Outrage

by Arnaldur Indridason

  ‘It’s possible. I remember I found my mobile and rang Dad.’

  ‘Do you think it was Runólfur who opened the door?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nína, raising her voice. ‘I swear, I can hardly remember anything that happened. He’d drugged me – with a drug that affects the memory. What do you want me to say? I can’t remember anything!’

  ‘Do you think you might have managed to ring your father before Runólfur was dead? Perhaps your father defended you by attacking Runólfur?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I told you: I woke up alone in the flat, and went into the other room, and there was Runólfur lying on the floor. That’s when I rang Dad. Why won’t you believe me? That’s all I remember. I must have attacked Runólfur and …’

  ‘There’s not much evidence of a struggle in the flat,’ Elínborg pointed out. ‘The murder was neat and tidy, so to speak – except for all the blood, of course. So you would have had to creep up on him and slash his throat quite skilfully. Do you think you’d have been capable of that?’

  ‘Maybe. If I’d had no alternative, if I’d had to defend myself. If I’d been drugged.’

  ‘But there was no blood on you, according to your mother.’

  ‘I don’t remember anything about that. I took a shower when we got home, although that’s not clear in my mind either.’

  ‘After you got to Runólfur’s place, did you see him drink anything – or take any pills?’

  ‘I seem to be saying the same thing over and over again. I don’t remember arriving there. I remember a little bit about walking home with him, and my next memory is of coming to in his bed.’

  ‘Did you give him Rohypnol before he died? So that it would be easier to kill him?’

  Nína shook her head in confusion, as if she did not understand the question.

  ‘Did I give him …?’

  ‘We know that before he died he’d taken the same drug he used on you. The Rohypnol would have made him incapable of defending himself. So there’s something you’re not telling us. Something you’re still concealing. Maybe you’re covering for your father – or perhaps for someone else? But you’re still hiding behind your parents and playing games with us. I think you’re covering for your father. Am I right?’

  ‘I didn’t drug that man. I’m not covering for anyone.’

  ‘When you came out of the bedroom and saw Runólfur’s body you didn’t call the police. Why not?’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘Was it to conceal what your father had done?’

  ‘No. There’s nothing to conceal. He didn’t do anything.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘You can’t think that Dad killed him,’ Nína protested anxiously. ‘Dad could never do a thing like that. Never. You don’t know him, what he’s been through, ever since he was a boy.’

  ‘You mean the polio?’

  Nína nodded. Elínborg remained silent.

  ‘I shouldn’t have rung him,’ said Nína. ‘If I’d known he would be a suspect, I never would have.’

  ‘So can you explain to me more clearly why you and your father didn’t call the police?’

  ‘I was ashamed,’ Nína said. ‘Ashamed of being there. Of having gone there, having no memory of it, and waking up naked in a strange bed. Of being raped. I knew at once what he’d done to me. I felt … I felt humiliated. I didn’t want anyone to know. It was just so disgusting. I saw the condom on the floor, imagined what people might say. What if I’d come on to him? Was it somehow all my fault? Had I brought this on myself, brought it on my family? When I saw him dead on the floor, I think I went mad for a moment. I don’t know that I can describe it any better than that. I was scared – scared of what I had seen, and scared of the shame. I could hardly force myself to tell my own father what I was doing there, alone and naked with a complete stranger. How could I tell the police?’

  ‘There’s no shame in being raped. It’s the rapist who is shamed,’ said Elínborg.

  ‘I understand them better now,’ mumbled Nína. ‘God, how well I understand them.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘The victims. I think I appreciate now what they go through. You hear about these rapes but there are so many horrors on the news that you tune them out, including the rapes. Now I know that behind every news story about rape there’s a revolting experience like mine. They’re women like me, women who’ve suffered horrific violence. And those men! What kind of beasts are they? I …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know I shouldn’t be saying this, and especially not to you. Especially not here, in this place. But I don’t care. When I think of what he did to me, it just makes me so angry. How he treated me. Drugged me and then raped me!’

  ‘What is it that you’re trying to say?’

  ‘And the sentences they’re given! It’s an outrage. The legal system doesn’t punish the bastards – it pats them on the back.’ Nína took a deep breath. ‘Sometimes …’ She struggled to suppress her tears. ‘There are times when I’d like to remember cutting his throat.’

  About an hour later it was Konrád’s turn. Like his daughter, he was calm to start with, sitting in the interview room with his lawyer. He was tired, remarking that he had not slept at all. His wife had taken on the unenviable task of telling their son in San Francisco about the misfortunes that had overtaken his family. Konrád was worried about his daughter.

  ‘How is Nína?’ were the first words out of his mouth.

  ‘She’s not happy, of course,’ said Elínborg. ‘We want to get this over with as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I don’t understand how you could possibly think I was involved in the man’s death. I know I said that I would rather it had been me and not my daughter that killed him. But any father in my position would say that. I imagine you’d say the same yourself.’

  ‘This isn’t about me,’ Elínborg replied.

  ‘I hope you’re not taking what I said as some kind of confession.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call the police when you saw what had happened at Runólfur’s home?’

  ‘It was a mistake,’ said Konrád. ‘I know that. We could never have gone on concealing the truth. We realised that almost at once. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but put yourself in our shoes. I felt that Nína had been through enough, and I thought it would be all right so long as you – the police – didn’t know about her. They’d met at a bar that evening. She hadn’t told anyone where she was or who she was with. I did my best to take all her things away but I missed the shawl.’

  ‘Can we discuss how you got into Runólfur’s flat? I’m not clear about that.’

  ‘I simply walked in. The door was not quite closed. Nína probably opened the door – she was expecting me. We might have talked about it on the phone as I made my way over – how I was to get in. I’m not quite sure.’

  ‘She doesn’t remember, either.’

  ‘Well, the state she was in – and I wasn’t much better myself. I had the impression he’d been burning something, that man. I noticed a smell like that.’

  ‘Burning?’

  ‘Or … do you know if he had any paraffin around the place?’

  ‘Paraffin?’

  ‘You didn’t find any paraffin there?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone notice a smell? A sort of paraffin smell?’

  ‘We didn’t find any paraffin,’ said Elínborg. ‘There was nothing of that sort in the flat.’

  ‘Well, there was a smell of paraffin when I got there,’ said Konrád.

  ‘There was nothing to indicate that he’d been burning anything except for some tea-light candles, that was all. What did you and your daughter do with the knife?’

  ‘What knife?’

  ‘The one your daughter used to kill Runólfur.’

  ‘She didn’t have any knife when I arrived. I gave no thought to it. She must have got rid of it somehow,
during all the commotion.’

  ‘How do you shave? What do you use? An electric shaver? Safety razor? Straight razor?’

  ‘I use a safety razor.’

  ‘Do you own a straight razor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever owned one?’

  Konrád thought about it.

  ‘We’ve got a warrant to search your home,’ said Elínborg. ‘And your daughter’s.’

  ‘I’ve never owned a straight razor,’ said Konrád. ‘I don’t even know how to use one. Is that what was used to kill him? A razor?’

  ‘There’s another thing that puzzles us,’ said Elínborg. ‘Your daughter, Nína, claims to have attacked Runólfur, although she has no memory of doing so. She says it’s the only possible explanation. So far as she knows, the two of them were alone in the flat. Do you think she could subdue a man like Runólfur on her own? Especially if he’d drugged her, and she was incapacitated?’

  Konrád considered the question. ‘I’m well aware of the state she was in,’ he said.

  ‘She might have been capable of it, if she was in fact fully conscious and acted quickly and quietly, and took Runólfur by surprise,’ said Elínborg. ‘But first she would have had to get hold of the weapon. She had to be prepared.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Was she prepared, when she went home with Runólfur?’

  ‘How could she have been prepared? She didn’t know the man. What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about premeditated murder,’ said Elínborg. ‘I’m saying your daughter went there with the express intention of killing Runólfur. I want to find out why. What was her motive? Who did she get to be her accomplice?’

  ‘I have never heard such a load of nonsense,’ said Konrád. ‘Surely you don’t mean that seriously?’

  ‘Runólfur didn’t just lie down and die,’ said Elínborg. ‘We can also consider the events from a different viewpoint. We haven’t disclosed the fact that Runólfur himself had ingested Rohypnol shortly before he died. And I don’t think he took it of his own accord. Someone must have compelled him. Or slipped it to him, just as he drugged your daughter.’

  ‘He took the stuff himself?’

  ‘We found traces in his mouth. He took a considerable quantity. That puts a different light on the story you and your daughter are telling, don’t you think?’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Someone forced him to swallow the pills.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘If your daughter’s telling the truth, I can’t see how she would have been able to do it. And there aren’t a lot of other candidates. I think you took revenge for his rape of your daughter. To me it looks like a classic payback killing. Nína managed to phone you and ask for help. You hurried over to Thingholt, and she opened the door for you. Perhaps Runólfur was asleep by then. When you saw what had happened, what he had done to her, you went wild. You gave him a taste of his own medicine, and then you slashed his throat – in front of your daughter.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. It wasn’t me!’ Konrád exclaimed.

  ‘So who was it?’

  ‘It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Nína,’ he said. ‘I know she could never hurt anyone. She’s simply not like that – even if he’d drugged her and she wasn’t herself.’

  ‘You shouldn’t underestimate what people will do in self-defence.’

  ‘She didn’t do it.’

  ‘Well, someone made him swallow the pills.’

  ‘Then it must have been someone else. Some other person there, in the flat with them.’ Konrád leaned forward over the table between Elínborg and him. ‘Nína couldn’t do it. And I didn’t do it, I know that. So there’s only one other possibility. There must have been someone else there with Runólfur. Someone other than my daughter!’

  25

  The idea that a third person could have been present at Runólfur’s place was not new to the police. Elínborg had twice questioned Edvard about his whereabouts on the night of Runólfur’s death and he gave the same answer both times: he had been alone at home watching television. His story could not be corroborated. It was not impossible that Edvard was lying, but the police were not aware of any motive for him to have killed his friend. And Elínborg’s assessment of him was that he would hardly have been capable of such a drastic act. Her theory that he was involved in Lilja’s disappearance was tenuous: there was no evidence that he had given the girl a lift to town, and even if he had that was not proof of anything. He could claim to have dropped her off anywhere, after which she had disappeared. Yet Elínborg could not let go of Edvard.

  She spent the day questioning Nína and Konrád, whose accounts remained unchanged throughout repeated interviews. Nína was more convinced than ever that she must be responsible for Runólfur’s death; she almost seemed to hope that she had done it. Konrád, on the other hand, was tending in the opposite direction; he felt that his daughter was fundamentally incapable of the deed, and he steadfastly denied having killed Runólfur himself. No test could now confirm whether Nína had been drugged and had therefore been physically incapacitated. The police had only her word for it, that she had no memory of the events. It was entirely possible that she had been fully conscious the whole time.

  And then there was the matter of Runólfur. He could hardly have taken the Rohypnol voluntarily. Someone must have compelled him – someone who wanted payback. Was it possible that Nína had forced the drug down his throat? So many questions remained unanswered. To Elínborg’s way of thinking, Konrád and Nína were the most likely suspects. Nína had not confessed directly but Elínborg was expecting to elicit a full confession before long, after which she thought the father and daughter would tell her where the murder weapon was. Not that she was pleased about it. Runólfur had dragged down good people to flounder in the filth of his unsavoury world.

  Later that afternoon Elínborg parked, yet again, some distance from Edvard’s house to observe what went on there. His car was parked in its usual place. Elínborg had checked the website of the college he taught at and had found his timetable: he generally finished around three o’clock. She was not sure what she expected to gain by keeping an eye on Edvard. Perhaps her sympathy for Konrád and his daughter was making her a little biased and unduly keen to exonerate them.

  From where she sat Elínborg could see the dry dock of the old harbour, soon to make way for new residential developments on the former dockside. History would be erased at a stroke. She thought of Erlendur, who clung to the old ways. She did not always agree with him – after all, progress demanded space. Erlendur had ranted on about one particular building, the Gröndal House, which was to be moved from its location in the old town to the open-air museum on the outskirts of the city. Why, he had fumed, shouldn’t it stay where it was, in the heart of the old town where it belonged, in the context of its history? The building was important, he said, bearing the name of the nineteenth-century writer Benedikt Gröndal who had written his autobiography – Erlendur’s favourite book – under that very roof. The Gröndal House was one of only a handful of nineteenth-century buildings remaining in Reykjavík: ‘And so they’re going to uproot it,’ Erlendur had grumbled, ‘and dump it in the middle of nowhere!’

  Elínborg had been sitting in the car for nearly two hours when at last the door opened, and Edvard emerged and drove off. She followed him. He made his way first to a cut-price supermarket, after which he called at a laundry and then at a video-rental shop that was closing down. On the front of the shop was a sign: EVERYTHING MUST GO. CLOSING-DOWN SALE. Edvard spent a long time inside before reappearing loaded down with videos, which he put in the boot of his car. He stood outside for a long time talking to the owner before driving off.

  His next port of call was a telephone company – the same one that had employed Runólfur. Through the window Elínborg watched Edvard examining mobile phones. A shop assistant came o
ver to him and they discussed the phones at length, until Edvard made his selection and bought one. He drove back towards his home, stopping on the way at a burger joint. He took his time over his meal and Elínborg almost decided to abandon her surveillance. She did not know what she expected to find out; she was probably tailing an innocent man.

  She rang home, and Theodóra answered. They spoke briefly. Theodóra had brought two friends home from school and did not have time to chat with her mum. Teddi was not home yet, and Theodóra had no idea where her brothers were.

  Edvard finished eating and returned to his car. Elínborg said goodbye to her daughter and followed him again. He was heading westwards towards his home, along by the old harbour. At the old dry dock he slowed down and pulled over to park with his wheels up on the pavement. He seemed to be looking out over the dry dock and across the bay to Mount Esja. Elínborg was in a quandary. She could not pull in behind him so she went on and stopped in the next car park, where she waited until Edvard drove slowly past towards his home.

  Elínborg parked in her usual spot and switched off the engine. Edvard carried his clean laundry, groceries and videos inside, and shut the door behind him. It was evening now and Elínborg felt guilty about neglecting her family, who these days were surviving mostly on takeaways provided by Teddi. She resolved that she must give more priority to her home life; she must be there for Theodóra and the boys, and make time for Teddi, who tended to spend his evenings in front of the television. He claimed to watch mostly documentaries, wildlife programmes especially, but that was rubbish. She had often come home to find him absorbed in mindless drivel such as American reality TV – weddings, models or castaways, it was all the same. Those were Teddi’s new ‘wildlife documentaries’.

  Elínborg saw one of Edvard’s neighbours come out and open his garage door. Inside was an old car, which he set to waxing and polishing. It was a classic car, unfamiliar to Elínborg: a large, flashy vehicle dating from the 1950s, with baby-blue bodywork, shiny chrome fittings, and tall, dramatic fins at the rear. Teddi adored that kind of car, especially Cadillacs: Caddies, he said, were the best cars ever made. Elínborg had no idea whether this was a Cadillac, but she knew exactly how to strike up a conversation with the owner. She got out of her car and walked over to him.