‘What the hell do you want?’
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ Elínborg replied.
‘Questions? Who are you?’ asked Berti, peering at her in the dim light.
‘My name is Elínborg. I’m from the police.’
‘A copper?’
‘I won’t keep you long. We’re trying to find out how a man who was murdered recently got his hands on a drug, Rohypnol. You may have seen something about it on the news.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’ retorted Berti in a hoarse, sleepy voice. He was struggling to understand what was happening.
‘We know you sometimes sell prescription medications,’ said Elínborg.
‘Me? I don’t sell them. I don’t sell anything.’
‘Come off it. You’re on our list. You’ve done time for dealing drugs.’
Elínborg took a photo of Runólfur out of her pocket and passed it to Berti. ‘Did you know Runólfur?’
Berti took the picture from her. He reached over to a table lamp and switched it on, then put on a pair of reading glasses. He took his time examining the photo of the dead man.
‘Isn’t this the photo that was in the papers?’ he asked.
‘It’s the same picture,’ answered Elínborg.
‘I’d never seen this man before he was on the news,’ said Berti. He placed the photograph on the table between them. ‘Why was he killed?’
‘We’re trying to find out. He was carrying Rohypnol, which hadn’t been prescribed by a doctor. We think he bought it from someone like you. He might have used it to spike the drinks of women he met.’
Berti gave Elínborg a long look. She knew he was weighing up the pros and cons of agreeing to help her or of keeping his mouth firmly shut. A rattling of dishes was heard from the kitchen where Binna was hard at work. Berti had been inside for various offences — breaking and entering, forgery, drug dealing — but he was no career criminal. ‘I don’t sell to blokes like that,’ he observed at last.
‘Blokes like that?’
‘Who use it for that.’
‘What would you know about how they use it?’
‘I just know. I don’t sell to pervs. I don’t sell to blokes like that. And I’ve never met that guy. I’m not lying. I’ve never sold anything to him. I know who I sell to, and who I don’t.’
Binna appeared in the doorway and glowered at Berti, still clutching the wooden spoon. The odour of cured fish wafted with her out of the kitchen.
‘Where else could he have got hold of it?’ asked Elínborg.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Berti.
‘Who sells roofies?’
‘There’s no point asking me. I don’t know anything about it. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.’ A faint, gleeful smile flickered across Berti’s features.
‘Is this about that perv that got sliced up?’ Binna asked Elínborg sharply.
‘Yes.’
‘The one with the date-rape drug?’
Elínborg nodded. ‘We’re trying to find out where he got it from.’
‘Did you sell it to him?’ Binna asked Berti, with a fierce glare.
He did not meet her gaze. ‘No, I never sold him anything,’ he replied. ‘I just told her, I never saw that bloke.’
‘There you are, then,’ said Binna.
‘Maybe he can tell me about someone else who might have got the roofies for him,’ said Elínborg.
Binna watched her for a long time, deep in thought. ‘He was a rapist, wasn’t he, that perv?’ she asked.
‘He might have been,’ said Elínborg. ‘There are indications.’
‘Come and eat your grub, Berti,’ said Binna. ‘Tell her what you know, then come and eat.’
Berti stood up. ‘I can’t tell her what I don’t know,’ he complained.
Binna had turned to go back into the kitchen, but she stopped in the doorway, spun on her heel and pointed the wooden spoon threateningly at Berti. ‘Tell her!’ she ordered him.
Berti grimaced at Elínborg.
Binna went into the kitchen, and shouted over her shoulder: ‘Then come and have your fish!’
11
Elínborg looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table: 00.17.
She started to count backwards from 10,000 in her mind again: 9,999. 9,998. 9,997. 9,996 …
She strove to empty her mind until nothing was left but a meaningless series of numbers. It was her way of calming her thoughts and getting off to sleep.
Sometimes, when she could not sleep at night, her mind wandered back to a period of her life which as a rule she did her best to forget. It was to do with her first husband. Level-headed Elínborg, who never rushed into anything but gave careful consideration to every decision, large and small, had entered into a marriage which had turned out to be built on sand.
While studying geology she had met a fellow student named Bergsteinn from the West Fjords region. He took himself rather seriously. He was reserved but likeable, and they had got to know each other during a field trip. Then they had started seeing each other regularly. They rented a flat, lived on student loans — which were quite generous in those days — and two years later went to the registry office and were married. They held a big party for their families and friends. On that day Elínborg was sure that they would live together happily ever after. But it was not to be.
Elínborg had given up geology and joined the police force by the time their marriage started to collapse. Bergsteinn had completed his postgraduate studies, then worked for the State Drilling Authority, which searched out geothermal resources all over the country. In due time he became a manager. He was kept busy attending conferences, both in Iceland and abroad.
For some time Elínborg had felt that something was wrong: she was uneasy about Bergsteinn’s long absences from home, his lack of interest in her and what she was doing, his attitude to the future and to having children, which had in fact changed abruptly. One day he shamefacedly admitted that he had met another woman at a conference in Norway: an Icelandic geothermologist, he specified. He had been seeing her ever since, for nearly six months, and he envisaged a future with her.
Elínborg was overcome with rage. She had no interest in hearing Bergsteinn’s excuses and explanations, and least of all in fighting another woman for him. She told him to get out. She did not know what had made him turn away from her and look elsewhere, but suspected that it was something in his own character and nothing to do with her personally. At that point she did not care what he thought. She had been honest in the relationship, had respected him, loved him, and had believed it was mutual; the most painful part of the break-up was to know that she had been wrong. And to be rejected was a bitter experience, though she did not share that with anyone. In Elínborg’s view, the failure of their marriage was entirely his fault; if he wanted a divorce, so be it. She was not going to try to win him back. Their divorce went through without any serious obstruction. Bergsteinn had destroyed their marriage, and he was gone. That was all there was to it.
Over insipid liver in brown onion gravy, Elínborg’s mother confided that she had never really liked Bergsteinn, who she thought was a feeble idiot.
‘Oh, come off it!’ retorted Elínborg as she nibbled at the liver.
‘He was always such a twerp,’ said her mother.
Elínborg was well aware that her mother was trying to cheer her up, because she knew her daughter and realised that Elínborg was more deeply wounded than she would admit.
She grew more depressed and lonely than she had ever been, and was reluctant to talk about either Bergsteinn or the divorce. She resolved to grin and bear it, while underneath she was a seething mass of rage and helplessness and grief.
Her mother had a much higher opinion of Teddi, and was always commenting on what a solid, dependable man he was. ‘He’s so reliable, your Theodór,’ she said.
Which he was. Elínborg had met Teddi at the annual police dinner, which he attended with a friend who had s
ince left the force. Teddi was great fun, but Elínborg was not yet ready for a new relationship. Teddi, who like her was twenty-eight, was keener, and set out to win her over. He took her home from the police dance, rang two days later, then invited her to the cinema and dinner. She told him all about her failed marriage. For his part, he had never lived with anyone. She heard from Teddi’s policeman friend that he had a sister who was enduring a long battle with cancer. The next time she saw him, she asked him cautiously about his sister, and he told her that she was the single mother of a son, that he and his nephew were close. His sister had been fighting the disease for years but the prognosis was not good. He had wanted to tell Elínborg about her, he said, but he had been hesitant as he did not know whether anything would come of their relationship.
Teddi’s sister, it transpired, was very much in favour of her brother’s new girlfriend, and was eager to meet Elínborg. He took her to visit one day, and the two women had a long talk while the uncle and nephew went on an expedition in search of ice cream. Teddi was caring and affectionate towards his sister; Elínborg was constantly discovering new aspects of his character.
Six months later she moved in with Teddi, who had a studio flat in the Háaleiti district and owned a garage in partnership with a friend. When Teddi’s sister died of cancer the following year, the couple gained a foster-son. She had hardly known the boy’s father, they had never lived together, and he had had nothing to do with his son. The boy, Birkir, was six years old; his mother had asked Teddi and Elínborg to take care of her little boy. They bought a larger flat and adopted Birkir, who missed his mother deeply. Elínborg embraced her new son unreservedly, doing all she could to ease his pain. She took time off work and made sure he settled in well at his new school. From the start, Elínborg’s parents accepted the boy as their own grandchild.
Elínborg did not marry again; she and Teddi remained partners. Valthór was born, followed by Aron and finally Theodóra, all of whom worshipped Birkir, especially Valthór, who made him his role model from the first time he drew breath. When Birkir left home, Valthór blamed his mother for what happened, which made their relationship even more difficult.
Elínborg looked at the alarm clock. 03.08.
In four short hours she would have to get up, and she knew that her lack of sleep would make tomorrow a disaster.
Beside her Teddi slept peacefully. She envied him the calm disposition that had always been characteristic of him. She considered getting up and going into the kitchen to look at some recipes but found the effort too much, and started yet again to count down from 10,000.
9,999. 9,998. 9,997. 9,996 …
The Firm resembled the first gym that Elínborg had visited, but was considerably larger and in a better location. She arrived there, barely able to keep her eyes open after her sleepless night, on the Saturday morning one week after Runólfur’s murder. People were pouring in: running, weightlifting, working up a sweat. Some brought their children, as The Firm offered a crèche, which was crammed. Elínborg was a little taken aback by the sight — it seemed to be no more than a dumping ground in which a crowd of kids were watching cartoons on a gigantic flatscreen.
She sometimes worried about relationships between parents and their children: young children would spend all week in day care from early morning until five or so, and at the weekend some faced yet more hours in the crèche, while their parents were perspiring on the treadmill. On a working day the children would probably go to bed at around nine p.m., having spent a total of two hours with their parents, most of which consisted of feeding them and getting them to bed. When their children were small Elínborg and Teddi had reduced their working hours in order to take better care of their family. They hadn’t seen it as a sacrifice, but both a necessity and a pleasure.
Elínborg was shown in to meet the manager, who was busy taking delivery of two new flatscreens to be installed in the main gym. There was clearly a problem with the consignment since he was refusing delivery of one of the screens, and was on the phone venting his displeasure. Once he had hung up, he turned to Elínborg with a snarl and asked her what was the matter.
‘Matter?’ she asked. ‘There’s nothing the matter.’
‘Oh,’ replied the manager. ‘Then what do you want?’
‘I want to ask you about a man who used to come here but stopped about two years ago. I’m from the police. You’ve probably heard about him on the news.’
‘About who?’
‘He lived in Thingholt.’
‘The guy who was killed?’ asked the manager.
Elínborg nodded. ‘Do you remember him?’
‘I remember him well. We didn’t have so many clients back then and I used to know almost all of them. Now it’s completely crazy. What about him? What’s he got to do with us?’
A teenage girl appeared in the office doorway. ‘One of the kids has thrown up everywhere,’ she told the manager.
‘So?’
‘We can’t find the parents.’
The manager gave Elínborg an apologetic smile. ‘Talk to Silla,’ he said to the girl. ‘She’ll sort it out.’
‘Yeah, but I can’t find her.’
‘You can see I’m in a meeting here,’ he said. ‘Go and find Silla, dear.’
‘The kid’s sick as a dog,’ whined the girl. ‘This is just too much,’ she grumbled as she left.
‘I take it you’re talking about Runólfur?’ said the manager, who was wearing a blue tracksuit emblazoned with the logo of a fashionable and expensive sportswear label.
‘Did you know him?’
‘Only as a client. He worked out here all the time, pretty much from when we opened four years ago. He was one of our first members. Then he stopped coming here. He was a good guy. Kept himself fit.’
‘Do you know why he left?’
‘No idea. I never saw him again. Then I saw the report on the news — I could hardly believe it. Why are you asking us about him? Have we got something to do with his death?
‘No, not so far as I know. It’s a routine enquiry. We know this was his gym.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘Did anyone else stop coming here around the same time as him? Anyone who used to train here?’
The manager gave the matter some thought.
‘I don’t really remember …’
‘A woman, maybe?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Do you remember whether he was well liked, as a client?’
‘Oh, yes, he was. Very well liked. Actually …’
‘Yes?’
‘You asked about women.’
‘Yes.’
‘There was one girl who worked for me, now you mention it,’ said the manager. ‘I’m not sure whether they both left at exactly the same time but it was certainly about then. Frída was her name. I don’t remember the surname. Nice girl. A personal trainer. I can dig out the full name for you, if you like. They used to hang out together.’
‘Were they a couple?’
‘No, I don’t think it went that far. But they got along well, and I think they may have gone out for drinks together, that kind of thing.’
The young woman stepped hesitantly into the flat that Runólfur had rented in Thingholt, and looked apprehensively around her. Elínborg was immediately behind her. Both Unnur’s parents were there, as was the psychiatrist who had been treating her. Elínborg had been forced to take a firm line with Unnur to persuade her to agree to look at the flat. Her mother had finally sided with Elínborg and had urged her daughter to do what she could to help the police.
Nothing had been altered since Runólfur’s body had been removed. The crime scene had been left untouched, and Unnur hesitated when she saw the blackened dried blood on the floor.
‘I don’t want to go in,’ she begged.
‘I know, Unnur,’ replied Elínborg reassuringly. ‘It will only take a minute, and then you can go home.’
Unnur stepped cautiously through the hall and
into the living room, where she averted her gaze from the bloodstains. She looked at the superhero posters, the sofa, the coffee table and TV. She glanced up at the ceiling. It was late evening. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been here,’ she murmured to herself. She inched her way from the living room into the kitchen, with Elínborg at her heels. They had already examined Runólfur’s car, which had been impounded by the police. It rang no bells for Unnur.
It was also possible that she did not want to remember.
They reached the bedroom doorway, and Unnur looked down at the double bed — the quilt lay on the floor and at the head were two pillows. As in the living room, the floor was parquet. The bed was flanked by small bedside tables. Elínborg presumed that this was for symmetry, as Runólfur would not need two just for himself. On each was a small reading lamp, testament to the owner’s good taste, like everything else in the flat; Elínborg had noticed on her first visit that Runólfur’s home had a certain style and charm. On either side of the bed was a small rug. Clothes hung in the wardrobe, while his shirts were neatly folded and his underwear and socks arranged in drawers in an orderly fashion. Runólfur’s home revealed that he had his life completely under control and took pleasure in nice things.
‘I’ve never been here,’ said Unnur. Elínborg sensed her relief. Unnur stood motionless in the bedroom doorway, as if she did not dare enter.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘Nothing’s familiar,’ said Unnur. ‘I don’t remember this place at all.’
‘We’ve got plenty of time.’
‘No, I don’t remember ever being here. Not here, nor anywhere else in this flat. Can we go now? I can’t help you. I’m sorry. I feel uncomfortable in this place. Can we leave?’
Unnur’s mother gave Elínborg a pleading look.
‘Of course,’ said Elínborg. ‘Thank you for being willing to do this.’
‘Was she in here?’ Unnur took one step into the bedroom.
‘We think he was with a woman the night he was killed,’ said Elínborg. ‘He had sex shortly before the attack.’
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