Arctic Chill de-7

by Arnaldur Indridason

  Erlendur began to report the progress of the investigation. Marion listened with eyes closed again. Erlendur did not know whether his old boss was asleep. He had slight pangs of conscience about not necessarily visiting Marion for purely compassionate reasons. He longed to ask the dying patient about something he knew he would never find in the police records. Erlendur took his time. It helped him, too, to go through the case slowly. Once during the account, Marion’s eyes opened and Erlendur thought he should stop, only to be given a sign to continue.

  “There’s one point I need to ask you about,” Erlendur said when he had finally completed his story about the visit to Andres. Marion seemed to be sleeping, with eyes closed and breathing barely perceptible. The hand that Erlendur held was limp. But it was as if Marion realised that Erlendur was not merely making a courtesy call. Those tired eyes opened a fraction and the grip on Erlendur’s hand tightened, as a signal to goon.

  “It’s about Andres,” Erlendur said.

  Marion squeezed his hand.

  “He told us about a man he knew and implied that he was a paedophile, but would not reveal his identity. He did something to Andres when he was a child. All we know is that this man lives in the neighbourhood where the murder was committed. We have no name and no description. I don’t think he’s on our register. Andres told us he was too clever for that. I was wondering if you could help us. The investigation is all over the place at the moment and we have to examine anything we find suspicious. I don’t have to tell you that. You know it. We’re in a hurry as usual. But more than ever this time. I thought you might be able to help us with a shortcut.”

  A long silence followed Erlendur’s words. He thought that Marion had dozed off. The hand he was holding had gone slack and peace had descended over his former boss’s face.

  “Andres … ?” Marion said at last. It was more like a groan or a sigh.

  “I checked,” Erlendur said. “He was born and bred in the capital. If anything happened it was most likely here in Reykjavik. We don’t know. Andres is silent as the grave.”

  Marion said nothing. Erlendur thought the situation was hopeless. He had not really expected anything, but felt it was worth a try. He knew Marion Briem’s capacities, that memory and the talent for making the most unlikely connections in an instant. Perhaps he was taking advantage of his ex-boss. Perhaps this was going too far. He decided to forget it. Marion should be allowed to die in peace.

  “He had . . .” Marion strained to say, and the grip on Erlendur’s hand tightened.

  “What? What did he have?”

  Erlendur thought he could discern a hint of a smile playing across Marion’s face. At first he thought he was imagining this, but became convinced that Marion was actually smiling.

  “… stepfather,” Marion gasped.

  Silence again.

  “Erlendur,” Marion said after a long while. The patient’s eyes remained closed but a grimace slowly appeared.

  “Yes,” Erlendur said.

  “There’s … no … time …” Marion whispered.

  “I know,” Erlendur said. “I …”

  He was lost for words. He did not know how to say goodbye, could not find a way to express a last farewell. What was there to say? Marion was still holding his hand. Erlendur struggled for words, for something he thought Marion would want to hear. When he found nothing he sat in silence holding that old hand with its yellow nicotine stains and long nails.

  “Read to … me,” Marion said.

  Marion’s final ounce of strength went into those words. Erlendur leaned forward to hear better.

  “Read …”

  Marion groped helplessly for the mirror on the bedside table.

  Erlendur picked up the mirror and put it into Marion’s hands to prop up and confront the face of death.

  Erlendur took out a book he had brought with him. It was dog-eared and tattered. He opened it at a page he had often consulted and began to read.

  For centuries a mountain path lay from Eskifjordur to Fljotsdalsherad across Eskifjordur moor. It was an old horse-track skirting north of the Eskifordur River, inland along the ridge Langihryggur, up the river Innri-Steinsa through Vinardalur valley and over Vinarbrekkur slopes to Midheidarendi, and from there up to the Urdarflot plateau and along the cliffs of Urdarklettur to the boundary of the Eskifjordur district. Thverardalur valley bisects the mountains Andri and Hardskafi to the north, and Holafjall and Selheidi even further north.

  Bakkasel was once a tenant croft near the head of the Eskifjordur valley, on the old mountain path to Fljotsdalsherad. It is now abandoned, but in the middle of the century Sveinn Erlendsson farmed there with his wife Aslaug Bergsdottir and their two sons, of eight and ten years old. Sveinn kept a few sheep . . .

  Erlendur stopped reading.

  “Marion?” he whispered.

  A deep silence spread over the ward. The early darkness of winter had descended upon the city, which was transforming into a glittering sea of lights. Erlendur saw his own reflection in the window overlooking the hospital garden. The large pane of glass was like a muted painting, a still-life portraying them at the final moment. He stared into the window until he confronted his own face, and the image became like the closing lines of a poem that crept into his mind.

  . . . Am I the one, who lives on, or the other, who died?

  Erlendur returned to his senses when the little mirror fell to the floor and broke. He clasped the limp hand and checked the pulse. Marion had departed from this world.

  15

  Erlendur drove the Ford Falcon into a parking space in front of the block of flats where he lived. He left the engine running for a while before switching it off. Although old, the car ran like clockwork and purred cosily in low gear. Erlendur was very fond of his Ford and sometimes, when he had nothing else to do, he would go for a drive outside the city. He had never done that before. Once he had invited Marion out for a drive, to Lake Kleifarvatn. Erlendur drove Marion down to the lakeside and told him about the conclusion to a case he had been investigating. A skeleton had been discovered on the bed of the lake and was linked to a group of Icelanders who had studied in the former East Germany in the 1960s. Marion took a particular interest in that. Erlendur wanted to do something for Marion in his ex-boss’s illness. He knew that when the moment of death drew near, there was no one else that the cancer victim could depend upon.

  Pulling a face at the recollection, he stroked the thin, ivory-coloured steering wheel. He would never see Marion again. All that remained were memories, fairly mixed ones at that. He thought about his own time on this earth, how brief it was before new generations took over, to be swept even further into the future. His time had gone by without his noticing it, lacking as he did all contact with anything but work. Before he knew it he would be lying in a ward like Marion Briem, staring death in the face.

  Erlendur was not aware of any claims to the body. Marion had once asked him to handle the funeral arrangements. He had discussed the next steps with a nurse.

  On his way home from the hospital Erlendur had called on Sunee. Her brother was with her, and the interpreter Gudny, who was leaving when Erlendur arrived. He accepted her offer to stay.

  “Is it anything special?” Gudny asked. “Any news?”

  “No, not yet,” Erlendur said, and Gudny conveyed the fact to Sunee.

  “Does she want to tell me where Niran is?” he asked.

  Gudny spoke to Sunee who shook her head, staring obstinately at Erlendur.

  “She thinks he’s better off where he is. She wants to know when she can have Elias’s body.”

  “Very soon,” Erlendur said. “This case is top priority and his earthly remains will only be kept while the investigation is on-going.”

  Erlendur sat in an armchair beneath the yellow dragon. The atmosphere in the flat was calmer than before. The brother and sister sat side by side on the sofa. They both smoked. Erlendur had not seen Sunee smoke before. She did not look well, with bags under her
eyes, at once grief-stricken and anxious.

  “How have you liked living in this neighbourhood?” Erlendur asked.

  “It’s a good place to live,” Sunee said through Gudny. “It’s a very quiet area.”

  “Have you got to know your neighbours, in the other flats?”

  “A little.”

  “Have you run into trouble with anyone because you’re from Thailand? Been aware of any racial prejudice or hostility?”

  “A tiny bit if I go out to a bar.”

  “What about your boys?”

  “Elias never complained. But there was one teacher he didn’t like.”

  “Kjartan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not?”

  “He liked school but didn’t like the Icelandic lessons when Kjartan taught him.”

  And what about Niran?”

  “He wants to go home.”

  “Home to Thailand?”

  “Yes. I want him with me. It was difficult for him to come here but I want him with me.”

  “Odinn wasn’t pleased to find out about Niran so long after you had got married.”

  “No.”

  “Was that the reason for your divorce?”

  Sunee listened to Gudny translate the question. Then she looked at Erlendur.

  “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe that was one reason. They never got on together.”

  “I’d like to find out about your boyfriend,” Erlendur said. “What can you tell me about him? Did he come between you and Odinn?”

  “No,” Sunee said. “It was all over between Odinn and me when he entered the picture.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s my good friend.”

  “Why won’t you tell us anything about him?”

  Sunee did not reply.

  “Is it because he doesn’t want you to?”

  Sunee said nothing.

  “Is he shy about this relationship in some way?”

  Sunee looked at him. She seemed poised to answer him, then stopped.

  “Is Niran with him?”

  “Don’t ask about him,” she said. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “It’s important for us to talk to Niran,” Erlendur said. “Not because we think he did anything wrong, but because he might know something useful to us. Will you think about it until tomorrow?”

  Gudny passed on this request but Sunee did not reply.

  “Do you ever miss Thailand?” Erlendur asked.

  “I’ve been there twice since Elias was born,” Sunee said. “My family will come over for the funeral. It will be nice to see them again but I don’t miss Thailand.”

  “Are you going to have Elias buried here?”

  “Of course.”

  Sunee went quiet.

  “I just want to live here in peace,” she said after a long pause. “I came here in hope of a better life. I thought I’d found it. I knew nothing about Iceland before I came here. I didn’t even know it existed. It was the country of my dreams. Then this happens, this horrible thing. Maybe I will go back. Niran and I. Maybe we don’t belong here.”

  “We’ve heard from a very unreliable source, so we’re not attaching much importance to it, that Niran goes around with boys who are involved with drugs.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Do you know what a debt collector is?”

  Sunee nodded.

  “Has Niran been in any trouble with them?”

  “No,” Gudny said after Sunee had spoken. “Niran never goes near drugs. Whoever said that is lying.”

  Erlendur switched off the car engine outside the block of flats where he lived and stepped out into the chill winter. He pulled his overcoat tightly around him and walked slowly over to the block. Inside the dark flat, he turned on a lamp. Now there was no moon riding past the window, the sky was overcast and the wind howled past the walls of the building.

  He did not know how long he had been sitting thinking about Marion when he heard a tap at his door. He thought he had fallen asleep, but could not be sure. He stood up and opened the door. A figure stepped quietly out of the shadowy corridor and greeted him. It was Eva Lind.

  Erlendur was flustered. He had not seen his daughter for quite some time. Their relationship had been at rock bottom for so long that he had actually expected never to see her again. He had decided to stop running after her, to stop rescuing her from drug dens; to stop involving himself if she was named in police reports; to stop trying to make her stay with him, and looking after her; to stop trying to send her away to detox. None of this had changed anything, except for the worse. The more they saw of each other, the worse they got on together. Eva Lind had sunk into depression after a miscarriage and he was helpless to act. All his efforts had the opposite effect on her and she accused him of interfering and being overbearing. His last attempt had been to persuade her to enter rehab for alcohol and drug addiction. When that did not work he gave up. He was familiar with instances of this from his work. In the end, many parents gave up on children who were taking drugs and sinking deeper and deeper without seeing sense or showing the slightest willingness to cooperate.

  He had decided to leave her to her own devices, and the feeling was mutual. He realised that he was rarely dealing with his daughter herself. He hardly knew her. What he was continuously wrestling with was the poison that turned her into a different person. It was a hopeless battle. The poison was not Eva Lind. He knew this even though she had never stooped so low as to use it as an excuse for anything. The poison was one thing. Eva Lind was another. Generally it was hard to distinguish between the two, but it could be done. And while this was no consolation as such, he was aware of the fact.

  “Can I come in?” Eva Lind asked.

  He was more pleased to see her than he would ever have admitted. She was no longer wearing her ugly black leather jacket but a long red coat. Her hair was clean and tied up in a ponytail, her make-up was moderate and he could not see any piercings in her face. Instead of black lipstick, she wore none. She was dressed in a thick green sweater against the cold, jeans and black, almost knee-length, leather boots.

  “Of course,” he said, opening the door for her.

  “It’s always so horribly dark in here,” she said, walking into the living room. He closed the door and followed her. Pushing a pile of newspapers aside on the sofa, she sat down, took out a pack of cigarettes and thrust it at him with a questioning look. He made a gesture to say that she was free to smoke in his flat but declined the offer himself.

  “So, what’s new?” he asked and sat down in his armchair. It was as if nothing had changed, as if she had simply left him the day before yesterday and just happened to be passing by again.

  “Same old,” Eva said in English.

  “Isn’t Icelandic good enough for you then?” he asked.

  “You never change, do you?” Eva looked around the bookshelves and stacks of books, and into the kitchen where there were two stools at the table, a saucepan on the cooker and a coffee maker.

  “What about you? Do you change?”

  Eva Lind shrugged instead of answering him. Perhaps she did not want to talk about herself. As a rule that ended in arguments and bad feeling. He did not want to provoke her by asking where she had been all this time and what kind of state she was in. She had told him so often that it was none of his business what she got up to. It had never been any of his business, and he was to blame for that.

  “Sindri dropped in on me,” he said, looking his daughter in the face. Sometimes her features reminded Erlendur of his mother, she had her eyes and high cheekbones.

  “I talked to him a week or so ago. He’s selling timber. Works in Kopavogur. What did you talk about?”

  “Nothing special,” Erlendur said. “He was on his way to an AA meeting.”

  “We were talking about you.”

  “Me?”

  “We always do when we meet. He told me he’s in touch with you.”

  “He phones somet
imes,” Erlendur said. “Sometimes he comes to see me. What do you say about me? Why do you talk about me?”

  “This and that,” Eva said. “What a weirdo you are. You’re our dad. There’s nothing odd about us talking about you. Sindri speaks well of you. Better than I thought.”

  “Sindri’s all right,” Erlendur said. “At least he’s got a job.”

  This remark was not meant in approbation. He had not meant to pass any judgements but the words slipped out and he saw that they affected Eva. He did not even know whether she had a job or not.

  “I didn’t come here to argue with you,” she said.

  “No, I know,” he said. “Anyway, arguing with you is pointless. That’s been proven time and again. It’s like shouting into the wind. I don’t know what you’re doing or have been doing for a long time and that’s fine with me. It’s nothing to do with me. You were right. It’s none of my business. Do you want some coffee?”

  “Okay,” Eva said.

  She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately took out another, but did not light it. Erlendur went to the kitchen and put the coffee and water in the coffee maker. Soon it began belching and the brown liquid dripped down into the jug. He found some biscuits. They were a month past their sell-by date, so he threw them away. He dug out two mugs and took them into the living room.

  “How’s the investigation going?”

  “So so,” Erlendur said.

  “Do you have any idea what happened?”

  “No,” Erlendur said. “Dealers might be operating close to the school, even in the playground,” he added, and named the two sisters but Eva had never heard of them. Nonetheless, she was familiar with playground dealing. She had briefly done it herself some years before.

  Erlendur fetched the coffee and filled the mugs. Then he sat back down in his armchair. Over the coffee, he watched his daughter. He had the impression that she looked older since the last time they had met, older and possibly more mature. He did not realise immediately what had changed. It was as if Eva was no longer the loud-mouthed girl who was in constant rebellion against him and would give him a piece of her mind if she felt so inclined. In that coat she looked more like a young woman. The teenage behaviour that had so long been part of her character was there no longer.