After jotting something down, he said a brisk goodbye and turned back to Sigurdur Óli.
‘Was that all?’ he asked, checking the time on his computer screen as if to underline that he was too busy to pursue their conversation.
‘Did you all work in the same area?’
‘No, though our projects overlapped of course. We worked on a lot of the same deals.’
‘Any you’d care to mention?’
‘Not without breaking confidentiality. There’s a reason for banking confidentiality, you know.’ Knútur smiled.
Sigurdur Óli had the feeling he was being patronised. Knútur was several years younger than him but probably fifty times richer; a baby-face like that, booking chamber groups for dinner parties. As a rule Sigurdur Óli admired people who succeeded in life on their own merits and initiative, rather than envying them for their achievements, but Knútur’s manner irritated him and for some reason the business with the musicians had annoyed him.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘So you four didn’t know each other particularly well?’
‘Sure, we were pretty close through work. Why are you asking about this now? Have you reopened the case?’
‘To tell the truth, I don’t really know. Are you acquainted with a woman called Sigurlína Thorgrímsdóttir?’
‘Sigurlína?’ said Knútur pensively, rising to his feet as if the meeting was, as far as he was concerned, over. He walked across to the door and opened it but Sigurdur Óli remained glued to his seat.
‘Not off the top of my head. Should I be?’
He nodded to someone in the corridor. His next meeting was due; there were deals to be done.
‘She was a secretary at an accountancy firm,’ replied Sigurdur Óli, ‘who was the victim of a brutal attack in her own home. You’ll have seen it on the news. She died in hospital.’
‘I’ve seen the news but I can’t place her.’
‘You and your colleagues all went on an excursion in the highlands organised by her firm, shortly before the tragic accident on Snaefellsnes. Her husband was your guide. She was known as Lína.’
‘Oh, her. Was it really her who was attacked?’ asked Knútur, finally appearing to understand. ‘Do the police know what happened?’
‘The case is under investigation. So you do remember her then?’
‘Yes, now that you mention the trip. It was awesome — the trip, I mean.’
‘Did you have any further contact with her? Afterwards?’
‘No, none at all.’
‘What about one of your colleagues, one of the group from your bank?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Not as far as I know.’
‘Are you sure?’
Sigurdur Óli stood up and walked over to the door that Knútur was still holding open, late now for his next meeting. Money would wait for no man.
‘Yes,’ Knútur replied. ‘I’m quite sure. But you’ll have to ask the others. I for one didn’t know the woman at all. Did she mention us or something?’
Sigurdur Óli could not resist tormenting him a little.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘To her husband. She thought you people were incredible, quite incredible.’
‘Really?’
‘She talked about some “scheme”. Any idea what she meant?’
‘Scheme?’
‘Some plan you lot had, some scheme you were mixed up in. The words she used were that you had “an incredible nerve”. She didn’t know what the scheme involved but it won’t take me long to find out. Thanks for your cooperation.’
They shook hands and he left Knútur standing in the doorway, his baby face twisted with anxiety.
39
The police had made little headway with Höddi and Thórarinn, and Sigurdur Óli and Finnur were confronted by the same show of rudeness and arrogance when they resumed their questioning later that day.
‘What bitch is that then?’ retorted Höddi, when asked whether he knew Lína.
‘Taking that tone won’t help you,’ Finnur informed him.
‘Taking that tone,’ Höddi mimicked him. ‘Are you telling me how to talk now? Try talking less like a twat yourself.’
‘How do you know Thórarinn?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.
‘I don’t know him. Thórarinn who? Who’s he when he’s at home?’
Höddi was escorted back to his cell and Thórarinn brought to the interview room instead. He made himself comfortable, his gaze swinging from Finnur to Sigurdur Óli in turn, as if he were enjoying the whole performance.
‘You claim you were calling in a drugs debt when you attacked Sigurlína Thorgrímsdóttir, but her husband knows nothing about any such debt. He says they never bought anything from you.’
‘Why should he know about it?’ countered Thórarinn.
‘Are you implying that Lína did business with you without her husband’s knowledge?’
‘Wow, were you born yesterday or what? She owed me money for drugs. And the whole thing was self-defence.’
‘You’re prepared to spend sixteen years inside for the sake of a minor debt?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you think it’s rather a feeble motive for a life sentence? A bit of dope?’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘A minor drugs deal.’
‘What? You mean, what if it was something else? Would that make a difference?’
The question sounded sincere. Thórarinn’s lawyer, who was also present, sat up in his chair.
‘There could be all sorts of mitigating circumstances,’ said Finnur.
‘Like, for example, let’s say you were acting on someone else’s behalf, just being used by them,’ suggested Sigurdur Óli. ‘While you yourself were unconnected to the case; had no direct link and therefore no personal interest in it.’
Sigurdur Óli did his best to put it tactfully, though he was far from confident that there was any truth in what he was suggesting.
‘And we would be able to inform the court that you’d been cooperative,’ he added, ‘which could be to your advantage.’
‘Cooperative?’
‘All we want is to solve this case. The question is, what do you want? How do you want us to solve it? And don’t waste our time making up crap about self-defence. You were at the scene. You were the cause of Lína’s death. We know that. Everyone knows that. All we need is the motive, the real reason you went to see her. Or we can solve it on your terms and you can do sixteen years — ten with time off for good behaviour — all for the sake of something that can hardly have been worth more than, what, a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand kronur?’
Sigurdur Óli had Thórarinn’s full attention now.
‘It might be possible to understand how you could have lost control and hit Lína too hard, when all you meant to do was hurt her, not kill her. Get it? It wouldn’t make sense to get rid of her, after all, since she wouldn’t be able pay you back if you killed her. Then not only would you never recover your money but you’d be in a worse predicament than before; forced to hide out under Birgir’s floor. But maybe there’s another side to the story. Maybe someone sent you to see Lína and asked you to knock her around a bit and you accidentally overdid it. Then whoever sent you would be liable too. On the other hand, perhaps he did send you to kill her. We have to consider that possibility too. In which case he’ll walk free for all the years that you’re going to spend inside. Does that sound fair to you?’
Thórarinn was still listening intently.
‘Then of course there’s the most straightforward explanation,’ continued Sigurdur Óli. ‘That you went there with the intention of killing her and that it had nothing to do with any debt or job for anyone else, but was prompted by some other motive that you don’t want us to know about. It’s perfectly conceivable, you know, that you went to see her with the sole purpose of killing her and were just taking a final swing at her head when you were interrupted. I’m inclined to that explanation because of the stupid way you f
led the scene. And because you tried to cover your tracks when you went round to her house in the first place. That tells us that the whole thing was premeditated; that you always intended to kill Lína.’
It had been a long speech and Sigurdur Óli was not sure whether Thórarinn had taken in everything he had spelled out or insinuated, all the aspects he had played down or exaggerated; the way he had tried to close one avenue while opening another, all depending on how Thórarinn read the situation. Sigurdur Óli knew he had nothing to go on except vague suspicions but he had decided to lay them on the table and examine the reaction. Some of what he said must have sounded far-fetched to Thórarinn, but other parts — or so Sigurdur Óli hoped — might open up the way for a conversation.
‘Do you make a lot of ridiculous speeches?’ asked Thórarinn’s fat, sleepy-eyed lawyer.
‘I’m not aware that anyone was talking to you,’ snapped Sigurdur Óli.
Thórarinn giggled. Finnur, meanwhile, sat silently at Sigurdur Óli’s side, his expression unchanging.
‘What kind of manners do you call that?’ asked the lawyer.
‘That was the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard,’ said Thórarinn.
‘Fine, Toggi,’ replied Sigurdur Óli. ‘Then the case is closed. We couldn’t be happier.’
‘Yeah, right, I can tell.’
‘Then it’s just a question of how you want the murder to go on the record and whether someone else is clever enough to get off scot-free and enjoy the high life while you’re serving a sixteen-year jail sentence. You’ll look like a prize idiot.’
‘Hey, wait a minute,’ protested the lawyer.
‘I just thought you ought to mull it over.’
‘Thank you,’ said Thórarinn. ‘You’re a real gent.’
When they met that evening at a quiet Thai restaurant near the Hlemmur bus station, Sigurdur Óli sensed immediately that Bergthóra was in a better mood. She had arrived before him and got up and kissed him on the cheek when he came in, fresh from interrogating Thórarinn.
‘Are you getting anywhere with the case?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. There’s a chance it’s more complicated than we thought. What about you? How are things?’
‘Bearable.’
‘So, you’ve got a new boyfriend?’
His attempt to sound indifferent was only partially successful and she picked up the signals.
‘I don’t know — it’s all so recent.’
‘It’s what, three weeks since you got together?’
‘Yes, or a month, something like that. He works for a bank.’
‘Who doesn’t these days?’
‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes, fine, I just thought that we, that we were going to try every avenue …’
‘I thought so too,’ Bergthóra answered, ‘but you never made any concessions …’
‘… and then this happens.’
‘… and you never showed any interest.’
The waiter came over and they asked him to choose their dishes for them. Sigurdur Óli decided to have a beer, Bergthóra a glass of white wine. They tried to conduct their conversation in low murmurs as the room was small and all the tables were occupied. The aroma of Thai cooking, the quiet oriental music and chatter of the other customers had a soothing effect and they sat in silence for some minutes after the waiter had gone.
‘Anyone would think I was cheating on you,’ Bergthóra said at last.
‘No,’ said Sigurdur Óli, ‘of course not. So you’d already started seeing him last time we met? You didn’t tell me.’
‘No, maybe I should have done. I was going to, but when it’s not as if we’re in a relationship any longer. I don’t know what we are. We’re nothing — it’s over. I thought perhaps there was still something there, but when we met the other day I realised it was over.’
‘I got a shock when I rang you late at night and heard someone there with you.’
‘You didn’t give our relationship a chance.’
Bergthóra spoke matter-of-factly, with no hint of accusation or resentment. The waiter brought their drinks. The beer, a Thai brew, was deliciously chilled and refreshing.
‘I’m not sure that’s quite fair,’ Sigurdur Óli said, but his words held no real conviction.
‘I was prepared to try,’ Bergthóra said, ‘and I believe I did what I could, but I never got anything back from you except negativity and resistance. Well, now it’s finished and we can get on with our lives. It came as quite a relief to realise that I didn’t need to go on living like that, all knotted up and on the defensive. Now I’m carrying on with my life and you are with yours.’
‘So it’s over then,’ said Sigurdur Óli.
‘It was over a long time ago,’ Berthóra replied. ‘It just took us time to realise. And now that I have, I’ve accepted the fact.’
‘This is obviously no ordinary banker you’ve met,’ said Sigurdur Óli.
Bergthóra smiled. ‘He’s great. He plays the piano.’
‘Have you told him …?’
He blurted it out without thinking, then realised in mid-sentence that he had no right to ask. But the words hung in the air and Bergthóra guessed what he had been going to say. She knew how his mind worked, knew that his resentment would have to find an outlet.
‘That’s so typical of you. Is that how you want it to end?’ she asked.
‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean … I rang you to see if we could try to patch things up, but it was too late. It’s my fault — I have only myself to blame. You’re right about that.’
‘I’ve told him I can’t have children.’
‘It only really came home to me that we were finished when I rang you,’ said Sigurdur Óli.
‘You can be so like your mother sometimes,’ said Bergthóra, irritated.
‘And how much I regretted it. How stupid it was.’
‘I regret it too,’ said Bergthóra, ‘but it’s done now.’
‘Anyway, I don’t see what it has to do with her,’ said Sigurdur Óli.
‘More than you think,’ replied Bergthóra, finishing her wine.
40
The teacher asked again why he was so down in the mouth. It was during a biology lesson, one in which he dreaded being asked a question he could not answer. The teacher had asked him the same thing several days earlier but he had not known what to say then either. He enjoyed biology but he had not managed to do any of his homework, not for this subject nor his maths nor any other. Aware that he was falling behind, he tried his best to shape up but could not find the energy. These days he felt too apathetic to do anything and had drifted apart from the friends he had made when he started at the school. He had not realised that he looked miserable and, unable to answer the teacher’s question, simply stared back at him, saying nothing.
‘Is everything all right, Andrés?’ the teacher asked.
The class were watching. Why did the teacher have to ask such questions? Why couldn’t he just leave him alone?
‘Sure,’ he answered.
But it was not all right.
He was living in a state of perpetual fear. Rögnvaldur had said he would kill him if he told anyone what they did together. But he did not need to threaten him: Andrés would not have told anyone to save his life. What was he supposed to say anyway? He did not have the words to describe what they did, and tried to avoid even thinking about it.
He locked the ugliness away where no one could reach it. Locked it away in a place where the blood and tears ran down the walls and no one could hear his screams.
Realising that the boy was uncomfortable with the attention he had drawn to him, the teacher hastened to change the subject, asking Andrés instead to name two perennial plants, which after a brief hesitation he did. The teacher turned to the next pupil and the class’s attention was deflected from Andrés.
He could breathe easily again. Down in the mouth. He had not experienced a moment’s happiness since coming to live w
ith his mother. Instead his life was an unrelieved nightmare. He dreaded going to school and having to answer questions such as why he was so unhappy, why he did not have any clean clothes to wear, why he had not brought a packed lunch. He dreaded attracting attention, dreaded waking up because the moment he did so the memories flooded back. He dreaded going to sleep because he never knew when Rögnvaldur would come for him in the night. And he dreaded the coming of day because then he was alone in the world.
His mother knew what was going on, although she was never home when it happened. He knew she knew, because he had once heard her beg Rögnvaldur to leave the boy alone. She had been drunk as usual.
‘Mind your own business,’ Rögnvaldur had snapped.
‘It’s gone far enough,’ his mother had said. ‘And why do you have to film the whole thing?’
‘Shut your mouth,’ had come the reply.
He used to threaten her too and hit her sometimes.
Then one day Rögnvaldur was gone — the projector, the films, the camera, his clothes, shoes, boots, and shaving things from the bathroom, his hats, coats — all gone one day when he woke up. Rögnvaldur had sometimes disappeared before for short periods but he had always left his belongings behind. Now, however, it seemed that he did not intend to come back; he had vanished, taking everything he owned.
The day passed. Two days. Three days. There was no sign of Rögnvaldur. Five days. Ten days. Two weeks. Still no sign. He woke up in the night, thinking Rögnvaldur was prodding him, but it was not him, he was not there. Three weeks. Andrés kept pestering his mother.
‘Is he coming back?’
The answer was always the same.
‘How the hell should I know?’
A month.
A year.
By then he had learned to deaden the pain; it was strange how good sniffing glue could make him feel.
As far as he could, he avoided opening the door to the room where the blood still ran down the walls.
And Rögnvaldur did not come back.
He gazed up at the gloomy grey sky.
Strange, how contented he felt in the graveyard. He was sitting with his back against a lichened old stone, oblivious to the cold. He must have dozed off. Twilight was falling over the city and the rumble of traffic carried to him from beyond the wall, beyond the tall trees that overshadowed the long-forgotten graves. He was surrounded on every side by tranquil death.
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