"Your mother?" Erlendur said. "Can't we turn off those Christmas jingles?"
He was trying to win time. Eva's probing into the past always threw him into a quandary. He didn't know the answers to give about their short-lived marriage, the children they had, why he had walked out. He didn't have answers to all her questions, and sometimes that enraged her. She had a short fuse as far as her family was concerned.
"No, I want to hear Christmas songs," Eva Lind said, and Bing Crosby went on dreaming of a white Christmas. "I've never ever heard her say a good thing about you, but she must have seen something in you all the same. At first. When you met. What was it?"
"Have you asked her?"
"Yes."
"And what did she say?"
"Nothing. That would mean she'd have to say something positive about you and she can't handle that. Can't handle the idea of there being anything good about you. What was it? Why the two of you?"
"I don't know," Erlendur said, and meant it. He tried to be honest. "We met at a dance. I don't know. It wasn't planned. It just happened."
"What was going on in your head?"
Erlendur did not reply. He thought about children who never knew their parents; never found out who they really were. Entered their life when it was as much as halfway through and did not have a clue about them. Never got to know them except as father and mother and authority and protector. Never discovered their shared and separate secrets, with the result that the parents were just as much strangers as everyone else the children met during the course of their lives. He pondered how parents managed to keep their children at arm's length until all that remained was acquired, polite behaviour, with an artificial sincerity that sprang from common experience rather than real love.
"What was going on in your head?" Eva Lind's questions opened wounds that she picked at constantly.
"I don't know," Erlendur said, keeping her at a distance as he had always done. She felt that. Maybe she acted in this way to produce such a reaction. Gain one more confirmation. Feel how remote he was from her and how far away she was from understanding him.
"You must have seen something in her."
How could she understand when he sometimes did not understand himself?
"We met at a dance," he repeated. "I don't expect there was any future in that."
"And then you just left."
"I didn't just leave," Erlendur said. "It wasn't like that. But in the end I did leave and it was over. We didn't do it. . I don't know. Maybe there is no right way. If there is, we didn't find it."
"But it wasn't over," Eva Lind said.
"No," Erlendur said. He listened to Bing Crosby on the radio. Through the window he watched the big snowflakes drifting to earth. Looked at his daughter. The rings pierced through her eyebrows. The metal stud in her nose. Her army boots up on the coffee table. The dirt under her fingernails. The bare stomach that showed beneath her black T-shirt and was beginning to bulge.
"It's never over," he said.
Hoskuldur Thorarinsson lived in a flat in the basement of his daughter's elegant detached house in Arbaer and gave the impression of being pleased with his lot. He was a small, nimble man with silvery hair and a silver beard around his little mouth, wearing a checked labourer's shirt and beige corduroys. Elinborg tracked him down. There weren't many people in the national registry named Hoskuldur and past retirement age. She telephoned most of them, wherever they lived in Iceland, and this particular Hoskuldur from Arbaer told her, you bet he rented from Benjamin Knudsen, that poor, dear old chap. He remembered it well although he did not spend long in the chalet on the hill.
They sat in his living room, Erlendur and Elinborg, and he had made coffee and they talked about this and that. He told them he was born and bred in Reykjavik, then started complaining how those bloody conservatives were throttling the life out of pensioners as if they were a bunch of layabouts who couldn't provide for themselves. Erlendur decided to cut the old man's ramblings short.
"Why did you move out to the hill? Wasn't it rather rural for someone from Reykjavik?"
"You bet it was," Hoskuldur said as he poured coffee into their cups. "But there was no alternative. Not for me. You couldn't find housing anywhere in Reykjavik at that time. People crammed into the tiniest rooms during the war. All of a sudden all the yokels could come to town and earn hard cash instead of getting paid with a bowl of curds and a bottle of booze. Slept in tents if they had to. The price of housing went sky high and I moved out to the hill. What are those bones you found there?"
"When did you move to the hill?" Elinborg asked.
"It would have been some time around 1943, I reckon. Or '44. I think it was autumn. In the middle of the war."
"How long did you live there?"
"I was there for a year. Until the following autumn."
"Did you live alone?"
"With my wife. Dear old Elly. She's passed away now."
"When did she die?"
"Three years ago. Did you think I buried her up on the hill? Do I look like the type, dearie?"
"We can't find the records of anyone who lived in that house," Elinborg said without answering his remark. "Neither you nor anyone else. You didn't register as domiciled there."
"I can't remember how it was. We never registered. We were homeless. Others were always prepared to pay more than us, then I heard about Benjamin's chalet and spoke to him. His tenants had just moved out and he took pity on me."
"Do you know who the tenants were? The ones before you?"
"No, but I remember the place was spotless when we moved in." Hoskuldur finished his cup of coffee, refilled it and took a sip. "Spick and span."
"What do you mean, spick and span?"
"Well, I remember Elly specifically commenting on it. She liked that. Everything scrubbed and polished and not a speck of dust to be seen. It was just like moving into a hotel. Not that we were rough, mind you. But that place was exceptionally well kept. Clearly a housewife who knew her business, my Elly said."
"So you never saw any signs of violence or the like?" Erlendur asked, having kept silent until now. "Bloodstains on the walls for example."
Elinborg looked at him. Was he teasing the old man?
"Blood? On the walls? No, there was no blood."
"Everything in order then?"
"Everything in order. Definitely."
"Were there any bushes by the house when you were there?"
"There were a couple of redcurrant bushes, yes. I remember them clearly because they were laden with fruit that autumn and we made jam from the berries."
"You didn't plant them? Or your wife, Elly?"
"No, we didn't plant them. They were there when we moved in."
"You can't imagine who the bones belonged to that we found buried up there?" Erlendur asked.
"Is that really why you're here? To find out if I killed anyone?"
"We think a human body was buried there some time during the war or thereabouts," Erlendur said. "But you're not suspected of murder. Far from it. Did you ever talk to Benjamin about the people who lived in the chalet before you?"
"As it happens, I did," Hoskuldur said. "Once when I was paying the rent and praised the immaculate condition the previous tenants had left the house in. But he didn't seem interested. A mysterious man. Lost his wife. Threw herself in the sea, I heard."
"Fiancee. They weren't married. Do you remember British troops camped on the hill? Or Americans rather, that late in the war?"
"It was crawling with British after the occupation in 1940. They set up barracks on the other side of the hill and had a cannon to defend Reykjavik against an attack. I always thought it was a joke, but Elly told me not to make fun of it. Then the British left and the Americans took over. They were camped on the hill when I moved there. The British had left years before."
"Did you get to know them?"
"Hardly at all. They kept themselves to themselves. They didn't smell as bad as the British, my Elly said. Much cleaner and smart
er. Elegant. So much more elegant than them. Like in the films. Clark Gable. Or Cary Grant."
Cary Grant was British, Erlendur thought, but didn't bother to correct a know-it-all. He noticed that Elinborg ignored it as well.
"Built better barracks too," Hoskuldur went on undaunted. "Much better barracks than the British. The Americans concreted the floors, didn't use rotten planks like the British did. Much better places to live. Everything the Americans touched. All much better and smarter."
"Do you know who took over the chalet when you and Elly moved out?" Erlendur asked.
"Yes, we showed them around the place. He worked on the farm at Gufunes, had a wife and two kids and a dog. Lovely people, but I can't for the life of me remember their names."
"Do you know anything about the people who lived there before you, who left it in such good condition?"
"Only what Benjamin told me when I started talking about how nicely his house had been kept and telling him that Elly and I set our standards just as high."
Erlendur pricked up his ears and Elinborg sat up in her seat. Hoskuldur said nothing.
"Yes?" Erlendur said.
"What he said? It was about the wife." Hoskuldur paused again and sipped his coffee. Erlendur waited impatiently for him to finish his story. His eagerness had not escaped Hoskuldur, who knew he had the detective begging now.
"It was very interesting, you can be sure of that," Hoskuldur said. The police wouldn't go away from him empty-handed. Not from Hoskuldur. He sipped his coffee yet again, taking his time about it.
My God, Elinborg thought. Won't the old bore ever get round to it? She had had enough of old fogeys who either died on her or put on airs.
"He thought the husband battered her."
"Battered her?" Erlendur repeated.
"What's it called these days? Domestic violence?"
"He beat his wife?" Erlendur said.
"That's what Benjamin said. One of that lot who beat their wives and their kids too. I never lifted a finger against my Elly."
"Did he tell you their names?"
"No, or if he did, I forgot it long ago. But he told me another thing that I've often thought about since. He said that she, that man's wife, was conceived in the old Gasworks on Raudararstigur. Down by Hlemmur. At least that was what they said. Just like they said Benjamin killed his wife. His fiancee, I mean."
"Benjamin? The Gasworks? What are you talking about?" Erlendur had completely lost his thread. "Did people say Benjamin killed his fiancee?"
"Some thought so. At the time. He said so himself."
"That he killed her?"
"That people thought he'd done something to her. He didn't say that he killed her. He'd never have told me that. I didn't know him in the slightest. But he was sure that people suspected him and I remember there was some talk of jealousy."
"Gossip?"
"All gossip of course. We thrive on it. Thrive on saying nasty things about other people."
"And wait a minute, what was that about the Gasworks?"
"That's the best rumour of all. Haven't you heard it? People thought the end of the world was nigh so they had an all-night orgy in the Gasworks. Several babies were born afterwards and this woman was one of them, or so Benjamin thought. They were called the doomsday kids."
Erlendur looked at Elinborg, then back at Hoskuldur.
"Are you pulling my leg?"
Hoskuldur shook his head.
"It was because of the comet. People thought it would collide with Earth."
"What comet?"
"Halley's comet, of course!" the know-it-all almost shouted, outraged by Erlendur's ignorance. "Halley's comet! People thought the Earth would collide with it and be consumed in hellfire!"
15
Earlier that day Elinborg had located Benjamin's fiancee's sister, and when she and Erlendur left Hoskuldur she told him she wanted to talk to her. Erlendur nodded, saying that he was going to the National Library to try to find newspaper articles about Halley's comet. Like most know-it-alls, as it turned out, Hoskuldur did not know much about what really happened. He went round in circles until Erlendur could not be bothered to listen any more and took his leave, rather curtly.
"What do you think about what Hoskuldur was saying?" Erlendur asked her when they got back to the car.
"That Gasworks business is preposterous," Elinborg said. "It'll be interesting to see what you can find out about it. But of course what he said about gossip is perfectly true. We take a special delight in telling nasty stories about other people. The rumour says nothing about whether Benjamin was actually a murderer, and you know that."
"Yes, but what's that idiom again? No smoke without fire?"
"Idioms," Elinborg muttered. "I'll ask his sister. Tell me another thing. How's Eva Lind doing?"
"She's just lying in bed. Looks as though she's peacefully sleeping. The doctor told me to talk to her."
"Talk to her?"
"He thinks she can hear voices through her coma, and that's good for her."
"So what do you talk to her about?"
"Nothing much," Erlendur said. "I have no idea what to say."
The sister of Benjamin's fiancee had heard the rumours, but flatly denied that there was any truth in them. Her name was Bara and she was considerably younger than the one who had gone missing. She lived in a large detached house in Grafarvogur, still married to a wealthy wholesaler and living in luxury, which was manifested in flamboyant furniture, the expensive jewellery she wore and her condescending attitude towards the detective who was now in her sitting room. Elinborg, who had outlined over the phone what she wanted to talk about, thought that this woman had never had to worry about money, always granted herself whatever she pleased and never had to associate with anyone but her own type. Probably gave up caring for anything else long ago. She had the feeling that this was the life that had awaited Bara's sister, around the time she disappeared.
"My sister was extremely fond of Benjamin, which I never really understood. He struck me as a crushing bore. No lack of breeding, of course. The Knudsens are the oldest family in Reykjavik. But he wasn't the exciting type."
Elinborg smiled. She didn't know what she meant. Bara noticed.
"A dreamer. Hardly ever came down to earth, what with his big ideas for the retailing business, which actually all came to pass years ago, although he didn't live to benefit from them. And he was kind to ordinary people. His maids didn't need to call him Sir. People have stopped that now. No courtesy any more. And no maids."
Bara wiped imaginary dust from the coffee table. Elinborg noticed some large paintings at one end of the room, separate portraits of Bara and her husband. The husband looked quite glum and worn out, his thoughts miles away. Bara seemed to have an insinuating grin on her strict face and Elinborg could not help thinking that she had emerged from this marriage the victor. She pitied the man in the painting.
"But if you think he killed my sister, you're barking up the wrong tree," Bara said. "Those bones you said were found by the chalet are not hers."
"How can you be sure of that?"
"I just know. Benjamin would never have hurt a fly. An awful wimp. A dreamer, as I said. That was obvious when she disappeared. The man fell apart. Stopped caring about his business. Gave up socialising. Gave up everything. Never got over it. My mother gave him back the love letters he sent to my sister. She read some of them, said they were beautiful."
"Were you and your sister close?"
"No, I can't say that. I was so much younger. She already seemed grown-up in my earliest memories of her. Our mother always said she was like our father. Whimsical and tetchy. Depressive. He went the same way."
Bara gave the impression she had let out the last sentence by mistake.
"The same way?" Elinborg said.
"Yes," Bara said peevishly. "The same way. Committed suicide." She spoke the words with complete detachment. "But he didn't go missing like her. Oh no. He hanged himself in the dining room. From the ho
ok for the chandelier. In full view of everyone. That was how much he cared about the family."
"That must have been difficult for you," Elinborg said for the sake of saying something. Bara glared accusingly at Elinborg from where she sat facing her, as if blaming her for having to recall it all.
"It was hardest for my sister. They were very close. It leaves its mark on people, that sort of thing. The dear girl."
For a moment there was a trace of sympathy in her voice.
"Was it. .?"
"This was a few years before she herself went missing," Bara said, and Elinborg could tell that she was concealing something. That her story was rehearsed. Purged of all emotion. But perhaps the woman was simply like that. Bossy, cold-hearted and dull.
"To his credit, Benjamin treated her well," Bara continued. "Wrote her love letters, that sort of thing. In those days, people in Reykjavik would go for long walks when they were engaged. A very ordinary courtship really. They met at Hotel Borg, which was the place in those days, they called on each other and went for walks and travelled, and it developed from there just as with young people everywhere. He proposed to her and the wedding was only a fortnight away, I would guess, when she disappeared."
"I'm told that people said she threw herself into the sea," Elinborg said.
"Yes, people made quite a meal of that story. They looked for her all over Reykjavik. Dozens of people took part in the search, but they didn't find so much as a hair. My mother broke the news to me. My sister left us that morning. She was going shopping and went to a few places, there weren't as many shops in those days, but she didn't buy anything. She met Benjamin in his shop, left him and was never seen again. He told the police, and us, that they quarrelled. That's why he blamed himself for what happened and took it so badly."
"Why the talk of the sea?"
"Some people thought they'd seen a woman heading towards the beach where Tryggvagata ends today. She was wearing a coat like my sister's. Similar height. That was all."
"What did they argue about?"
"Some petty matter. To do with the wedding. The preparations. Or at least that's what Benjamin said."
"You don't think it was something else?"
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