Erlendur looked round the flat. It contained nothing new. The tables and chairs were probably second-hand, the bedside table too. The single bed in the bedroom had an old spring mattress. He wondered if Gestur had set to work immediately after their talk, obliterating all traces of himself in the flat. There were no shaving things or toothbrush in the bathroom. The flat was completely devoid of personal belongings. The man did not even have a computer, and no bills or letters of any sort were found in the drawers, no papers or magazines, no sign that anyone had ever lived there.
The head of forensics came over to Erlendur. He had two assistants with him.
“What did you say we were looking for?” he asked.
“A child abuser,” Erlendur said.
“He hasn’t exactly left much behind,” the head of forensics pointed out.
“Maybe he was prepared to have to leave at short notice,” Erlendur said.
“I doubt we’ll find so much as a fingerprint.”
“No, but do your best anyway.”
Elinborg was walking silently around the flat when her mobile rang. She spoke into it for a good while before replacing it in her pocket and going over to Erlendur.
“I wish my flat would look like this for once,” she said. “Do you think this Gestur attacked Elias?”
“It’s a possibility like any other.”
“He seems to have done a runner, doesn’t he?”
“Perhaps he got out the cleaning things the moment I left,” Erlendur said.
“It couldn’t just be that he’s terribly house-proud and has gone away for a few days?”
“I don’t know,” Erlendur said.
“Sigurdur Oli can’t find anything on this man,” Elinborg said. “There’s no one of either name on our paedophile register, which goes back decades. He’s running a match of the photo with our visual database. He sent his best regards.”
“Visual database,” Erlendur said. “I hate these clunking terms. Why not just “our picture files”? What’s wrong with that?”
“Oh … let people talk how they like.”
“I suppose I’m tilting at windmills anyway,” Erlendur said.
“It’s not as if he brought children here,” Elinborg remarked.
This was not intended to be ironic. Erlendur knew what she meant. They had entered the homes of paedophiles that looked like a children’s fairytale come true. There was nothing like that here. Not a single sweet wrapper. Not a single computer game.
“Gestur knew Elias, assuming he wasn’t lying,” Erlendur said. “Our search should focus on that. But as you say, if Elias did come in here, Gestur has obliterated all sign of it.”
“He may have some other bolthole where he keeps the chocolate and cakes.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Should we talk to Andres again?” Elinborg asked.
“Yes, we’ll have to,” Erlendur said, without much enthusiasm.
They had tried to gather more information on Gestur while waiting for the search warrant to come through. Erlendur and Elinborg drove over to meet the landlord who owned most of the flats on the staircase at his office in the centre of town. He was a rather manic individual in his thirties who had sold the fishing quota he inherited up north and gone into property dealing in Reykjavik, apparently with some success. He told them he planned to sell off the flats on the staircase, the lettings business was far too stressful, the rental market attracted all sorts. He also rented out flats in another part of town and was involved in constant legal wrangles, evictions and debt collection.
“This Gestur, did he keep up with his payments?” Elinborg asked.
“Always. He’s rented the place for a year and a half and I’ve never had a moment’s trouble with him.”
“Does he pay into an account?”
The landlord hesitated.
“Is it cash in hand?” Erlendur asked. “Does he come here and pay you in person?”
The landlord nodded.
“That’s how he wanted it,” he said. “He was the one who insisted on it. In fact, he made it a condition.”
“You didn’t check his ID number when you took him on as a tenant?” Elinborg asked.
“I must have forgotten.”
“You mean it’s black?” Erlendur asked. “The rent he pays you?”
The landlord did not answer. He cleared his throat.
“Er, does this have to go any further?” he asked hesitantly. They had not told him why the police were asking questions about this particular tenant. “Does the taxman have to find out?”
“Only if you’re a lying scumbag,” Erlendur said.
“It’s …,” the landlord said awkwardly. “I do all sorts of deals, okay. This man came in wanting to know if we could come to an arrangement. He didn’t mind paying the full amount but he didn’t want any paperwork. I told him I would need him to fill in a tenancy agreement but the old guy was very convincing. He said he would pay six months in advance and I could keep three months” payment as a deposit. He paid in cash. Said he was too old for all that electronic nonsense. I believed him. He’s one of the best tenants I’ve ever had. Never late with a single payment.”
“Did you see him at all?” Elinborg asked.
“I’ve met him maybe a couple of times since then. That’s all. Are you going to the tax authorities with this?”
“So the flat wasn’t registered in anyone’s name?”
“No,” the landlord said with a shrug, as if confessing to a minor oversight.
“Tell me something else. Sunee who lives opposite him, does she always pay on time?” Erlendur asked.
“You mean the Thai?” the landlord asked. “Always pays.”
“Cash in hand?” Elinborg asked.
“No, no,” the landlord said. “It’s all above-board. They’re all above-board except for that bloke.”
He paused.
“Well, and maybe two or three others. But no more. And I told her that I’d kick her out double quick if she didn’t pay. I don’t like letting to her sort but the market’s a nightmare, the types you get renting! I’m going to call it a day. Sell the flats. I can’t be doing with it any more.”
That was all they had to go on when they entered the flat. They stood in the living room of the man who called himself either Gestur or Rognvaldur, utterly perplexed. They had no idea where to look for him, did not know who he was. In fact, they had nothing whatsoever to go on but the word of a known criminal.
“Strange how people keep vanishing in this case,” Elinborg said. “First Niran, now this guy.”
“I’m afraid it’ll prove a harder job to track this man down than Niran,” Erlendur said. “It’s as if he’s done the same thing before. As if he’s been forced to do a disappearing act at short notice before.”
“You mean, if he is what Andres says he is?”
“It’s too well prepared somehow,” Erlendur said, “too premeditated. He probably has some other bolthole where he can lie low if something happens to draw attention to him.”
“He doesn’t even keep any personal belongings here,” Elinborg said. “He’s left nothing behind. As if he doesn’t exist — as if he never existed.”
The landlord had told them when handing over the spare key that he himself owned the few bits and pieces that were in the flat. Even the paperbacks in the bookcase were his property. There was an old television in the living room and an ancient radio-cassette player in the kitchen. The television was licensed to the landlord as well.
“We need to talk to his neighbours on the staircase,” Erlendur said with a sigh. “Ask about his movements. Whether he showed any particular interest in the kids in the block or in the neighbourhood. That sort of thing. Would you mind seeing to it?”
Elinborg nodded.
“Do you think Sunee hid Niran because of this man?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Erlendur said. “It’s all so hazy still.”
“Why doesn’t she just
tell us what she’s afraid of so that we can help her?”
“Search me.”
Erlendur walked across the landing to Sunee’s flat once Gudny had arrived. He had called her over to assist. He did not know exactly how to express the questions to find out what he wanted to know without distressing Sunee. He sat down with her and Gudny under the yellow dragon and told her about her next-door neighbour and their suspicions as to what kind of offender he might be. Sunee listened attentively, asked questions and answered without hesitation, and by the time they stood up again Erlendur was convinced that the man had never behaved in an inappropriate way towards her boys.
“I’m sure,” Sunee said firmly. “It never happen.”
“He seemed to know Niran and Elias.”
“They knew him because he lives right opposite,” Gudny translated. “It’s out of the question that they ever went into his flat. Elias went to the shop for him a couple of times, that’s all.”
The other residents on the staircase had had little to do with the man; he came and went without anyone paying much attention. There was never any noise from his flat. “He crept around here like a mouse,” Fanney said.
Elinborg noticed that Erlendur seemed preoccupied when he returned from Sunee’s flat.
“Has Sigurdur Oli ever talked to you about his father?” he asked as they walked downstairs. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Sigurdur Oli? No. Not that I remember. He never talks about himself. Why do you ask? What about his father?”
“Oh, nothing. I was talking to Sigurdur Oli today and it suddenly occurred to me that I don’t know anything about him.”
“I don’t know anyone who does,” Elinborg said.
It was intended as a joke but she sensed that Erlendur was being serious and regretted her words. She often made snide comments at Sigurdur Oli’s expense, but then he asked for it by being so inflexible in his views, so pedantic and lacking in empathy. He never let his job get to him, whatever happened. He seemed completely thick-skinned. Elinborg knew that this was the difference between Erlendur and Sigurdur Oli; the source of the friction, almost amounting to antipathy, that existed between them.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Erlendur said. “He’s not a bad cop. And he’s not as bad as you think.”
“I never said he was,” Elinborg answered. “I just don’t feel like spending much time with him.”
“It suddenly struck me as odd when I was talking to him today that I don’t know him at all. I know nothing about him, any more than I ever really knew Marion Briem. You know Marion’s passed away?”
Elinborg nodded. The news had spread around the force. Few people remembered Marion, apart from the oldest members. No one had stayed in touch except Erlendur, who had been wondering ever since Marion died just what their working partnership and friendship had been based on. His thoughts had turned to Sigurdur Oli and Elinborg, his closest colleagues. He barely knew them and recognised that this was not least his own fault. He was well aware that he was not a sociable man.
“Do you miss Marion?” Elinborg asked.
They stepped outside into the bitter cold. Erlendur stopped and pulled his coat tight around him. He had not had time to consider the question until suddenly confronted by it now. Did he miss Marion?
“I do,” he said. “I miss Marion. I’ll miss—”
“What?” Elinborg said when Erlendur broke off in mid-sentence.
“I don’t know why I’m burdening you with this,” he said and walked towards his car.
“You’re not burdening me,” Elinborg said. “You never do,” she added, in the belief that Erlendur would not hear.
“Elinborg,” Erlendur said, turning.
“Yes.”
“How’s your daughter? Is her gastric flu any better?”
“She’s perking up,” Elinborg said. “Thanks for asking.”
They arrived at Andres’s place shortly after dinnertime. He was at home, rather the worse for wear but not too drunk to hold a conversation. The police had released him after the initial interview; they did not have sufficient grounds to detain him any longer. He let them in with a grin that immediately got on Erlendur’s nerves. Sigurdur Oli closed the door behind them. He had spent the best part of the day looking for leads that might help them trace Gestur but had found nothing on him in the police records and was feeling tired. Elinborg had gone home. It was dark in Andres’s flat and there was a suffocating odour of cooking, almost a stench, as if he had been eating putrefied skate with dripping. They stood in the living room. Andres sat down in front of the television. Beer cans littered the table beside him and empty schnapps bottles lay overturned on the floor. He sat with his back to them, glued to the television as if they did not exist. The sole illumination was the flickering glow of the screen. Only the top of his head was visible over the high back of the chair.
“How’s it going?” Andres asked. He picked up a beer can, took a swig and belched.
“We found him,” Erlendur said. “Your old stepfather.”
Andres slowly replaced the beer can.
“You’re taking the piss.”
“He calls himself Gestur. Lives in the same block of flats as the boy who was attacked.”
“So what?”
“You tell us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Where is he?”
“Hang on a minute, didn’t you just find him?”
“We found his flat,” Erlendur said.
Andres reached out for the beer again.
“But not him?”
“No,” Erlendur said.
There was a silence.
“You’ll never find him,” Andres said.
“Do you know where he is?” Erlendur asked.
“What if I do?”
“Then tell us,” Sigurdur Oli said angrily.
“Did you go inside his place?” Andres asked.
“None of your business,” Erlendur said.
“What was his flat like? Was it anything like mine?” he asked, extending the hand with the beer can, as if to invite them to admire the dump that was his home.
“We can bang you up for obstruction,” Sigurdur Oli said.
“Can you now?”
“And for refusing to testify,” Sigurdur Oli said.
“Ooh, I’m shitting myself,” Andres said.
“Do you know who he is?” Sigurdur Oli asked.
“You’ve drawn a blank, and now you expect little Andy to save your bacon,” he said. “Is that it? Is that what you expect? Cop wankers. When have you ever helped anyone?”
Erlendur looked at Sigurdur Oli. He mouthed the words “little Andy” and shook his head, as though mystified.
“What name was he using when you knew him?” Erlendur asked.
“He called himself Rognvaldur,” Andres said. “He was known as Rognvaldur in those days. You’ve been in his flat, haven’t you? You won’t find anything. You won’t find out anything about him. You don’t know who that man is. Only little Andy can help you. But let me tell you something: Andy’s not going to help you. Little Andy’s not going to lift so much as a little finger. Do you know why?”
“Why?” Erlendur asked.
“What’s all this “little Andy” crap?” Sigurdur Oli asked, seizing Andres’s chair and dragging it round from the television. Erlendur grabbed at Sigurdur Oli to prevent him but it was too late. The chair swivelled slowly round until Andres was staring up at them.
“You bloody idiot!” Erlendur yelled at Sigurdur Oli.
“You tell him, mate!” Andres cackled.
“Wait outside,” Erlendur ordered.
“What?” Sigurdur Oli began to object but shut up at once. After staring first at Erlendur, then at Andres, he walked out without another word. Andres jeered.
“Yeah, get out of here,” he called after him.
“Why won’t you help us?” Erlendur asked when Sigurdur Oli had gone.
“It’s none of your business
what I do,” Andres said, turning back to the glare of the television.
“Are you lying to us, Andres?”
The glow from the screen flickered over the little flat, illuminating the squalor and neglect. Erlendur felt uncomfortable. There was nothing here but self-destruction.
“I’m not lying,” Andres said.
“What kind of man is he, this bloke who calls himself Rognvaldur?” Erlendur asked. “Who is he?”
Andres did not answer.
“You told us you had seen him again recently. Do you know where he is?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Andres said. “I’m not going to help you with this. Do you understand?”
“When did you first notice him in the neighbourhood?”
“A year ago.”
“And you’ve been watching him ever since?”
“I’m not going to help you.”
“Do you know where he works? What he does during the day? What he does for a living? Does he work?”
Andres did not answer.
Erlendur reached into his pocket and took out the photograph of the man who had gone by the name of Rognvaldur when he lived with Andres’s mother. He took another brief glance at the face of the man he was looking for, then held the picture over the high back of the TV chair. Andres took it.
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