iceland,” he went on. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t honour Icelandic culture and promote it everywhere, especially in schools. On the contrary, I think the more immigrants there are in this country, the more effort we should make to introduce them to our heritage, and encourage anyone who actually wants to come and live here in the cold not to reject it out of hand. We ought to support religious instruction, not shoot it down like something we’re embarrassed about. I told that to the people who were glorifying the multicultural society. In my opinion, people who want to live here ought to be allowed to and we should help them in every way we can, but that doesn’t mean we have to lose our Icelandic language and culture.”
“Shouldn’t you have—”
“Surely, as an absolute minimum we should be allowed to foster our own culture, even if people of other nationalities move here.”
“Shouldn’t you have gone back to your class ages ago?” Erlendur asked when he finally got a word in edgeways. Egill did not appear to have noticed that the break had ended long ago.
“I have a free period now,” Egill said, making ruminatory noises. “I totally agree that society is changing and we have to respond right from the start in a positive fashion. It’s important to step in and eradicate prejudice. Everyone should have the same opportunities and if children of foreign parents have more trouble in achieving at school and entering further education, then that needs to be put right. Start right away in kindergarten. Anyway, I don’t think you should waste your time on me just because I wrangle a bit at meetings. There are plenty of more obvious things to consider here when children get stabbed.”
“I’m gathering information, that’s my job. Did you have any particular dealings with the brothers, Elias or Niran?”
“No, nothing special. They hadn’t been at the school long. I believe they moved to this part of town in the spring and ended up at this school in the autumn. I taught Elias; I suppose the last time would have been the day before yesterday. The lad was clever with his hands. We don’t do complicated tasks with that age group, just sawing and that sort of thing.”
“Was he well liked in his class?”
“As far as I could see. He was just one of the kids.”
“Are you ever aware of clashes between the immigrant pupils and the others?” Erlendur asked.
“There’s not much of that sort of thing,” Egill said, stroking his beard. “Though you do get certain cliques forming. I don’t like that Icelandic teacher of ours, Kjartan. I think he causes friction in that respect. Half-bonkers, the poor sod. Had to give up a career in handball just when he was reaching the top. That sort of thing can unbalance people. But you ought to talk to him about these issues. He knows more about them than I do.”
They fell silent. The playground was quiet.
“So everything’s going to hell?” Erlendur said eventually.
“I’m afraid it is.”
They sat for a while in the smoke-filled car and then Erlendur started thinking about Sigurdur Oli, who had once been a pupil at the school. It occurred to him to ask Egill. The woodwork teacher needed to think hard before he remembered a boy who had been there all those years ago, a terribly flashy sort.
“It’s amazing what you can and can’t remember about those kids,” Egill said. “I think his dad was a plumber.”
“A plumber?” Erlendur said. He knew nothing about Sigurdur Oli apart from what he saw of him at work, even though they had been investigating crimes together for years. They never discussed their private lives, were both content not to. That, at least, they had in common.
“And a rabid communist,” Egill added. “He attracted quite a bit of attention in those days, because it was always him who came to parents” meetings and school events. It was exceptional then for fathers to be seen with their children at school. He always turned up, the old bugger, and delivered thundering speeches about the bloody conservatives.”
“What about the mother?”
“I never saw her,” Egill said. “They used to call him something, the old man. Some plumbing term. My brother’s a plumber and recognised him immediately. What was it again that they used to call him?”
Erlendur glanced sideways at the red lump. It was turning paler again.
“Why can’t I remember that?” Egill said.
“I don’t need to know,” Erlendur said.
“Yes. Now I remember. They called him Permaflush.”
Finnur, the third-form teacher, was sitting in the staff room. His class was having a music lesson and he was marking papers when Elinborg disturbed him. The school secretary had told her where to find him.
“I understand you’ve been involved in a dispute with another teacher here by the name of Kjartan,” Elinborg said after introducing herself.
“There’s certainly no love lost between Kjartan and me,” Finnur said. He was in his early thirties, thin, with a mop of dark hair and wearing a fleece jacket and jeans.
“What happened?”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Yes. My colleague did.”
“And?”
“And nothing. What happened?”
“Kjartan’s an idiot,” Finnur said. “He shouldn’t be allowed to teach. But that’s just my opinion.”
“Did he make some kind of remark?”
“He always does. But he makes sure he doesn’t go too far, because then he’d risk losing his job at this school. He’s not such a coward one-to-one.”
“What did he say?”
“It was about immigrants, the children of immigrants. I don’t think it has anything to do with this tragic incident.” Finnur hesitated. “I knew he was trying to wind me up. I think it’s fine for people from other countries to move here and I don’t care in the slightest why they come, as long as they’re not outright criminals. It doesn’t matter whether they’re from Europe or Asia. We need them and they enrich our culture. Kjartan wants to close the country to immigrants. We argued about that as usual, but he was exceptionally tetchy.”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday morning. But we’re always arguing. We can hardly see each other these days without flaring up.”
“Have you often clashed?”
Finnur nodded.
“As a rule, teachers are very egalitarian and don’t want or understand anything else. They look after the children, make sure there’s no discrimination of any kind. We take a pride in it, it’s sacrosanct really.”
“But Kjartan’s an exception?”
“He’s totally unbearable. I ought to lodge a complaint against him with the Education Board. We have no business employing teachers like him.”
“Is-?” Elinborg began.
“It’s probably because of my brother,” Finnur interrupted. “His wife’s from Thailand. That’s why Kjartan is always having a go at me. My brother met a woman in Thailand eight years ago. They have two daughters. They’re the best people I’ve ever met. So maybe I have a vested interest. I can’t stand the way he talks and he knows that.”
10
Erlendur’s mobile rang as he got out of Egill’s car. It was Gudny, the interpreter, who was back at Sunee’s flat. Erlendur had asked her to be at Sunee’s beck and call, day and night, and to contact him if anything happened. Niran had woken up after a rough night, she reported. His condition was unchanged. He refused to talk to anyone. Sunee insisted that he be left alone. She did not want any experts around him. She did not want any such visitors, or police officers, roaming in and out of the flat. Erlendur said he would drop in on them shortly, and they rang off.
Elinborg and Sigurdur Oli were still gathering information from Elias’s classmates when Erlendur returned to the school. He watched them for a while. The children appeared to be making all manner of complaints about each other, but these rarely involved
Elias directly. Someone had teased two girls, someone else had been kept out of a game of football, someone else had thrown a snowball so viciously at a boy’s leg that it made him cry, but not Elias. Sigurdur Oli looked over to Erlendur and made a gesture to say that it would all take its time. The children were appalled at Elias’s death and some of them were crying.
Erlendur phoned the head of the narcotics squad and asked him to investigate any drug offences that had occurred in the neighbourhood and might conceivably be linked to the school playground.
The principal looked rough and haggard, as if he had not slept well that night. Waiting in front of his office were people from the church and parents” association, as well as representatives from the police who were going to address the children in the assembly hall at lunchtime. They all crowded round the principal, who seemed to have no control over the situation whatsoever. The matter seemed too much for him to handle. His secretary appeared and informed him of some urgent telephone calls that he had to take, but the principal waved her away. Erlendur looked at the group and backed away. He followed the secretary and found out where he could locate Niran’s form teacher.
The secretary looked at Erlendur dithering in front of her.
“Was there anything else?” she asked.
“Would you call this a multicultural school?” Erlendur asked finally.
“You could say that,” the secretary said. “Just over ten per cent of the pupils are not of Icelandic origin.”
“And are people happy with that arrangement, as a rule?”
“It works very well.”
“No particular problems on that account?”
“None worth mentioning, I don’t think,” she added as if in apology.
Niran’s form teacher, a woman of about thirty, was clearly shocked at the news about Elias like everyone else. A media debate had already begun about the situation of immigrants and the responsibility of society, and endless experts were called in to testify to all the gains that had been made and what must be done to prevent such an episode repeating itself. They were trying to pin the blame somewhere: had the system failed the immigrants, was this merely the thin end of the wedge? There was talk of underlying racial tensions that had flared up, and the need to respond through public debate and education — make better use of the school system to publicise, to inform and to eradicate prejudice.
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