‘All right.’
‘I’m so scared, Dad. I don’t know what happened. I only know I must … must have attacked him.’
‘Where did you go next, darling?’
‘I don’t remember anything – but it’s not that I was drunk. I didn’t drink anything. And yet I can’t remember. I don’t know what’s wrong with me …’
‘Can you see any bills lying around, something with his name on, which might show the address?’
‘I don’t … don’t know what’s going on here.’
‘Have a look around, dear.’
Konrád opened the garage door, got into the car and started the engine. He reversed out into the street and drove off. His wife had refused to be left at home and she sat in the passenger seat, devoured by anxiety as she listened to the conversation.
‘Here’s a bill. It’s addressed to Runólfur. And there’s an address.’ Nína read it out.
‘That’s my brave girl,’ Konrád said. ‘I’m on my way. I’ll be with you in five minutes, at most.’
‘You must come alone.’
‘Your mother’s with me.’
‘No! God, no! She mustn’t come. You and Mum mustn’t be seen here. I don’t want anyone to see. I just want to go home. Please, please don’t bring Mum …’ Nína was sobbing uncontrollably. ‘I can’t do this,’ she moaned.
‘All right,’ her father said. ‘I’ll come by myself. I won’t park at the house. Is that all right? Don’t worry. Mum’ll wait in the car.’
‘Be quick, Daddy. Be quick.’
Konrád turned off the Ring Road, up Njardargata, then made a left turn. He parked a short distance away and, leaving his wife in the car, set off towards the house where Nína was waiting for him. He hurried towards her with his phone to his ear, doing his best to calm her as he walked. The streets were empty and so far as he could tell nobody had noticed his presence. On arrival he started up the steps to the front door. But he saw that the name on the doorbell was not Runólfur’s, so he turned back and followed the path around to the back garden. There, above the postbox, was the name he was looking for.
‘I’m here, my dear,’ Konrád said into the phone. The door stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside. He saw a man lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Nína was wrapped in a bedspread, huddled against the wall, clutching her knees to her chest. She was rocking back and forth, her phone clasped to her ear. Konrád switched his mobile off, went to her, and gently helped her to her feet. She collapsed, shaking, into his embrace.
‘What have you done, my child?’ he murmured.
Konrád concluded his account. For a long time, lost in thought, he looked at the brace on his leg. Then he turned to Elínborg.
‘Why didn’t you call the police?’ she asked him.
‘I should have rung you immediately, I know that,’ he replied. ‘But we just gathered up her clothes and left. We didn’t go back the same way. We went out through the garden, down into the next street to the car, then drove home. I know I did the wrong thing. I just wanted to protect my daughter – protect us and our lives – but I’m afraid I’ve just made things worse.’
‘I’ll need to speak to her,’ said Elínborg.
‘Of course,’ said Konrád. ‘I told her and my wife that you were here yesterday. I think we’re all relieved.’
‘You have difficult times ahead, I’m afraid,’ said Elínborg as she stood up.
‘We haven’t felt able to tell her brothers about it yet. Our sons. We’re at our wits’ end. How can we tell them that their little sister cut a man’s throat? A man who had raped her.’
‘I do understand that.’
‘Poor child. What she’s been through!’
‘We should go to her now.’
‘We just want her to be treated justly,’ said Konrád. ‘That man defiled her and she retaliated. That’s how we believe you should see the situation. It was self-defence. She had to defend herself. Simple as that.’
22
Nína lived in a small rented flat in the west of town. Konrád phoned to say that he was on his way there, with the police. He spoke to his wife, who was with their daughter, and asked her to tell Nína. The pretence was over. He drove over to the university district, followed by Elínborg, and stopped in front of a small block of flats. They went up to the first floor. Konrád rang the doorbell and a woman of his own age answered. She looked at Elínborg with an expression of deep distress.
‘Are you alone?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t see any police cars.’
‘Yes,’ said Elínborg. ‘I’m not anticipating any need for them.’
‘No,’ the woman replied, and shook Elínborg’s hand. ‘Come in.’
‘Is Nína here?’ Elínborg asked.
‘Yes, she’s waiting to see you. We’re just glad it’s at an end, this absurd charade.’
The two women entered the living room, followed by Konrád. Nína stood with her arms crossed, her eyes swollen with weeping.
‘Hello, Nína,’ said Elínborg, offering her hand. ‘I’m Elínborg, from the police.’
Nína shook her hand. Her grip was clammy and weak. She made no attempt to smile.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Has my father told you what happened? How it all was?’
‘Yes, he’s told me his side. Now we need to talk to you.’
‘I have no idea what went on,’ said Nína. ‘I don’t remember anything.’
‘No, that’s all right. We’ve got plenty of time.’
‘I think he drugged me. You found drugs there, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. Your parents can come to the station with you, but then you and I have to talk, just the two of us. Do you understand? Are you all right with that?’
Nína nodded.
Elínborg glanced into the kitchen. The flat smelt not unlike her own home: a fragrance of herbs and spices from faraway lands, of cuisine so familiar to her yet always exotic. On the counter by the sink stood a tandoori pot. ‘I like Indian cookery, too,’ she remarked, with a smile.
‘Do you?’ said Nína. ‘I had a dinner party that evening, before …’
‘I’ve got your shawl,’ Elínborg said. ‘The one you were wearing. I thought from the smell that you must have been cooking Indian food.’
‘We left it behind by accident,’ Nína explained. ‘Dad picked up everything of mine he could see, but I didn’t think of the shawl.’
‘And the T-shirt.’
‘Yes, the T-shirt, too.’
‘We’ll have to speak to the boys,’ said Konrád. ‘Before anything happens. Before the media get hold of it.’
‘You can call them from the station if you like,’ Elínborg told him.
Nína and her parents followed Elínborg’s car to police headquarters. When they arrived Nína was shown into an interview room, while her parents waited in Elínborg’s office.
Word spread fast that the police had a suspect in the Thingholt Murder, as the media were calling it, and soon reporters started ringing to ask for details. A request for remand in custody had been sent down to the District Court. Konrád had found a lawyer. He had looked into the matter in advance and knew who to contact. The lawyer he engaged, well known as a successful criminal defence counsel, had put his other cases aside and was present, as was the prosecutor, when the custody request was submitted to the judge. The younger of Nína’s brothers met his parents in Elínborg’s office, thunderstruck by what his mother had told him on the phone. Disbelief and astonishment soon gave way to anger, directed initially at his parents for not confiding in him and then at Runólfur.
Elínborg felt heartily sorry for Nína who sat hunched in the interview room, awaiting her fate. She did not look like a coldhearted killer but a bewildered victim who had been through a horrifying experience only to face another ordeal.
She was eager to speak, now that the truth about her encounter with Runólfur was out and it was known that she was the woman who had been with him when he died. She s
eemed glad to be able to tell the truth at last and get the story off her chest, so that she could embark on her long journey towards understanding and closure.
‘Did you know Runólfur before you met him on the night in question?’ asked Elínborg, once all the formalities had been completed and the interview could begin.
‘No,’ said Nína.
‘But he’d been to your home two months before, hadn’t he?’
‘Yes, but I still didn’t know him.’
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘Nothing. Nothing happened.’
‘You had called in an engineer, hadn’t you?’
Nína nodded.
Nína wanted to move the TV into the bedroom, so she needed the aerial cable extended through the wall. She had also switched to a different telephone company and was having some problems with her Wi-Fi connection. She wanted to be able to use her laptop anywhere in the flat. When she rang the helpline she was put through to customer services, and later that day an engineer turned up. That had been on a Monday.
The engineer was friendly and engaging, maybe two or three years older than Nína. He got straight to work and she did not pay much attention to what he was doing. She heard the noise of an electric drill coming from the bedroom, and he had to pull out a skirting board. She did not have the impression that he spent an excessive amount of time in the bedroom. It did not even cross her mind until later, after the event.
He helped her get online and then wrote out an invoice, which she paid on the spot, using a card. He talked to her about this and that – superficial chat between strangers – then left.
The following day the engineer came back to complete the job and later on he reappeared at her door, asking if she had seen the drill bit that he had used when he drilled the hole through the bedroom wall. She had not noticed it.
‘Do you mind if I come in and have a look?’ he asked. ‘I’m on my way home. I thought I might have left it here. I can’t find it anywhere. It’s a nuisance, because I use it all the time.’
Nína accompanied him into the bedroom and helped him search. The cable passed through a wardrobe, which she opened. He checked the windowsill and looked under the bed before giving up.
‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience,’ he said. ‘I’m always mislaying things.’
‘I’ll get in touch if it turns up,’ she replied.
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I had a bit of a heavy weekend. Spent too long at Kaffi Victor on Saturday night.’
‘I know the place,’ she said smiling.
‘Do you ever go there?’
‘No, we mostly go to Kráin.’
‘We?’
‘My friends and I.’
‘So you’ll let me know if you find the drill bit?’ the engineer said as he was leaving. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again some time.’
Nína was known as a good cook, and she liked inviting her girlfriends over to try out new recipes. She had become interested in Indian cuisine after working at an Indian restaurant in Reykjavík, where she had got to know the chefs well, learning from them and gradually assembling her own collection of herbs and spices, and recipes using pork and chicken. Like Elínborg, she experimented with substituting Icelandic lamb for other meats in Indian dishes. On the evening when she met Runólfur she had cooked lamb for her friends, using the tandoori pot that her father had given her for her birthday. It was nearly midnight when they all left her flat to go into town. They had soon split up, and Nína was thinking of going home when she ran into Runólfur.
As she had not had much to drink, she was mystified to have so little memory of that night until she read that Rohypnol had been found in Runólfur’s flat. She had had a Martini with her friends before dinner, and red wine with the Indian lamb dish, followed by some beer, as the spicy dish had made her thirsty.
She was unable to say much about what happened after she had met Runólfur in the bar. She remembered him coming over to her and talking about San Francisco. She had told him that she had visited her brother there. She finished her drink, and Runólfur offered her another – by way of compensation for the ridiculously expensive bill the other day, he said. She accepted, and while he was ordering the drinks she glanced at her watch. She did not intend to stay long.
Her recollection of their walk back to his flat in Thingholt was fragmentary. She seemed to be blind drunk: she was uncoordinated and completely helpless.
Nína regained consciousness gradually. It was the middle of the night. On the wall above her she saw Spider-Man, ready to pounce.
Initially confused, she thought she was at home. Then she realised that could not be right, and thought she must have fallen asleep at the bar.
But that made no sense either. Slowly she understood that she was lying in an unfamiliar bed, in a room that she had never seen before. She felt sick, dazed and weary. She did not know how she came to be there. When she had been lying there for some time she realised that she was stark naked. She looked down at her body and found the situation absurd. She did not even think to cover herself. Spider-Man was watching her. She imagined he might come and help her. She smiled at the idea. Her, and Spider-Man!
When Nína woke up again she felt cold. She jerked awake, trembling. She was naked, in a strange bed.
‘Oh, God,’ she moaned, seizing the bedspread from the floor and wrapping it around her. The room was unfamiliar. She called out ‘Hello?’ but heard only an empty silence. She inched her way out of the bedroom into the living room, and felt for the light switch. A man was lying on his back on the floor, and she thought that she had seen him somewhere before. But could not place where.
Then she saw the blood.
And the gash across the throat.
Nína gagged. She saw the man’s deadly-white face, and the gaping red wound. His eyes were half-open and she felt that he was looking at her, accusing her of something.
* * *
‘I found my phone, and rang home,’ said Nína. The tape recorder hummed in the quiet of the interview room. Elínborg watched her. Her account, though patchy towards the end, was credible. She did not appear defensive – until she had to describe waking up in a strange place and finding Runólfur’s body.
‘Why didn’t you call the police?’ asked Elínborg.
‘It was such a shock,’ Nína replied. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t thinking straight. And I felt awful. I don’t know if that was the drug wearing off, or what. I was … I was sure I must have done it. Absolutely certain. And I was terrified. All I could think of was to ring home, and then try and conceal what had happened. Hide the horror. I didn’t want anyone to know I’d been there. That I’d done it. I … I couldn’t face it. Dad took my side. I told him to conceal everything. You’ve got to understand – he was just thinking of me. He’s not a dishonest man. He did it for me.’
‘Are you convinced that Runólfur drugged your drink?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see him do it?’
‘No. I wouldn’t have drunk it if I had, would I?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘I don’t do drugs. I don’t take anything. And I hadn’t had that much to drink. This was different.’
‘If you’d called us that night we might have been able to prove you’d been given Rohypnol. Now we can’t corroborate your story. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ answered Nína. ‘I know.’
‘Did you see anyone else in the flat?’
‘No.’
‘Did you notice anyone when you were in town, someone who might have been with Runólfur?’
‘No.’
‘Quite sure? Another man?’
‘I don’t remember any other man,’ said Nína.
‘And there was no one with Runólfur at the bar?’
‘No. Like who?’
‘Never mind that for now,’ said Elínborg. ‘Do you know what you did with the knife you used?’
‘No. I don’t know anything about th
e knife. I’ve gone over it again and again in my mind, and I don’t remember attacking him.’
‘He had a set of knives on a magnetic strip in the kitchen. Do you recall anything about them?’
‘No, nothing at all. I woke up in a strange flat with a man I didn’t know, who was lying on the floor with his throat cut. I know I probably must have done it. I don’t suppose anyone else could have done it, and I realise the circumstances don’t look good for me, but that night is a blank.’
‘Did you have sexual intercourse with Runólfur?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? That’s another factor we can no longer prove.’
‘I’m quite sure,’ Nína said. ‘That’s a ridiculous way to put the question. It’s a ridiculous question.’
‘Why?’
‘We didn’t have sexual intercourse. He raped me.’
‘So penetration took place?’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t sexual intercourse.’
‘Do you remember it?’
‘No. But I know. I don’t want to go into it. I know he raped me.’
‘That’s consistent with our evidence. We know he had sexual intercourse shortly before he died.’
‘Don’t say sexual intercourse. It wasn’t sex. It was rape.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I don’t know.’
Elínborg paused. She was not sure how much pressure the young woman could withstand during this first round of questioning. But dozens of urgent questions jostled in the detective’s mind. If Nína felt she was under duress, that was too bad. Elínborg decided to change her approach.
‘Are you covering for someone?’ she asked.
‘Covering?’
‘Maybe you rang your father much earlier than you claim? When you realised Runólfur had you cornered in the flat?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you told him where you were, and said you were in danger? Did he come and rescue you?’
‘No, absolutely not.’
‘You claim not to remember anything, but you remember that?’
‘I …’
Outrage Page 17
